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i » tft»lii» fH MiM » 




of Worcester 


The Gift of 



»j' >■; I 

















iAY 21, \92Z 



Sir, — The following book is sincerely designed to 
promote the cause of virtue, and to expose some of the 
most glaring evils, as well public as private, which at 
present infest the country; though there is scarce, as I 
remember, a single stroke of satire aimed at any one 
person throughout the whole. 

The best man is the properest patron of such an at- 
tempt. This, I believe, will be readily granted ; nor will 
the public voice, I think, be more divided to whom they 
shall give that appellation. Should a letter, indeed, be 
thus inscribed, Detur Optimo, there are few persons who 
would think it wanted any other direction. 

I will not trouble you with a preface concerning the 
work, nor endeavour to obviate any criticisms which can 
be made on it. The good-natured reader, if his heart 
should be here affected, will be inclined to pardon many 
faults for the pleasure he will receive from a tender 
sensation ; and for readers of a different stamp, the more 
faults they can discover, the more, I am convinced, the^ 
will be pleased. 


Nor will I assume the fulsome style of common dedi- 
cators. I have not their usual design in this epistle, 
nor will I borrow their language. Long, very long may 
it be before a most dreadful circumstance shall make it 
possible for any pen to draw a just and true character ••f 
yourself T^thout incurring a suspicion of flattery in the 
bosoms of the malignant. This task, therefore, I shall 
defer till that day (if I should be so unfortunate as ever 
to see it) when every good man shall pay a tear for the 
satisfaction of his curiosity ; a day which, at present, I 
believe, there is but one good man in the world who can 
think of it with unconcern. 

Accept, then, sir, this small token of that love, that 
gratitude, and that respect, with which I shall always 
esteem it my greatest honour to be, sir, your most 
obliged and most obedient humble servant, 


Bow Street, December 2, 1751. 




•10 few only is it given to "write for all time;'' to have their 
memoriei cherished, their thoughts embalmed in the heart of distant 
posterify. Bat if few, they have been emphatically designated the 
" salt «>f the earth who season human kind/' who sustain the intel- 
lectual K| irit of man, who at once elevate and vindicate the character 
of humanity in our eyes. Without its Homer, the poetic mind of 
Greece must long have lain dormant — a comparative blank; without 
Dante, Shakspeare, Milton, Pope, Swift, and Fielding, all, in their 
several walks, the great teachers and censors of the world, — who 
wrote in harmony with the glorious light of Gospel truth, where were 
Italy's fame, and where that sterling worth, that moral might and 
splendour of England's literature, transfused through every clime 
and city of the habitable globe? 

If it be granted that we are to estimate the degrees of celebrity 
enjoyed by men of letters, according to the influence exercised by 
their genius upon their own and succeeding times, the surest test, 
perhaps, of comparative merit, not many, we opine, will be bold 
enough to question the claims of one of the most profound investi- 
gators of human nature, of the most delightful yet correct interpreters 
of her character and language, to take precedence among the writers 
of English prose fiction. Should we meet with one critical excep- 
tion, it might be enough to reply by inquiring amidst whom, amidst 
what splendid galaxy oi superior minds, the light of Fielding's genius 
asserted its power ; by how many wits of out \um\tvo\x^ k\SL^\x»X«CL 
«ni b0 was preceded, and by bow many more ho wa» £oWo^^^\ «w\3k«%\ 



of gigantic iotellQcts, whose varied powers and brilliant talent still 
yield obeisanoe to his so aster-knowledge of Nature in all her compli- 
cated movements and varieties ? 

•If we recur to the testimony of rival contemporaries, or even of 
envious detractors,' headed by Horace Walpole, to that of admiring 
successors, confirmed by the award of unerring time; or to the 
unbiassed judgment of the muse of Byron, who summed up both 
by pronouncing " Fielding the prose Homer of human nature," we 
find him in each successive era regarded as pre-eminent among his 
fellows at once for the extent and the versatility of his powers. In 
him whose brilliant but chequered career, whose invaluable but ill- 
requited services to his country, whose elastic and indefatigable 
spirit as an author, a magistrate, and a public character — we now 
attempt to exhibit in more important points of view, and to chal- 
lenge for him higher honours than have hitherto been assigned, we 
recognise not only the distinguished novelist but the man of sound 
sen^e and judgment, and the author of many excellent plans, 
adopted, without giving him either credit or remuneration, by suc- 
cessive governments ; in him we find that union of happy invention, 
" wild wit and fancy ever new," rendered infinitely more fascinating 
by keen penetration into the recesses of the heart, by the closest 
observation and the wildest range of experience, with a festive yet 
beneficent spirit, without which the novelist prooents us with little 
more than the " dry bones," the tame sketches and tamer details of 
character and incident, to which the living spirit is denied. 

It was his generous love of truth, freedom, and the happiness of 
man ; bis uncompromising magnanimous exposure of the vices and 
errors of the great, and the admirable skill and courage which 
directed all his efforts in analysing the beautiful — in exposing the 
false and corrupt, which rendered Fielding the favourite of Byron's 
leisure hours, which disarmed the critical Goethe, and which have 
made his works the travel companions of the aged and the young. 

The popular voice seldom errs ; from the verdict of a whole 
people, pronounced by the most impartial of all judges, time — there 
is no appeal ; and if estimated by this rule. Fielding must be allowed 
to have possessed the complete art of reading those sibyl leaves of 
Nature before unread ; of communing with her in all her varying 
moods ; of revealing the secret sources of man's motives, passions, 
•etions; of opening new views of moral truth and character, in 
be drew with equal skill and patboB p\etoie« of joy or sorrow, 


%L(i entertained us at once with a mimlo world of reality and a cre- 
ation of his own. Another, and perLtti>8 not the least of his titles 
10 rank highest i* the scale of noyelistb. ic the deep wisdom which 
'^ierrades his entire works, the adm.'rable and varied knowledgo 
which he combines with the liveliest and the warmest passion ; the 
mort startling and terrific pictures intermingled with scenes of per- 
fect humour, or of pleasing repose. If we wished to advance still 
further recommendations for our selection of Fielding in the outset* 
we might find them in the uhanns of a nairative unequalled in point 
of interest, which absorbs us while it allures, and which, amidst its 
most glowing and festive scenes, its boldest expressions and repre- 
sentations of high and lew, ever keeps in view the purest and noblest 
mora), ll is the happy union, the rich contrast of lights and 
fbadowA which renders this great arilet's works (for they are 
splendid omanations of art, and irtisiical, as the critic GoSthe cor- 
rectly expre«te- ^ it. in the true sense of the word,) so enduring in 
reputatioc, so eagerly read, and (o unceasingly new and pleasing. 
Though truth and natnre may pall for a season, the taste for them 
cannot die, and as surely as it rtviv^s, will their representations 
from the hand of this great master continue to be admired. 

They display, indeed, that depth of study, rare invention, natural 
grouping, correct and beautiful composition, with a lively fancy and 
vigour of execution, not to be met with in any single painter of his 
times ; and these, when more trivial and perishable records fail to 
perpetuate his name, will constitute the best and most lasting monu- 
ment of hb genius. 

Henry Fielding was bom April 22d, 1707, at Sharpham Park, 
near Glastonbury, in Somersetshire. His family, although distin- 
guished, in point of ancestry and rank, was far from being wealthy ; 
his father possessing little hereditary income, and owing what for- 
tune he obtained chiefly to his promotion in a military career. He 
served some time under the conqueror of Blenheim, and at length 
attained the rank of lieutenant-general towards the close of the reign 
of George I. and the commencement of George II. The general was 
also grandson to an earl of Denbigh, nearly related to the dukes of 
Kingston and other families of repute, which are stated to boast one 
common origin with a line of monarchs. Gibbon, whose prepos- 
sessions in favour of high birth led him to dwell on the subject with 
so much complacency, alludes to this circumstance 'YrVieTi ^^^^Vci^ 
of the nohJe descent of the poet Spenser, in Ihe io\\omx\\g,^ai 

% m£mc:b op 

.-..ntAibuif: h f-pleniil i'S.^z'.i^iT, z :he g%cias of Fielding: — "Th« 

:u.liii;t5 of the Sricr.Mr« La* beer, illustrated acd enriched by tha 

t-llllrl»«♦^ of M»rU»or:»u;::., ) ut I exhort them to consider the *Fa8ry 

v;ui»r:.' a.»> \hv iTia*i> j^wel of their coronet. Our immortal 

* uM» t^Ii^ jif ;iic vi'i;::cf r branch of the Earls uf Denbigh, who 

..•:•: r.w : , rip'iT. from iht- Counts of Ilapsborg, the lineal descend 

f N \ :r;.',. :i. the sc\fnth century dukcb of Alsace. Far different 

* ^-^i :: . r.rtunrs ^ f tbo English and German divisions of the 

hi.r^: ;.r-: . :bi fv.rnifr. ihc knights and sheriffs of Leices- 

^ * "" ^' ? *=''"'^' ^ ^•■' iiprr.irv of a peerage; the latter, 

• -V .",: rir.:.: \ \T:d of Spain, have threatened tha 

;.:-.; .: va,i.>.l the treasures of the New World. The 

^rv -^ . • ." :- » :: ..T r.:s.iKir. ibcir brethren • f England; bat 

;: . . : -.v :: ht f xcui>ite picture of human nan- 

••;..".; :;:; F,i»;ur:al, ar.d the imperial eagle 

.:-•%.. au'.c'l-tcr :f Judge Gold, one of 

• :> 5 ::'..! -f 0:1.?. tjib likewise a baron 

• V : ...:c > e.^u.'aiJrn was committed to 
•>".:• Mr 01:r?r, who resided at the 

.. s> : r. ••:.:£ ii:::r: and is supposed 

• ; ..r^ T i..::tr :f '* living manners" 

.:": :r. :r.£ r.Tei of *' Joseph 

..^ : ■> i'fr Frrm this it may 

. >. :. ;.::'i Ichtlr the character 

■ . 'T: f.r-: t. give credit to 

:.. t::..r:<c We may conclude 

^ .. :> ::i: :: rt-.-'tived from his 

*. ...r..:r:i .:' ih*: c:mmonest 

- .:: r..r: yzzi^'.^"- sphere of 

i :. >;• : i..f-:r-l?-ri himself 

r-u"^ f.5 '«»"i 11 &s ':y steady 

-•;;.:. 'S.,t:^z. r.:i-:l5. 

• • - •j.r ■» J.ii^ly ;z naturer 

▼ : r..&: V :f hi* fcllrw 

•; - J.: r: ':.ikr. ?r in the 

\ ^.- ?-r Sir Charles 

^ . , ' * .IV; ..: ▼::r: h« ccn- 

^ ,. ^ . ^ ,-, - -.c :.v. ^i :>:•= -bew 


roceived that occasional sympathy and support which adTcrse cir- 
cumstances and broken health rendered peculiarly acceptable, towards 
the close of his chequered career. 

So satisfactory, it would appear, was the young student's progress 
in classical learning before he had entered his sixteenth year, that 
he was considered, both by his masters and by the school, not only 
as possessing a sound knowledge of the languages of Greece and 
Rome, but as welT versed in the perusal of their choicest writers. 
This truth, we think, and his continued admiration of the works of 
the best ancient authors, especially of the great prose writers, are 
abundantly evidenced by the manner in which they are alluded to 
in his own ; and we may conclude that his successful application at 
this early period was as agreeable to his father as to himself, from 
the fact that, on his removal from Eton and his early friendships, ^ 
of which he wae often heard to speak with fond regrefc, no objection 
was made to his instantly proceeding to prosecute his farther studies 
under the able and learned professors of the University of Ley den. 
^here he had every advantage which a student so advanced and 
prepared, as li« was, for still more succes^iful efforts, could be 
expected to derive fri)m associating with men of first-rate abilities ; 
and though young (being then only in his eighteenth year), full of 
vivacity, and constitutionally fond of pleasure, he lost no time in 
placing himself undnr the tuition of the celebrated Vitriarius, Pro- 
fessor of Civil liaw, and the author of a Latin work, distinguished 
for its ability and Icirniug, with the laudable resolution to inform 
and improve his mind to the utmost of his power. 

It is to be regretted that, while thus laudably engaged in com- 
^ leting a course of liberal studies, such as, with the advantages of 
birth and station, might have raised him to eminence in public lifje, 
Fielding's residence at Leyden should have been disagreeably inter- 
rupted by circumstances over which he had no control. Before he 
had attained his twentietL year his pecuniary supplies began to fail 
hrm ; for though a kind and considerate parent. General Fielding 
was unable to support his son in a manner becoming the younger 
branch of a noble family. Hence the fruitful source of the author's 
early embarrassments, and of his subsequent sufferings and misfor- 
tunes. Havin^' been brought up with views of life opposed to every- 
thing like restricted economy or sordid cares, and influenced by a 
spirit and love of gaiety perhaps exceeding the usual temperament 
of genius, he coull i^yer iorget that he occupied t\i<^ po%\\iiv^ti oil v^ 


containing a splendid eulogium on the genius of Fielding : — " The 
nobility of the Spensers has been illustrated and enriched by tha 
trophies of Marlborough, but I exhort them to consider the ' FaiSry 
Queen' as the most precious jewel of their coronet. Our immortal 
Fielding was of the younger branch ot tho Earls of Denbigh, who 
drew their origin from the Counts of Hapsbnrg, the lineal descend 
ants of Eltrico, in the seventh century dukes of Alsace. Far different 
have been the fortunes of the English and German divisions of tho 
family of Hapsburg ; the former, the knights and sheriffs of Leices- 
tershire, have slowly risen to the'dignity of a peerage ; the latter, 
the emporors of Germany and kings of Spain, have threatened tho 
liberty of the Old and invaded the treasures of the New World. The 
successors of Charles Y. may disdain their brethren > f England ; bat 
the romance of * Tom Jones,' that exquisite picture of human man- 
ners, will outlive the i>alace of the Escurial, and the imperial eagle 
of Austria." — Gibbon's Miscdlaneo^s Works, 

The mother of our author -^^nr* a daughter of Judge Gold, one of 
whose immediate descendants. Sir llcnrj Gold, was likewise a baron 
of the exchequer. 

The earlier part of Ilenry Fielding's education was committed to 
the care of a clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Oliver, who resided at the 
family mansion, in the capacity of a private tutor; and is supposed 
to have sat more than once to our youug painter of '* living manners" 
for his portrait, as it is executed to the life in the novel of ** Joseph 
Andrews," under the title of Parson Trulliber. From this it may 
be inferred that in after life, the pupil estimated lightly the character 
and services of his teacher, particularly if we are to give credit to 
tho likeness exhibited in some of the adventures. We may conclude 
also, from the author's own observations, that he received from his 
clerical Mentor little more than the rudiments of the commonest 
education before he quitted home for the more congenial sphere of 
Eton ; for here, it is ascertained, that he soon distinguished himself 
by remarkable quickness and aptitude of parts, as well as by steady 
application to the study of the best Greek and Boman models. 

It was scarcely of less utility to him, more particularly in maturer 
life, that he there contracted an intimacy with many of his fellow 
pupils, afterwards so celebrated as public men at the bar, or in the 
senate, including Lord Lyttleton, Mr. Fox, Mr. Pitt, Sir Charles 
Hanbnry WilHams, Mr. Wilmington ; with some of whom he con- 
tinued in habits of friendly intercourse during life, and from others 


veeeived that occasional sympathy and support which adTerse cir- 
cumstances and broken health rendered peculiarly acceptable, towards 
the close of his chequered career. 

So satisfactory, it would appear, was the young student's progress 
in classical learning before he had entered his sixteenth year, that 
he was considered, both by his masters and by the school, not only 
as possessing a sound knowledge of the languages of Greece and 
Rome, but as welT versed in the perusal of their choicest writers. 
This truth, we think, and his continued admiration of the works of 
the best ancient authors, especially of the great prose writers, are 
abundantly evidenced by the manner in which they are alluded to 
in his own ; and we may conclude that his successful application at 
this early period was as agreeable to his father as to himself, from 
the fact that, on his removal from Eton and his early friendships, ' 
of which he was often heard to speak with fond regrefc, no objection 
was made to his instantly proceeding to prosecute his farther studies 
under the able and learned professors of the University of Ley den. 
There he had every advantage which a student so advanced and 
prepared, as he was, for still more succes^iful efforts, could be 
expected to dori^ e from associating with men of first-rate abilities ; 
and though young (being then only in his eighteenth year), full of 
vivacity, and constitutionally fond of pleasure, he lost no time in 
placing himself under the tuition of the celebrated Vitriariue, Pro- 
fessor of Civil liaw, and the author of a Latin work, distinguished 
for its ability and Icirniug, with the laudable resolution to inform 
and improve his mind to the utmost ef his power. 

It is to be regretted that, while thus laudably engaged in com- 
pleting a course of liberal studies, such as, with the advantages of 
birth and station, might have raised him to eminence in public lifje, 
Fielding's residence at Ley den should have been disagreeably inter- 
rupted by circumstances over which he had no control. Before he 
had attained his twentietL year his pecuniary supplies began to fail 
hhn ; for though a kind and considerate parent. General Fielding 
was unable to support his son in a manner becoming the younger 
branch of a noble family. Hence the fruitful source of the author's 
early embarrassments, and of his subsequent sufferings and misfor- 
tunes. Havin^' been brought up with views of life opposed to every- 
thing like restricted economy or sordid cares, and influenced by a 
spirit and love of giiety perhaps exceeding l\vQ w«\x^\ l«ui'^«^T^\si<^\i\k 
of goDjae, be couil i^ver /orget that he occupied t\i<^ ^o%\^oti ^l «el 


educated man and a gentleman. To him, therefore, the second mar* 
riage contracted by General Fielding (be committed matrimony four 
times, and bad families as large as King Priam), and the rapidly- 
increasing claims by which it was followed, was an event of serious 
import : the Leyden scholar was thrown almost at once upon his own 
resources ; and in the year 1727 he found himself compelled to return 
rather suddenly to England. 

But Fielding's was not a disposition to be dismayed by difficulties; 
and this elasticity of mind, which rose with vigorous reaction from 
the pressure of circumstances, is, perhaps, one of the most remark- 
able traits in his character, and esGontially connected with the pro- 
duction of some of his ablest works. No author has drawn more 
largely upon his own personal ex*^erie * n, his actual position in 
•tociety, his constant observation, Us mmI-iI character and relations, 
even to the chief incidents and ad?er«c\rc«i ..f his life. 

Upon his arrival in England he almost imnieiiately repaired to 
London ; and, though still a miner, found himself oraparatively his 
own master, and leflb, with B.a^ht assistance, to chalk out his '){m 
path to distinction. Ho now renowc<l his intercourse with some of 
his early friends : Lord Lyttleton, in particular, became attached to 
his society ; the vivacity of hi:' wit, his playful fanii>- and rich humour, 
combined with his love of social enjoyment and thc^ p oasures pecu- 
liar to his age, rendering his conversation hiirhiy r^^roeable no less 
to persons of rank than to the chief literary men and dramatists of 
the day. "Within a very few months after he became known to the 
celebrated Garrick, and to the survivors of that brilliant epoch which 
still oast its splendour over the Georgian era, he commenced as a 
regular writer for the stage; and while yet in his twentieth year (in 
1727), produced his first comedy of " Love in several Masques.'' To 
this he was, in fact, compelled by the extreme scantiness of hia 
finances ; for though he was nominally dlowed 200^. per annum, it 
was a well-known obseiTation of the author, who oould be humorous 
even at his own expense, th&t " it is an allowance which anybody 
might pay who would." It was evident, indeed, t.*..afc he considered 
his youthful profession of a dramatist rather as a resource than a 
matter of choice, by his observation in afterlife — that be abandoned 
the writing of comedies exactly at the time when he ought first to 
have turned his attention that way. From one of the prefaces to 
t/iese Juventlia, in which he relates some aneodotta of himself and 
Qarriok (as in that of ** The Fathers,' ' of v?Yiioh tViQ fgreat aotor wrote 


ih» ijolog^o. besides interesting himself warmly In its euooess), it 
would appear that Fielding had not embraced the profession con 
amor€; and in his warm eulogies on the oomic talent 3f Mrs. Centlivre, 
•X seems as if he were con9cioas of his inferiority, especially in the 
loints of spirited repartee and bold witty dialogue. 

Kis Arst effort, nevertheless, was not nnsnccessful, though its 
lepresentation immediately followed that of the popular comedy of 
the *' Provoked Husband ;" and the author made it his boast ** that 
■one had ever appeared so early on the stage.'' 

Fn m cltnt period the young dramatist, yet scarcely in his twenty- 
first yeaii devoted himself assiduously to the oomio muse, and 
a;r .ually " produced a crop of pieces," both comedies and farces, 
few of which, however, became favourites, or obtained a permanent - 
footing,* upon the stage. As necessitous as he was witty, and, like 
Goldsmith, eager to obtain fresh supplies for the gratification of his 
social pleasures, he threw them off with a rapidity and consequent 
carelessness as little favourable to their correctness as to their future 
celebrity. Ilis second play, the " Temple Beau," which appeared 
In 1728, was also well received ; though very imperfect, it possessed 
rpirit and real humour; and he thus became permanently connected 
with the theatres up to the time of his first marriage. 

Whilo it must be acknowledged that Fielding's genius was not 
decidedly dramatic, it was something that ho escaped disapproba- 
tion, though he was at times received with indifference. Ilis success 
was not always brilliant ; still less was it adequate to support him 
on that scale of expense which his social habits, fashionable com- 
pany, and not unfrequently his kindness and generosity to others, 
rendered an absolute want, especially in a man of strong animal 
spirits, sound constitution, ardour of pursuit, and extreme vivacity 
>f disposition. In those temporary embarrassnnents, to which he 
was often liable, even at this early period, addei to the interruption 
of his annual stipend, and his own want of prudential considera. 
ti ns, he was compelled to receive assistance from men of rank, to 
whom his family connexions, and still more his conversational 
powers and rare humour, had introduced him. Not a few of these, 
"like Lord J4yttlet3n, were among his early acquaintances ; and how 
justly, pt this time, that nobleman and his friends must have appre- 
ciated the talents of the young author, appears from an observation 
subsequently made by him, speaking of Pope, Swi^, and oVVi^iT V\\a 
of ths^ aig^e, namoir, that Harry Fielding, had mote ml wid\i\xm^^o« 


thftn all the persons they had been speaking of put tojecaer/' II 
is not extraordinary, then, that his tfociety should nc \f havj beer 
sought by men of rank and talent, or that he ihotild have been 
treated in the same generous and distinguished manner by the Duke 
of Richmond, the Duke of Kcxbuigh, and John, Duke of Argyle 
In fact, during his entire dramatic career, (between the years 172T 
and 1736.) in which nearly all his oomedles and farces were co-n- 
posed. Fielding continued to enjoy i^xs friendship and | atronagc o : 
his noble contemporaries ; und, before his thirtieth year, had pro- 
duced no leas than eighteen theatrical pieces, including playn and 
farces, besides a few which appeared at a subbequent period. 

It is most probi^ble that his inferiority as a dramatist is partly t!) 
be attributed to the rapid manner in which he composi- 1 his jlays, 
and to the unfavourable situation in which he was placed, as well 
as to the disadv&ztage cf his having commenced so difficult a species 
of composition at too early a period of life. He was known fre- 
quently to enter into an engagement over-night with some manager, 
to bring him a play at a certain hour, and then to go to his lolgingf) 
after spending the evening at a tavern (the club assembly of the 
day), and write a scene on the papers in which he had wrapped hij 
tobacco ; and to be ready with his composition for the players next 
morning to rehearse it. 

The objects of Fielding's satire were always of a legitimate kind; 
and in no part of his works do we find anything likr. a «neer, either 
against religion or virtue. His farces partook all of the same cha- 
racter ; they were admirable burlesque representations, ani they were 
almost invariably succes^^ful. 

Notwithstanding the indisputable merit of sonic of his comic pro- 
ductions, Fielding's finances continued still in a dilapidated condi- 
tion ; for the remuneration he obtained was decidedly inadequate to 
his expenses. "When we consider that by his own account he gaine.! 
by the " Wedding Day," which was performed nix nights with unr^v- 
mitted applause, oni'j fifty pounds, we are not surprised that h j 
should have required the occasional assistance of his friends And 
fortunately he now extended his acquaintance with a fow persons 
of merit as well as distinction ; and the refinement of modern, clubs 
being unknown, the grand resort of literary wit rnd fashion, ;;ud 
too often of dissipation, were the favourite taverns of the day.*^ 

^Tbat young Harry Fielding, like Burns, mi3l & tw oC that "vlvaoious 
^eicB," was admirably gifted to do the bonoutB oi tSi* 'Bao<i\iMv«JiMaifv\ieR, Xa 

21\irR'f fIXLDING* 18 

Bat in the midst of his dramatic career, sorrounded by the witty, 
the gay, and the idle, both in the green-room and in private cirelesy 
he waa happily rescaed from his growing habits of a reckless, 
unsettled life, by the force of a yirtuoas attachment. Towards the 
end of 1734, when in the 27th year of his age, he became acquainted 
with a young lady from Salisbury, a Miss Cradock, whose beauty 
and accomplishments at once attracted and riveted his affections. 
She was possessed of little fortune, not exceeding fifteen hundred 
pounds ; yet that was no bar to their immediate union ; for where 
his feelings were deeply Interested, Fielding was always a poor cal- 
culator of future expectancies. Nearly at the same time, by the 
death of his mother, he succeeded to a small estate at Stower, in 
Dorsetshire, which produced an income of rather more than two 
hundred a year ; a sum sufficient, together with the strenuous and 
well-directed exertion of his talents, to have secured him from 
anxiety, with regard to the important step which he had taken. 
After a brief residence in town, it is not surprising that he consultttd 
his young Iride's wishes, though scarcely in unison with his own, 
in retiring to their little estate in the country; he made, indeed, 
serious resolutions to abandon his town connexions, to bid adieu to 
the lighter pursuits and gaieties of his youth, and withdrawing 
entirely from the theatres, (with the exception of such pieces as he 
had already in progress,) to add to his still restricted income, by 
undertaking works which might obtain a more permanent hold upon 
the public favour. He was ardently attached to his wife, and in 
fact resolved, from that time, to become a prudent man (and few 
had stroDger sense, or a more sound and penetrating judgment) ; to 
seek happiness where only it was to be found, in the performance 
of social duties, and the cultivation of domestic affections ; add to 
these motives, the absorbing charms of study, (for like Cervantes, 
he was passionately attached to reading, and extending hb ideas by 
all means within his reach,) and of literary composition, and there 
appeared every prospect of rational happiness, and even of an envi- 
able life. But, alas I for the weakness of human vows, and the 
inconstancy of human wishes I — early habits arising from his family 

the infinite delight of Momus and his crew, " making night jovxalj* there ii 
little reason from all contemporary authorities to donht; and as little we ap* 
prehend that early dissipation, want of regular habits, and excesses so difficult 
for genius to guard BgainBt, laid the ground-work of di&e&Ee, Wd^ qI ^^Xi^stv 
MUUare deeay to whiob, in the prime of life, he fell a victim. 

14 MIMOITl Of 

connexions, and mode of education, had cast their chains too firmlj 
round him, and he was a remarkable example of the truth of our 
great moral poet's melancholy, but too well-founded sentiment, 
derived from close knowledge of the infirmity of the best natural 
disposition, however free from the worldly character : 

''Weak and irresolute is man; 
The purpose of to-day, 
Woven with pains into his plan. 
To-morrow rends away." — Co%,i.vr, 

Unfortunately, too, he was surrounded by neighbours rrhoso superior 
wealth and studied ostentation, perhaps mingled with little over- 
sights, and real or imaginary neglect, may have piqued his family 
pride, and gradually urged him into expenses and an appearance 
of ease and independence which his fortune was ill calculated to 

Both in "Joseph Andrews" and in "Amelia" he may be said to 
have given us the real history of his life, with all its chequered inci- 
dents and events ; its continual cares and anxieties ; its brief impas- 
sioned intervals of social hilarity and enjoyment. In the retired 
country gentleman of " Joseph Andrews," who relates his adventures 
to Parson Adams ; and in his hero Booth, he as ingeaiously and 
feelingly blended his own adventures, his own weaknesses and good 
qualities as a man. When Booth dwells upon bis conjugal affection, 
upon his imprudence, and his fears for the life of his Amelia, it is 
still Henry Fielding who speaks. And we have also the authority 
of Richardson for asserting that his first wife sat for the favourite 
"Amelia" of the author. 

Unable wholly to shut out the rustic world around him, he could 
scarcely have appeared in a less congenial sphere ; he occupied no 
decided station ; and as a small landed proprietor, with the high 
feelings and accomplishments of a gentleman and a man of letters, 
he was a kind of anomaly in the world of property, and may be said 
to have had no equals, no superiors, no inferiors, much less friends 
or companions with whom he could associate upon agreed and appro- 
priate terms. 

In this dilemma, Fielding adopted the expedient recommended to 

the traveller, " of doing as they do at Rome ;" as the bjst recipe for 

making time pass less disagreeably. Forgetting his j udicious resolves, 

And ansatie&ed with rural and literary pursuits calculated to add 

M>methia$^ to hia reFtneted income, thoogb, at \.\ift ttam« \am«, ^^xi^V^ 


ftttached to his family, and delighting in the pastimes of ohildreDy — 
** his chief pleasure/' we are told, '* consisted in societj and con- 
vivial mirth;'' hospitality threw open his doors, and in less than, 
three years, entertainments, hounds, and horses entirely devoured a 
little patrimony which might have secured him independence and a 
character free from those imputations which mankind generally 
}iut upon the actions of a man whose imprudence has led him into 

If the world will try genius by its own rules, and wish to reduce 
it to its own level of morality and mental quietude, that world has 
no right to bask in the sunny smiles of its fancy ; to warm its torpid 
feeling in the flashes of its wit ; to exult in the triumph, and share 
in the spoils of its all-conquering intellect. For genius may be said, 
in the words of our greatest poet, to be '* like the imagination itself, 
all compact ;" the world should be content and grateful to take it as 
it is ; and wise and charitable enough to reflect that had Fielding 
been the cool and calculating money-maker, the quiet country 
farmer, eager only to increase his store, he might indeed have died 
** worth something," in the world's acceptation of the term, but 
might never have been impelled by the force of circumstances, acting 
upon his inventive and vigorous powers, to produce masterpieces 
capable of entertaining and instructing that world through countless 

With a mind and magnanimity, abo7e wasting its energies in vain 
complaints and repinings, and of which many a more worldly- 
minded man would have been incapable, Fielding now resolved to 
resume the study of the law, which he had pursued with such unre- 
mitted assiduity at the University of Leyden. With this view, he 
immediately returned to London, and, at the age of thirty, entered 
himself a student of the Inner Temple. Eager to retrieve his dilapi- 
dated fortune, he applied himself with exemplary diligence, to his 
legal studies, regularly kept his terms, and omitted no occasion of 
forming professional connexions. At the same time, with a laudable 
anxiety to mitigate the consequences of his own imprudence, he 
resumed his compositions for the stage ; he also connected himself 
with the few public prints then in existence, projected new publica- 
tions ; and, besides his numerous prefaces, poems, and other pieces, 
which he subsequently published under the title of ** Miscellanies," 
wrote essays and tracts upon political and other subjects. N^^«t^ 
perha/MT^ was there a stronger example of industry a\i^ et^^x^gj ^1 


heart and mind ; no toil, no difficulties deterred him ; and there seems 
little doubt that, had not his health given way under such intense 
application, he would soon have Itoccme a distinguished ornament 
of the English bar. 

It is gratifying, however, to reflect that his honourable toils (for 
few perhaps who have once lost their property, willingly again en- 
counter the labour necessary to regain it,) were still cheered by tho 
smiles of an approving conscience, and by his affection for a wife 
and children to whom he was tenderly attached. The proofs of 
friendship also which he met with from men of professional rank 
and abilities, both at this and at a subsequent period, must have 
encouraged him in his arduous efforts, formed the best answer t^) 
the calumnies of his enemies, and did lasting honour to his memory. 
Notwithstanding the temptations to former gaiety and levity, espe- 
cially in the dramatic world, and in bringing forward some new per- 
formance, or amidst occasional dissipations, nothing could repress 
his thirst of knowledge and the delight he felt in acquiring fresh 
stores from which he embellished his inimitable pictures of life ; and 
with such intense ardour did he follow up his favourite studies, in 
addition to his legal acquisitions, that he was frequently known to 
retire late at night from a convivial meeting, and proceed to read 
and make extracts from the most abstruse authors before he retired 
to rest ; and in this habit he continued while the vigour of his con- 
stitution and his indefatigable energy supported him. But the sword 
was fast wearing out the scabbard. 

At length the time of his probation expired, and Henry Fielding 
was called to the bar ; not having kept his terms merely for the sake 
of form, he was eager to make his legal studies useful to his family, 
and to leave no means untried to advance himself in practice. With 
sufficient learning, strong natural ability, and a good head, as it is 
termed, for the law, he had now a fair prospect of retrieving his 
affairs ; was regular in his attendance at Westminster, and on the 
Western Circuit^, where he soon became favourably known. We are 
told by Chalmers, that a tradition respecting the new barrister had 
been preserved by the gentlemen of the Western Circuit, and though 
not quite consistent with the account given by Murphy, it is per- 
fectly in accordance with the idea entertained of his humour and 
character. Having attended the judges two or three years, it seems, 
witboat &e least prospect of success, Fielding published proposals 
£br a new law book : and this beinp; oiTC\i\ated «\iO\x\i \.V\ft ^^unttY^ 


the yoang barrister was, at the ensuing assizes, loaded with brieis 
at eTery town in the circoit. Bat it is added that his practice, thus 
suddenly increased, was observed almost as suddenly to leave him. 
T.b is true that his success was of very short duration, though the 
7*ja] cause for it is not here assigned. Fielding had already begun 
to feel his way, and had produced a favourable impression of his 
abilities and skill as a pleader, when his dearest hopes and prospects 
were suddenly blighted. Repeated attacks of the gout had already 
undermined a constitution naturally strong ; and early dissipation, 
late hours, severe study, with the exertion of vigorous intellect in 
literary composition always upon the spur, added to family anxieties, 
had produced premature lassitude, the symptoms of which he ha/ 
tuo long neglected. Still he did not relax his efTorts to turn his 
legal acquisitions to account. Possessing a sound knowledge of 
jurisprudence, ho directed his research to crown law, and prepared 
a voluminous Digest of the Statutes at Large, in two folio volumes, 
which evince the industry and perseverance of which he -fas capa 
ble ; but they £ftiled to supply his present exigencies, and remained 
unpublished in the bands of his brother, Sir oobn Fielding, who 
succeeded him in his office of a Middlesex magistrate. Nothing, in 
fact, could overcome the disadvantage of his continued absence from 
the courts ; and again, with fortune and reputation fUmost within his 
grasp, Fielding was compelled to relinquish his hopes derived from 
publications on the law, and to renew his applications to the comic 
muse, in the person of the managers of the theatres. TTar from being 
enabled to engage in several important works which ho had projected, 
he was now obliged to find a substitute for the law, and to provide 
for the morrow as it came. There were few subjects of the day upon 
which he did not exercise his well-practised pen ; and it was at this 
time that he contributed largely to the ** Champion" a paper chiefly 
indebted for itc reputation to his support. Many of its best articles, 
on a great variety of topics, bear intrinsic evidences of his hand, 
though it would be difficulc at this time to adopt them with certainty 
in an edition of his works ; nor could they perhaps add anything to 
a reputation like his. But the best proof of his talent for periodical 
vrriting was the manner in which that journal fell in public esteem 
when placed under other auspices, and the fact that none of the 
essays were republished, except two volumes, which included the 
exact time when Fielding was the principal author of the work. 
In speaking of this eventful period of his life, it \« \m^Q!«»L\tV^ \j^ 

£* B 


withhold the expression of our admiratioD, in oomiaon mth all hi» 
biographers, of the singular force and vigour of his mind: when 
under the most discouraging circumstanoes — the loss of comparatiye 
fortune — of health — of the fruits of years of successful toil, his body 
lacerated by the acutest pains, with a family looking up to him for 
immediate support, he was still capable, with a degree of Christian 
fortitude, almost unexampled, to produce, as it were, extempore, a 
play, a farce, a pamphlet, or a newspaper. Nay, like Cervantes, 
whom he most resembled in his wit as well as genius, he could jost 
upon his misfortunes, and make his own sufferings a source of enter- 
tainment to the rest of the world. One of these harmless satires 
upon himself, — ironical hits at his own evil fortune, by which only 
wits can revenge themselves upon her malice, we possess from the 
pen of Fielding, in the form of an epistle to Sir Bobert Walpole * 
and we give it here, as forcibly applying to his actual position, and 
as a humorous concentration upon one object of all " the slings anJl 
arrows of outrageous fortune" at once : — 

" While at the helm of state you ride, 
Our nation's envy, and its pride j 
While foreign courts with wonder gaze, 
And curse those councils which they priito; 
Would you not wonder, sir, to view 
Your hard a greater man than you ? 
Which that he is, you cannot douhCp 
When you have read the sequel out. 

You know, great sir, that ancient fellowSy 
Philosophers, and such folks, tell nu. 
No great analogy between 
Greatness and happiness is seen. 
If, then, as it might follow straight. 
Wretched to be, is to be great; 
Forbid it, gods, that you should ixj 
What 'tis to be so great hjb II 

The family that dines the latect 
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest; 
But latest hours must surely fall 
*Fore him who never dines at alL 
Your taste in architect, you know, 
Hath been admired by friend and foe 
But can your earthly domes compare 
WJtb all my castles— in tho air? 


We *re often tanght, H doth beihoTe rm 
To think those greater, who 're nboTe m \ 
Another instance of my glory, 
Who live above you, twice two story; 
And from my garret can look down 
On the whole street of Arlington. 

Greatness by poets still is painted 
With many followers acquainted : 
This, too, doth in my favour speak; 
Tour lev^e is but twice a week ; 
From mine I can exclude but one day. 
My door is quiet on a Sunday. 

Nor in the manner of attendance 

Doth your great bard claim less asoendanec^ 

Familiar you to admiration 

May be approached by all the nation ; 

While I, like the Mogul in Indo, 

Am never seen but at my window. 

If, with my greatness, you 're offended. 

The fault is easily amended ; 

For I '11 come down, with wond'rous eaae^ 

Into whatever place you please. 

I 'm not ambitious ; little matters 

Will serve us great, but humble creature* 

Cuppose a secretary o' this isle, 
Jist to be doing with a while ; 
Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop : 
Or I can foreign treaties dish up. 
If the good genius of the nation 
Should call me to negotiation, 
Tuscan and French are in my head, 
Latin I write, and Greek — I read. 
If you should ask, what pleases best? 
To get the most, and do the least. 
What fittest for ? — You know, I'm sure, 
I'm fittest for — a sine-cure." 

While on the subject of the author's poetical and miscellaneous 
pieces, it will be interesting, perhaps, to give his own opinions con- 
tained in a very amusing preface, where he justly describes them as 
treating of subjects which bear not the least relation to each other, 
•* Perhaps," he adds, ** what Martial says of his epigrams m^"^ \» 
applioabJe io tiieae several prodactions : Sunt bona, suufc quoed^via *n^ 

80 MXMOiB or 

diocria, sunt male plura;" and it must be admitted that the latter 
designation is the most appropriate with reference to the correctness* 
wit, or other merits, of some of his poetical compositions. Still we 
ought not to forget they were written when very young, by a student 
in his gayer hours, and were productions of the heart rather than 
of the head. Neither then, nor subsequently, did the author profess 
to make poetry his pursuit ; his occasional essays were of the slight- 
est texture — were chiefly the garnish of his comedies and farces, or 
mere Jeua^d'esprii thrown off in the spirit of the moment. In few 
instances were they of a serious turn, though his adaptation of part 
of the sixth satire of Juvenal (originally sketched out before he was 
twenty), and a very spirited version, is a proof that he possessed 
considerable talent for satirical composition. 

The author farther adds this remarkable observation — "I profess 
fiction only;" which, if we apply it to his productions generally, 
shows how well he estimated the peculiar powers which he possessed, 
and which he was now preparing more fully to develop. 

To the severity with which he had been attacked by some of his 
contemporaries, and especially some anonymous libellers, envious 
at once of his reputation, and the consistency and integrity of his 
public principles, he replied by the following just strictures. They 
furnish a triumphant answer to base insinuations like those of a 

" However, as I have been very unjustly censured, as well on ac- 
count of what I have not written, as for what I have, I take this 
opportunity to declare, in the most solemn manner, I have long since 
(as long as from June, 1741,) desisted from writing one syllable in 
the * Champion,' or in any other public paper; and, that I never was, 
nor will be, the author of anonymous scandal on tLe private history 
or family of any person whatever. 

'* Indeed there is no man who speaks or thinks with more detesta- 
tion of the modern custom of libelling. I look on the practice of 
stabbing a man's character in the dark to be as bad and as barbarous 
as that of stabbing him with a poniard in the same manner, noi 
have I ever been once in my life guilty of if 

The author, while bearing up against sorrows and difficulties, 

added to the inroads of serious disease, which rendered his latter 

days so painful, and consigned him to an early grave, always ex« 

presses himself in a tone of cheerful resignation, which strongly 

rewinds as of the mode in which bis |i;reat predecessor, Cervantes, in 


nearly similar ciitoniBtances, takes leaye of his riMders : — "And 
now, my good-natared reader, recommending my works to your 
oandonr, I bid you heartily farewell ; and take this with you, that 
yon may never be interrupted in the reading of these ' Miscellanies/ 
with that degree of heartache which hath often discomposed me in 
tiie writing them." 

In the short satirical pieces which Fielding occasionally threw off, 
like Swift, in a moment of spleen and irritation, occasioned by his 
disappointments, by a keen sense of neglected services, and the vio- 
lation of actaal promises on the part of " a succession of artful minis- 
ters and great men,'' who fasten themselves on the brain of genius, 
and, like the fly that feeds on that of the elk, exhaust its powers for 
their own pleasure and support, we perceive with what delight he 
threw off the incubus of factitious society and false " greatness," as 
he ironically termed it, and recurred to the higher and purer feelings 
of truth and nature. The lines addressed *'Ib Cdia'* seem to have 
been composed under some impression of this kind ; and, though not 
to be compared, in point of caustic satire, with some of his great 
predecessor (Swift), they may perhaps be pronounced inferior only 
to his. At the same time, their peculiar character of wit and 
humour, as well as their style and the kind of excellence at which 
they aimed, are so widely different, that they can, perhaps, scarcely 
be brought into fair juxta-position ; and to award to either the palm 
of wit would be much like deciding on the superiority of flavour in 
a pine-apple or a peach, — a verdict that must always be questioned 
while a variety of taste exists. And of the two, perhaps Swift could 
less have become the successful rival of Fielding than the latter of 
the singular and unexampled kind of genius which pervades the 
prose satires of the Dean of St. Patrick. '' Each did well in his 
degree." The following lines appear to have been written about the 
period when the author was paying his addresses to the lady whom 
he subsequently espoused, and whose virtues and accomplishments 
were so enthusiastically dwelt upon in the character of Booth, whose 
attachment to his Amelia, like that of Fielding, never seems to have 
experienced the least abatement: — 

"I hate the town, and all its ways; 
Ilidottos, operas, and plays; 
The ball, the ring, the mall, the court, 
Wherever the 'Beau Monde' resort: 


Where beauUea lie in ambash for to\k§, 
Earl Straffordfl and the Duke of Notfolksf 
All coffee-houses, and their praters. 
All courts of justice, and debaters; 
All taverns, and the sots within 'em; 
All bubbles, and the rogues that skin 'em. 
I hate all critics; may they burn all. 
From Bentley to the Omh-ttreet Journal; 
All bards as Dennis hates a pun: 
Those who have wit, and who hare none. 
All nobles of whatever station ; 
And all the parsons in the nation. 
All quacks and doctors read in physio, 
Who kill or cure a man that is sick. 
All authors who were ever heard on. 
From Bavius up to Tommy Gordon ; 
Tradesmen with cringes ever stealing, 
And merchants, whatsoe'er they deal ii. 
I hate the blades professing slaughter, 
More than the d — 1 holy water. 
I hate all scholars, beaux, and squirot; 
Pimps, puppies, parasites, and liars; 
All courtiers, with their looks so 8moot!ij 
And players, from Boheme to Booth. 
I hate the world cramm'd all together. 
From beggars up, the Lord ':nows whither! 
Ask you then, Celia, if there be 
The thing I love ? My charmer, thee. 
Thee more than light, than life adore. 
Thou dearest, sweetest creature, more 
Than wildest raptures can express. 
Than I can tell, or thou can'st guess. 
Then though I bear a gentle mind. 
Let not my hatred of mankind 
Wonder within my Celia move. 
Since she possesses all I love." 

It is evident from the decided superiority of his later comedies, of 
his essays, and even his occasional poems, that his mind at this 
period, when compelled to renounce his hopes of the ?aw, had acquireJI 
greater compass and vigour. He displays more sustained po^vers, 
and a closer knowledge of mankind, not only as a comic writer, but 
as a philosophical student of character and manners, as he subse- 
quently drew them with all the variations and anomalies of the 


human heari. It was not, however, till the appearance of his " Tom 
Jonsa" that Fielding's genius was justly appreoiated. In the earlier 
part of his career, his character as a dramatist and a public writer 
had been systematically assailed, not less by a tribe of ephemeral 
wits, than by men of first-rate talent, while he was held up to ridi- 
oole in his poetical character by him whom he afterwards com'memo- 
rated as the " immortal author of Gulliver/' But Swift was not aware 
that he was exercising bis satiric vein on the future author of " Tom 
Jones/' and "Amelia," when he attacked his youthful K)nteniporary 
for want of excellence in an art to whio'i he had neve? advanced 
any serixis pretensions. 

" For instance, when yon nu^l j i'^nnk 
No rhymer can like Wellsted sink : 
Hifl merits balairced, you shall find 
That Fielding leaves him far behiniL" 

But this satire is evidently unjust; and Fielding the poot, hb 
forgot, was not Fielding the public %fritcr and the novelint. ''Little 
did Swifk imagine," says Dr. Warton, " that this very Fielding would 
hereafter equal him in works of humour, and excel him in drawing 
and supporting characters, and ip the artful conduct nnd plan of a 
comic epopee." It is curious to observe ho\f far the estimate formel 
of contemporary merit differs from that given by the impartial ver- 
dict of posterity, when w^see writers liko Swift and Kichardsczx 
endeavouring to convince the world of Fielding's short-lived title to 
regard, while men like Aaron Hill flattered their self-complacency 
with the idea that they should be remembered wl in both Pope and 
Fielding would be known no more. — {Richardson's Correspondence.) 
We have seen the spirit in which Fielding uniformly met the 
anonymous attacks and libels of his detractors. Conscious of his 
own powers, he seldom retaliated, except in general terms, and in 
the language of gentlemanly reproof, indicative rather of magnani- 
mity and contempt than the too common expressicn of spite and 
anger. Indeed, this generous sentiment, added to a Christian spirit 
and philosophy, to which he generally had recourse in all the great 
emergencies of his life, was not the least remarkable feature in our 
author's character ; and in many passages of his works he has passed 
deserved eulogy upon the very man who had aspersed him: a suffi- 
cient proof, perhaps, that he felt his own reputation could afford it. 
And so far from havin<j sustained any injury, it is evident that thla 
lofty disregard of such attacks, and his acknow\edgpi^xi\» ^l ^^"^ 


merits of his adYersaries, particularly of Swift, in "Joseph Andrewi,'' 
has served to place his own in a more distinct and forcible point of 
view ; for, though both holding the most distinguished position in 
their several ways, no two writers could be less fairly opposed, or 
considered as rivals to each other. 

Such was the preparatory school in which, as a dramatist, an 
essayist, and public writer^ the talents of Fielding were formel a&d 
matured, and such the dispisition and feeMngs by which he was 
actuated before he entered on the ccmposition of his novels. It is 
from the same sou.\ce, perlaps, that we may trace the amiable quali- 
ties with which he has invested many of his principal characters, in 
which he excels all his contomporarins *.ud is so far suptrior to hit 
followers, without excepting his pupi* and rival, Smollett. 

Before considering his ma8ter-pit>ccd of prose fiction, however, we 
shall refer to his other minor productioni; in the order in which they 
appeared. Next to the ** Essays,'' already mentioned, we must notice 
the •* Journey from this World to the K ext," which abounds in sati- 
rical humour, and many admirr«ble hits at the follies and vices of 
groat personages, and the provaih'Lg errors and foibles of the time. 
Though in this, as in all his works, no one had more sincerely at 
heart the interests of religion nnd morality, it is seldom that weapons 
like these reach their mark, wlibout inflicting wounds which wero 
not intended ; and in exposing the misconduct of men of power and 
title, and the still baser infamies of their creatures, it is questionable 
how far such pictures are calculated to attain the noble end he had 
in view. Such a course could not fail, therefore, to draw down upon 
its author the z tmost virulence of his enemies. In their efforts to 
pervert his meaning, they broadly charged him with an intention to 
subvert the cause of truth and religion, which it was his object to 
promote, and of which he invariably entertained the greatest reve- 
rence and respect. Yet he had assured them that he did not intend 
in this allegorical piece to oppose any prevailing system, or to erect 
a new one of his own. 

In this singular production, thi design of which, and some por- 
tions of the dialogues, appear to have been adopted from Quevedo 
and other Spanish writers, the reader will find a rich fund of humour 
intermingled with sound views and an intimate acquaintance with 
the ancient authors no less than with modern society and character, 
in all their varieties. One proof of his refined study of the classics 
i# glbown m the amusing incident where he introduces Mr. Addison, 


hearing for the first time of the Fleusinian Myitenes in the sixth 
book of the iBneid, while it conveys a vrell-merited compliment to 
the author, who traced with so much felicity the analogy between 
Virgil's system and those mysterious rites. To the observer of 
human life, to the philosophical student, or citizen of the world, few 
productions will afford more gratification than the *' Journey from 
this World to the Next f* though it is oddly enough remarked by 
Chalmers that it does not clearly appear what Mr. Fielding's real 
design was in this work, which breaks off abruptly, either for want 
of materials, or a wish to convey satire in some more regular form ; 
an observation which would apply with more justness to the author's 
history of " Jonathan Wild." Incomplete and unstudied as it is, it 
can hardly hd called the first of Fielding's novels, though in many 
parts it shows the germs of that creative and imaginative power 
which he afterwards so successfully developed. Notwithstanding 
the startling views of oociety, and what is termed civilized life, which 
it exhibits, and the still more fearful truths which it forces upon 
the mind, the author's real sentiments, his genuine regard for the 
reformation and happiness of mankind, and his admirable courage in 
stigmatising the vices and follies of their oppressors, cannot for a 
r oment be mistaken. 

On the other side, it is equally clear that ho was as decidedly 
i;*C8ed to every species of lawless violence ; and being as deeplj^ 
read in constitutional law as in all its minor branches, he was ena« 
bled to avail himself of this knowledge in his pictures of life yrith 
inimitable skill, and for the best purposes. He never commits the 
fault we see in many novelists, of drawing false conclusions from the 
revolting characters and facts which he places before the reader ; he 
cover makes the vicious interesting or amiable, but awards strict 
poetical justice; and while he exhibits Wild as a great man, in the 
Newgate acceptation of the term, be conducts him to Tyburn as he 
would, with evident pleasure, other " great men" who belong to the 
sai le innumerable family, but are eager to disclaim all relationship 
with him. 

Th' author, at the same time, discriminates justly between the 
respective powers of good and evil, and while he denounces some 
prevailing doctrines and fashions, ever makes retributive justice fall 
wher* it ought to fi\U ; reserves the real delights of life, true peace 
ftod happiness, for the virtuous and beneficent ; not for «k m^m^xA 
allowy the dark void cfinMelitj or the chilly gloom o^ m\^wi^t^Yi 
I. — S 


to overcloud his clear, atrong Tiiiion, or interrupt the calm effulgent 
beauty of his closing prospect. 

It has been justly remarked that Fielding wrote the history of 
•* Jonathan Wild" for a noble purpose, and one of the highest im- 
portance to society. A satire like this strips off the spurious orna- 
ments of hypocrisy, shows the beauty of the moral character, and 
will always be worthy the attention of the reader who desires to ri«o 
wiser or bettor from the book he peruses. To tLoee who have a 
taste for exhibitions of the absurd and the ridicuI^Urj, it will afford 
in njany parts the same kind of feast as they may have partaken in 
the inimitable representations of Cliarles Mathews. Like his early 
exhibitions, however, " Jonathan Wild" maybe pron'^unced deficient 
in that higher order of composition attained by the author, as woU 
as by the comedian, in their maturer years and in their greater and 
more studied performances. In all that he had hitherto accom- 
plished, Fielding seemed only to be preluding to some bolder and 
more masterly undertaking, in which his vast knowledge and expe- 
rience, his profound reading and observation, illustrated too by bis 
erudition, should all tend to one end, the ornament of his original 
imaginative pictures, and rich inventions. If we add an infmite va- 
riety of character and incident, an exquisite judgment, the charm of 
propriety and grace in the several parts, and the harmony and con« 
gruity of the whole, we shall appreciate the chief qualities which he 
developed in his ** Joseph Andrews," and which bore away the palm 
of excellence in his *' Tom Jonec." 

It should be premised with reference to these compositions, thai 
there seem to have been three dij*tinct periods in the progress of "lii..; 
highly gifted writer's powers. In the first, his genljs broke forth 
with a wildness and luxuriance comparatively untutored and un« 
checked, without that justness of thought ar.d moral discriminatioii 
which he afterwards evinced. Hence his earlier productions exhibit 
frequent proofs of haste and negligence, from which the author with 
difficulty cleared himself in the most studied and finished of his sub-' 
sequent works. To this cause must also be attributed the partial 
failure of his comedies, which, in the outset, were the efforts of a 
minor ; while he happily entered on the composition of his novwls, 
like the author of " Waverley," at a time when his judgment was 
fully matured, and his knowledge and experience of life widely ex- 
panded. Even in the second epoch we trace an immense accosiion 
of varied acquiaitioDB and effectiTe talent, when the luxariances of hit 


Bijle, his frequent negligences and errors were effectually corrected, 
vrhen his essays and his almost innumerable literary and political 
tracts, by gradually exhausting the fervour and taming the strength 
of his genius, had improved his natural style, and matured the ex- 
pression of his thoughts and feelings. 

To this period belong his miscellaneous pieces : his criticisms, his 
prefaces, his oontribations to the ** True Patriot" and other journals ; 
and, perhaps among the most entertaining, his ** Papers proper to 
be read before the Koyal Society,'' and his " Dialogue between Alex* 
ander the Great and Diogenes the Cynic */' ** On the Kemedy of Afflio- 
tion foe the Loss of Friends ;'' *' The First Olynthiac of Demosthenes," 
&G.t most of which preceded the composition of his " Tom Jones'' and 

The third and most distinguished epoch of Fielding's genius may 
date from the composition of these unrivalled works, and from the 
numerous productions connected with law and politic§ which 
marked the period of his magistracy, and which were chiefly directed 
to the reform of our criminal code, to the establishment of a more 
effective police, comprehending plans of an extensively useful charao* 
ter, beyond the range of those official duties which he so conscientiously 

First, as relates to his "Joseph Andrews," the author himself 
informs us, in an ingenic'is and amusing preface, that it was 
intended for an imitation of the style and manner of Cervantes ; and 
" how delightfully," says one of his biographers (Murphy), " he has 
copied the humour, the gravity, and the fine ridicule of his master, 
they can witness who are acquainted with both writers." Another 
critic, on the other hand (Chalmers), supporting his opinion on an 
observation of Dr. Wartcn, " that it was difficult to say why Fielding 
Bhoold call this novel an imitation of that truly original author," 
questions the correctness of the preceding assertion, and maintains 
that Fielding's ridicule is of a very different species from that of the 
Spanish ncvelist. Perhaps the authority of his biographer. Dr. Aikin, 
may be allowed its weight in coming to a decision on a point so little 
open to dispute after the author's own declaration, but on which 
learned doctors contrive so easily to disagree ; and he too speaks of 
"the grave Cervantic style adopted in the novel of 'Joseph An- 
drews.' " It would appear, also, from the author's own preface, as 
well as from numerous passages in his works, that he titva %.t\ ^Tv>iJKnL« 
Kftstio admirer of hia great predecessor: while, ho^eN«,\\\a\i\^^!ac^ 

Ids MEMOIR 07 

probable that be had Cervantes in his eye, it is c^fcain tiiat the satiiie 
and burlesque portion of " Joseph Andrews'' was suggested to him 
by the perusal of Richardson's " Pamela," on the overwrought refine- 
ment and strained sentiment of which it affords a humorous commex^ 
tary in the adventures of her professed brother, the hero. Besides 
its intrinsic wit and excellence, it has thus a two-fold attraction in 
the comic and burleeque spirit it maintains tiiroughout, in the same 
way as the adventures of the Spanish knight and his squire, however 
ludicrous in themselves, are relished with a double zest from the 
contrast they offer to the' dignified bearing and marvellous deeds of 
the old Paladins. How exquisitely Fielding has caaght the humour, 
assumed gravity, and delicate satire of his prototype, they who have 
compared the two master-pieces will readily admit ; and that he loses 
nothing in point of originality. 

Perhaps of all human compositions an excellent comic epic is the 
most difficult ; and Fielding succeeded well in putting into full effect 
the rules laid down in his ingenious preface. The truth is, he had 
now discovered that species of composition for which his natural 
talents, matured by long practice and by painful experience, were 
most peculiarly adapted. The character of Parson Adams alone, to 
say nothing of the incidents of the story and the rich humour in 
which it in other respects abounds, would sufficiently establish his 
reputation as an original and admirable writer. 

It is stated, by one of Fielding's early biographers, that the Rev* 
Mr. Young, a learned and much-esteemed friend of the author's, was 
the original of the excellent and amusing parson. It is added that 
the likeness was very remarkable ; Mr. Y. had as close an intimacy 
with the Greek authors, and as passionate a veneration for .^chylus, 
as Adams himself; the overflowings of his benevolence were as 
strong ; his fits of reverie were as frequent, and occurred, too, upon 
the most interesting occasions. When he was chaplain, for instance* 
in a regiment serving in Flanders, he thought proper, one fine 
summer's evening, to indulge himself in a walk, during which, 
struck with the charms of the landscape, and perhaps with some ap- 
propriate passage in his beloved iBschylus, he extended his studies 
till he arrived very quickly within the enemy's lines, and was only 
brought to a stand by the repeated challenge of "Qui pa laP' The 
officer in command, on hearing the merits of the case, and finding 
the unpremeditated nature of the visit, with the unaffected simplicitj 
of Als prisoner, gave him leave to pursue his olassioal researches in 


a walk home again. Indeed, it is not too much to saj that the cele 
brated character of an absent man, by La Bruj^re^is, in eyery pointy 
inferior to that true and just resemblance to nature with which our 
author has delineated the peculiarities of Adams : ** the former/' il 
18 remarked, ** has been carried to a degree of pleasant extrava- 
gance, while the latter abounds in the finest lights and shadows of 
real life.'' 

"Joseph Andrews" appeared in the year 1742, a short time pre- 
yious to the publication of the author's " Miscellanies." As was t 
be expected, it was assailed by a host of pretended wits and critics, 
and by none more than the friends and admirers of Richardson. The 
assumed relationship between the hero and Pamela was by no means 
felt as a compliment; the implied satire was at once recognised, 
more particularly in the latter chapters, where the lady is made to 
assume a conduct and language little becoming a person of quality, 
or in the words of Chalmers, *' she enacts the beggar on horseback 
in a very superior manner." This, it is asserted, Richardson never 
forgave. Whenever in his correspondence he has occasion to men- 
tion Fielding, it is with rancour or affected contempt ; and his corre- 
spondents, who seem to have conspired to flatter him into dotage, 
repeat his sentiments with profound acquiescence I 

From this period (1742-3,) the author of "Joseph Andrews" gra- 
dually detached himself from the study and practice of the law, & 
profession that never can be pursued by fits and starts, and devoted 
himself to his literary avocations with renewed ardour. It was, 
Bevertheless, difficult to find any adequate substitute for the losses 
he had sustained by the long study and subsequent abandonment 
of the law. To these discouraging circumstances were to be added 
his own continued illness, and the still more painful infliction of 
beholding a wife, whom he tenderly loved, fast sinking into an early 
tomb. The fortitude which had borne him through all other trials 
is said to have deserted him here : though naturally of a high, un- 
bending spirit, he was possessed of extreme sensibility; had a heart 
almost morbidly alive to the sufferings of others — was one of the 
most affectionate of husbands and fathers; and the death of her 
whom he had selected as the pattern of his "Amelia," coming upon 
him in the midst of his other afflictions, produced such paroxysms 
of grief that fears were entertained for his reason ; and it was long 
before he rallied from the severity of his sufferings. ll\aii\ft\i^,\jsst^ 
LytUetony h»d suetained a similar loss : and the 8eiiWrci«i[i\;(\ ^^ ^ils3{\v* 


sitely described by him in his " Monody," are those also of the anthoT 
of "Amelia." That Christian philosophy, however, of which Field- 
ing was so sincere a disciple, at length came to his relief; and, sap- 
ported by his unfailing trust in an All-wise Providence, a noble 
feature in his character and sentiments, he began to prepare for fresh 
struggles with his fortune. He felt that his days were numbered ; 
and, with laudable spirit, he resolved to devote them, by the fullest 
exertion of his literary talents, to the benefit of his surviving family, 
through the medium of serving his country and affording entertain- 
ment to the public ; a species of martyrdom of which no common 
mind is ever capable. He has himself told us that he studiously 
persevered in this high resolve to the last ; and can we doubt that it 
indisputably tended to accelerate his end ? A strong anti-jacobin, he 
resolved, notwithstanding the neglect and ingratitude of a Whig min- 
istry (in all times consistently emulous of a corrupt Walpole's fame), 
upon setting up a new periodical to defend the cause of the reigning 
family against the efforts of the Pretender and his rapidly increasing 
partizans. The paper was entitled "The True Patriot;*' and, as few 
men could be found so well qualified to conduct a work of this kind 
as Fielding, there appeared every probability of its ultimate cele- 
brity and success. A similar project had been set on foot by Addison 
thirty years before (1715), and he had also the example of Swift^ 
and other great wits on the other side. Addison's "Freeholder'* \t% 
doubtless an admirably written paper, abounding in powerful satire 
and argument, agreeably relieved by a delicate vein of wit and rail- 
lery. But in "The True Patriot" is displayed a solid knowledge of 
the British laws and government, as well as brilliant sallies of 
humour, which would have appeared to no disadvantage among the 
political compositions of his most distinguished predecessors. In 
fact it contributed greatly to strengthen the Hanoverian cause and 
the Walpole ministry, by bringing the unsuccessful party into con- 
tempt ; and actually, by dint of following up victory with repeated 
strokes of ridicule and wit, gradually effacing them, not only from 
the conversation, but the very minds of men : — 

** Jokes, repartees, and laugb, and pun polite. 
Are the true test to prove a man is right,"— tPetron, 

The "True Patriot" was followed by the "Jacobite Journal,*' edited 
by John Trott Plaid, Esquire, which, by a rich vein of satiric humour 
and irony, aimed at covering the party against whom it was directed 
'*ill greater ignominj. 


Though severely pressed by circumstances, it would be hardly fair 
to infer that Fielding, in pursuance of his own ironical advice, pro- 
jected these periodicals, instigated only by hope that his service! 
would obtain for him some official situation from the court. He knew 
the world, and especially the world of intrigue and faction, too well ; 
but he was naturally accused by his enemies of entertaining only 
the most interested views. It was not so: his ambition at least was 
laudable ; for he never prostituted his pen to power, though of the 
temptations to do so, only the man who has long struggled with ad- 
verse fate — with a series of evil circumstances calculated to render 
their victim an object of persecution, of scorn, filled, perhaps, with 
unavailing regrets, and the haunting dread that Fortune may not 
yet have shot all her bolts, can form even a remote idea. Instead 
of a handsome provision for his last days, however, he was left to 
perish by the government he had so essentially served ; and it was 
:nly by the extreme exertions and influence of Lord Lyttletoo that 
he was appointed, in his forty-fourth year, with a constitution already 
broken, to the bench of acting magistrates at Westminster ; a situa- 
tion requiring robust health and strength, though one for which his 
uibntfl eminently qualified him. But Walpole, like all his Whig 
prA^eny, ever studiously avoided men of real merit, in order to find 
tools more fitted for his purposes, — sycophants, dunces, and knaves. 
Involved as Fielding now was in a series of arduous duties, which he 
discharged with zeal and ability, he did not confine his attention to 
the routine of o£cial business. He extended his inquiries into the 
state of the penal laws ; and published several tracts which display 
his enlightened views, and contain judicious proposals for their 
reform and consolidation. All these productions do honour to 
Fielding as a magistrate; and the result, as they were of brief inter- 
vals between his active duties, must have cost him intense applica- 
tion, instigated by an ardent zeal for the service of the community, 
added to the exigency of his own affairs. Still, amidst these various 
avocations, his inventive genius found room to display itself, and for 
some time past he had amused his leisure moments, few as they 
were, with the composition of ** Tom Jones,^' the progress and com- 
pletion of which embraced a large space of time. It was commenced 
in the midst of his political conflicts, and finished amidst all the tur- 
moil of his magisterial duties — and in a continually declining state 
of health. 
With ugard to this amusing work, justly, p irbaps, coxv^\^^t^^V\% 

32 MKMOiB or 

master-piece, — it may not be uninterestiDg tu give the opinions of 
different writers, some of whom were nearly cotemporary with the 
author. In extolling the uniform and regular plan on which it iu 
conducted, Murphy observes that '*No author has introduced a 
greater diversity of character, or displayed them more fully or in 
more various attitudes. Allworthy is the most amiable picture in the 
world of a man who does honour to his species ; in his own heart he 
finds constant propensities to the most benevolent and generous 
actions, and his understanding conducts him with discretion in the 
performance of whatever his goodness suggests to him. Ani though 
it is apparent that the author laboured this portrait con amorCf and 
meant to offer it to mankind as a just object of imitation, he has 
soberly restrained himself within the bounds of probability ; nay, it 
may be said of strict truth, as, in the general opinion, he is supposed 
to have copied here the features of a worthy character still in being 1 
The person here alluded to was Kalph Allen, Esquire, of Prior Park, 
and we learn from * Groves's Anecdotes,' that Fielding, while engaged 
in writing this novel, lived at Tiverton in the neighbourhood, and 
even dined every day at Allen's table." ( Chalmers,) " Nothing can 
be more entertaining than Western ; his rustic manners, his naturaa 
undisciplined honesty, his half-enlightened understanding, with the 
self-pleasing shrewdness which accompanies it, and the bias of his 
mind to mistaVen politics, are all delineated with precision and fine 
humour. The sisters of these two gentlemen are aptly introduced, 
and give rise co many agreeable scenes. *Tom Jones' will always 
be a fine lesson to young men of good tendencies to virtue, whx) yet 
suffer the impetuosity of their passions to hurry them away.'' 
"Thwackum and Square are excellently opposed to each other I 
In short, all the characters down to Partridge, and even to a maid 
or hostler at an inn, are drawn with truth and humour ; and indeed 
they abound so much, and are so oflen brought forward in a dramatic 
manner, that everything may be said to be here in action ; everything 
has manners, and the very manners which belong to it in human life: 
they look, they act, they speak to our imaginations just as they appear 
to us in the world." 

"It may be added that in many parts of *Tom Jones- we find our 
author possessed the softer graces of character painting, and of de- 
scription ; many situations and sentiments are touched with a delicate 
hand, and throughout the work he seems to feel as much delight in 
describing the amiable part of human nature, as in his early days he 


r^d in exAggemtiiig the strong and harsh feature^} of turpitade and 
^i'OTmity, This circumstanoo breathes an air of philanthropy 
t^Tongh his work, and renders it an image of truth, as the Roman 
orator calls a comedy. And hence it arose from this truth of char- 
acter, which prevails in * Tom Jones/ in conjunction with the other 
qualities of the writer above set forth, that the suffrage of the most 
learned critic of this nation (Dr.Warburton,) was given to our author, 
when he says, * Monsieur de Marivaux, in France, and Mr. Fielding, 
m England, 6tand the foremost among those who have given a 
faithful and chaste copy of life and manners ; and by enriching their 
rcmanc« with the best part of the comic art, may be said to have 
brought it to perfection.' Such a favourable decision from so able 
a judge will do honour to Mr. Fielding with posterity; and the ezcel- 
\ezit genius of the person with whom he has paralleled him will refl«*ct 
the truest praise on the author who was capable of being his illus- 
trious rival I" — (Murphy. ) 

** That elegant writer and judicious critic, Dr. Beattie, who had no 
personal animosities to gratify in trying to depreciate a character 
like Fielding's, carries his enthusiasm in his favour still iarthcr. 
* Since the days of Homer,' he says, * the world has not seen a more 
artful epic fable. The characters and adventures are wonderfully 
diversified ; yet the circumstances are all so natural, and rise so 
easily from one another, and co-operate with so much regularity in 
bringing, or even while they seem to retard the catastrophe,' that the 
ouriosity of the re^ider is always kept awake, and, instead of flagging, 
grows more and more impatient as the story advances, till at last it 
becomes downright anxiety. And when we get to the end, and look 
back on the whole contrivance, we arc amazed to find that of so many 
incidents there should be so few superfluous ; that in such a variety 
of fiction there should be so great a probability, and that so complex 
a tale should be so perspicuously conducted, and with perfect unity 
of design." 

It is also justly remarked by Chalmers, " that the comic romance 
since the days of Fielding has been declining apace from simplicity 
and nature. The cause of his superiority is to be sought in his wit 
and humour, of which he had an inexhaustible fund;" an opinion 
confirmed by the most impartial and enlightened among his contem- 
poraries, not excepting Lord Lyttleton and his friends, intimately 
acquainted with him as thej were from the oulsel Q^ \v\^ c;t\.t^^t, 
**A}tiboagb In tbiB^ aa wel] aa in other writings of l\i«i «i\i\,\\OT,'' ^^a% 


Dr. Aikin, " the scenes are chiefly drawn from low life, and dispk? 
too much of the vices and crimes of mankind, yet they are relieva •. 
by considerable admixture of nobler matter, and contain many affeoir 
ing pictures of moral excellence. Indeed it cannot be doubted thd 
writer's intentions were to favour the cause of virtue ; and probably 
the majority of readers, judging from their feelings in the perusal, 
will pronounce that he has eflfected his purpose. A rigid moralist 
will object to him the common fault of many writers of fiction, that 
of sheltering gross deviations from rectitude of conduct under that 
vague goodness of heart which is so little to be relied upon as the 
guide of life ; yet he has not been inattentive to poetical justice in 
making misfortune the constant concomitant of vice, though perhaps 
he has not nicely adjusted the degree of punishment to the crime.'' 

The author's third novel, "Amelia," was published in 1751, and 
in point of general excellence it has commonly been considered, no 
less by critics, perhaps, than by the public, as decidedly inferior to 
"Tom Jones." In variety and invention it assuredly is so. Its chief 
merit depends less on its artful and elaborate construction than on 
the interesting series it presents of domestic paintings, drawn, as we 
have remarked, from his own family history. 

It has more pathos, more moral lessons, with far less vigour and 
humour than either of its predecesbors. But we agree with Chalmers, 
that those who have seen much of the errors and distresses of do- 
mestic life, will probably feel that the author's colouring in this work 
is more just as well as more chaste than in any of his other novels. 
The appeals to the heart are far more forcible. 

The whole of Miss Matthews's narrative abounds in exquisite 
touches of nature and passion ; but what may be referred to with 
most confidence are Chapter VI. of Book X. and Chapter VIII. of 
Book XI. Where do wo find the consequences of imprudence or 
guilt represented with such irresistible tenderness ? The "Amelia" 
is, indeed, a beautiful and almost perfect work of its kind, but 
throughout preserves the features, in which that very beauty con- 
sists, distinct from either of 'the novels which preceded it. Upon 
this ground of difference, by many considered as a mark of inferiority, 
and by his enemies as a decay of the author's powers, it is less 
amusing than revolting to observe how eagerly Richardson and his 
correspondents renew their envious and malignant attacks, although 
ibe entire etory abounds with incident and detail taken from his 
own life, ^nd which ought to have disarmed. tt»\\ OT\^CA%m, ^\i\\%k \JaA 


• wa« &at sinking into the gr&fe, oppressed with misfortunes, 
and si the early age of forty-eight. The effects, perhaps, of literary 
jealoutfy and ptfrsonal prejudice were never more forcibly and pain- 
fully disp&yed. 

What is the language of Mrs. Donellan, so grateful, doubtless, to 
the ear of him to whom it was addressed ? " Will you leave us to 
Captain Booth and Betty Thoughtless for our example ? As for 
poor Amelia, she is so great a fool, we pity her, but cannot be humble 
enough to desire to imitate her/' In his reply, Bichardson, betray- 
ing his characteristic littleness and vanity, repeats, with infinite self- 
complacency, " Will I leave you to Captain Booth ? Captain Booth, 
madam, has done his business. Mr. Fielding has over-written him- 
self, or rather under-written ; and, in his own journal, seems ashamed 
of his last piece, and has promised that the same muse shall write no 
more for him. The piece, in short, is as dead as if it had been pub- 
lished forty years ago as to sale. You guess I have not read "Amelia?" 
Indeed I have read but the firefc volume." . . . 

Contemporary criticism, written in this spirit, requires no com- 
ment. It is evidently prompted by the mean desire of cavilling at 
decided and self-acknowledged superiority, and does no honour to 
the name of the author of " Clarissa" and ** Sir Charles Grandison." 
How far he was inferior to his great rival in the leading characteris- 
tics of novel-writing ; and in none more than in natural and true 
portraiture of character and manners, the different popular light in 
which they are regarded affords, perhaps, the surest criterion. While 
Fielding continues to rank with the "foremost men of all the 
world ;" with Homer, Cervantes, Shakspeare, in the highest rank of 
genius, the long, wearisome, thrice elaborated productions of Rich- 
ardson are a dead weight, and sleep undisturbed upon their shelves. 
Only for a moment contrast the characters they have drawn — the 
truth-telling, manly minds of Fielding, of which the calm beauty, 
"the sunshine and the storm," are all faithful trcanscripts of nature, 
with the feeble, unvarying portraitures of his contemporary. Of 
Richardson, indeed, it may bo remarked, as of some of our second- 
rate dramatists, that his characters want breadth and truth, or, in 
the words of H. Coleridge, when speaking of Massinger falling into 
a passion with his bad characters, "it is a fault which nowhere 
occurs in Homer, Cervantes, Shakspeare, the great and true drama- 
tists, and very seldom in Fielding and Sir Wa\teT ^(iQil\,.'* "^VA^ 
immersed In the avocations of busiaess and ihe toil oi \i[i(i^%^^Ti\.\\^fc" 

36 MiiMOlIi i*S 

rary composition, Fielding, it appears, had contracted a second 
marriage. His salary had proved inadequate to the support of his 
family; and though labouring under increasing infirmities, such 
was the activity of his mind, that no sooner had ho completed one 
literary undertaking than another was projected. Declining as he 
was, his efforts to support his new paper, **The Covent Garden 
Journal, by Sir Alexander Drawcansir, Knight, Censor-General of 
Great Britain," had been unceasing. But at length the announce- 
ment that the author's health would no longer enable him to carry 
on the work — a work which had conduced so much to the entertain* 
ment of the public — was received with a feeling of general regret, 
little complimentary to the critical acumen of Kichardson and his. 
supporters. In fact, the mental and bodily exertion which he com- 
pelled himself to endure had made fatal inroads on his constitution, 
and the most alarming symptoms of dropsy were now added to his 
other sufferings. For some time he struggled to bear up against a 
complication of diseases which baffled the skill of medicine, and gavo 
warning that the life of Fielding was drawing to a close. His strength 
grew every day less, and the sole chance now left was to try the effect 
of a change of climate, which was earnestly recommended by his 
physician and his friends. He yielded to their solicitations ; but it 
was without hope. 

Portugal was the country most likely to afford him relief. He 
accordingly took his passage for Lisbon, on the 26th of June, 1754^ 
The account he has left us of his " Voyage" is exceedingly interest* 
ing ;. and, while his body was borne down by disease, shows the per- 
fect serenity and freedom, as well as the wonderful activity of his 
mind. '*0n this day," his journal opens, 'Hhe most melancholy sun 
I had ever beheld arose and found me awake at my house at Ford- 
hook. By the light of the sun, I was, in my own opinion, last to 
behold and take leave of those creatures on whom I doated with a 
mother-like fondness, guided by Nature and passion, and uncured 
and unhardened by all the doctrine of that philosophical school 
where I had learned to bear pains and to despise death. In this 
situation, as I could not conquer Nature, I submitted entirely to 
her, and she made as great a fool of me as she had ever done of any 
woman whatsoever: under pretence of giving me leave to enjoy, she 
drew me in to . suffer the company of my little ones during eight 
hours; and I doubt not whether, in that time, I did not undergo 
zaore than in all my distemper. At twelve o'cVocVl T^tft<5\«Gly my 

fiEN&r • YISLDINa. 3Y 

ooacU was at the door, which was no sooner told me than I kissed 
mj children re and, and went into it with some little resolution. My 
wife, who hehaved more like a heroine and philosopher, though ait 
the same time the tendefest mojther in the world, and mj eldest 
daughter, followed me ; some friends went with us, and others took 
tbeir leave, and I heard my behaviour applauded, with many mur- 
murs and praises to which I well knew I had no title, as all other 
such philosophers may, if thayhave any modesty, confess on the like 

In the introduction to his " Voyage," which still emits gleams of 
native wit and humour, he alludes not only to the great exertions he 
made in his magisterial capacity, hut to his voluntary efforts for the 
improvement of the police, and for the detection of bands of depre- 
dators, and even murderers, who had escaped the fangs of the law. 
"I had delayed my Bath journey for some time, contrary to the re- 
peated advice of my physician and the ardent desires of my warmest 
friends, though my distemper was now turned to a deep jaundice, in 
which case the Bath waters are generally reputed to be almost infal- 
lible. But I had the most eager desire of aboliahiqg this gang of 
villains and cut-throats, which I was sure of accomplishing the mo* 
ment I waa enabled to pay a fellow who had undertaken for a small 
sum to betray them into the hands of a set of thief-takers, whom I 
bad enlisted into the service : all men of known and approved fidelity, 
truth, and intrepidity. 

"After some weeks the money was paid at the Treasury, and, 
within a few. days aftar two hundred pounds of it had come into my 
hands, the whole gang of cut-throats was entirely dispersed ; seven 
of them were in actual custody, and the rest driven, some out of the 
town, and others out of the kingdom.*' 

This was, indeed, conferring a public service ot the most invaluable 
natnre, and displays Fielding's, sagacity and vigour of mind in the 
moot prominent light. He may truly claim a patriotism of the 
highest kind ; for he devoted his las^. fleeting moments to a service 
which could no longer benefit him. " Though my health," he says, 
" was now reduced to the last extremity, I continued to act with 
the utmost vigour against these villains, in examining whom, and 
taking ths depositions, I have often spent whole days, nay, some- 
times whoJo nights ; especially when there was any difficulty in pro- 
caring suificieat evidenoi to coorict them, which \a ql '^^t'j GCkTX\xaQii. 
^iDifJr^eijryberiee, even when the guilt of the pwt^iE ftwttL^SiWi^'^ 


ftpparent to satisfy the most tender conscience. Bat courts of jostioe 
know nothing of a cause more than what is told them on oath bj a 
witness ; and the most flagitious villain upon e&ith ib tiled in tiie 
same manner as a man of the best character who Is ^coused of the 
snme crime." 

How effectually he completed the business he had undertaken will 
appear from the following extract : *' Meanwhile, amidst my fatigues 
and distresses, I had the satisfaction to find my ecdeavours attended 
with such success that this hellish society was almost entirely extir- 
pated. Instead of reading of murders and street robberies in the 
news almost every morning, there was, in the remaining part of the 
month of November, and in all December, not only no such thing as 
a murder, but not even a street robbery committed. Some such, 
indeed, wore mentioned in the public papers, but they were all found, 
on the strictest inquiry, to be false. In this entire freedom from 
street robberies, no man will, I believe, scruple to acknowledge that 
the winter of 1753 stands unrivalled during a course of many years ; 
and this may, probably, appear the more extraordinary to those who 
recollect the outrages with which it begun." With a mind thus . 
intently devoted to purposes of public utility, he, at the same time, 
expressed, with that frankness so remarkable in him, how deeply he 
fnlt interested in the fate of his youthful family, whom he was shortly 
about to leave for ever. '* I begun in earnest to look on my case as 
desperate, and I had vanity enough to rank myself with thope heroes 
who, of old times, became voluntary sacrifices to the good of the 
public. But lest the reader should be too eager to catch at the word 
vanify, and should be unwilling to indulge me with so sublime a 
gratification (for I think he is not too apt to gratify ftie), I will take 
my key a pitch lower, and will frankly own that I had n stronger 
motive than the love of the public to push me on. I will, therefore, 
confess to him that my private affairs, at the beginning of the winter, 
had but a gloomy aspect; for I had not plundered tlie country or the 
poor of those sums which men, who are always ready to plund^i 
both as much as they can, have been pleased to suspect me of 
taking ; on the contrary, by composing, instead of inflaming the 
quarrels of porters and beggars (which I blush when I say hath not 
been universally practised) ; and by refusing to take a shilling from 
a man who most undoubtedly would not have had another left, 1 
had r^uced an irsDme of about five hundred pounds a year of the 
^'"ifasi money upon earth, to little more tbwi t\\T^ Yvxix^di^d pounds ; 


a oonsideralle portion of which remained with my clerk ; and, indeed, 
if the whole had done so, ae it ought, he woald have been bat ill paid 
for sitting, above sixteen hours in the twenty-four, in the most un- 
Trholesome as well as nauseous air in the universe, and which hath, 
in his case, corrupted & good constitution without contaminating hie 

From these statements, made by the author when he stood upon 
thebrink of eternity, it is only just to infer that he performed his 
duties conscientiously ; and that, in all the relations of life he was 
guided by that Christian philanthropy, which considers the good of 
others as the basis of its own. 

Unfortunately, the air of Lisbon produced no favourable change 
in the patient's health; the voyage had been deferred too long: he 
arrived at his destination a dying man ; and after lingering about 
two months with little suffering, but in utter prostration of strength, 
Pielding breathed his last on the 8th of October, 1754, and in the 
forty-eighth year of his age. lie left behind him his second wife 
and tour children, who were all generously provided for by his friend, 
Mr. Allen, to whom also the latter were indebted for their education 
and their future respectability and welfare. On his death he be- 
queathed to Mrs. Fielding and her children one hundred pounds a 
year each, after having survived the immortal novelist just ten yean 
from the period when he had quitted England. 

Fielding, having died in a foreign land, was beholden to the admi- 
ration of a foreigner, the Chevalier de Meyrionnet, French Consul at 
Lisbon, for the last tribute of respect and reverence due to exalted 
genius in every clime. He attended his remains to the grave ; he 
wrote his epitaph ; and the example was not lost upon others, for the 
English factory soon afterwards erected a monument, which is still 
to be seen, to the memory of Henry Fielding. 

Oomporatively few anecdotes have been preserved concerning a 
man so celebrated in the republic of letters, and whose social dispo- 
fiition, ;s:enuine wit. and peculiar humour, brought him into contact 
with all parties and men of every condition in life. Such, however, 
as have survived by the care of his successors, rather than of his 
contemporaries, are apparently genuine, and highly characteristic 
of his temper and genius. He is well known to have been on terms 
of intimacy with Garrick ; and, on the first appearance of the comedy 
of •* The Wedding Day/' an amusing scene took p\ace \ift\,^^ft\i NJcv^ 
gteBt Boior and the author, to the no little diveraiotv o^ l\\ft ^^civ- 


room. FieldiDg oould not bear his dialogues to be cut down to fit 
the taste and comprehension of that hydra-beaded monster, the critical 
rabble, more especially ** the gods and goddesses ;" and insisted on 
retaining some particular passage which the actor declared would 
injure the effect of the piece. He added, that a repulse would flurry 
him so much he should not be able to do justice to the part. " Out 
with it ; speak it all V exclaimed the author ; " if the scene is not a 
good one, let them find that out I" Just as was foreseen, the house 
made a violent uproar on hearing the obnoxious words; and the 
performer, uneasy at the rising storm, tried to quell it by retiring to 
the green-room, where the author was supporting his spirits with a 
bottle of champagne. Turning his eye upon the discomfited actor's 
rueful countenance as he entered. Fielding, with an expression of 
face peculiar to him, said, "What is the matter, Garrick ? — ^ are 
they hissing me now ?" " Yes ! — just the same passage that I wanted 
you to retrench : I knew it would not do ; and they have frightened 
me horribly into the bargain ; I shall not be right again the whole 
night." "Oh ! d — n 'em," replied the author, "I did not give them 
credit'for it, — they have found it out, have they?" 

Another has been preserved of a more amiable and flattering de- 
scription, (in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1786.) Some parochial 
taxes for Fielding's house, in Beaufort Buildings, being unpaid, and 
for which demands had been made again and again, he was at length 
told by the collector, who had an esteem for him, that no further 
delay could be permitted. In this dilemma, by no means an unfre- 
quent one,' Fielding had recourse to Jacob Tonson, and, mortgaging 
some sheets of a work which he had in hand, received the sum he 
wanted — some ten or twelve guineas. When he was near his own 
house he met with an old college friend, of whom he had lost sight 
for many years ; and Fielding, finding that he had been still more 
unfortunate than himself, on hearing his narrative, gave him up the 
whole sum he had just obtained from the bookseller. Keturning 
home in the full enjoyment of his benevolent disposition, he was told 
that the collector had called twice for the taxes. Fielding's reply 
was as laconic as it was memorable: "Friendship has called for the 
money, and has had it ; let the collector call again." A second appli- 
cation to the bookseller, it is pleasant to know, enabled him to satisfy 
the collector's demands. 
One other we must relate, which exhibits that happy turn of wit^ " 
in few words, wbioh does not often oconr. "B«\n^ cii^ ^"3 \xv oonoh 

2ij£KKT FIHIiDING. 4l 

par.y viith th £i.i. of Denbigh, and it being noticed tkat Fielding 
was also of th.. Denbigh family, the Earl asked him the reason why 
they spelled their names difierently ; the Earl spelling it with the i 
first (Feilding), and llenry Fielding with the i first : *' I can't telU 
my lord/' was the Author's reply, " except it be that my branch oi 
the family first leanied how to spell I" 

In the letters of Horace Walpole we also find sume curious notices 
of Fielding, though evidently written in a bad spirit ; the anecdotes 
are of a more doubtful character, the strong colouring of which 
seems to ha*.'o had its origin in depreciating genius and manly char^ 
acter, which the writer did not himself possess ; and indulging that 
petty love of carping and sneering at all who enjoyed a superior 
reputation, for which his court-bom gossip is so remarkable. There 
can hardly be a better illustration of the kind of low, ungenerous 
ribaldry to which we allude, than the one in which he tries to fix a 
stigma on his great contemporary for his want of that paltry taste, 
squeamish refinement, and false delicacy, on which the virtuoso evi- 
dently .•'> much prided himself. But if not wholly unfounded in fact, 
the account given by the would-be-refined but really vulgar-minded 
florace Walpole is not to be relied upon, dictated as it is by the 
:jeane8t motives of malice, in revenge for the great author's well- 
vLeserved strictures upon the still more corrupt and vulgar character 
c f the whig minister.'^ 

In 177vS, twenty-four years after Fielding's decease, there was 
brought to light a comedy, entitled "The Fathers, or, the Good 
Matured Man," the history of which is something curious. Th( 
author had showed it to his friend Mr. Garrick ; and entertaining a 
high csteeri for the critical discernment of Sir Charles Hanbury 
WilliamSi he sent the MS. to that gentleman for his opinion. Sir 
Charles being at tJiat time appointed Envoy Extraordinary to the 

* *' Rigby and Peter Bathurst, t'other nigbt, carried a serrant of the latter's, 
who had attempted to shoot him, before Fielding, who, to all his other voca- 
tions, has, by the grace of Lord Lyttleton, added that of Middlesex justice. 
lie sent them word he was at supper; that they must come next morning. 
They did not understand that freedom, and ran up, where they found him 
buiqaeting, with a blind man and three Irishmen, on some cold mutton and 
a bono of ham, both in one dish, and the dirtiest cloth. He never stirred, no; 
aske*! tbem to sit. Rigby, who had seen him so often come to beg a guinea 
wt Cir J. n. WilliABis, and Bathurst, at whose father's he had lived, {ot\\Q\xx»X^ 
understood that ^ga'jtxM little, and pulled themselves c\iu\T8, OTi^\i\<i\i>a'ft 


court )f Russia, had not leisure to examine tho play before he left 
England. Whether it travelled with the envoy to Russia, or was 
left behind, was not known. Sir Charles died in Russia, and the 
MS. was lost. The author had often mentioned the affair, and many 
inquiries were made, after his death, of several branches of Sir 
Charles's family, but no tidings of the comedy could be obtained. At 
length, Thomas Johnes, Esq., member for Cardigan, received from a 
young friend as a present a tattered MS. play. The young gentle- 
man spoke very contemptuously of it. Mr. Johnes determined to 
obtain Mr. Garrick's opinion of it ; accompanied with an inquiry if 
he knew whether a play had ever been written by the late Sir C. 
Hanbury Williams? No sooner had Mr. Garrick cast his eye over 
the MS., than in a manner which evinced the most friendly regard 
for the memory of the author, he cried out: "The lost sheep is 
found ! — this is Harry Fielding's comedy." Mr. Johnes immediately 
restored it to the family of Mr. Fielding; and, under the patronage 
of Mr. Garrick and Mr. Sheridan, Jun., it was acted at Drury-laue, 
in 1778. The prologue and epilogue were written by the great 
actor, and the play itself is said to have been re-touched by the pen 
of Mr. Sheridan. — (NichoVs Anecdotes oftlte Eighteenth Century,) 

Upon one occasion we learn that Fielding, who found himself 
perplexed sometimes to conclude his comedies, on being asked for a 
toast, said, he would drink confusion to the memory of him who 
first invented *^Jifth acts," On the same authority we are told that; 
in 1736, Fielding's name occurs as the manager of the Haymarket 
theatre, on the occasion of the performance of Lillo's tragedy of the 
"Fatal Curiosity," in which a friend of the manager, Mr. Thomas 
Davies, performed the part of Young Wilmot. Sir John Fidliing, 
in his dedication of the play of " The Fathers," to the Duke of 
Northumberland, asserts that " his brother was an upright as well 
as a useful and distinguished magistrate." But Sir John Hawkins, 
another of the Walpole tribe, attacked the author of ** Tom Jones" 
in a similar spirit ; while men. like the poet Gray, Lord Monboddo, 
Harris (in his Piiilological Inquiries), were as loud in thin great 
writer's praise. 

Lord Lyttleton, in one of his amusing Dialogues of the Dea^ (bp- 

tween Plutarch and a Bookseller), makes the latter observe: ** We 

have another writer of those imaginary histories, one who ha^ not 

}ong since descended to these regions. His name is Fielding i h.u'\ 

Ills works, as I have heard the best judges say, V\?vve a true spirit ot 

HENBT 7IB1iI>IlfO. 43 

oomedy, and an exact representatioii of nature, with fine moral 
loaches. He has not, indeed, given lessons of pare and consummate 
virtue ; but has exposed vice and meanness with all the powers of 

With regard to his personal appearance, Fielding was strongly 
bnilt, robust, and in height rather exceeding six feet ; be was also 
lemarkably active, till repeated attacks of the gout had broken down 
the vigour of a fine constitution. Naturally of a dignified presence, 
he was equally impressive in his tone and manner, which added to 
his peculiarly marked features, his conversational powers, and rare 
wit, must have give i him a decided influence in general society, and 
not a little ascendancy over the minds of common men. A rather 
amusing instance of this he has himself related in his " Voyage to 
Lisbon," where the captain of the ship, as usual, tried to play the 
bashaw. A collision took place between the magistrate and the 
Bea-king, when, after a sharp dialogue, Fielding's manner was so 
resolute, and his threats to hale him over when on shore, as well as 
instantly to quit the vessel, so decided, that the captain at last, he 
says, "fell upon his knees, and sued in the most abject terms for his 

i' may be considered Koit.«)what extraordinary, that no genuine 
an \ undoubted portrait of such a man should have been taken 
daring his lifetime, especially when we reflect how intimately he 
was aoquainted with many first-rate artists, and in what high respect 
he was held by them. ITe had often, it is believed, engaged to sit 
to his friend Hogarth, for whose genius he entertained the highest 
admiration, and has given many testimonials of it in various parts 
of his writings. But though no painting of him bj any celebrated 
artist is known to exist, mention is made by Mr. Chalmers (but on 
what authority does not appear,) of a miniature likeness, said to be 
in tne possossion of the author's grand-daughter, Mirs Sophia Field- 
inp. For any just idea, therefore,-of the features of the author of 
' Tom JoncH," of a man who has filled Europe with his fame, and 
who may be said to have lived only the other day, we are indebted 
n Lolly c-3 *he happy recollection of a genius not uncongenial with 
L^s >>wn. 

It is stated by Murphy, that "after the autV. .r's death, his friend 
Hogarth, with a view of perpetuating soi::-g traces of his countenance, 
availed himself of a jprohle cut by a lady wit\i a ipaVt oi ^cv^^ort^, 
whicb gave the d/etancea and proportions of the Yace mO^ ^viSiexetil 


exactaesa to restore his lost ideas of him. Mr. Hogarth/' it is 
added, " caught at this outline with pleasure, and worked with all 
the attachment of friendship, till he finished that excellent drawing 
which stands at the head of this work, (Murphy's Edition,) and 
recalls to all who have seen the original, a corresponding image of 
the man!" 

Of the works of a writer, no less distinguished for his public 
services than the inestimable benefits which his rare genius must 
continue to confer upon future generations, it is, perhaps, not less 
extraordinary that up to this time no complete and uniform edition, 
in a handsome form, and at a price calculated to diffuse them over 
the whole civilised world, should have been earlier contemplated. 
That great desideratum^ a popular edition, prepared not for a select 
class, for the highly educated, the critical and the learned, but for 
the new world of readers, daily opening still wider to our view — if 
now at length supplied. 

May, 1840. 





NoTWiTHSTANDiNa youT Constant refusal when I have 
asked leave to prefix your name to this dedication, I must 
still insist on my right to desire your protection of this 

To you, sir, it is owing that this history was ever begun. 
It was by your desire that I first thought of such a com- 
position. So many years have since passed, that you may 
have perhaps forgotten this circumstance ; but your desires 
are to me in the nature of commands, and the impression 
of them is never to be erased from my memory. 

Again, sir, without your assistance this history had never 
been completed. Be not startled at the assertion. I do 
not intend to draw on you the suspicion of being a romance- 
writer. I mean no more than that I partly owe to you 
my existence duriDg great part of the time"^\i\(i\i\'Wi^ 
employed in composing it; another matter -wTokiV \\.m«5 



be necessary to remind von cf, since there are certain 
actions of which you are apt to be extremely forgetful ; 
but of these I hope I shall always have a better memory 
than yourself. 

Lastly, it is owing to you that the history appears what 
it now is. If there be in this work, as some have been 
pleased to say, a stronger picture of a truly benevolent 
mind than is to be found in any other, who that knows 
you, and a particular acquaintance of yours, will doubt 
whence that benevolence hath been copied ? The world 
will not, I believe, make me the compliment of thinking I 
took it from myself. I care not : this they shall own, 
that the two persons from whom I have taken it — that 
is to say, two of the best and worthiest men in the world 
— are strongly and zealously my friends. I might be 
contented with this, and yet my vanity will add a third to 
the number; and him one of the greatest and noblest, not 
only in his rank, but in every public and private virtue. 
But here, whilst my gratitude for the princely benefactions 
of the Duke of Bedford bursts from my heart, you must 
forgive my reminding you that it was you who first 
recommended me to the notice of my benefactor- 

And what are your objections to the allowance of the 
honour which I have solicited ? Why, you have commended 
the book so warmly, that you should be ashamed of reading 
your name before the dedication. Indeed, sir, if the book 
itself doth not make you ashamed of your commendations, 
nothing that I can here write will or ought. I am not to 
give up my right to your protectio;i and patronage, because 
jron hare commended my book : for though I acknowledge 
BO many obligatiouB to you, I do not «M this to the 

^BDICA'JION. xlvij 

number; in which frientlship, I am convinced, hath ao 
little share, since that can neither bias your judgment nor 
pervert your integrity. An enon»y may at any time 
obtain your commendation, by only deserving it ; and the 
utmost which the faults of your friends can hope for is 
your silence, or perna^js, if too severely accused^ your 
gentle palliation. 

In short, sir, I suspect that yiur dislike of public praiee 
is your true objection to granting my requect. I hav6 
observed that you have, in common with my two other 
friends, an unwillingness to hear the least mention of jzm'j 
own virtues ; that, as a great poet sr.ys of one of you, Q*': 
might justly have said it of all three,) yon 

"Do good by stealth, and blush to find it Hav^cJ* 

If men of this disposition are as careful to shun 
applause as others are to escape censure, how just must bo 
your apprehension of your character falling into my hands ; 
since what would not a man haTo r^.arion to dread, if 
attacked by an author who had received ':om him injuriep 
equal to my obligations to you ! 

And will not this dread of censure increase in propor- 
tion to the matter which a man is conscious of having 
afforded for it ? If his whole life, for instance, should 
have been one continued subject of satire, he may well 
tremble when an incensed satirist takes bm in hand. Now, 
sir, if we apply this to your modest aversion in panegyric, 
how reasonable will your fears of mo ?ipf ear ! 

Yet surely you might hav^e gratified my amlaVlioiL, Itc^^si 
thjp BiD^l^ coDSdence, — tha,t I shall always ptdw \icc^ 

xbiii r fidAOATioxr. 

mdalgeiicc of your inclinations to the Batisfaction of my 
:wn. A very strong instance of which I shall gire you 
in this address ; in which I am determined to follow the 
example of aU other dedicators, and will consider not what 
my patron really deserves to have written, but what he 
will be best pleased to read. 

Without further preface, then, I here present you with 
the labours of some years of my life. What merit these 
labours bave is already known to yourself. If from your 
favourable judgment I have conceived some esteem for 
them, it cannot be imputed to vanity, since I should have 
agreed as implicitly to your opinion, had it been given in 
favour of any other man's production. Negatively, at 
least, I may be allowed to say that, had I been sensible 
of any great demerit in the work, you are the last person 
to whose protection I would have ventured to recommend 

From the name of my patron, indeed, 1 nope my reader 
will be convinced, at his very entrance on this work, that 
he will find in the whole course of it nothing prejudicial 
to the cause of re?^gion and virtue ; nothing inconsistent 
with the strictest rules of decency, nor which can offend 
even the chastest eye in the perusal. On the contrary, I 
declare, that to recommend goodness and" innocence hath 
been my sincere endeavoiy: in this history. This honest 
purpose you have been pleased to think I have attained : 
and, to say the truth, it is likeliest to be attained in books 
of this kind ; for an example is a kind of picture, in which 
Virtue becomes as it were an object of sight, and strikes 
uB with an idea of that loveliness which Plato asserts there 
20 in her naked charms. • 


Besides disj^aying that beauty of Virtue which may 
attract the admiration of mankind, I have attempted to 
engage a stronger motive to human action in her favour, 
by convincing men that their true interest directs them to 
a pursuit of her. For this purpose I have shown that no 
acquisitions of guilt can compensate the loss of that solid 
inward comfort of mind, which is the sure companion of 
innocence and virtue ; nor can in the least balance the evil 
of that horror and anxiety which, in their room, guilt 
introduces into our bosoms. And again, that as these 
acquisitions are in themselves generally worthless, so are 
the means to attain them not only base and iafamous, but 
at best uncertain, and always full of danger. Lastly, I 
have endeavoured strongly to inculcate, that virtue and 
innocence can scarce ever be injured but by indiscretion ; 
and that it is this abne which often betrays them into the 
snares that deceit and villany spread for them. A moral 
which I have the more industriously laboured, as the 
teaching it is, of all others, the likeliest to be attended 
with success; since I believe it is much easier to make 
good men wise than to make bad men good. 

For these purposes I have employed all the wit and 
humour of which I am master in the following history ; 
wherein I have endeavoured to laugh mankind out of their 
favourite follies and vices. How far I have succeeded in 
this good attempt I shall submit to the candid reader, with 
only two requests : first, that he will not expect to find 
perfection in this work ; and secondly, that he will excuse 
some parts of it, if they fall short of that little merit 
which I hope may appear in others. 

' I will detain you, sir, no longer. Inde^^ \ \iW^ xvci 


into a preface, while I professed to write a dedication. 
But how can it be otherwise ? I dare not praise you ; and 
the only means I know of to avoid it when you are in my 
thoughts, are either to be entirely silent, or to turn my 
thoughts to some other subject. 

Pardon, therefore, what I have said in this epistle not 
only without your consent, but absolutely against it ; and 
give me at least leave, in this public manner, to declare 

I am, 

With the highest respect and gratitude, 
Sir, your most obliged. 
Obedient, humble servant, 

Henry FiBLDiNe. 






Jlie Introduction to the work, or biU of fare to the feast. 

An anthor ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman 
who gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one 
who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome 
for their money. In the former case, it is well known that the 
entertainer provides what fare he pleases; and though this 
should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste 
of his company, they must not find any fault ; nay, on the con- 
trary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to 
commend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of 
this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for 
what they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however 
nice and whimsical these may prove ; and if everything is not 
agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to 
abuse, and to d — n their dinner without control. 

To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by 
any such disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest 
and well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare which all per- 
sons may peruse at their first entrance into the house ; and 
having thence acquainted themselves with the entertainment 
which they may expect, may either stay and regale with wkat 


is provided for them, or may depart to some other ordinary 
better accommodated to their taste. 

As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any 
man who is capable of lending us either, we have condescended 
to take a hint from these honest victuallers, and shall prefix 
not only a general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, but 
shall likewise give the reader particular bills to every course 
which is to be served up in this and the ensuing volumes. 

The provision, then, which we have here made is no other 
" .= than Human Nature, Nor do I fear that ray sensible reader, 
though most luxurious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be of- 
fended, because I have named but one article. The tortoise, 
as the alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows by 
much experience, besides the delicious calipash and calipee, 
contains many different kinds of food ; nor can the learned 
reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here collected 
under one general name, is such prodigious variety, that a 
cook will have sooner gone through all the several species of 
animal and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be 
able to exhaust so extensive a subject. 

An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more 
delicate, that this dish is too common and vulgar ; for what 
else is the subject of all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, ^ 
with which the stalls abound ? Many exquisite viands might 
be rejected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient cause for his 
contemning of them as common and vulgar, that something 
was to be found in the most paltry alleys under the same name. 
In reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with in authors, 
as the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be found in the 

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

" True wit is nature to advantage drcst ; 
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest." 

The same animal which hath the honour to have some part 
of his flesh eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be de- 
graded in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it 
were. In the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the differ- 
ence between the food of the nobleman and t\v^ ^ot\.«, \^ \iCiVK 


are at cmmer on the same ox or calf, bat in the seasoning, the 
dressing, the garnishing, and the setting forth ? Hence the 
one provokes and incites the most languid appetite, and the 
other tares and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest. 

In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment 
consists less in the snbject than in the author's skill in well 
; dressing it up. How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to 
find that we have, in the following work, adhered closely to 
one of the highest principles of the best cook which the pre- 
sent age, or perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath produced ? 
This great man, as is well known to all lovers of polite eating, 
begins at first by setting plain things before his hungry guests, 
rising afterwards by degrees as their stomachs may be supposed 
to decrease, to the very quintessence of sauce and spices. In 
like manner, we shall represent human nature at first to the 
keen appetite of our reader, in that more plain and simple 
manner in which it is found in the country, and shall hereafter 
hash and ragoo it with all the high French and Italian season- 
ing of affectation and vice which courts and cjties afford. By 
these means, we doubt not but our reader may be rendered de- 
sirous to read on for ever, as the great person just above- 
mentioned is supposed to have made some persons eat. 

Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who 
like our bill cf fare no longer from their diet, and shall pro- 
ceed directly to serve up the first course of our history for 
their entertainment. 



A ihorl description of Squire Allworthy, and a fuller account of Miss Bridget 
Allworlhy, his sister. 

In that part of the western division of this kingdom which 
is commonly called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and per- 
haps lives still, a gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and \ 
who might well be called the favourite of both nature and 
fortune ; for both of these seem to have contended which should 
bless and enrich him most. In this contention, nature may 
seem to some to have come off victorious, as ^\i^ \i^^\.o^^^ wv 
1dm many gifts, while fortune had only one giftim \v^x ^crf?^x \ 


but in pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others 
perhaps may think this single endowment to have been more 
than equivalent to all the various blessings which he enjoyed 
from nature. From the former of these, he derived an agreea- 
ble person, a sound constitution, a solid understanding, and a 
benevolent heart ; by the latter, he was decreed to the inherit- 
ance of one of the largest estates in the county. 

This gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and 
beautiful woman, of whom he had been extremely fond : by 
her he had three children, all of whom died in their infancy. 
He had likewise had the misfortune of burying this beloved wife 
herself, about five years before the time in which this history 
chooses to set out. This loss, however great, he bore like a 
man of sense and constancy, though it must be confessed he 
would often talk a little whimsically on this head ; for he some- 
times said he looked on himself as still married, and considered 
his wife as only gone, a little before him, a journey which he 
should most certainly, sooner or later, take after her ; and that 
he had not the least doubt of meeting her again in a place 
where he should never part with her more, — sentiments for 
which his sense was arraigned by one part of his neighbours, 
his religion by a second, and his sincerity by a third. 

He now lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with 
one sister, for whom he had a very tender affection. This lady 
was now somewhat past the age of thirty, an era at which, in 
the opinion of the malicious, the title of old maid may with no 
impropriety be assumed. She was of that species of women 
whom you commend rather for good qualities than beauty, and 
who are generally called, by their own sex, very good sort of 
women — as good a sort of woman, madam, as you would wish 
to know. Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of 
beauty, that she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be 
called one, without contempt ; and would often thank God she 
was not as handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty 
had led into errors which she might have otherwise avoided. 
Miss Bridget AUworthy (for that was the name of this lady) 
very rightly conceived the charms of person in a woman to be 
no better than snares for herself, as well as for others ; and yet 
80 discreet was she in her conduct, that her pmdenee was as 


mnch on the gaard as if she had all the snares to apprehend 
which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have ob- 
serred, though it may seem nnaceonntable to the reader, that 
this gaard of prudence, like the trained bands, is always 
readiest to go on duty where there is the least danger. It often 
basely and cowardly deserts those paragons for whom the men 
are all wishing, sighing, dying, and spreading every net in their 
power ; and constantly attends at the heels of that higher order 
of women for whom the other sex have a more distant and 
awful respect, and whom (from despair, I suppose^ of success) 
they never venture to attack. 

Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, 
to acquaint thee that I intend to digress, through this whole \ 
history, as often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a 
better judge than any pitiful critic whate^r ; and here I must 
desire all those critics to mind their own business, and not to 
intermeddle with affairs or works which no ways concern them ; 
for till they produce the authority by which they are constituted 
judges, I shall not plead to their jurisdiction. 


An odd accident which befell Mr, AUw^rthy at his return home. The decent 
behaviour of Mrs. Deborah Wilkin8f with tome proper anmadvereioM on, 

I HAVE told my reader, in the preceding Chapter, that Mr. 
Allworthy inherited a large fortune ; that he had a good heart, 
and no family. Hence, doubtless, it will be concluded by many 
that he lived like an honest man, owed no one a shilling, took 
nothing but what was his own, kept a good house, entertained 
his neighbours with a hearty welcome at his table, and was 
charitable to the poor, i, e. to those who had rather beg than 
work, by giving them the offals from it; that he died im- 
mensely rich, and built an hospital. 

And true it is that he did many of these things ; but had he 
done nothing more I should have left him to have recorded his 
own merit on some fair freestone over the door of that hospital. 

Matters of a much more extraordinary kind are to be the 


subject of this history, or I should grossly misspend my time 
in writing so voluminous a work ; and you, my sagacious friend, 
might with equal profit and pleasure travel through some pages 
which certain droll authors have been facetiously pleased to 
call The History of England, 

Mr. AUworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in 
London, on some very particular business, though I know not 
what it was ; but judge of its importance by its having detained 
him so long from home, whence he had not been absent a 
niOnth at a time during the space of many years. He came to 
his house very late in the evening, and after a short supper 
with his sister, retired much fatigued to his chamber. Here, 
having spent some minutes on his knees — a custom which he 
never broke through on any account — he was preparing to step 
into bed, when, upo4= opening the clothes, to his great surprise 
he beheld an infant, wrapt up in some coarse linen, in a sweet 
and profound sleep, between his sheets. He stood some time 
lost in astonishment* at this sight; but, as good nature had 
always the ascendant in his mind, he soon began to be touched 
with sentiments of compassion for the little wretch before him. 
He then rang his bell, and ordered an elderly woman-servant 
to rise immediately, and come to him ; and in the meantime 
was so eager in contemplating the beauty of innocence, ap- 
pearing in those lively colours with which infancy and sleep 
always display it, that his thoughts were too much engaged to 
reflect that he was in his shirt when the matron came in. She 
had indeed given her master sufficient time to dress himself; 
for out of respect to him, and regard to decency, she had spent 
many minutes in adjusting her hair at the looking-glass, not- 
withstanding all the hurry in which she had been summoned by 
the servant, and though her master, for aught she knew, lay 
expiring in an apoplexy, or in some other fit. 

It will not be wondered at that a creature who had so strict 
a regard to decency in her own person, should be shocked at 
the least deviation from it in another. She therefore no sooner 
opened the door, and saw her master standing by the bedside 
in his shirt, with a candle in his hand, than she started back in 
B most terrible fright, and might perhaps have swooned away, 
liad he not now recollected his being Tuidieafc waA. yq*» ^». «ad 


to her terrors by desiring her to stay without the door till he 
had thrown some clothes over his back, and was become inca- 
pable of shocking the pnre eyes of Mrs. Deborah Wilkins, who, V 
though in the fifty-second year of her age, vowed she had never 
beheld a man without his coat. Sneerers and profane wits may 
perhaps laugh at her first fright ; yet my grave reader, when 
he considers the time qf night, the summons from her bed, and 
the situation in which she found her master, will hfghly justify 
and applaud her conduct, unless the prudence which most be 
supposed to attend maidens at that period of life at which Mrr 
Deborah had arrived, should a little lesson his admiration. 

When Mrs. Deborah returned into the room, and was ac- 
quainted by her master with the finding the little infant, her 
consternation was rather greater than his had been ; nor could 
she refrain from crying out with great horror of accent as 
well as look, **My good sir! what's to be donef Mr. All- 
worthy answered, she must take care of the child that evening, 
and in the morning he would give orders to provide it a nurse. 
"Yes, sir,'' says she; *'and I hope your worship will send 
out your warrant to take up the hussy its mother, for she must 
he one of the neighbourhood ; and I should be glad to see her . 
committed to Bridewell, and whipt at the cart's tail. Indeed, 
aach wicked sluts cannot be too severely punished. I'll war- 
rant 'tis not her first, by her impudence in laying it to your 
worship." "In laying it to me, Deborah 1" answered All- 
worthy : "I can't think she hath any such design. I suppose 
she hath only taken this method to provide for her child ; and 
truly I am glad she hath not done worse." " I don't know 
what is worse," cries Deborah, ''than for such wicked strum- 
pets to lay their sins at honest men's doors ; and though your 
worship knows your own innocence, yet the world is censorious ; 
and it hath been many an honest man's hap to pass for the 
father of children he never begot ; and if your worship should 
provide for the child, it may make tlic people the apter to be- 
lieve ; besides, why should your worship provide for what the 
parish is obliged to maintain ? For my own part, if it was an 
honest man's child, indeed — but for my own part, it goes against 
me to touch these misbegotten wretches, Vf\iom 1 ^Ci\i?\»\^0«. 
tgxa as mjr fellow-creatnrea. Faugh I hoYr \\. ElvakaX \\» ft^JoJOci 


not smell like a Christian. If I might be so bold to give my 
advice, I would have it pat in a basket, and sent ont and laid 
at the churchwarden's door. It is a good night, only a little 
rainy and windy ; and if it was well wrapt up, and put in a 
warm basket, it is two to one but it lives till it is found in the 
morning. But if it should not, we have diBcharged our duty 
in taking care of it ; and it is, perhaps, better for such crea- 
tures to die in a state of innocence, than to grow up and imi- 
tate their mothers; for nothing better can be expected of 

There were some strokes in this speech which perhaps would 
have offended Mr. AUworthy, had he strictly attended to it ; 
but he had now got one of his fingers into the infant's hand, 
which, by its gentle pressure, seeming to implore his assistance, 
had certainly outpleaded the eloquence of Mrs. Deborah, had 
it been ten times greater than it was. He now gave Mrs. 
Deborah positive orders to take the child to her own bed, and 
to call up a maid-servant to provide it pap, and other things, 
against it waked. He likewise ordered that proper clothes 
should be procured for it early in the morning, and that it 
should be brought to himself as soon as he was stirring. 

Such was the discernment of Mrs. Wilkins, and such the re- 
spect she bore her master, under whom she enjoyed a most ex- 
cellent place, that her scruples gave way to his peremptory 
commands ; and she took the child under her arms, without 
any apparent disgust at the illegality of its birth ; and declar- 
ing it was a sweet little infant, walked off with it to her own 

AUworthy here betook himself to those pleasing slumbers 
which a heart that hungers after goodness is apt to enjoy when 
thoroughly satisfied. As these are possibly- sweeter than what 
are occasioned by any other hearty meal, I should take mort 
pains to display them to the reader, if I knew any air to re- 
commend him to for the procuring such an appetite. 



Fk€ reader's neck brought into danger by a deteripiion ; hit escape; and the 
great condescension of Miss Bridget AUworthy, 

The Gothic style of bnilding could produce nothing nobler 
than Mr. All worthy's house. There was an air of grandeur 
in it that struck you with awe, and rivalled the beauties of the 
best Grecian architecture ; and it was as commodious within 
as venerable without. 

It stood on the south-east side of a hill, but nearer the 
bottom than the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the north- 
east by a grove of old oaks which rose above it in a gradual 
ascent of near half a mile, and yet high enough to enjoy a 
most charming prospect of the valley beneath. 

In the midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down 
towards the house, near the summit of which rose a plentiful 
spring, gushing out of a rock covered with firs, and forming a 
constant cascade of about thirty feet, not carried down a 
regular flight of steps, but tumbling in a natural fall over the 
broken and mossy stones till it came to the bottom of the rock, 
then running off in a pebbly channel, that with many lesser 
falls winded along, till it fell into a lake at the foot of the hill, 
about a quarter of a mile below the house on the south side, 
and which was seen from every room in the front. Out of this 
lake, which filled the centre of a beautiful plain, embellished 
with groups of beeches and elms, and fed with sheep, issued a 
river, that for several miles was seen to meander through an 
amazing variety of meadows and woods till it emptied itself 
into the sea, with a large arm of which, and an island beyond 
it, the prospect was closed. 

On the right of this valley opened another of less extent, 
adorned with several villages, and terminated by one of the 
towers of an old ruined abbey, grown over with ivy, and part 
of the front of which remained still entire. 

The left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, 
composed of very unequal ground, and agreeably varied with 
all the diversity that hills, lawns, wood, and water, laid out 
with admirable taste, but owing less to art than to nature, 



could give. Beyond this, the country gradually rose into a 
ridge of wild mountains, the tops of which were above the 

It was now the middle of May, and the morning was re- 
markably serene, when Mr. Allworthy walked forth on the 
terrace, where the dawn opened every minute that lovely pro- 
spect we have before described to his eye ; and now having 
sent forth streams of light, which ascended the blue firmament 
before him, as harbingers preceding his pomp, in the full blaze 
of his majesty up rose the sun, than which one object alone in 
this lower creation could be more glorious, and that Mr. All- 
worthy himself presented — a human being replete with benevo- 
lence, meditating in what manner he might render himself 
most acceptable to his Creator, by doing most good to his 

Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top 
of as high a hill as Mr. Allworthy 's, and how to get thee down 
without breaking thy neck, I do not well know. However, let 
us e'en venture to slide down together ; for Miss Bridget rings 
her bell, and Mr. Allworthy is summoned to breakfast, where 
I must attend, and, if you please, shall be glad of your com- 

The usual compliments having passed between Mr. Allworthy 
and Miss Bridget, and the tea being poured out, he summoned 
Mrs. Wilkins, and told his sister he had a present for her, for 
which she thanked him, — imagining, I suppose, it had been a 
gown, or some ornament for her person. Indeed, he very 
often made her such presents ; and she, in complaisance to 
him, spent much time in adorning herself. I say in com- 
plaisance to him, because she always expressed the greatest 
contempt for dress, and for those ladies who made it their 

But if such was her expectation, how was she disappointed 
when Mrs. Wilkins, according to the order she had received 
from her master, produced the little infant ! Great surprises, 
as hath been observed, are apt to be silent ; and so was Miss 
Bridget, till her brother began, and told her the whole story, 
which, as the reader knows it already, we shall not repeat. 

Miss Bridget had always expressed so great a regards/or* 


what the ladies are pleased to call virtue, and had herself 
maintained snch a severity of character, that it was expected, 
especially by Mrs. Wilkius, that she would have vented much 
bitterness on this occasion, and would have voted for sending 
the child, as a kind of noxious animal, immediately out of the 
house ; but, on the contrary, she rather took the good-natured 
side of the question, intimated some compassion for the help- 
less little creature, and commended her brother's charity in 
what he had done. 

Perhaps the reader may account for this behaviour from her 
condescension to Mr. AUworthy, when we have informed him 
that the good man had ended his narrative with owning a re- 
solution to take care of the child, and to breed him up as his 
own ; for, to acknowledge the truth, she was always ready to 
oblige her brother, and very seldom, if ever, contradicted his 
sentiments. She would, indeed, sometimes make a few obser- 
vations, as that men were headstrong, and must have their 
own way, and would wish she had been blest with an indepen- 
dent fortune ; but these were always vented in a low voice, 
and at the most amounted only to what is called muttering. 

However, what she withheld from the infant, she bestowed 
with the utmost profuseness on the poor unknown mother, 
whom she called an impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an au- 
dacious harlot, a wicked jade, a vile stfumpet, with every other 
appellation with which the tongue of virtue never fails to lash 
those who bring a disgrace on the sex. 

A consultation was now entered into how to proceed in 
order to discover the 'mother. A scrutiny was first made into 
the characters of the female servants of the house, who were 
all acquitted by Mrs. Wilkins, and with apparent merit ; for 
she had collected them herself, and perhaps it would be diffi- 
cult to find such another set of scarecrows. 

The next step was to examine among the inhabitants of the 
parish ; and this was referred to Mrs. Wilkins, who was to in- 
quire with all imaginable diligence, and to make her report in 
the afternoon. 

Matters being thus settled, Mr. AUworthy withdrew to his 
study, as was his custom, and left the child to his sister, who, 
at his desire, had undertaken the care of it. 

T. — 6 



Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon observation upon 


When her master was departed, Mrs. Deborah stood silent, 
expecting her cue from Miss Bridget; for as to what had 
passed before her master, the prudent housekeeper by no means 
relied upon it, as she had often known the sentiments of the 
lady in her brother's absence, to differ greatly from those which 
she had expressed in his presence. Miss Bridget did not, 
however, suffer her to continue long in this doubtful situation ; 
for having looked some time earnestly at the child, as it lay 
asleep in the lap of Mrs. Deborah, the good lady could not 
forbear giving it a hearty kiss, at the same time declaring her- 
self wonderfully pleased with its beauty and innocence. Mrs. 
Deborah no sooner observed this than she fell to squeezing and 
kissing, with as great raptures as sometimes inspire the sage 
dame of forty and five towards a youthful and vigorous bride- 
groom, crying out, in a shrill voice, "0, the dear little crea- 
ture I — The dear, sweet, pretty creature I Well, I vow it is 
as fine a boy as ever was seen I" 

These exclamations continued till they were interrupted by 
the lady, who now proceeded to execute the commission given 
her by her brother, and gave orders for providing all neces- 
saries for the child, appointing a very good room in the house 
for his nursery. Her orders were indeed so liberal, that, had 
it been a child of her own, she could not have exceeded them ; 
but, lest the virtuous reader may condemn her for showing too 
great regard to a base-born infant, to which all charity is con- 
demned by law as irreligious, we think proper to observe that 
she concluded the whole with saying, *' Since it was her bro- 
ther's whim to adopt the little brat, she supposed little master 
must be treated with great tenderness. For her part, she 
could not help thinking it was an encouragement to vice ; but 
that she knew too much of the obstinacy of mankind to oppose 
any of their ridiculous humours." 

With reflections of this nature she usually, as has been 
hinted, aecompanied every act of compV\wiC^m\ii\ve.t brother'^ 


inclinations; and snrelj nothing coald more contribute to 
heighten the merit of this compliance than a declaration that 
she knew, at the same time, the folly and unreasonableness of 
those inclinations to which she submitted. Tacit obedience 
implies no force upon the will, and consequently may be easily, 
and without any pains, preserved ; but when a wife, a child, a 
relation, or a friend, performs what we desire, with grumbling 
and reluctance, with expressions of dislike and dissatisfaction, 
the manifest difficulty which they undergo must greatly enhance 
the obligation. 

As this is one of those deep observations which very few 
readers can be supposed capable of making themselves, I have 
thought proper to lend them my assistance ; but this is a favour 
rarely to be expected in the course of my work. Indeed, I 
shall seldom or never indulge him, unless in such instances as 
this, where nothing but the inspiration with which we writers 
are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make the discovery. 


Urs. Deborah is introduced into the parish with a simile, A short account 
of Jenny Jones^ with the d^uUies and discouragements which may attend 
young women in the pursuit of learning. 

Mrs. Deborah, having disposed of the child according to 
the will of her master, now prepared to visit those habitations 
which were supposed to conceal its mother. 

Not otherwise than when a kite, tremendous bird, is beheld 
by the feathered generation soaring aloft, and hovering over 
their heads, the amorous dove, and every innocent little bird, 
spread wide the alarm, and fly trembling into their hiding- 
places. He proudly beats the air, conscious of his dignity, 
and meditates intended mischief. 

So when the approach of Mrs. Deborah was proclaimed 
through the street, all the inhabitants ran trembling into their 
houses, each matron dreading lest the visit should fall to her 
lot. She with stately steps proudly advances over the field : 
aloft she bears her towering head, filled witli eoxvmX. ol\!kftx 
Qim pre-eminence, and schemes to effect her inleDL^L^flLdiv^^^^wj' 


The sagacious reader will not from this simile imagine these 
poor people had any apprehension of the design with which 
Mrs. Wilkins was now coming towards them ; but as the great 
beauty of the simile may possibly sleep these hundred years, 
till some future commentator shall take this work in hand, I 
think proper to lend the reader a little assistance in this place. 

It is my intention, therefore, to signify, that, as it is the 
nature of a kite to devour little birds, so is it the nature of 
such persons as Mrs. Wilkins to insult and tyrannize over little 
people ♦ This being indeed the means which they use to 
recompense to themselves their extreme servility and conde- 
scension to their superiors ; for nothing can be more reasonable, 
than that slaves and flatterers should exact the same taxes on 
all below them, which they themselves pay to all above them. 

Whenever Mrs. Deborah had occasion to exert any extra- 
ordinary condescension to Mrs. Bridget, and by that means had 
a little soured her natural disposition, it was usual with her 
to walk forth among these people, in order to refine her temper, 
by venting, and, as it were, purging ofif all ill humours ; on 
which account she was by no means a welcome visitant : to 
say the truth, she was universally dreaded and hated by them 

On her arrival in this place, she went immediately to the 
habitation of an elderly matron ; to whom, as this matron had 
the good fortune to resemble herself in the comeliness of her 
person, as well as in her age, she had generally been more 
favourable than to any of the rest. To this woman she 
imparted what had happened, and the design upon which she 
was come thither that morning. These two began presently to 
scrutinize the characters of the several young girls who lived 
in any of those houses, and at last fixed their strongest 
suspicion on one Jenny Jones, who, they both agreed, was the 
likeliest person to have committed this fact. 

This Jenny Jones was no very comely girl, either in her face 
or person ; but nature had somewhat compensated the want of 
beauty with what is generally more esteemed by those ladies 
whose judgment is arrived at years of perfect maturity, for she 
bad given her a very uncommon share of understanding. This 
^j/t Jennj bad a good deal improved \>y ftTudiWou. She had 
/ired several years a servant with a scVvooVmasVct , \i\iCi, ^Y8fcw^\- 


ing a great quickness of parts in the girl, and an extraordinary 
desire of learning — for every leisnre hour she was always 
found reading in the books of the scholars — had the good- 
nature, or folly — just as the reader pleases to call it — to 
instruct her so far, that she obtained a competent skill in the 
Latin language, and was, perhaps, as • good a scholar as most 
of the young men of quality of the age. This advantage, 
however, like most others of an extraordinary kind, was 
attended with some small inconveniences : for as it is not to be 
wondered at, that a young woman so well accomplished should 
have little relish for the society of those whom fortune had 
made her equals, but whom education had rendered so much 
her inferiors ; so is it matter of no greater astonishment, that 
this superiority in Jenny, together with that behaviour which 
is its certain consequence,- should produce among the rest some 
little envy and ill-will towards her ; and these had, perhaps, 
secretly burnt in the bosoms of her neighbours ever since her 
return from her service. 

Their envy did not, however, display itself openly, till poor 
Jenny, to the surprise of everybody, and to the vexation of all 
the young women in these parts, had publicly shone forth on a 
Sunday in a new silk gown, with a laced cap, and other proper 
appendages to these. 

The flame, which had before lain in embryo, now burst forth. 
Jenny had, by her learning, increased her own pride, which 
none of her neighbours were kind enough to feed with the 
honour she seemed to demand ; and now, instead of respect 
and adoration, she gained nothing but hatred and abuse by 
her finery. The whole parish declared she could not come 
honestly by such things ; and parents, instead- of wishing their 
daughters the same, felicitated themselves that their children 
had them not. 

Hence, perhaps, it was, that the good woman first mentioned 
the name of this poor girl to Mrs. Wilkins ; but there was 
another circumstance that confirmed the latter in her suspicion ; 
for Jenny had lately been often at Mr. All worthy's house. She 
had officiated as nurse to Miss Bridget, in a violent fit of ill- 
ness, and had sat up many nights with ttiat lai^ \ \i^'sAfc'?^ 
whidi, she had been seen there the very day tefoT^ l&t, K^- 

66 THE HI8T0BT Of 

worthy's reinrn, by Mrs. Wilkins herself, thongh that sagadons 
person had not at first conceiyed any suspicion of her on that 
account: for, as she herself said, ''She had always esteemed 
Jenny as a very sober girl (thongh indeed she knew very little 
of her), and had. rather suspected some of those wanton 
trollops, who gave themselves airs, because, forsooth, thej 
thought themselves handsome." 

Jenny was now summoned to appear in person before Mrs. 
Deborah, which she immediately did. When Mrs. Deborah, 
putting on the gravity of a judge, with somewhat more than 
his austerity, began an oration with the words, ** You audacious 
strumpet 1" in which she proceeded rather to pass sentence 
on the prisoner than to accuse. her. 

Though Mrs. Deborah was fhlly satisfied of the guilt of 
Jenny, from the reasons above shown, it is possible Mr. All- 
worthy might have required some stronger evidence to have 
convicted her ; but she saved her accusers any such tronble, 
by freely confessing the whole fact with which she was charged. 

This confession, though delivered rather in terms of contri- 
tion, as it appeared, did not at all mollify Mrs. Deborah, who 
now pronounced a second judgment against her; in more 
opprobrious language than before; nor had it any better 
success with the bystanders, who were now grown very 
numerous. Many of them cried out, "They thought what 
madam's silk gown would end in ;" others spoke sarcastically 
of her learning. Not a single female was present but found 
some means of expressing her abhorrence of poor Jenny, who 
bore all very patiently, except the malice of one woman, who 
reflected upon her person, and tossing up her nose, said, ** The 
man must have a good stomach who would give silk gowns for 
such sort of trumpery I" Jenny replied to this with a bitter* 
ness which might have surprised a judicious person, who had 
observed the tranquillity with which she bore all the aflfronts to 
her chastity ; but her patience was perhaps tired out, for this 
is a virtue which is very apt to be fatigued by exercise. 

Mrs. Deborah having succeeded beyond her hopes in her in- 
quiry, returned with much triumph, and, at the appointed hour, 
made a faithful report to Mr. Allworthy, who was much sur- 
prised at the relation ; for he had heard of the extraordinary 


parts and improvements of this girl, whom he intended to have 
giren in marriage, together with a small living, to a neighbour- 
ing corate. His concern, therefore, on this occasion, was at 
least equal to the satisfaction which appeared in Mrs. Deborah, 
and to many readers may seem much more reasonable. 

Mrs. Bridget blessed herself, and said, '' For her part, she 
should never hereafter entertain a good opinion of any woman." 
For Jenny before this had the happiness of being much in her 
good graces also. 

The prudent housekeeper was again dispatched to bring the 
unhappy culprit before Mr. Allworthy, in order, not as it was 
hoped by some, and expected by all, to be sent to the house of 
correction, but to receive wholesome admonition and reproof ; 
which those who relish that kind of instructive writing may 
peruse in the next chapter. 


Containing tuch grave mattery that the reader cannot laugh once through the 
whole chapter, unless peradvenlure he should laugh at the author. 

When Jenny appeared, Mr. Allworthy took her into his 
study, and spoke to her as follows : *' Yon know, child, it is in 
my power, as a magistrate, to punish you very rigorously for 
what you have done ; and you will, perhaps, be the more apt 
to fear I should execute that power, because you have in a 
manner laid your sins at my door. 

''But, perhaps, this is one reason which hath determined me 
to act in a milder manner virith you : for, as no private resent- 
ment should ever influence a magistrate, I will be so far from 
considering your having deposited the infant in my house as an 
aggravation of your offence, that T will suppose, in your favour, 
this to have proceeded from a natural affection to yonr child, 
since you might have some hopes to see it thus better provided 
for than was in the power of yourself, or its wicked father, to 
provide for it. I should indeed have been highly offended with 
you had you exposed the little wretch in the manner of some 
inhuman mothers, who seem no less to have abandoned their 
bumanity, than to have parted with their chastity. It is the 


other part of your offence, therefore, upon which I intend to 
admonish you, I mean the violation of your chastity; — a 
crime, however lightly it may be treated by debauched persons, 
is very heinous in itself, and very dreadful in its consequences. 

'' The heinous nature of this offence must be sufficiently ap- 
parent to every christian, inasmuch as it is committed in 
defiance of the laws of our religion, and of the express com- 
mands of Him who founded that religion. 

** And here its consequences may be well argued to be dread- 
ful ; for what can be more so, than to incur the divine dis- 
pleasure, by the breach of the divine commands ; and that in 
an instance against which the highest vengeance is specifically 
denounced ? 

'* But these things, though too little, I am afraid, regarded, 
are so plain, that mankind, however they may want to be re- 
minded, can never need information on this head. A hint, 
therefore, to awaken your sense of this matter, shall suffice ; 
for I would inspire you with repentance, and not drive you to 

'' There are other consequences, not indeed so dreadful or 
replete with horror as this ; and yet such as, if attentively con- 
sidered, must, one would think, deter all of your sex at least 
from the commission of this crime. 

** For by it you are rendered infamous, and driven, like lepers 
of old, out of society ; at least, from the society of all but 
wicked and reprobate persons ; for no others will associate with 

*'If you have fortunes, you are hereby rendered incapable 
of enjoying them ; if you have none, you are disabled from ac- 
quiring any, nay almost of procuring your sustenance ; for no 
persons of character will receive you into their houses. Thus 
you are often driven by necessity itself into a state of shame 
and misery, which unavoidably ends in the destruction of both 
body and soul. 

' ' Can any pleasure compensate these evils ? Can any tempt- 
ation have sophistry and delusion strong enough to persuade 
you to so simple a bargain ? Or can any carnal appetite so 
overpower your reason, or so totally lay it asleep, as to prevent 
your flying with affright and terror from a crime wMch carries 
ucb punishment always with it ? 


" How base and mean must that woman be, how void of 
ihat dignity of mind, and decent pride, withoat which we are 
not worthy the name of hnman creatures, who can bear to lerel 
herself with the lowest animal, and to sacrifice all tiiat is great 
and noble in her, all her hearenly part, to an appetite which 
she hath in common with the vilest branch of the creation I 
For no woman, sure, will plead the passion of love for an ex- 
cuse. This would be to own herself the mere tool and bubble 
of the man. Love, however barbarously we may corrupt and 
pervert its meaning, as it is a laudable, is a rational passion, 
and can never be violent but when reciprocal ; for though the 
Scripture bids us love our enemies, it means not with that fer- 
vent love which we naturally bear towards our friends ; 
much less that we shoul& sacrifice to them our lives, and what 
ought to be dearer to us, our innocence. Now in what light, 
but that of an enemy, can a reasonable woman regard the man 
who solicits her to entail on herself all the misery I have de- 
scribed to you, and who would purchase to himself a short, 
trivial, contemptible pleasure, so greatly at her expense I For, 
by the laws of custom, the whole shame, with all its dreadful 
consequences, falls entirely upon her. Can love, which always 
seeks the good of its oject, attempt to betray a woman into a 
bargain where she is so greatly to be the loser ? If such cor- 
rupter, therefore, should have the impudence to pretend a real 
affection for her, ought not the woman to regard him not only 
as an enemy, but as the worst of all enemies, a false, designing, 
treacherous, pretended friend, who intends not only to debauch 
her body, but her understanding at the same time 1" 

Here Jenny expressing great concern, Allworthy paused a 
moment, and then proceeded: *'I have talked thus to you, 
child, not to insult you for what is passed and irrevocable, but 
to caution and strengthen you for the future. Nor should I 
have taken this trouble, but from some opinion of your good 
sense, notwithstanding the dreadful slip you have made ; and 
from some hopes of your hearty repentance, which are founded 
on the openness and sincerity of your confession. If these do 
not deceive me, I will take care to convey you from this scene 
of your shame, where you shall, by being unknown, avoid the 
paniflhment which, as I have said, is allotted to your crime in 


this world; and I hope, by repentance, you will ayoid the 
much heavier sentence denounced against it in the other. Be 
a good girl the rest of your days, and want shall be no motive 
to your going astray ; and, believe me there is more pleasure, 
even in this world, in an innocent and virtuous life, than in one 
debauched and vicious. 

" As to your child, let no thoughts concerning it molest you ; 
I will provide for it in a better manner than you can ever hope. 
And now nothing remains but that you inform me who was 
the wicked man that seduced you ; for my anger against him 
will be much greater than you have experienced on this 
occasion. " 

Jenny now lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a 
modest look and decent voice thus began : — 

" To know you, sir, and not love your goodness, would be 
an argument of total want of sense or goodness in any one. 
In me it would amount to the highest ingratitude, not to feel, 
in the most sensible manner, the great degree of goodness you 
have been pleased to exert on this occasion. As to my concern 
for what is past, I know you will spare my blushes the repeti- 
tion. My future conduct will much better declare my senti- 
ments than any professions I can now make. I beg leave to 
assure you, sir, that I take your advice much kinder than your 
generous offer with which you concluded it ; for, as you are 
pleased to say, sir, it is an instance of your opinion of my 
understanding.'' — Here her tears flowing apace, she stopped 
a few moments, and then proceeded thus: — "Indeed, sir, 
your kindness overcomes me ; but I will endeavour to deserve 
this good opinion ; for if I have the understanding you are so 
kindly pleased to allow me, such advice cannot be thrown away 
upon me. I thank you, sir, heartily, for your intended kind- 
ness to my poor helpless child: he is innocent, and I hope 
will live to be grateful for all the favours you shall show him. 
But now, sir, I must on my knees entreat you not to persist in 
asking me to declare the father of my infant. I promise you 
faithfully you shall one day know ; but I am under the most 
solemn ties and engagements of honour, as well as the most 
religious vows and protestations, to conceal his name at this 
time. And I know you too well, to think you would desire I 
should sacriSce either my honour or my religion. " 

A rOUNDtilNQ. Tl 

Mr. Allworthy, whom the least mention of those sacred 
words was sufficient to stagger, hesitated a moment before he 
replied, and then told her, she had done wrong to enter into 
SQch engagements to a yillain ; bnt since she had, he could not 
insist on her breaking them. He said, it was not from a 
motive of vain curiosity he had inquired, but in order to punish 
the fellow; at least, that he might not ignorantly confer 
favours on the undeserving. 

As to these points, Jenny satisfied him by the most solemn 
assurances, thkt the man was entirely out of his reach ; and 
was neither subject to his power, nor in any probability of 
becoming an object of his goodness. 

The ingenuity of this behaviour had gained Jenny so much 
credit with this worthy man, that he easily believed what she 
told him, for as she had disdained to excuse herself by a lie, 
and had hazarded his further displeasure in her present 
ritoation, rather than she would forfeit her honour, or integrity, 
by betrapng another, he had but little apprehensions that she 
would be guilty of falsehood towards himself.. 

He therefore dismissed her, with assurances that he would 
very soon remove her out of the reach of that obloquy she had 
incurred ; concluding with some additional documents in which 
he recommended repentance, saying, '* Consider, child, there is 
one still to reconcile yourself to, whose favour is of much 
greater importance to you than mine." 


A dialogue between Mesdames Bridget and Deborah ; containing more amuse- 
ment, but lees ihstruciiony than the former. 

When Mr. Allworthy had retired to his study with Jenny 
Jones, as hath been seen, Mrs. Bridget, with the good house- 
keeper, had betaken themselves to a post next adjoining to the 
said study ; whence, through the conveyance of a keyhole, they 
tucked in at their ears the instructive lecture delivered by Mr. 
AUworthy, together with the answers of Jenny, and indeed 
erery other particular which passed iu the last chapter. 

TOiifl hole in her brother's study-door was indeed «ia ^^ 


known to Mrs. Bridget, and had been as frequently applied to 
by her, as the famous hole in the wall was by Thisbe of old. 
This served to many good purposes. For by such means Mrs. 
Bridget became often acquainted with her brother's inclinations, 
without giving him the trouble of repeating them to her. It 
is true, some inconveniences attended this intercourse, and she 
had sometimes reason to C17 out with Thisbe, in Shakspeare, 
*' wicked, wicked wall I" For as Mr. All worthy was a 
justice of peace, certain things occurred in examinations con- 
cerning bastards, and such like, which are apt to give great 
ofifence to the chaste ears of virgins, especially when they 
approach the age of forty, as was the case of Mrs. Bridget. 
However, she had, on such occasions, the advantage of con- 
cealing her blushes from the eyes of men ; and De non appa^ 
rentihuSj et non existentihus, eadem est ratio j — in English, 
*' When a woman is not seen to blush, she doth not blush at 

Both the good women kept strict silence during the whole 
scene between Mr. Allworthy and the girl ; but as soon as it 
was ended, and that gentleman out of hearing, Mrs. Deborah 
could not help exclaiming against the clemency of her master, 
and especially against his suffering her to conceal the father of 
the child, which she swore she would have out of her before 
the sun set. 

At these words Mrs. Bridget discomposed her features with 
a smile (a thing very unusual to her). Not that I would have 
my reader imagine, that this was one of those wanton smiles 
which Homer would have you conceive came from Venus, when 
he calls her the laughter-loving goddess ; nor was it one of 
those smiles which lady Seraphina shoots from the stage-box, 
and which Yenus would quit her immortality to be able to 
equal. No, this was rather one of those smiles which might 
be supposed to have come from the dimpled cheeks of the 
august Tissiphone, or from one of the misses, her sisters. 

With such a smile then, and with a voice sweet as the even- 
ing breeze of Boreas in the pleasant month of November, Mrs. 
Bridget gently reproved the curiosity of Mrs. Deborah ; a vice 
with which it seems the latter was too much tainted, and which 
the former inveighed against with great bitterness, adding, 


** That, among all her faults, she thanked Heaven her enemies 
coold not accuse her of spying into the affairs of other 

She then proceeded to commend the honour and spirit with 
which Jenny had acted. She said, she could not help agree- 
ing with her brother, that there was some merit in the sincerity 
of her confession, and in her integrity to her lover : that she 
had always thought her a very good girl, and doubted not but 
she had been seduced by some rascal, who had been infinitely 
more to blame than herself, and very probably had prevailed 
with her by a promise of marriage, or some other treacherous 

This behaviour of Mrs. Bridget greatly surprised Mrs 
Deborah ; for this well-bred woman seldom opened her lips, 
either to her master or his sister, till she had first sounded 
their inclinations, with which her sentiments were always 
strictly consonant. Here, however, she thought she might 
have launched forth with safety ; and the sagacious reader will 
not perhaps accuse her of want of sufficient forecast in so 
doing, but will rather admire with what wonderful celerity she 
tacked about, when she found herself steering a wrong coursa 

'* Nay, madam,'' said this able woman, and truly great 
politician, "I must own I cannot help admiring the girl's 
spirit, as well as your ladyship. And, as your ladyship says, 
if she was deceived by some wicked man, the poor wretch is 
to be pitied. And to be sure, as your ladyship says, the girl 
hath always appeared like a good, honest, plain girl, and not 
vain of her face, forsooth, as some wanton hussies in the 
neighbourhood are." 

"You say true, Deborah," said Mrs. Bridget. '*If the 
girl had been one of those vain trollops, of which we have too 
many in the parish, I should have condemned my brother for 
his lenity towards her. I saw two farmers' daughters at 
church, the other day, with bare necks. I protest they shocked 
me. If wenches will hang out lures for fellows, it is no matter 
what they suffer. I detest such creatures ; and it would be 
much better for them that their faces had been seamed with 
the smallpox ; but I must confess, I never saw any of this 
wanton behaviour in poor Jenny : some artful villain, I am 

I. — T 


convinced, hath betrayed, nay perhaps forced her ; and I jitf 
the poor wretch with all my heart. ' ' 

Mrs. Deborah approved all these sentiments, and the dia« 
logue concluded with a general and bitter inyective against 
beanty, and with many compassionate considerations for aU 
honest plain girls who are deladed by the wicked arts of de- 
ceitful men. 


Containing matters which will surprise the reader, 

Jenny returned home well pleased with the reception she 
had met with from Mr. Allworthy, whose indulgence to her 
she industriously made public ; partly perhaps as a sacrifice to 
her own pride, and partly from the more prudent motire of 
reconciling her neighbours to her, and silencing their cla- 

But though this latter view, if she indeed had it, may ap- 
pear reasonable enough, yet the event did not answer her ex- 
pectation ; for when she was convened before the justice, and 
it was universally apprehended that the house of correction 
would have been her fate, though some of the young women 
cried out *' It was good enough for her," and diverted them- 
selves with the thoughts of her beating hemp in a silk gown; 
yet there were many others who began to pity her condition ; 
but when it was known in what manner Mr. Allworthy had 
behaved, the tide turned against her. One said, " I'll assure 
you, madam hath had good luck." A second cried, "See 
what it is to be a favourite !" A third, "Ay, this comes of 
her learning." Every person made some malicious comment 
or other on the occasion, and reflected on the partiality of the 

The behaviour of these people may appear impolitic and 
ungrateful to the reader, who considers the power and the 
benevolence of Mr. Allworthy. But as to his power, he never 
used it ; and as to his benevolence, he exerted so much, that 
he had thereby disobliged all his neighbours ; for it is a secret 
well known to great men, that, by conferring an obligation. 


ihej do not al^xrays procure a friend, bnt are certain of creat- 
ing many enemies. 

Jenny was, however, by the care and goodness of Mr. All- 
worthy, soon remored out of the reach of reproach; when 
malice being no longer able to vent its rage on her, began to 
seek another object of its bitterness, and this was no less than 
Mr. All worthy, himself; for a whisper soon went abroad, that 
he himself was the father of the foundling child. 

This supposition so well reconciled his conduct to the gene- 
ral opinion, that it met with universal assent ;- and the outcry 
against his lenity soon began to take another turn, and was 
changed into an invective against his cruelty to the poor girl. 
Yery grave and good women exclaimed against men who begot 
children, and then disowned them. Nor were there wanting 
some, who, after the departure of Jenny, insinuated, that she 
was spirited away with a design too black to be mentioned, 
and who gave frequent hints that a legal inquiry ought to be 
made into the whole matter, and that some people should be 
forced to produce the girl. 

These calumnies might have probably produced ill conse- 
quences, at the least might have occasioned some trouble, to a 
person of a more doubtful and suspicious character than Mr. 
Allworthy was blessed with ; but in his case they had no such 
effect ; and, being heartily despised by him, they served only 
to afford an innocent amusement to the good gossips of the 

But as we cannot possibly divine what complexion our reader 
may be of, and as it will be some time before he will hear any 
more of Jenny, we think proper to give him a very early inti- 
mation, that Mr. Allworthy was, and will hereafter appear to 
be absolutely innocent of any criminal intention whatever. 
He had indeed committed no other than an error in politics, 
by tempering justice with mercy, and by refusing to gratify 
the good-natured disposition of the mob,* with an object for 
their compassion to work on in the person of poor Jenny, 
whom, in order to pity, they desired to have seen sacrificed to 
ruin and infamy, by a shameful correction in a Bridewell. 

* Whenever this word occurs in our writings, it intends persons with- 
•ol Tirtne or sense, in all Rtations ; and many of the highest rank are 
often mMnt by it. 


So far from complying with this their inclination by whicli 
all hopes of reformation would have been abolished, and even 
the gate shut against her if her own inclinations should ever 
hereafter lead her to choose the road of virtue, Mr. Allworthy 
rather chose to encourage the girl to return thither by the 
only possible means ; for too true I am afraid it is, that many 
women have become abandoned, and have sunk to the last de- 
gree of vice, by being unable to retrieve the first slip. This 
will be, I am afraid, always the case while they remain among 
their former acquaintance ; it was therefore wisely done by Mr. 
Allworthy, to remove Jenny to a place where she might enjoy 
the pleasure of reputation, after having tasted the ill conse- 
quences of losing it. 

To this place therefore, wherever it was, we will wish her a 
good journey, and for the present take leave of her, and of the 
little foundling her child, having matters of much higher im- 
portance to communicate to the reader. 


The hospitality of Allworthy ; with a short sketch of the characters of two 
brothers, a doctor and a captaiUy who were entertained by that gentleman. 

Neither Mr. Allworthy 's house, nor his heart, was shut 
against any part of mankind, but they were both more par- 
ticularly open to men of merit. To say the truth, this was 
the only house in the kingdom where you was sure to gain a 
dinner by deserving it. 

Above all others, men of genius and learning shared the 
principal place in his favour ; and in these he had much dis- 
cernment : for though he had missed the advantage of a learned 
education, yet, being blest with vast natural abilities, he had 
so well profited by a vigorous though late application to let- 
ters, and by much conversation with men of eminence in this 
way, that he was himself a very competent judge dn most kinds 
of literature. 

It is no wonder that in an age when this kind of merit is so 
little in fashion, and so slenderly provided for, persons posaes- 
sed of it should very eagerly flock to a place where they wert 


snre of being received with great complaisance ; indeed, where 
they might enjoy almost the same advantages of a liberal for- 
tune as if they were entitled to it in their own right ; for Mr. 
Allworthy was not one of those generous persons who are 
ready most bountifully to bestow meat, drink, and lodging on 
men of wit and learning, for which they expect no other return 
but entertainment, instruction, flattery, and subserviency ; in a 
word, that such persons should be enrolled in the number of 
domestics, without wearing their master's clothes, or receiving 

On the contrary, every person in this house was perfect 
master of his own time : and as he might at his pleasure satisfy 
all his appetites within the restrictions only of law, virtue, and 
religion ; so he might, if his health required, or his inclination 
prompted him to temperance, or even to abstinenpe, absent 
himself from any meals, or retire from them, whenever he was 
so disposed, without even a solicitation to the contrary : for, 
indeed, such solicitations from superiors always savour very 
strongly of commands. But all here were free from such im- 
pertinence, not only those whose company is in all other places 
esteemed a favour from their equality of fortune, but even those 
whose indigent circumstances make such an eleemosynary abode 
convenient to them, and who are therefore less welcome to a 
great man's table because they stand in need of it. > 

Among others of this kind was Dr. Blifil, a gentleman who \^ 
had the misfortune of losing the advantage of great talents by 
the obstinacy of a father, who would breed him to a profession 
he disliked. In obedience to this obstinacy the doctor had in 
his youth been obliged to study physic, or rather to say he 
studied it ; for in reality books of this kind were almost the 
only ones with which he was unacquainted ; and unfortunately 
for him, the doctor was master of almost every other science 
but that by which he was to get his bread ; the consequence 
of which was, that the doctor at the age of forty had no bread 
to eat. 

Such a person as this was certain to find a welcome at Mr. 
AUworthy's table, to whom misfortunes were ever a recom- 
mendation, when they were derived from the folly or villany 
of others, and not of the unfortunate person himself. Besides 


this negative merit, the doctor had one positive recommenda* 
tion ; — this was a great appearance of religion. Whether his 
religion was real, or consisted only in appearance, I shall not 
presume to say, as I am not possessed of any touchstone which 
can distinguish the true from the false. 

If this part of his character pleased Mr. Allworthy, it de- 
lighted Miss Bridget. She engaged him in many religious 
controversies; on which occasions she constantly expressed 
great satisfaction in the doctor's knowledge, and not much 
less in the compliments which he frequently bestowed on her 
own. To say the truth, she had read much English divinity, 
and had puzzled more than one of the neighbouring curates. 
Indeed, her conversation was so pure, her looks so sage, and 
her whole deportment so grave and solemn, that she seemed to 
deserve the name of saint equally with her namesake, or with 
any other female in the Roman calendar. 

As sympathies of all kinds are apt to beget love, so ex- 
perience teaches us that none have a more direct tendency this 
way than those of a religious kind between persons of different 
sexes. The doctor found himself so agreeable to Miss Bridget, 
that he now began to lament an unfortunate accident which 
had happened to him about ten years before ; namely, his mar- 
riage with another woman, who was not only still alive, but, 
what was worse, known to be so by Mr. Allworthy. ThifJ was 
a fatal bar to that happiness which he otherwise saw sufficient 
probability of obtaining with this young lady; for as to 
criminal indulgences, he certainly never thought of them. 
This was owing either to his religion, as is most probable, or 
to the purity of his passion, which was fixed on those things 
which matrimony only, and not criminal correspondence, could 
put him in possession of, or could give him any title to. 

He had not long ruminated on these matters, before it oc- 
curred to his memory that he had a brother who was under no 
such unhappy incapacity. This brother he made no doubt 
would succeed ; for he discerned, as he thought, an inclination 
to marriage in the lady ; and the reader perhaps, when he hears 
the brother's qualifications, will not blame the confidence which 
he entertained of his success. 

"' is gentleman was about thirty-five years of age. He waf 


<tf a middle size, and what is called well-built* He bad a scar 
on his forehead, which did not so much injure his beauty as it 
denoted his valour (for he was a half-paj officer). He had 
good teeth, and something affable, when he pleased, in his 
smile ; though naturally his countenance, as well as his air and 
voice, had much of roughness in it : yet he could at any time 
deposit this, and appear all gentleness and good-humour. He 
was not ungenteel, nor entirely void of wit, and in his youth 
had abounded in sprightliness, which, though he had lately 
put on a more serious character, he could, when he pleased, 

He had, as well as the doctor, an academic education ; for 
his father had, with the same paternal authority we have men- 
tioned before, decreed him for holy orders ; but as the old gen- 
tleman died before he was ordained, he chose the church mili- 
tant, and preferred the king's commission to the bishop's. 

He had purchased the post of a lieutenant of dragoons, 
and afterwards came to be a captain ; but having quarrelled 
with his colonel, was by his interest obliged to sell; from 
which time he had entirely rusticated himself, had betaken him- 
self to studying the Scriptures, and was not a little suspected 
of an inclination to methodism. 

It seemed, therefore, not unlikely that such a person should 
succeed with a lady of so saint-like a disposition, and whose 
mclinations were no otherwise engaged than to the marriage 
state in general; but why the doctor, who certainly had no 
great friendship for his brother, should for his sake think of 
making so ill a return to the hospitality of Allworthy, is a 
matter not so easy to be accounted for. 

Is it that some natures delight in evil, as others are thought 
to delight in virtue ? Or is there a pleasure in being accessary 
to a theft when we cannot commit it ourselves ? Or lastly 
(which experience seems to make probable), have we a satis- 
&ction m aggrandising our families, even though we have not 
the least love or respect for them ? 

Whether any of these motives operated on the doctor, we 
will not determine; but so the fact was. He sent for his 
brother, and easily found means to introduce him at AUworthy's 
•B a person who intended only a short visit to himself. 


The captain had not been in the house a week before the 
doctor had reason to felicitate timself on his discernment. 
The captain was indeed as great a master of the art of love as 
Ovid was formerly. He had besides received proper hints 
from his brother, which he failed not to improve to the best 


Containing many rulesy and some examples, concerning falling in love : de- 
scription of beauty, and other more prudential inducements to matrimony. 

It hath been observed, by wise men or women, I forget which, 
that all persons are doomed to be in love once in their lives. 
No particular season is, as I remember, assigned for this ; but 
the age at which Miss Bridget was arrived, seems to me as 
proper a period as any to be fixed on for this purpose: it 
often, indeed, happens much earlier ; but when it doth not, I 
have observed it seldom or never fails about this time. More- 
over, we may remark that at this season love is of a more 
serious and steady nature than what sometimes shows itself in 
the younger parts of life. The love of girls is uncertain, ca- 
pricious, and so foolish that we cannot always discover what 
the young lady would be at ; nay, it may almost be doubted 
whether she always knows this herself. 

Now we are never at a loss to discern this in women about 
forty ; for as such grave, serious, and experienced ladies well 
know their own meaning, so it is always very easy for a man 
of the least sagacity to discover it with the utmost certainty. 

Miss Bridget is an example of all these observations. She 
had not been many times in the captain's company before she 
was seized with this passion. Nor did she go pining and mo- 
ping about the house, like a puny, foolish girl, ignorant of her 
distemper: she felt, she knew, and she enjoyed, the pleasing 
sensation, of which, as she was certain it was not only innocent 
but laudable, she was neither afraid nor ashamed. 

And to say the truth, there is, in all points, great difference 
between the reasonable passion which women at this age con- 
ceive towards men, and the idle and childish liking of a girl to 
a bov. which is often fixed on tho outside only, and on things 


of little value and no doration ; as on cherry cheeks, small, lily-- 
white hands, sloe-black eyes, flowing locks, downy chins, dap- 
per shapes; nay, sometimes on charms more worthless than 
these, and less the party's own ; such are the outward orna- 
ments of the person, for which men are beholden to the tailor, 
the laceman, the periwig-maker, the hatter and the milliner, 
and not to nature. Such a passion girls may well be ashamed, 
as they generally are, to own either to themselves or others. 

The love of Miss Bridget was of another kind. The cap- 
tain owed nothing to any of these fop-makers in his dress, nor 
was his person much more beholden to nature. Both his dress 
and person were such as, had they appeared in an assembly, 
or a drawing-room, would have been the contempt and ridicule 
of all the fine ladies there. The former of these was indeed 
neat, but plain, coarse, ill-fancied, and out of fashion. As for 
the latter, we have expressly described it above. So far was 
the skin on his cheeks from being cherrj^-coloured, that you 
could not discern what the natural colour of his cheeks was, 
they being totally overgrown by a black beard, which ascended 
to his eyes. His shape and limbs were indeed exactly propor- 
tioned, but so large that they denoted the strength rather of a 
ploughman than any other. His shoulders were broad beyond 
all size, and the calves of his legs larger than those of a com- 
mon chairman. In short, his whole person wanted all that 
elegance and beauty which is the very reverse of clumsy 
strength, and which so agreeably sets off most of our fine 
gentlemen ; being partly owing to the high blood of their an- 
cestors, viz. blood made of rich sauces and generous wines, and 
partly to an early town education. 

Though Miss Bridget was a woman of the greatest delicacy 
of taste, yet such were the charms of the captain's conversation, 
that she totally overlooked the defects of his person. She 
imagined, and perhaps very wisely, that she should enjoy more 
agreeable minutes with the captain than with a much prettier 
fellow ; and forewent the consideration of pleasing her eyes, 
in order to procure herself much more solid satisfaction. 

The captain no sooner perceived the passion of Miss Bridget, 
in which discovery he was very quick-sighted, than he faithfully 
returned it. The lady, no mor 3 than her lover, was remarkable 



for beauty. I would attempt to draw her picture, but that is 
done already by a more able master, Mr. Hogarth himself, to 
whom she sat many years ago, and hath been lately exhibited 
by that gentleman in his print of a winter's morning, of which 
she was no improper emblem, and may be seen walking (for 
walk she doth in the print) to Covent-garden church, with a 
starved foot-boy behind carrying her prayer-book. 

The captain likewise very wisely preferred the more solid en- 
joyments he expected with this lady, to the fleeting charms of 
person. He was one of those wise men who regard beauty in 
the other sex as a very worthless and superficial qualification ; 
or, to speak more truly, who rather choose to possess every 
convenience of life with an ugly woman, than a handsome one 
wthout any of those conveniences. And having a very good 
appetite, and but little nicety, he fancied he should play his 
part very well at the matrimonial banquet, without the sauce 
of beauty. 

To deal plainly with the reader, the captain, ever since his 
arrival, at least from the moment his brother had proposed the 
match to him, long before he had discovered any flattering 
symptoms in Miss Bridget, had been greatly enamoured ; that 
is to say, of Mr. All worthy's house and gardens, and of his 
lands, tenements, and hereditaments ; of all which the captain 
was so passionately fond, that he would most probably have 
contracted marriage with them, had he been obliged to have 
taken the witch of Endor into the bargain. 

As Mr. Allworthy, therefore, had declared to the doctor, 
that he never intended to take a second wife, as his sister was 
his nearest relation, and as the doctor had fished out that his 
intentions were to make any child of hers his heir, which indeed 
the law, without his interposition, would have done for him, 
the doctor and his brother thought it an act of benevolence to 
give being to a human creature, who would be so plentifully 
provided with the most essential means of happiness. The 
whole thoughts, therefore, of both the brothers were how to 
engage the affections of this amiable lady. 

But Fortune, who is a tender parent, and often doth more 
for her favourite offspring than either they deserve or wish, had 
^oen BO industrious for the captain, that whilst he was lajrinj; 


ficfaemes to execute his purpose, the lady conceived the same 
desires with himself, and was on her side contriying how to give 
the captain proper encouragement, without appearing too 
forward ; for she was a strict observer of all rules of decorum. 
In this, however, she easily succeeded ; for as the captain was 
always on the look-out, no glance, gesture, or word escaped 

The satisfaction which the captain received from the kind 
behaviour of Mrs. Bridget, was not a little abated by his 
apprehensions of Mr. AUworthy ; for, notwithstanding his dis- 
interested professions, the captain imagined he would, when 
he came to act, follow the example of the rest of the world, 
and refuse his consent to a match so disadvantageous, in point 
of interest, to his sister. From what oracle he received this 
opinion, I shall leave the reader to determine : but however he 
came by it, it strangely perplexed him how to regulate his 
conduct so as at once to convey his afifection to the lady, and 
to conceal it from her brother. He at length resolved to take 
all private opportunities of making his addresses ; but in the 
presence of Mr. AUworthy to be as reserved and as much upon 
his guard as was possible; and this conduct was highly 
approved by the brother. 

He soon found means to make his addresses, in express 
terms, to his mistress, from whom he received an answer in the 
proper form, viz. the answer which was first made some thou- 
sands of years ago, and which hath been handed down by 
tradition from mother to daughter ever since. If I was to 
translate this into Latin, I should render it by these two 
words. Nolo Episcopari: a phrase likewise of immemorial 
use on another occasion. 

The captain, however he came by his knowledge, perfectly 
well understood the lady, and very soon after repeated his 
application with more -warmth and earnestness than before, 
and was again, according to due form, rejected ; but as he had 
increased in the eagerness of his desires, so the lady, with the 
same propriety, decreased in the violence of her refusal. 

Not to tire the reader, by leading him through every scene 
of this courtship (which, though in the opinion of a certain 
author, it is the pleasantest scene of life to the actor, is^ 


perhaps, as dull and tiresome as any whatever to the audience), 
the captain made his advances in form, the citadel was de- 
fended in form, and at length, in proper form, surrended at 

During this whole time, which filled the space of near a 
month, the captain preserved great distance of behaviour to 
his lady in the presence of the brother; and the more ho 
succeeded mth her in private, the more reserved was he in 
public * And as for the lady, she had no sooner secured her 
lover, than she behaved to him before company with the 
highest degree of indifference ; so that Mr. AUworthy must 
have had the insight of the devil (or perhaps some of his worse 
qualities) to have entertained the least suspicion of what was 
going forward. 



Containing what the reader may^ perhapSj expect to find in it. 

In all bargains, whether to fight or to marry, or concerning 
any other such business, little previous ceremony is required 
to bring the matter to an issue, when both parties are really in 
earnest. This was the case at present, and in less than a 
month the captain and his lady were man and wife. 

The great concern now was to break the matter to Mr. All- 
worthy ; and this was undertaken by the doctor. 

One day, then, as AUworthy was walking in his garden, the 
doctor came to him, and, with great gravity of aspect, and all 
the concern which he could possibly affect in his countenance, 
said, " I am come, sir, to impart an affair to you of the utmost 
consequence ; but how shall I mention to you what it almost 
distracts me to think of I'' He then launched forth into the 
most bitter invectives both against men and women ; accusing 
the former of having no attachment but to their interest, and 
the latter of being so addicted to vicious inclinations, that they 
could never be safely trusted with one of the other sex. 
*' Could I," said he, " sir, have suspected, that a lady of such 
prudence, such judgment, such learning, should indulge so 
indiscreet a passion I or could I have imagined that my 
brother — why do I call him so ? he is no longer a brother of 


** Indeed but he is," said AUw^orthy, " and a brother of mine 
too." — ;*' Bless me, sir!" said the doctor, "do you know the 
shocking affair?" — Look'ee, Mr. Blifil," answered the good 
man ; '*it hath been my constant maxim in life to make the 
best of all matters which happen. My sister, though many 
years younger than I, is at least old enough to be at the age 
of discretion. Had he imposed on a child, I should have been 
more averse to have forgiven him ; but a woman upwards of 
thirty must certainly be supposed to know what will make her 
most happy. She hath married a gentleman, though perhaps 
not quite her equal in fortune ; and if he hath any perfections 
in her eye which can make up that deficiency, I see no reason 
why I should object to her choice of her own happiness ; which 
I, no more than herself, imagine to consist only in immense 
wealth. I might, perhaps, from the many declarations I have 
made, of complying with almost any proposal, have expected 
to have been consulted on this occasion ; but these matters are 
of a very delicate nature, and the scruples of modesty, perhaps, 
are not to be overcome. As to your brother, I have really no 
anger against him at all. He hath no obligations to me, nor 
do I think he was under any necessity of asking my consent, 
since the woman is, as I have said, sui juriSy and of a proper 
age to be entirely answerable only to herself for her conduct. " 

The doctor accused Mr. Allworthy of too great lenity, 
repeated his accusations against his brother, and declared that 
he should never more be brought either to see, or to own him 
for his relation. He then launched forth into a panegyric on 
Allworthy's goodness; into the highest encomiums on his 
friendship ; and concluded by saying, he should never forgive 
his brother for having put the place which he bore in that 
friendship to a hazard. 

Allworthy thus answered : '* Had I conceived any displeasure 
against your brother, I should never have carried that resent- 
ment to the innocent : but I assure you I have no such dis- 
pleasure. Your brother appears to me to be a man of sense 
and honour. I do not disapprove the taste of my sister ; nor 
will I doubt but that she is equally the object of his inclinations. 
I have always thought love the only foundation of happiness 
in a married state, as it can only produce that hiclx Wi^\«tAfc\ 
I. — 8 


Mendship which shoald always be the cement of this nnion ; 
and, in my opinion, all those marriages which are contracted 
from other motives are greatly criminal ; they are a profanation 
of a most holy ceremony, and generally end in disquiet and 
misery : for surely we may call it a profanation to convert this 
most sacred institution into a wicked sacrifice to lust or avarice : 
and what better can be said of those matches to which men are 
induced merely by the consideration of a beautiful person, or 
a great fortune ? 

**To deny that beauty is an agreeable object to the eye, 
and even worthy some admiration, would be false and foolish. 
Beautiful is an epithet often used in Scripture, and always 
mentioned with honour. It was my own fortune to marry a 
woman whom the world thought handsome, and I can truly say 
I liked her the better on that account. But, to make this the 
sole consideration of marriage, to lust after it so violently as to 
overlook all imperfection for its sake, or to require it so abso- 
lutely as to reject and disdain religion, virtue, and sense, which 
are qualities in their nature of much higher perfection, only 
because an elegance of person is wanting ; this is surely incon- 
sistent, either with a wise man or a good Christian. And it is, 
perhaps, being too charitable to conclude that such persons 
mean anything more by their marriage than to please their 
carnal appetites ; for the satisfaction of which, we are taught, 
it was not ordained. 

*'In the next place, with respect to fortune. Worldly 
prudence, perhaps, exacts some consideration on this head; 
nor will I absolutely and altogether condemn it. As the 
world is constituted, the demands of a married state, and the 
care of posterity, require some little regard to what we call 
circumstances. Yet this provision is greatly increased, beyond 
what is really necessary, by folly and vanity, which create 
abundantly more wants than nature. Equipage for his wife, 
and large fortunes for the children, are by custom enrolled in 
the list of necessaries ; and to procure these, everything truly 
solid and sweet, and virtuous and religious, are neglected and 

' ' And this in many degrees ; the last and greatest of whioh 
seems scarce distinguishable from madness; — I mean where 


persons of immense fortunes contract themselves to those who 
are, and mnst be, disagreeable to them — to fools and knaves — 
in order to increase an estate already larger even than the 
demands of their pleasures. Surely such persons, if they will 
not be thought mad, must own, either that they are incapable 
of tasting the sweets of the tenderest friendship, or that they 
sacrifice the greatest happiness of which they are capable to 
the vain, uncertain, and senseless laws of vulgar opinion, which 
owe as well their force as their foundation to folly.'' 

Here Allworthy concluded his sermon, to which Blifil had 
listened with the profoundest attention, though it cost him 
some pains to prevent now and then a small discomposure of 
his muscles. He now praised every period of what he had 
heard with the warmth of a young divine, who hath the 
honour to dine with a bishop the same day in which his lord- 
ship hath mounted the pulpit. 


Which concludes the first book ; with an instance of ingratitude, which, we 
hope, wiU appear unnatural. 

The reader, from what hath been said, may imagine that the 
reconciliation (if indeed it could be so called) was only matter 
of form ; we shall therefore pass it over, and hasten to what 
must surely be thought matter of substance. 

The doctor had acquainted his brother with what had passed 
between Mr. Allworthy and him ; and added with a smile, *' I 
promise you I paid you ofif ; nay, I absolutely desired the good 
gentleman not to forgive you : for you know, after he had made 
a declaration in your favour, I might with safety venture on 
such a request with a person of his temper ; and I was willing, 
as well for your sake as for my own, to prevent the least possi- 
bility of a suspicion." 

Captain Blifil took not the least notice of this, at that time ; 
but he afterwards made a very notable use of it. 

One of the maxims which the devil, in a late visit upon 
earth, left to his disciples, is, when once you are got up to 
kick the stool from under you In plain English, Nvhsw ^^t\ 



have made your fortune by the good offices of a friend, you are 
advised to discard him as soon as you can. 

Whether the captain acted by this maxim, I will not 
positively determine ; so far we may confidently say, that his 
actions may be fairly derived from this diabolical principle ; 
and indeed it is difficult to assign any other motive to them : 
for no sooner was he possessed of Miss Bridget, and reconciled 
to Allworthy, than he began to show a coldness to his brother 
which increased 'daily ; till at length it grew into rudeness, and 
became very visible to every one. 

The doctor remonstrated to him privately concerning this 
behaviour, but could obtain no other satisfaction than the 
following plain declaration: *'If you dislike anything in my 
brother's house, sir, you know you are at liberty to quit if 
This strange, cruel, and almost unaccountable ingratitude in 
the captain, absolutely broke the poor doctor's heart; for 
ingratitude never so thoroughly pierces the human breast as 
when it proceeds from those in whose behalf we have been 
guilty of transgressions. Reflections on great and good 
actions, however they are received or returned by those in whose 
favour they are performed, always administer some comfort to 
us ; but what consolation shall we receive under so biting a 
calamnity as the ungrateful behaviour of our friend when our 
wounded conscience at the same time flies in our face, and 
upbraids us with having spotted it in the service of one so 
worthless 1 

Mr. Allworthy himself spoke to the captain in his brother's 
behalf, and desired to know what oflfence the doctor had com- 
mitted ; when the hard-hearted villain had the baseness to say, 
that he should never forgive him for the injury which he had 
endeavoured to do him in his favour ; which, he said, he had 
pumped out of him, and was such a cruelty that it ought not 
to be forgiven. 

Allworthy spoke in very high terms upon this declaration, 
which he said became not a human creature. He expressed, 
indeed, so much resentment against an unforgiving temper, 
that the captain at last pretended to be convinced by his arga* 
ments, and outwardly professed to be reconciled. 

As for the bride, she was now in her honeymoon, and so 


passionately fond of her new husband that he nerer appeared 
to her to be in the wrong ; and his displeasure against anj 
person was a sufficient reason for her dislike to the same. 

The captain, at Mr. AUworthy's instance, was outwardly, as 
we have said, reconciled to his brother ; yet the same rancour 
remained in his heart, and he found so many opportunities of 
giving him private hints of this, that the house at last grew 
infiupportable to the poor doctor; and he chose rather to 
submit to any inconveniences which he might encounter in the 
world, than longer to bear these cruel and ungrateful insults 
from a brother for whom he had done so much. 

He once intended to acquaint AUworthy with the whole ; 
but he could not bring himself to submit to the confession, by 
which he must take to his share so great a portion of guilt. 
Besides, by how much the worse man he represented his bro- 
ther to be, so much the greater would his own ofifence appear 
to AUworthy, and so much the greater, he had reason to 
imagine, would be his resentment. 

He feigned, therefore, some excuse of business for his de- 
parture, and promised to return soon again ; and took leave 
of his brother with so well-dissembled content, that, as the cap- 
tain played his part to the same perfection, AUworthy remained 
well satisfied with the truth of the reconciliation. 

The doctor went directly to London, where he died soon 
after of a broken heart ; a distemper which kiUs many more 
than is generally imagined, and would have a fair title to a 
place in the bill of mortaUty, did it not differ in one instance 
from all other diseases — viz.. That no physician can cure it. 

Now, upon the most diligent inquiry into the former lives 
of these two brothers^ I find, besides the cursed and hellish 
maxim of policy above-mentioned, another reason for the cap- 
tain's conduct : the captain, besides what we have before said 
of him, was a man of great pride and fierceness, and had al- 
ways treated his brother, who was of a different complexion, 
and greatly deficient in both those qualities, with the utmost 
air of superiority. The doctor, however, had much the larger 
share of learning, and was by many reputed to have the better 
understanding. This the captain knew, and could not bear ; 
for though envy is at best a very malignant passioiv, "J^X. \^ ^ 


bitterness greatly heightened by mixing with contempt towards 
the same object ; and very much afraid I am, that whenever an 
obligation is joined to these two, indignation and not gratitude 
will be the product of all three. 




Shovnng what kind of a history this » ; what it is like^ and what it is not 


Though we have properly enough entitled this our work, a 
history, and not a life ; nor an apology for a life, as is more 
in fashion ; yet we intend in it rather to pursue the method of 
those writers, who profess to disclose the revolutions of coun- 
tries, than to imitate the painful and voluminous historian, 
who, to preserve the regularity of his series, thinks himself 
obliged to fill up as much paper with the detail of months and 
years in which nothing remarkable happened, as he employs 
upon those notable eras when the greatest scenes have been 
transacted on the human stage. 

Such histories as these do, in reality, very much resemble a 
newspaper, which consists of just the same number of words, 
whether there be any news in it or not. They may likewise be 
compared to a stage-coach, which performs constantly the 
same course, empty as well as full. The writer, indeed, seems 
to thick himself obliged to keep even pace with time, whose 
amanuensis he is; and, like his master, travels as slowly 
through centuries of monkish dulness, as through that bright 
and busy age so nobly distinguished by the excellent Latin 
poet. — 

Ad confligendum venientibus undique poenis. 
Omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu 
Horrida contremuere sab altis etheris auris : 
In dubioque fait sub atroxom regna cadendom. 
Omnihua hamanis esset, terraqae maiiqae. 


Of which we widi we could give our reaaer a more adequate 
translation than that by Mr. Creech : 

When dreadful Carthage frightened Borne wth arms. 
And all the world was shook with fierce alarms; 
Whilst undecided yet, which part should fall. 
Which nation rise the glorious lord of all. 

Now it is our purpose, in the ensuing pages, to pursue a 
contrary method. When any extraordinary scene presents 
itself (as we trust will often be the case), we shall spare no 
pains nor paper to open it at large to our reader ; but if whole 
years should pass without producing anything worthy his 
notice, we shall not be afraid of a chasm in our history ; but 
shall hasten on to matters of consequence, and leave such 
periods of time totally unobserved. 

These are indeed to be considered as blanks in the grand 
lottery of time. We therefore, who are the registers of that 
lottery, shall imitate those sagacious persons who deal in that 
which is drawn at Guildhall, and who never trouble the public 
with the many blanks they dispose of ; but when a great prize 
happens to be drawn, the newspapers are presently filled with 
it, and the world is sure to be informed at whose ofl&ce it was 
sold : indeed commonly two or three diflPerent oflfices lay claim 
to the honour of having disposed of it ; by which I suppose, 
the adventurers are given to understand that certain brokers 
are in the secrets of Fortune, and indeed of her cabinet 

My reader then is not to be surprised, if, in the course of 
this work, he shall find some chapters very short, and others 
altogether as long ; some that contain only the time of a single 
day, and others that comprise years ; in a word, if my history 
sometimes seems to stand still, and sometimes to fly. For all 
which I shall not look on myself as accountable to any court 
of critical jurisdiction whatever : for as I am, in reality, the 
founder of a new province of writing, so I am at liberty to 
make what laws I please therein. And these laws, my readers, 
whom I consider as my subjects, are bound to believe in and 
to obey; with which that they may readily and cheerfully 
comply, I do hereby assure them that I shall principally re- 
gard their ease and advantage in all such institutioii^ \ ^<(^t \ 


do not, like a jure divino tyrant, imagine that they are my 
slaves, or my commodity. I am, indeed, set oyer them for 
their own good only, and was created for their use, and not 
they ifor mine. Nor do I doubt, while I make their interest 
the great rule of my writings, they will unanimously concur in 
supporting my dignity, and in rendering me all the honour I 
shall deserve or desire. 


Religious cautions against showing too much favour to bastards ; and a great 
discovery made by Mrs. Deborah Wilkins, 

Eight months after the celebration of the nuptials between 
Captain Blifil and Miss Bridget Allworthy, a young lady of 
great beauty, merit, and fortune, was Miss Bridget, by reason 
of a fright, delivered of a fine boy. The child was indeed to 
all appearances perfect; but the midwife discovered it was 
bom a month before its full time. 

Though the birth of an heir by his beloved sister was a cir- 
cumstance of great joy to Mr. Allworthy, yet it did not alienate 
his affections from the little foundling, to whom he had been 
godfather, had given his own name of Thomas, and whom he 
had hitherto seldom failed of visiting, at least once a day, in 
his nursery. 

He told his sister, if she pleased, the new-bom infant should 
be bred up together with little Tommy ; to which she consented, 
though with some little reluctance : for she had truly a great 
complacence for her brother ; and hence she had always be- 
haved towards the foundling with rather more kindness than 
ladies of rigid virtue can sometimes bring themselves to show 
to these children, who, however innocent, may be truly called 
the living monuments of incontinence. 

The captain could not so easily bring himself to bear what 
he condemned as a fault in Mr. Allworthy. He gave him fre- 
quent hints, that to adopt the fmits of sin, was u) give counte- 
nance to it. He quoted several texts (for he was well read in 
Scripture), such as. He visits tJie sins of the fathers upon the 
ohildxen; and the fathers have eaten sour grapes , and the 


children's tedh are set on edge, &€, Whence he argued the 
legality of punishing the crime of the parent on the bastard. 
He said, "Though the law did not positively aUow the de- . 
stroying such base-bom children, yet it held them to be the 
children of nobody : that the church considered them as the 
children of nobody ; and that at the best, they ought to be 
brought up to the lowest and vilest offices of the common- 
wealth. " 

Mr. Allworthy answered to all this, and much more, which 
the captain had urged on this subject, "That, however guilty 
the parents might be, the children were certainly innocent: 
that as to the texts he had quoted, the former of them was a 
particular denunciation against the Jews, for the sin of idolatry, 
of relinquishing and hating their heavenly Bang ; and the latter 
was parabolically spoken, and rather intended to denote the 
certain and necessary consequences of sin, than any express 
judgment against it. But to represent the Almighty as aveng- 
ing the sins of the guilty on the innocent, was indecent, if not 
blasphemous, as it was to represent him acting against the 
first principles of natural justice, and against the original 
notions of right and wrong, which he himself had implanted 
in our minds ; by which we were to judge not only in all mat- 
ters which were not revealed, but even of the truth of revela- 
tion itself. He said he knew many held the same principles 
with the captain on this head ; but he was himself firmly con- 
Tinced to the contrary, and would provide in the same manner 
for this poor infant, as if a legitimate child had had the for- 
tune to have been found in the same place. 

While th'e captain was taking all opportunities to press these 
and such like arguments, to remove the little foundling from 
Mr. Allworthy 's, of whose fondness for him he began to be 
jealous, Mrs. Deborah had made a discovery, which, in its 
event, threatened at least to prove more fatal to poor Tommy 
than all the reasonings of the captain. 

Whether the insatiable curiosity of this good woman had 
carried her on to that business, or whether she did it to confirm 
herself in the good graces of Mrs. Blifil, who, notwithstand- 
ing her outward behaviour to the foundling, frequently abused 
the infant in private, and her brother too, for his fondness to 


it, I will not determine ; but she bad now, as she conceived, 
folly detected the father of the foundling. 

Now, as this was a discovery of great consequence, it may 
be necessary to trace it from the fountain-head. We shall 
therefore very minutely lay open those previous matters by 
which it was produced; and for that purpose we shall be 
obliged to reveal all the secrets of a little family with which 
my reader is at present entirely unacquainted ; and of which 
the economy was so rare and extraordinary, that I fear it will 
shock the utmost credulity of many married persons. 


The description of a domestic government founded upon rul-es directly contrary 
to those of Aristotle, 

My reader may please to remember he hath been informed 
that Jenny Jones had lived some years with a certain school- 
master, who had, at her earnest desire, instructed her in Latin, 
in which to do justice to her genius, she had so improved her- 
self, that she was become a better scholar than her master. 

Indeed, though this poor man had undertaken a profession 
to which learning must be allowed necessary, this was the least 
of his commendations. He was one of the best-natured fellows 
in the world, and was, at the same time, master of so much 
pleasantry and humour, that he was reputed the wit of the 
country ; and all the neighbouring gentlemen were so desirous 
of his company, that as denying was not his talent, he spent 
much time at their houses, which he might, with more emolu* 
ment, have spent in his school. 

It may be imagined that a gentleman so qualified and so dis- 
posed, was in no danger of becoming formidable to the learned 
seminaries of Eton or Westminister. To speak plainly, his 
scholars were divided into two classes : in the upper of which 
was a young gentleman, the son of a neighbouring squire, who 
at the age of seventeen, was just entered into his Syntaxis; 
and in the lower was a second son of the same gentleman, who^ 
together with seven parish-boys, was learning to read and 


The stipend arising hence would hardly have indulged the 
schoolmaster in the laxnries of life, had he not added to this 
office those of clerk and barber, and had not Mr. Allworthy 
added to the whole an annuity of ten pounds, which the poor 
man received every Christmas, and with which he was enabled 
to cheer his heart during that sacred festival. 

Among his other treasures, the pedagogue had a wife, whom 
he had married out of Mr. AUworthy's kitchen for her fortune, 
viz., twenty pounds, which she had there amassed. 

This woman was not very amiable in her person. Whether 
she sat to my friend Hogarth, or no, I will not determine ; but 
she exactly resembled the young woman who is pouring out her 
mistress's tea in the third picture of the Harlot's Progress. She 
was, besides, a profest follower of that noble sect founded by Xan- 
thippe of old ; by means of which she became more formidable 
in the school than her husband ; for, to confess the truth, he 
was never master there, or any where else in her presence. 

Though her countenance did not denote much natural sweet- 
ness of temper, yet this was, perhaps, somewhat soured by a 
circumstance which generally poisons matrimonial felicity ; for 
children are rightly called the pledges of love ; and her husband, 
though they had been married nine years, had given her no 
such pledges; a default for which he had no excuse, either 
from age or health, being not yet thirty years old, and what 
they call a jolly brisk young man. 

Hence arose another evil, which produced no little uneasiness 
to the poor pedagogue, of whom she maintained so constant 
a jealousy, that he durst hardly speak to one woman in the 
parish ; for the least degree of civility, or even correspondence, 
with any female, was sure to bring his wife upon her back, and 
his own. 

In order to guard herself against matrimonial injuries in her 
own house, as she kept one maid-servant, she always took care 
to choose her out of that order of females whose faces are 
taken as a kind of security for their virtue ; of which number 
Jenny Jones, as the reader hath been before informed, was 

As the face of this young woman might be called pretty good 
flccnrity of the before-mentioned kind, and as her behaviour 


had been always extremely modest, which is the certain conge- 
qnence of understanding in women ; she had passed above four 
*! years at Mr. Partridge's (for that was the schoolmaster's name) 
without creating the least suspicion in her mistress. Nay, she 
had been treated with uncommon kindness, and her mistress 
had permitted Mr. Partridge to give her those instructions 
which have been before commemorated. 

But it is with jealousy as with the gout : when such dis- 
tempers are in the blood, there is never any security against 
their breaking out ; and that often on the slightest occasions, 
and when least suspected. 

Thus it happened to Mrs. Partridge, who had submitted 
four years to her husband's teaching this young woman, and 
had suffered her often to neglect her work in order to pursue 
her learning. For, passing by one day, as the girl was reading, 
and her master leaning over her, the girl, I know not for 
what reason, suddenly started up from her chair : and this was 
the first time that suspicion ever entered into the head of her 

This did not, however, at that time discover itself, but lay 
lurking in her mind, like a concealed enemy, who waits for a 
reinforcement of additional strength before he openly declares 
himself and proceeds upon hostile operations : and such 
additional strength soon arrived to corroborate her suspicions ; 
for not long after, the husband and wife being at dinner, tho 
master said to his maid. Da mihi aliquid potum : upon which 
the poor girl smiled, perhaps at the badness of the Latin, and, 
when her mistress cast her eyes on her, blushed, possibly with 
a consciousness of having laughed at her master. Mrs. Part- 
ridge, upon this, immediately fell into a fury, and discharged 
the trencher, on which she was eating, at the head of poor 
Jenny, crying out, ** You impudent whore, do you play tricks 
with my husband before my face ?" and at the same instant 
rose from her chair with a knife in her hand, with which, most 
probably, she would have executed very tragical vengeance, 
had not the girl taken the advantage of being nearer the door 
than her mistress, and avoided her fury by running away : for, 
as to the poor husband, whether surprise had rendered him 
motionless, or fear (which is full as probable) had restrained 


him from yentnring at any opposition, ho sat stariDg and 
trembling in his chair; nor did he once offer to move or speak, 
till his wife, returning from the parsait of Jennj, made some 
defensive measares necessary for his own preservation; and 
he likewise was obliged to retreat, after the example of the 

This good woman was, no more than Othello, of a dispo- 

To makA a lifo of jealousy, 

And follow still the changes of the moon 

With fresh sispicions 

With her, as well as him, 

-To be onoe in doubt, 

Was once to be rcsolv'd- 

she therefore ordered Jenny immediately to pack up her alls 
and begone, for that she was determined she should not sleep 
that night within her walls. 

Mr. Partridge had profited too much by experience to inter- 
pose in a matter of this nature. He therefore had recourse to 
his usual receipt of patience ; for, though he was not a great 
adept in Latin, he remembered, and well understood, the 
sdyice contained in these words : 

Leye fit, quod bene fertur onus. 

In English : 

A burden becomes lightest when it is well borne. 

Which he had always in his mouth ; and of which, to say the 
truth, he had often occasion to experience the truth. 

Jenny offered to make protestations of her innocence ; but 
the tempest was too strong for her to be heard. She then 
betook herself to the business of packing, for which a small 
quantity of brown paper sufficed; and, having received her 
small pittance of wages, she returned home. 

The schoolmaster and his consort passed their time un- 
pleasantly enough that evening; but something or other 
happened before the next morning, which a little abated the 
fury of Mrs. Partridge ; and she at length admitted her husband 
to make his excuses : to wnich she gcive the readier belief, as 
he had, instead of desiring her to recall Jenny, professed a 
gatisfoction in her being dismissed, saying, she was grown ot 

L — 9 a 


little nse as a seryant spending all her time in reading, and 
was become, moreover, very pert and obstinate : for, indeed, 
she and her master had lately had frequent disputes in litera* 
ture ; in which, as hatli Veen said, phc was become greatly his 
superior. This, however, he would by no means allow; and 
as he called her persisting in the right, obstinacy, he began to 
hate her with no small inveteracy. 

CliArTEli IV. 

Containing one of the most bloody bailies^ or rather duels, that were evfr 
t ecurded in domestic history. 

For the reasons mentioned in the preceding chapter, and 
from some other Liatr»moni*il concessions, well known to most 
husbands, and which, .ike th<) sccre*^s of free-masonry, should 
be divulged to none who a'-e not members of that honourable 
fraternity, Mrs. Partridge was pretty well satisfied, that she 
had condemned her husband without cause, and endeavoured 
by acts of kindness to make bim amends for her false suspicion. 
Her passions were indeed equally violent, which ever way they 
inclined ; for as she could be extremely angry, so could she be 
altogether as fond. 

But though these passions ordinarily succeed each other, and 
scarce twenty-four hours ever passed in which the pedagogue 
was not, in some degree, the object of both ; yet, on extra- 
ordinary occasions, when the passion of anger had raged very 
high, the remission was" usually longer : and such was the case 
at present ; for she continued longer in a state of affability, 
after this fit of jealousy was ended, than her husband had ever 
known before : and, had it not been for some little exercises, 
which all the followers of Xanthippe are obliged to perform 
daily, Mr. Partridge would have enjoyed a perfect serenity of 
several months. 

Perfect calms at sea are always suspected by the experienced 
mariner to be the forerunners of a storm : and I know some 
persons, who, without beinj generally the devotees of super- 
stition, are apt to apprehend that great and unusual peace or 
tranquillity will be attendt^d with its opposite. For wiMk 


reason the ancients nsed, on sncli occasions, to sacrifice to the 
goddess Nemesis, a deity who was thought by them to look 
with an invidious eye on human felicity, and to have a peculiar 
delight in overturning it. 

As we are very far from bel'evinpr in any such heathen god- 
dess, or from encouraging any superstition, so we wish Mr. John 

Fr f or some other such philosopher, would bestir himself 

a little, in order to find out the real cause of this sudden transi- 
tion from good to bad fortune, which hath been so often re- 
marked, and of which we shall proceed to give an instance ; for 
it is our province to relate facts, and we shall leave causes to 
persons of much higher genius. 

Mankind have always taken great delight in knowing and 
descanting on the actions of others. Hence there have been, 
in all ages and nations, certain places set apart for public ren- 
dezvous, where the curious might meet and satisfy their mu- 
tual curiosity. Among these, the barbers' shops have justly 
borne the pre-eminence. Among theJ&reeks, barbers' news was 
a proverbial expression ; and Horace, in one of his epistles, 
makes honourable mention of the Roman barbers in the same 

Those of England are known to be no wise inferior to their 
Greek or Roman predecessors. You there see foreign affairs 
discussed in a manner little inferior to that with which they are 
Landled in the coffee-houses; and domestic occurrences are 
much more largely and freely treated in the former than in the 
latter. But this serves only for the men. Now, whereas the 
females of this country, especially those of the lower order, do 
aflsociate themselves much more than those of other nations, our 
polity would be highly deficient, if they had not some place set 
Apart likewise for the indulgence of their curiosity, seeing they 
are m this no way inferior to the other half of the species. 

In enjoying, therefore, such place of rendezvous, the British 
fair ought to esteem themselves more happy than any of their 
foreign sisters ; as I do not remember either to have read in 
history, or to have seen in my travels, any thing of the like kind. 

This place then is no other than the chandler's shop, the 
known seat of all the news ; or, as it is vulgarly called, gossip* 
ing« in ewmj parish in England. 


Mrs. Partiidge being one day at this assembly of females, 
was asked by one of her neighbours, if she had heard no news 
lately of Jenny Jones ? To which she answered in the nega- 
tive. Upon this the other replied, with a smile, That the parish 
was very much obliged to her Tor having turned Jenny away as 
she did. 

Mrs. Partridge, whose jealousy, as the reader well., knows, 
was long since cured, and wlio had no other quarrel to her maid, 
answered boldly, She did not know any obligation the parish 
had to her on that account ; for she believed Jenny had scareo 
left her equal behind her. 

" No, truly," said the gossip, '* I hope not, though I fancy 
we have sluts enow too. Then you have not heard, it Beems, 
that she liath been brought to bed of two bastards ? but as they 
are not born here, my husband and the other overseer says fro 
shall not be obliged to keep them." 

'*Two bastards!" answered Mrs. Partridge hastily: "you 
smrprise me ! I don't know whether we must keep them ; but 
I am sure they must have been begotten here, for the wcncb 
hath not been nine months gone away. " 

Nothing can be so quick and sudden as the operations of the 
mind, especially when hope or fear, or jealousy, to which the two 
others are but journeymen, set it to work. It instantly occurred 
to her, that Jenny had scarce ever been out of her own house while 
she lived with her. The leaning over the chair, the sadden 
starting up, the Latin, the smile, and many other things, rushed 
upon her all at once. The satisfaction her husband expressed 
in the departure of Jenny, appeared now to be only dissembled ; 
again, in the same instant, to be real ; but yet (to confirm her 
jealousy) proceeding from satiety, and a hundred other Imd 
causes. In a word, she was convinced of her husband's gailt, 
and immediately left the assembly in confusion. 

As fair Grimalkin, who, though the youngest of the feline 
family, degenerates not in ferocity from the elder branches of 
her house, and though inferior in strength, is equal in fierceness 
to the noble tiger himself, when a little mouse, whom it had 
long tormented in sport, escapes from her clutches, for a whJe 
frets, scolds, growls, swears j but if the trunk, or box, behir^d 
which the mouse lay hid, be again removed, jhe flies like light- 


niiig on hor prey, and, with envenomed wrath, bites, scratches, 
mumbles, and tears the little animal. 

jS'ot ¥itli Jess furj did Mrs. Partridge fly on the poor peda- 
gogue. Her tongue, teeth and hands, fell all upon him at once. 
His wig was in an instant torn from his head, his shirt from his 
^v»k, and from his face descerded five streams of blood, denot- 
itig \nijitu:i.ox.v of t3iaws with which nature had unhappily armed 
the enemy. 

Mr. Partridge acted some time on the defensive only ; indeed 
be atteapt«'l only to guard his face with his hands ; but as he 
found that his antagonist abated nothing of her rage, he tliought 
he might, at least, endeavour to disarm her, or rather to confine 
her arms ; in doing which, her cap fell off in the struggle, and her 
iiair being tor short to reach her shoulders, erected itself on her 
head ; her stays, likewise, which were laced through one single 
hole at the bottom, burst open ; and ber breasts, which were 
mach more redundant than her hair, hung down below her mid- 
d^«* ; »ier face was likewise marked with the blood of her hu*s- 
?miil , her teeth gnashed witli rage ; and fire, such as sparkles 
frcm a smith's forge, darted from her eyes. So that, altogether, 
ihiti Amazonian heroine might have been an object of terror to 
a much bolder man than Mr. Partridge. 

He had, at length, the good fortune, by getting possession 
of her arms, to render those wca])ons which she wore at the 
ends of her fingers useless ; which she no sooner perceived, 
than the softness of her sex prevailed over her rage, and she 
I recently dissolved in tears, which soon after concluded in a fit. 

That small share of sense which Mr. Partridge had hitherto 
preserved through this scene of fury, of the cause of* which he 
was hitherto ignorant, now utterly abandoned him. He ran 
instantly into the street, hallooing out that his wife was in the 
agonies of death, and tcsecching the neighbours to fly with the 
utmost haste to her assistance. Several good women obeyed 
his sumi) ( :.^, who entering his house, and applying the usual 
remedies on such occasions. Mrs. Partridge was at length, to 
the great joy of her husband, brouc^lit to herself. 

As soon as she had a little recollected her spirits, and some- 
what composed herself with a cordial, she began to inform the 
company of thi manifold injuries she had received from her hus • 

l<*2 TTiB niiiJTORY OP 

bdnd } who, she said, was not contented to injure her in her 
bed ; but, upon her upbraiding him with it, had treated her in 
the cruellest manntr imaginable ; had torn her cap and hair 
from her head, and her stays from her body, giving her, at the 
same time, several blows, the marks of which she should carry 
to the grave. 

The poor man, who bore on his face many and moro ylsibl** 
marks of the indignation of his wife, stood in silent astonish • 
Jient a* this accusation ; which the reader will, I believe, bear 
Mritness for him, had greatly exceeded the truth ; for indeed h« 
had not struck her once ; and this silence being interpreted ti> 
be a confession of the charge by the whole court, they all began 
at once, una voce, to rebuke and revile him, repeating oft07», 
that none but a coward ever struck a woman. 

Mr. Partridge bore all this patiently; but when hie wife 
a;>pealed to the blood on her face, as an evidence of his b^ir- 
barity, he could not help laying claim to his own blood, for f o 
it really was ; as he thought it very unnatural, that this shot'M 
rise up (as we are taught that of a murdered person often doth) 
in vengeance against him. 

To this the women made no other answer, than that it was u 
pity it had not come from his heart, instead of Ids face ; all 
declaiing, that, if their husbands should lift their hands against 
them, tl cy would have their hearts' blood out of their bodies. 

After inu3h admonition for what was past, and much good 
advice to Mr. Partridge for his future behaviour, the company- 
at length departed, and left the husband and wife to a personal 
conference together, in which Mr. Partridge soon learned the 
cause of all his sufferings. 


Containing much matter to exercise the judgment and rtflecUon of ike reader. 
I BELIEVE it is a true observation, that few secrets are 
divulged to one person only ; but cer1,ainly, it woTild be next 
to a miracle that a fact of this kind should be known to a whole 
parish, and not transpire any farther. 
And, indeed; a very few days had past, before the country 


to use a coKicon phrase, rung of the school-master of Little 
Baddington ; who was said to have beaten his wife in the most 
crn<;l Lianner. ^ay, in some places it was reported he had 
rjurdered her; In others, that he had broke her arms; in 
others, her legs; ia short, there was scarce an injury which 
eaj be done to a human creature, but what Mrs. Partridge 
wr»s somewhere or other affirmed to have received from her 

The cause of this quarrel was likewise variously reported ; 
for as some people said that Mrs. Partridge had caue:ht hor 
husband in bed with his maid, so many other reasons, of a very 
different kind, went abroad. Nay, some transferred the guilt 
to the wife, and the jealousy to the husband. 

Mrs. Wilkins had long ago* heard of this quarrel ; but, as a 
different cause from the true one had reached her cars, she 
thought proper to conceal it ; and the rather, perhaps, as the 
olame was universaUy laid on Mr. Partridge; and his wife, 
when she waa servant to Mr. AUwc^rthy, had in somethiLg 
offended Mrs. Wilkins, who was iiot of a very forgiving 

But Mrs. Wilkins, whose eyes could see objects at a distance, 
and who could very well look forward a few years into futurity, 
bad perceived a strong likelihood of Captain Blifil's being here- 
after her master ; and as she plainly discerned that the captain 
bore no great good-will to the little foundling, she fancied it 
would be rendering him an agreeable service, if she could make 
any discoveries that might lessen the affection which Mr. All- 
worthy seemed to have contracted for this child, and which 
gave visible uneasiness to the captain, who could not entirely 
conceal it even before Allworthy himself; though his wife, who 
acted her part much better in public, frequently recommended 
to him her own example, of conniving at the folly of her bro- 
ther, which, she said, she at least as well perceived, and as 
much resented, as any other possibly could. 

Mrs. Wilkins having therefore, by accidem, gotten a true 
5?cnt of the above story, though long nfter it hao happened, 
failed not to satisfy herself thoroughly of ali the particulars ; 
and tnon acquainted the captain, that she had at last discovered 
i.,' fcro father of the little bastard, which she was sorry, she 


aaid, to see lior Tnasier lose his reputation in *j!ie jo^uirj, hj 
taking so mnch notice of it. 

The captain chid her for the couclnsion of her speech, as an 
improper assurance in judging of her mastci s actions ; for if 
his honour, or his understanding, would have suffered the cap- 
tain to make an alliance with Mrs. Wilkins, his pride would by 
no means have admitted it. And to say the truth, there is no 
conduct less politic, than to enter into any confederacy with 
your friend's servants against their master : for by these means 
you afterwards become the slave of these very servants ; by 
whom you are constantly liable to be betrayed. And this con- 
sideration, perhaps, it was which prevented Captain !^lifil from 
being more explicit with Mrs. Wilkins, or from encouraging 
the abuse which she had bestowed on Allworthy. 

3ut though he declared no satisfaction to Mrs. Wilkins at 
this discovery, he anjoyed not a little from it in his own mind, 
and resolved to make the best use of it he was able. 

He kept this matter a long time concealed within his own 
breast, in hopes that Mr. Allworthy might hear it from some 
other person ; but Mrs. ^ikins, whether she resented the cap- 
tain's behaviour, or whether his cunning was beyond her, and 
she feared the discovery might displease him, never afterwards 
opened her lips about the matter. 

I have thought it somewhat strange, upon reflection, that 
the housekeeper never acquainted Mrs. Blifil with this news, as 
women are more inclined to communicate all pieces of intelli- 
gence to their own sex, than to ours. The only way, as it 
appears to me, of solving this difficulty, :s, by imputing it to 
that distance which was now grown between the lady and the 
housekeeper ; whether this arose from a jealousy in Mrs. Blifil, 
that Wilkins showed too great a respect to the foundling ; for 
while she was endeavouring to ruin the little infant, in order to 
ingratiate herself with the captain, she was ever^ day more and 
more commending it before Allworthy, as his fondness for tt 
eve*7 day increased. This, notwithstanding all the care she 
took at other times to express the direct contrary to Mrs. Blifil, 
perhaps offended that delicate lady, who certainly now bated 
Mrs. Wilkins ; and though she did not, or possibly co'ild nci^ 
absolutely remove her from her place, she found, however, tiri 

A voundliItg. 105 

n«r-:5g cf making her life very uneasy. This Mrs. Wilkins, at 
lengtl^ so resented, that she very openly showed all manner 
of respect and fondness to little Tommy, in opposition to Mrs. 

The captain, therefore, finding the story in danger of perish- 
ing, at last took an opportunity to reveal it himself. 

lie was one day engaged with Mr. Allworthy in a discourse 
on charity : in which the captain, with great learning, proved 
to Mr. Alworthy, that the word charity in scripture no where 
means beneficence or generosity. 

" The christian religion," he said, "was instituted for much 
nobler purposes, than to enforce a lesson which many heathen 
pbiloBOphers had taught us long before, and which, though it 
' might perhaps be called a moral virtue, savoured but little of 
the sublime, christian-like disposition, that vast elevation of 
thought, in purity approaching to angelic perfection, to be 
attained, expressed and felt only by grace. Those," he said, 
" eame nearer to the scripture meaning, who understood by it 
candour, or the forming of a benevolent opinion of our bre- 
thren, and passing a favourable judgment on their actions ; a 
virtue much higher, and more extensive in its nature, than a 
pitifiil distribution of alms, which, though we would never so 
nracu prejudice, or even ruin our families, could never reach 
many ; whereas charity, in the other and truer sense, might be 
extended to all mankind." 

He said, '* Considering who the disciples were, it would be 
absurd to conceive the doctrine of generosity, or giving alms, 
to have been preached to them. And, as we could not well 
imagine this doctrine should be preached by its divine Author 
t*^ men who could not practise it, much less should we think it 
understood so by those who can practise it, and do not. 

"But though," continued he, ''there is, I am afraid, little 
merit in these benefactions, there would, I must confess, be 
much pleasure in them to a good mind, if it was not abated by 
one consideration. I mean, that we arc liable to be imposed 
upon, and to confer our choicest favours often on the unde- 
serving, as you must ot^ti was your case in your bounty to that 
worthless fellow Partridge ; for two or three such examples must 
greadj lessen the inward satisfaction which a good man would 


otherwise find in generosity ; nay, may even himt&noroitii 
in bestowing, lest he should be guilty of supporting Tice, and 
encouraging the wicked ; a crime of a very black dye, and for 
which it will by no means be a suflScient excuse, that we have 
not actually intended such an encouragement ; unless we have 
used the utmost caution in choosing the objects of our benefi- 
cence. A consideration which, I make no doubt, hath greatly 
checked the liberality of many a worthy and pious man. " 

Mr. AU worthy answered, ** He could not dispute with the 
captain in the Greek language, and therefore could say nothing 
as to the true sense of the word which is translated charity ; 
but that he had always thought it was interpreted to consist in 
action, and that giving alms constituted at least one branch of 
that virtue. 

*^As to the meritorious part," he said, **he readily agreed 
with the captain ; for where could be the merit of bately dig-* 
charging a duty ? which," he said, "let the word charity have 
whatever construction it would, it sufficiently appeared to be 
from the whole tenor of the New Testament. And as he 
thought it an indispensable duty, enjoined both by the Ohris- 
tian law, and by the law of nature itself; so was it withal bo 
pleasant, that if any duty could be said to be its own reward, 
or to pay us while we are discharging it, it was this. 

"To confess the truth," said he, "there is one degree of 
generosity (of charity I would have called it), which seems to 
have some show of merit, and that is, where, from a principle 
of benevolence and Christian love, we bestow on another what 
we really want ourselves ; where, in order to lessen the dis- 
tresses of another, we condescend to share some part of them, 
by giving what even our own necessities cannot well spare. 
This is, I think, meritorious ; but to relieve our brethren only 
with our superfluities ; to be charitable (I must use the word) 
rather at the expense of our coffers than ourselves ; to save 
several families from misery rather than hang up an extraordi- 
nary picture in our houses, or gratify any other idle ridiculous 
vanity — this seems to be only being human creatures. Nay, I 
will venture to go farther, it is being in some degree epicures ; 
for what could the greatest epicure wish rather than to e&% 
with many mouths instead of one ? which I think may be pre- 


dicated of any one who knows tliat the bread of many is owing 
to his own largesses. 

'•As to the apprehension of bestowing bounty on such as may 
hereafter prove unwortliy objects, because many have proved 
such ; surely it can nevtsr deter a good man from generosity. 
I do not think a few or many examples of ingratitude can jus- 
tify a man hardening his heart against the distresses of his fel- 
low-creatures ; nor do I believe it can ever have such effect on 
a truly benevolent mind. Nothing less than a persuasion of 
nniversal depravity can lock up the charity of a good man ; 
and this persuasion must lead them, I think, either into athe- 
ism or enthusiasm ; but surely it is unfair to argue such uni- 
versal depravity from a few vicious individuals ; nor was this, 
I believe, ever done by a man, who, upon searching his own 
mind, found one certain exception to the general rule." He 
then concluded by asking. " who that Partridge was, whom he 
had called a worthless fellow ?" 

•'I mean," said the captain, ''Partridge the barber, the 
schoolmaster, what do you call him ? Partridge, the father of 
the little child which you found in your bed.'' 

Mr. All worthy expressed great surprise at this account, and 
the captain as great at his ignorance of it ; for he said he had 
known it above a month ; and at length recollected with much 
difScalty that he was told it by Mrs. Wilkins. 

Upon this. Wilkins was immediately summoned ; who having 
confirmed what the captain had said, was by Mr. All worthy, 
by and with the captain's advice, dispatched to Little Bad- 
dington, to inform herself of the truth of the fact : for the cap- 
tain expressed great dislike at all hasty proceedings in criminal 
matters, and said he would by no means have Mr. Allworthy 
take «ny resolution either to the prejudice of the child or its 
father, before he was satisfied that the latter was guilty ; for 
though he had privately satisfied himself of this from one of 
Partridge's neighbours, yet he was too generous to give any 
Buch evidence to Mr. Allworthy. 



Th$ trial of Partridge^ the ischoolmatier^ for incontinancif ; the ivkUme ^f kk 
wife; a ehort reflection on the wisdom of our law; with other f rare mdf- 
terSf which those will like best who understand them most. 

It may be wondered that a story so well known, and wbk'h 
had furnished so much matter of conversation, should never 
have been mentioned to Mr. Allworthy, himself, who was per- 
haps the only person in that country who had never heard of it. 

To account in some measure for this to the reader, t think 
proper to inform him, that there was no one in the kingdom 
less interested in opposing that doctrine concerning the mean- 
ing of the word charity, which hath been seen in the preceding 
chapter, than our good man. Indeed, he was equally entitled 
to this virtue in either sense ; for as no man was ever more 
sensible of the wants, or more ready to relieve the distresses of 
others, so none could be more tender of their characters, or 
slower to believe any thing to their disadvantage. 

Scandal, therefore, never found any access to his table ; for 
as it hath been long since observed that you may know a roan 
by his companions, so I will venture to say, that, by attending 
to the conversation at a great man's table, you may satisfy 
yourself of his religion, his politics, his taste, and indeed of 
his entire disposition : for though a few odd fellows will utter 
their own sentiments in all places, yet much tho greater part 
of mankind have enough of the courtier to accommodate their 
conversation to the taste and inclination of their superiors. 

But to return to Mrs. Wilkins, who having executed her 
commission with great dispatch, though at fifteen miles distance, 
brought back such a confirmation of the schoolmaster's guilt, 
that Mr. Allworthy determined to send for the criminal, and 
examine him vivd voce. Mr. Partridge, therefore, was sum- 
moned to attend, in order to his defence (if he could make any) 
against this accusation. 

At the time appointed, before Mr. Allworthy himself, at 
Paradise-hall, came as well the said Partridge, with Ann :?, his 
wife, as Mrs. Wilkins his accuser. 

And now Mr. Allworthy being seated in the chair of justice, 
Mr Partridge was brought before him. Having neard th^i 


ac(^npation from the month of Mrs. Wikins, he pleaded not 
gnilty, making many vehement protestations of his innocence. 

Mrs. Partridge was then examined, who, after a modest 
apology for being obliged to speak the truth against her 
hnsband, related all the circumstances with which the reader 
hath already been acquainted ; and at last concluded with her 
husband's confession of his guilt. 

Whether she had forgiven him or no, I will not venture to de- 
termine ; but it is certain she was an unwilling witness in this 
cause ; and it is probable from certain other reasons, would 
never have been brought to depose, as she did, had not Mrs. 
Wilkins, with great art, fished all out of her at her own house, 
and had she not indeed made promises, in Mr. All worthy's 
name, that the punishment of her husband should not be such 
as might anywise affect his family. 

Partridge still persisted in asserting his innocence, though he 
admitted he had made the above mentioned confession ; which 
he however endeaveured to account for, by protesting that ho 
was forced into it by the continued importunity she used ; who 
vowed, that, as she was sure of his guilt, she would never leave 
tormenting him till he had owned it ; and faithfully promised, 
that, in such case, she would never mention it to him more. 

Hence, he said, he had been induced falsely to confess himself 
goilty, though he was innocent ; and that he believed he should 
have confessed a murder from the same motive. 

Mrs. Partridge could not bear this imputation with patience ; 
and having no other remedy in the present place but tears, she 
called forth a plentiftil assistance from them, addressing herself 
to Mr. Allworthy, she said (or rather cried), '* May it please 
your worship, there never was any poor woman so injured as I 
am by that base man ; for this is not the only instance of his 
falsehood to me. No, may it please your worship, he hath 
injured my bed many's the good time and often. I could have 
put up with his drunkenness and neglect of his business, if he 
had not broken one of the sacred commandiments. Besides, 
if it had been out of doors I had not mattered it so much ; but 
with my own servant, in my own house, under my own roof, to 
defile my own chaste bed, which to be sure he hath, with his 
beastly stinking whores. Yes, you villain, who have defiled my 
I. — 10 


own bed, yon have ; and then you have charged me with bul- 
loeking you into owning the truth. It is very likely, an*t it, 
please your worship, that I should bullock him ? I have mark^ 
enow about my body to show of his cruelty to me. If you had 
been a man, you villain, you would have scorned to injure a 
woman in that manner. But you an't half a man, you know it. 
Nor have you been half a husband to me. You need run 

after whores, you need, when I am sure And since he 

provokes me, I am ready, an't please your worship, to take my 
bodily oath that I found them a-bed together. What, you have 
forgot, I suppose, when you beat mo into a fit, and made the 
blood run down my forehead, because I only civilly taxed you 
with adultery 1 but I can prove it by all my neighbours. You 
have almost broke my heart, you have, you have.'* 

Here Mr. AUworthy interrupted, and begged her to be 
pacified, promising her that she should have justice ; then turn- 
ing to Partridge, who stood aghast, one half of his wits being 
hurried away by surprise and the other half by fear, he said he 
was sorry to see there was so wicked a man in the world. He 
assured him that his prevaricating and lying backward and for- 
ward was a great aggravation of his guilt ; for which the only 
atonement he could make was confession and repentance. He 
exhorted him, therefore, to begin by immediately confessing the 
fact, and not to persist in denying what was so plainly proved 
against him even by his own wife. 

Here, reader, I beg your patience a moment, while I make a 
just compliment to the great wisdom and sagacity of our law, 
which refuses to admit the evidence of a wife for or against her 
husband. This, says a certain learned author, who, I believe^ 
was never quoted before in any but a law-book, would be the 
means of creating an eternal dissension between them. It 
would, indeed, be the means of much perjury, and of much 
whipping, fining, imprisoning, transporting, and hanging. 

Partridge stood a while silent, till being bid to speak, he 
said he had already spoken the truth, and appealed to Heaven 
for his innocence, and lastly to the girl herself, whom he de- 
sired his worship immediately to send for ; for he was ignorant^ 
or at least pretended to be so, that she had left that part of the 


Mr. Allworthj, whose natural love of justice, joined to his 
coolness of temper, made him always a most patient magistrate 
in hearing all the witnesses which an accused person could pro- 
duce in his defence, agreed to defer his final determination of 
this matter till the arrival of Jenny, for whom he immerllate^y 
dispatched a messenger ; and then having recommended peace 
between Partridge and his wife (though he addressed himself 
chiefly to the wrong person), he appointed them to attend again 
the third day ; for he had sent Jenny a whole day's journey 
from his own house. 

At the appointed time the parties all assembled, when the 
messenger returning brought word, that Jenny was not to be 
found ; for that she had left her habitation a few days before, 
in- company with a recruiting officer. 

Mr. AUworthy then declared, that the evidence of such a 
slut as she appeared to be, would have deserved no credit ; but 
he said he could not help thinking, that, had she been present, 
and would have declared the truth, she must have confirmed 
what so many circumstances, together with his own confession, 
and the declaration of his wife that she had caught her husband 
in the fact, did sufficiently prove. He therefore once more ex- 
horted Partridge to confess ; but he still avowing his innocence, 
Mr. Allworthy declared himself satisfied of his guilt, and that 
he was too bad a man ta receive any encouragement from him. 
He therefore deprived him of his annuity, and recommended 
repentance to him, on account of another world, and industry 
to maintain himself and his wife in this. 

There were not, perhaps, many more unhappy persons tlian 
poor Partridge. He had lost the best part of his income by 
the evidence of his wife, and yet was daily upbraided by her 
for having, among other things, been the occasion of depriving" 
her of that benefit ; but such was his fortune, and he was ob- 
liged to submit to it. 

Though I called him poor Partridge in the last paragraph, 
I would have the reader rather impute that epithet to the com- 
passion of my temper, than conceive it to be any declaration 
of his innocence. . Whether he was innocent or not, will per- 
iuips appear hereafter ; but if the historic muse hath intrusted 


me with any secrets, I will by no means be guilty of discover* 
ing them till she shall give me leave. 

Jlere therefore the reader must suspend his curiosity. Cer- 
tain it is, that, whatever was the truth of the case, there was 
evidence more than sufficient to convict him before AUworthy ; 
indeed, much less would have satisfied a bench of justices on an 
order of bastardy ; and yet, notwithstanding the pbsitiveness 
of Mrs. Partridge, who would have taken the sacrament upon 
the matter, there is a possibility that the schoolmaster was en- 
tirely innocent: for though it appeared clear, on comparing 
the time when Jenny departed from Little Baddington, with 
that of her delivery, that she had there conceived this infant, 
yet it by no means followed of necessity that Partridge must 
have been its father ; for, to omit other particulars, there was 
in the same house a lad near eighteen, between whom and 
Jenny there had subsisted sufficient intimacy to found a reasona- 
ble suspicion ; and yet, so blind is jealousy, this circumstance 
never once entered into the head of the enraged wife. 

Whether Partridge repented or not, according to Mr. All- 
worthy's advice, is not so apparent. Certain it is, that his wife 
repented heartily of the evidence she had given against him ; 
especially when she found Mrs. Deborah had deceived her, and 
refused to make any application to Mr. AUworthy on her be- 
half. She had, however, somewhat better success with Mrs. 
Blifil, who was, as the reader must have perceived, a much bet- 
ter-tempered woman, and very kindly undertook to solicit her 
brother to restore the annuity ; in which though goodmature 
might have some share, yet a stronger and more natural motive 
will appear in the next chapter. 

These solicitations were nevertheless unsuccessful : for though 
\lr. AUworthy did not think, with some late writers, that mercy 
consists only in punishing oflFenders ; yet he was so far from 
thinking that it is proper to this excellent quality to pardon 
great criminals wantonly, without any reason whatever. Any 
doubtfulness of the fact, or any circumstance of mitigation, 
was never disregarded : but the petitions of an offender, or the 
intercessions of others, did not in the least affect him. In a 
word, he never pardoned because the offender himself, or his 
friends, were unwilling that he shoild be punished. 


Partridge and his wife were therefore both obliged to submit 
to their fate ; which was indeed severe enough : for so far was 
he from doubling his industry on account of his lessened income, 
that he did in a manner abandon himself to despair ; and as he 
was by nature indolent, that vice now increased upon him, by 
which means he lost the little school he had ; so that neither 
his wife nor himself would have had any bread to eat, had not 
the charity of some good christian interposed, and provided 
them with what was just sufficient for their sustenance. 

As this support was conveyed to them by an unknown hand, 
they imagined, and so, I doubt not, will the reader, that Mr. 
AUworthy himself was their secret benefactor; who, though 
he would not openly encourage vice, could yet privately relieve 
the distresses of the vicious themselves, when these became too 
exquisite and disproportionate to their demerit. In which light * 
their wretchedness appeared now to Fortune herself ; for she 
at length took pity on this miserable couple, and considerably 
lessened the wretched state of Partridge, by putting a final end 
to that of his wife, who soon after caught the small-pox, and 

The justice which Mr. AUworthy had executed on Partridge 
at first met with universal approbation ; but no sooner had he 
felt its consequences, than his neighbours began to relent, and 
to compassionate his case ; and presently after, to blame that 
as rigour and severity which they before called justice. They 
now exclaimed against punishing in cold blood, and sang forth 
the praises of mercy and forgiveness. 

These cries were considerably increased by the death of Mrs. 
Partridge, which, though owing to the distemper above men- 
tioned, which is no consequence of poverty or distress, many 
were not ashamed to impute to Mr. AUworthy 's severity, or, 
as they now termed it, cruelty. 

Partridge having now lost his wife, his school, and his an- 
nuity, and the unknown person having now discontinued the 
last mentioned charity, resolved to change the scene, and left 
the country, where he was in danger of starving, with the uni. 
Tersal compassion of aU. his neighbours. 

10* H 



A short tketeh of thai felicity which prudent couples may extract Jrom kaind , 
vjith a ehort apology for those people who overlook impeffeetiofu in ikeit 

Though the captain had effectually demolished poor Par- 
tridge, yet he had not reaped the harvest he hoped for, which 
was to turn the foundling out of Mr. Allworthy's house. 

On the contrary, that gentleman grew every day fonder of- 
little Tommy, as if he intended to counterbalance his severity 
to the father with extraordinary fondness and affection towards 
the son. 

This a good deal soured the captain's temper, as- did all the 
other daily instances of Mr. All worthy's generosity ; for he 
looked on all such largesses to be diminutions of his own wealth. 

In this, we have said, he did not agree with his wife ; nor, 
indeed, in any thing else ; for though an affection placed on the 
understanding is, by many wise persons, thought morQ durable 
than that which is founded on beauty, yet it happened otherwise 
in the present case. Nay, the understandings of this couple 
were their principal bone of contention, and one great cause 
of many quarrels, which from time to time arose between them ; 
and which at last ended, on the side of the lady, in a sovereign 
contempt for her husband ; and on the husband's, in an utter 
abhorrence of his wife. 

As these had both exercised their talents chiefly in the study 
of divinity, this was, from their first acquaintance, the most 
common topic of conversation between them. The captain, 
like a well-bred man, had, before marriage, always given up 
his opinion to that of the lady ; and this, not in the clumsy 
awkward manner of a conceited blockhead, who, while he 
civilly yields to a superior in an argument, is desirous of being 
still known to think himself in the right. The captain, on the 
contrary, though one of the proudest fellows in the world, so 
absolutely yielded the victory to his antagonist, that she, who 
had not the least doubt of his sincerity, retired always from the 
dispute with an admiration of her own understanding and \ 
love for his. 

But though this complaisance to one whom the captain tho 

▲ rOUNDLINO. 115 

ronghlj despised, was not so uneasy to him as it would have 
been had any hopes of preferment made it necessary to show 
the same submission to a Hoadley, or to some other of great 
reputation in the science, yet even this cost him too much to be 
endured without some motive. Matrimony, therefore, having 
removed all such motives, he grew weary of this condescension, 
and began to treat the opinions of his wife with that haughti- 
ness and insolence, which none but those who deserve some 
contempt themselves can bestow, and those only who deserve 
no contempt can bear. 

When the first torrent of tenderness was over, and when, in 
the calm and long interval between the fits, reason began to 
open the eyes of the lady, and she saw this alteration of be- 
haviour in the captain, who at length answered all her argu- 
ments only with pish and pshaw, she was far from enduring the 
indignity with a tame submission. Indeed, it at first so highly 
provoked her, that it might have produced some tragical event, 
had it not taken a more harmless turn, by filling her with the 
utmost contempt for her husband's understanding, which some- 
what qualified her hatred towards him ; though of this likewise 
she had a pretty moderate share. 

The captain's hatred to her was of a purer kind : for as to 
any impeiferfections in her knowledge or understanding, he no 
more despised her for them, than for her not being six feet 
high. In his opinion of the female sex, he exceeded the mo- 
roseness of Aristotle himself : he looked on a woman as on an 
animal of domestic use, of somewhat higher consideration than 
a cat, since her offices were of rather more importance ; but 
the diflPerence between these two was, in his estimation, so small, 
that, in his marriage contracted with Mr. Allworthy's lands 
and tenements, it would have been pretty equal which of them 
he had taken into the bargain. And yet so tender was bis 
pride, that it felt the contempt which his wife now began to 
express towards him ; and this, added to the surfeit he had 
before taken of her love, created in him a degree of disgust 
and abhorrence, perhaps hardly to be exceeded. 

One situation only of the married state is excluded from 
pleasure : and that is, a state of indifference : but as many of 
my readers, I hope, know what an exquisite delight there is in 


conveying pleasure to a beloved object, so some few, I am 
a&aid, may have experienced the satisfaction of tonnenting one 
we hate. It is, I apprehend, to come at this latter pleasure^ 
that we see both sexes often give up that ease in marriage which 
they might otherwise possess, though their mate was never so 
disagreeable to them. Hence the wife often puts on fits of love 
and jealousy, nay, even denies herself any pleasure, to disturb 
and prevent those of her husband ; and he again, in return, 
puts frequent restraints on himself, and stays at home in com- 
pany which he dislikes, in order to confine his wife to what she 
equally detests. Hence, too, must flow those tears which a 
widow sometimes ^o plentifully sheds over the ashes of a hus- 
band with whom she led a life of constant disquiet and tur- 
bulency, and whom now she can never hope to torment any 

But if ever any couple enjoyed this pleasure, it was at pre- 
sent experienced by the captain and his lady. It was always 
a sufficient reason to either of them to be obstinate in any 
opinion, that the other had previously asserted the contrary. 
If the one proposed any amusement, the other constantly ob- 
jected to it : they never loved or hated, commended or abused, 
the same person. And for this reason, as the captain looked 
vrith an evil eye on the little foundling, his wife began now to 
caress it almost equally with her own child. 

The reader will be apt to conceive, that this behavior be- 
tween the husband and wife did not greatly contribute to Mr. 
All worthy's repose, as it tended so little to that serene happi- 
ness which he had designed for all three from this alliance ; but 
the truth is, though he might be a little disappointed in his 
sanguine expectations, yet he was far from being acquainted 
with the whole matter ; for, as the captain was, from certain 
obvious reasons, much on his guard before him, the lady was 
obliged, for fear of her brother's displeasure, to pui*sue th^ 
same conduct. In fact, it is possible for a third person to be 
very intimate, nay even to live long in the same house, with a 
married couple, who have any tolerable discretion, and not 
even guess at the sour sentiments which they bear to each other : 
for though the whole day may be sometimes too short for hatred, 
as well as for love ; yet the many hours which they naturallj 


spend together, apart from all observers, fbmish people of 
tolerable moderation with such ample opportimitj for the en* 
joyment of either passion, that, if they love, they can support 
being a few hours in company without toying, or if they hate, 
without spitting in each other's faces. 

It is possible, however, that Mr. Allworthy saw enough to 
render him a little uneasy ; for we are not always to conclude, that 
a wise man is not hurt, because he doth not cry out and lament 
himself, like those of a childish or effeminate temper. But in- 
deed it is possible he might see some faults in the captain with- 
out any uneasiness at all ; for men of true wisdom and goodness 
are contented to take persons and things as they are, without 
complaining of their imperfections, or attempting to amend them. 
They can see a fault in a friend, a relation, or an acquaintance, 
without ever mentioning it to the parties themselves, or to any 
others ; and this often without lessening their affection. In- 
deed, unless great discernment be tempered with this overlook- 
ing disposition, we ought never to contract friendship but with 
a degree of folly which we can deceive ; for I hope my friends 
will pardon me when I declare, I know none of them without 
a fault ; and I should be sorry if I could imagine I had any 
friend who could not see mine. Forgiveness of this kind we 
give and demand in turn. It is an exercise of friendship, and 
perhaps none of the least pleasant. And this forgiveness we 
mnst bestow, without desire of amendment. There is, perhaps, 
no super mark of folly, than an attempt to correct the natural 
infirmities of those we love. The finest composition of human 
nature, as well as the finest china, may have a flaw in it ; and 
this I am afraid, in either case, is equally incurable ; though, 
nevertheless, the pattern may remain of the highest value. 

Upon the whole then, Mr. Allworthy certainly saw some 
imperfections in the captain ; but as this was a very artful man, 
and eternally upon his guard before him, these appeared to him 
no more than blemishes in a good character, which his good- 
ness made him overlook, and his wisdom prevented him from 
discovering to the captain himself. Very different would have 
been his sentiments had he discovered the whole : which per- 
haps would in time have been the case, had the husband and 
wife long continned this kind of behaviour to each other ; but 


this kind- Fortune took effectnal means to prevent, by fordng 
the captain to do that which rendered him again dear to his 
wife, and restored all her tenderness and affection towards him. 


A reeipCio regain the lost affections of a vnfe, which hath never been known 
to fail in the most detperate casee. 

The captain was made large amends for the tmpleasant min- 
utes which he passed in the conversation of his wife (and which 
were as few as he could contrive to make them), by the plea- 
sant meditations he enjoyed when alone. 

These meditations were entirely employed on Mr. AUworthy's 
fortune ; for, first, he exercised much thought in calculating, 
as well as he could, the exact value of the whole : which cal- 
culations he often saw occasion to alter in his own favour : and, 
secondly and chiefly, he pleased himself with intended altera- 
tions in the house and gardens, and in projecting many other 
schemes, as well for the improvement of the estate as of the 
grandeur of the place : for this purpose he applied himself to 
the studies of architecture and gardening, and read over many 
books on both these subjects ; for these sciences, indeed, em- 
ployed his whole time, and formed his only amusement. He 
at last completed a most excellent plan ; and very sorry we are, 
that it is not in our power to present it to our reader, since 
even the luxury of the present age, I believe, would hardly 
match it. It had, indeed, in a superlative degree, the two 
principal ingredients which serve to recommend all great and 
noble designs of this nature ; for it required an immoderate 
expense to execute, and a vast length of time to bring it to any 
sort of perfection. The former of these, the immense wealth 
of which the captain supposed Mr. AUworthy possessed, and 
which he thought himself sure of inheriting, promised very effec- 
tually to supply ; and the latter, the soundness of his own con- 
stitution, and his time of life, which was only what is called 
middle-age, removed all apprehension of his not living to ao- 

Nothing was wanting to enable him to enter upon the isime- 


diate execution of this plan, but the death of Mr. AUworthy ; 
in calculating which he had employed much of his own algebra, 
besides purchasing every book extant that treats of the Talue 
of lives, reversions, &c. From all which he satisfied hims^' 
that as he had every day a chance of this happening, so had lie 
more than an even chance of its happening within a few years. 

But while the captain was one day busied in deep contem- 
plations of this kind, one of the most unlucky as well as un- 
seasonable accidents happened to him. The utmost malice of 
Fortune could, indeed, have contrived nothing so cruel, so mal- 
a-propos, so absolutely destructive to all his schemes. In short, 
not to keep ihe reader in long suspense, just at the very instijnt 
when his heart was exulting in meditations on the happiness 
which would accrue to him by Mr. AUworthy 's death, he him- 
self died of an apoplexy. 

This unfortunately befell the captain as he was taking his even- 
ing walk by himself, so that nobody was present to lend him 
any assistance, if indeed any assistance could have preserved 
him. He took, therefore, measure of that proportion of soil 
which was now become adequate to all his future purposes, and 
lie lay dead on the ground, a great (though not a living) ex- 
ample of the truth of that observation of Horace : 

Ta secunda marmora 

Locus sub ipsom funos; et sepulohri 
Immcmor, stnils domos. 

Which sentiment I shall thus give to the English reader : ** You 
provide the noblest materials for building, when a pickaxe and 
A spade are only necessary : and build houses of five hundred 
by a hundred feet, forgetting that of six by two.*' 


A proof of the infaUibility of the foregoing receipt,Sn ihe lamentationt of the 
widow; with other suitable decor atione of death, such at physidane, j'c, 
and an qriiaph in the true style. 

Mb. Allwortht, his sister, and another lady, were assem- 
bled at the accustomed hour in the supper-room, where, having 
waUed ^ considerable time longer than usual, Mr. AUworthy 


lirst declared he began to grow uneasy at tlie captain's stay 
(for he was always most punctual at his meals) ; and gave 
orders that the bell should be rung without the doors, and espe- 
CaWj towards those walks which the captain was wont to use. 

All these summons' proving ineffectual (for the captain had, 
by perverse accident, betaken himself to a new walk that even- 
ing), Mrs. Blifil (ioclared she was seriously frightened. Upon 
which the other lady, who was one of her most intimate ac- 
quaintance, and who well knew the true state of her 'affections, 
endeavoured all she could to pacify her, telling her — To be 
sure she could not help being uneasy ; but that she should hope 
the best. That, perhaps, the sweetness of the evening had en- 
ticed the captain to go farther than his usual walk ; or he might 
be detained at some neighbour's. Mrs. Blifil answered, No ; 
she was sure some accident had befallen him ; for that he would 
never stay out without sending her word, as he must know how 
uneasy it would make her. The other lady, having no other 
arguments to use, betook herself to the entreaties usual on 
such occasions, and begged her not to frighten herself, for it 
might be of very ill consequence to her own health ; and, filling 
out a very large glass of mne, advised, and at last prevailed 
with her to drink it. 

Mr. Allworthy now returned into the parlour ; for he had 
been himself in search after the captain. His countenance suf- 
ficiently showed the consternation he was under, which, indeed,- 
had a good deal deprived him of speech ; but as grief operates 
variously on different minds, so the same apprehension which 
depressed his voice, elevated that of Mrs. Blifil. She now 
began to bewail herself in very bitter terms, and floods of tears 
accompanied her lamentations ; which the lady, her companioUi 
declared she could not blame, but at the same time dissuaded 
her from indulging ; attempting to moderate the grief of her 
friend by philosophical observation on the many disappoint- 
ments to which human life is daily subject, which, she said, was 
a sufficient consideration to fortify our minds against any acci- 
dents, how sudden or terrible soever. She said her brother's 
example ought to teach her patience, who, though indeed he 
could not be supposed as much concerned as herself yet waa^ 
doubtless, very uneasy, though his resignation to the DiTine 
''jU had restrained Ids grief within due bounds. 


"Mention not my brother," said Mrs. Blifil: "I alone am 
the object of your pity. What are tlie terrors of friendship to 
what a wife feels on these occasions ? O, he is lost I Some- 
body hath murdered him — I shall never see him more I" — Here 
a torrent of tears had the same consequence with what the sup- 
pression had occasioned to Mr. Allworthy, and she remained 

At this interval a servant came running in, out of breath, 
and cried out, "The captain was found ;" and, before he could 
proceed farther, he was followed by two more, bearing the dead 
body between them. 

Here the curious reader may observe another diversity in the 
operations of grief: for as Mr. Allworthy had been before 
silent^ from the same cause which had made his sister vocifer- 
ous ; so did the present sight, which drew tears from the gen- 
Ueman, put an entire stop to those of the lady ; who first gave 
a violent scream, and presently after fell into a fit. 

The room was soon fall of servants, some of whom, with the lady 
visitant, were employed in care of the wife ; and others, with 
Mr. Allworthy, assisted in carrying off the captain to a warm 
bed ; where every method was tried, in order to restore him to 

And glad should we be, could we inform the reader that 
both these bodies had been attended with equal success ; for 
those who undertook the care of the lady succeeded so well, 
that after the fit had continued a decent time, she again reviv- 
ed, to their great satisfaction ; but as to the captain, all ex- 
periments of bleeding, chafing, dropping, &c. proved ineffec- 
tual. Death, that inexorable judge, had passed sentence on 
him, and refused to grant him a reprieve, though two doctors 
who arrived, and were feed at one and the same instant, were 
his counsel. 

These two doctors, whom, to avoid any malicious applica- 
tions, we shall distinguish by the nanaes of Dr. Y. and Dr. Z., 
having felt his pulse, to wit, Dr. Y. his right arm, and Dr. Z. 
his left, both agreed that he was absolutely dead ; but as to the 
distemper, or cause of his death, they differed : Dr. Y. holding 
that he died of an apoplexy, and Dr. Z. of an epilepsy. 

Henoe arose a dispute between the learned men, in which 
L — 11 


c:n'h (k'livoivil llio reason is of their sovonil opinions These 
wtre of ftiu'h v<\mi\ ft»ri-o, thai ihiv .-Lr\cd both to conGrm 
eiihiT doctor in his own sentiments, and made not the least im* 
pressiou on his adversary. 

To say the iruth, every physician almost hath his favourite 
disease, to wliich he ascrii)es all the vitrtories obtained over ba- 
nian natnre. The jrout, the rheumatism, tlie stone, the gravel, 
and the consumption, have all their several patrons in the 
faculty ; and none more than the nervous fever, or the fever on 
the sj)irits. And here we may account for those disagreements 
in i>pinion, concerning the cause of a patient's death, which 
siMrietinies occur between the most learned of the college; 
and which liave greatly surprised that part of the world who 
have been ignorant of the fact we have above asserted. 

Thi? reailer nuiy perhaps be surprised, that, instead of en- 
deavnuring to revive the ]mtient, the learned gentlemen should 
fill! innnediately into a dispute on the occasion of his death; 
but in reality all such experiments had been made before their 
»rri\al : ft>r the captain was put into a wann bed, his veins 
si'MiHieil. his forehead chafed, and all sorts of strong drops ap- 
plied in his lij>s and nostrils. 

The physicians, therefore, finding themselves anticipated in 
everv thing they ordered, were at a loss how to apply that por- 
tion o( time winch it is usual and decent to remain for their 
fee, and were therefore nocessilated to find some subject or other 
for discourse; and what could more naturally present itself 
than that before mentioned '/ 

Our doctors were about to take their leave, when Mr. All- 
worthy, having given ovit the captain, and acquiesced in the 
Divine Will, began to iiupiire after his sister, whom he desired 
them to visit before their dei)arturc. 

This lady was now recovered of her fit, and, to use the com- 
mon phrase, was as well as could be expected for one in her 
Condi tioii. The doctors, therefore, all previous ceremonies 
being complied with, as this was a new patient, attended, ac- 
cording to desire, and laid hold on each of her hands, as they 
had before done on those of the corpse. 

The case of the lady was in the other extreme from that of 
and ; for as he was past all the assistance of physic, 
ity, she required none. 


There is nothing more unjust than the vulgar opinion, by 
which physicians are misrepresented as friends to death. On 
the contrary, I believe, if the number of those who recover by 
physic could be opposed to that of the martyrs to it, the for- 
mer would rather exceed the latter. Nay, some jy-e so cautious 
on this head, that to avoid a possibility of killing their patient, 
they abstain from all methods of curing, and prescribe nothing 
but what can neither do good nor harm. I have heard some 
of these, with great gravity, deliver it as a maxim, * That na- 
ture should be left to do her own work, while the physician 
stands by, as it were, to clap her on the back, and encourage 
her when she doth well. ' 

So little then did our doctors delight in death, that they dis- 
charged the corpse after a single fee ; but they were not so dis- 
gusted with their living patient ; concerning whose case they 
immediately agreed, and fell to prescribing with great 

Whether, as the lady had at first persuaded the physicians to 
believe her iU, they had now in return persuaded her to believe 
herself so, I will not determine ; but she continued a whole 
month with all the decorations of sickness. During this time 
she was visited by phy^cians, attended by nurses, and received 
constant messages from her acquaintance to inquire after her 

At length, the decent time for sickness and immoderate grief 
being expired, the doctors were discharged, and the lady berar. 
to see companj ; f eing altered only from what she was before, 
by that colour of sadness in which she had dressed her person 
aad countenanct. 

The captain was now interred, and might, perhaps, have al- 
ready made a large progress towards oblivion, had not the 
friendship of Mr. Allworthy taken care to preserve his memory, 
by the following epitaph, which was written by a man of as 
great geiuns as integrity, and one who perfectly well knew the 
captain * 

Here lies, 
in expectation of a joyful rising, 

the body of 



had the honour of his birth, 


of his education. 

His parts 

were an honour to his profession 

and to his country : 

his life, to his religion 

and human nature. 
He was a dutiful son, 

a tender husband, 

an affectionate father, 

a most kind brother, 

a sincere friend, 

a devout christian, 

and a good man. 

His inconsolable widow, 

hath erected this stone, 

the monument of 

his virtues, 
and her affection. 




Containing little or nothing. 

The reader will be pleased to remember, that, at the begin- 
ning of the second book of this history, we gave nim a hint of 
our intention to pass over several large periods of time, in 
which nothing happened worthy of being recorded in a chroni- 
cle of this kind. 


In SO doing, we do not only consult our own dignity and 
ease, but the good and advantage of the reader : for, besides 
that, by these means we pre\*ent him from throwing away his 
time, in reading either without pleasure or emolument, we give 
him, at all such seasons, an opportunity of employing that won- 
derful sagacity, of which he is master, by filling up these vacant 
spaces of time with his own conjectures ; for which purposes we 
have taken care to qualify him in the preceding pages. 

For instance, what reader but knows that Mr. Allworthy 
felt, at first, for the loss of his friend, those emotions of grief, 
which on such occasions enter into all men whose hearts are 
not composed of flint, or their heads of as solid materials? 
Again, what reader doth not know, that philosophy and reli- 
gion in time moderated, and at last extinguished, this grief? 
The former of these teaching the folly and vanity of it, and the 
latter correcting it as unlawful, and at the same time assuaging 
it, by raising ftiture hopes and assurances, which enable a strong 
and religious mind to take leave of a friend, on his death-bed, 
with little less indifference than if he was preparing for a long 
journey ; and, indeed, with little less hope of seeing him again. 

Nor can the judicious reader be at a greater loss on account 
of Mrs. Bridget Blifil, who, he may be assured, conducted her- 
self through the whole season in which grief is to make its ap- 
pearance on the outside of the body, with the strictest regard 
to all the rules of custom and decency, suiting the alterations 
of her countenance to the several alterations of her habit ; for 
as this changed from weeds to black, from black to gray, from 
graj to white, so did her countenance change from dismal to 
sorrowful, from sorrowful to sad, from sad to serious, till the 
day came in which she was allowed to return to her former 

We have mentioned these two as examples only of the task 
which may be imposed on readers of the lowest class. Much 
higher and harder exercfses of judgment and penetration may 
reasonably be expected from the upper graduates in criticism. 
Many notable discoveries will, I doubt not, be made by such, 
of the transactions which happened in the family of our worthy 
maOy during all the years which we have thought proper to 
pass over ; for though nothing worthy of a place in this his- 


tory occurred within that period, yet did several incidents 
happen of eqnal importance with those reported by the daily 
and weekly historians of the age; in reading which, great 
numbers of persons consume a considerable part of their time, 
very little, I am afraid, to their emolument. Now, in the con- 
jectures here proposed, some of the most excellent faculties 
of the mind may be employed to much advantage, since it is a 
more useful capacity to be able to foretel the actions of men, 
in any circumstance, from their characters, than to judge of 
their characters from their actions. The former, I own, re- 
quires the greater penetration ; but may be accomplished by 
true sagacity with no less certainty than the latter. 

As we are sensible that much the greatest part of our read- 
ers are very eminently possessed of this quality, we have left 
them a space of twelve years to exert it in ; and shall now 
bring forth our hero, at about fourteen years of age, not ques- 
tioning that many have been long impatient to be introduced 
to his acquaintance. 


The hero of this great history appears with very bad omens. A Utile tale of 
so low a kindj that some may think it not worth their notice. A word or 
two concerning a squire, and more relating to a gamekeeper and a tekooi* 

As we determined, when we first sat down to write this his- 
tory, to flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout by 
the directions of truth, we are obliged to bring our hero on 
the stage in a much more disadvantageous manner than we 
could wish : and to declare honestly, even at his first appear- 
ance, that it was the universal opinion of all Mr. Allworthy's 
family, that he was certainly born to be hanged. 

Indeed, I am sorry to say, there was too much reason for 
this conjecture ; the lad having, from his earliest years, dis- 
covered a propensity to many vices, and especially to one 
which hath as direct a tendency as any other to that fate which 
we have just now observed to have been prophetically de- 
nounced against him : he had been already convicted of three 

^beries, viz., of robbing an orchard, of stealing a duck oul 


of a farmer's yard, and of picking Master BlifiJ*s pocket of a 

The vices of this young man were, moreovei , heightened by 
the disadvantageous light in which they appeared when op- 
posed to the virtues of Master Blifil, his companion ; a youth 
of so different a cast from little Jones, that not only the family, 
but all the neighbourhood, resounded his praises. He was, 
indeed, a lad of a remarkable disposition : sober, discreet, and 
pious, beyond his age ; qualities which gained him the love of 
every one who knew him : whilst Tom Jones was universally 
disliked ; and many expressed their wonder, that Mr. AUworthy 
would suffer such a lad to he educated with his nephew, lest 
the morals of the latter should be corrupted by his example. 

An incident, which happened about this time, will set the 
character of these two lads more fairly before the discerning 
reader, than is in the power of the longest dissertation. 

Tom Jones, who, bad as he is; must serve for the hero of 
this history, had only one friend among all the servants of the 
family ; for as to Mrs. Wilkins. she had long since given him 
np, and was perfectly reconciled to her mistress. This friend 
was the gamekeeper, a fellow of a loose kind of disposition, 
and who was thought not to entertain much stricter notions 
concerning the difference of meum and tuum than the young 
gentleman himself. And hence this friendship gave occasion 
to many sarcastical remarks among the domestics, most of 
which were either proverbs before, or at least are become so 
BOW : and, indeed, the wit of them all may be comprised in 
that short Latin proverb, '* Noscitur a socio ;^^ which, I think, 
is thus expressed in English, " You may know him by the com- 
pany he keeps.'' 

To say the truth, some of that atrocious wickedness in Jones, 
of which we have just mentioned three examples, might per- 
haps be derived from the Aacouragement he had recewed from 
this fellow, who in two or three instances had been what tlie 
law calls an accessary after the fact : for the whole duck, and 
great part of the apples, were converted to the use of the game- 
keeper and his family ; though, as Jones alone was discovered, 
the poor lad bore not only the whole smart, but the whole 
biame ; both which fell again to his lot on the following occa 



Contiguous to Mr. All worthy's estate was the manor of one 
of those gentlemen who are called preservers of the game. 
This species of men, from the great seyericy with which they 
revenge the death of a hare, or a partridge, might be thought 
to cultivate the same superstition with the Bannians in India ; 
many of whom, we are told, dedicate their whole lives to the 
preservation and protection of certain animals ; was it not that 
our English Bannians, while they preserve them from other 
enemies, will most unmercifully slaughter whole horse-loads 
themselves ; so that they stand clearly acquitted of any such 
heathenish superstition. 

I have, indeed, a much better opinion of this kind of men 
than is entertained by some, as I take them to answer the order 
of nature, and the good purposes for which they were ordained, 
in a more ample manner than many others. Now, as Horace 
tells us, that there are a set of human beings 

** Feras con&umcro nati, 
Born to consume tUe^ruits of the earth;" 

so, I make no manner gf doubt but that there are others 

"Fruge3*tX)nsUBiere nati, 
Bom to consume ^e^-t>easts of the field;" 

or, as it is commonly called, the game ; and none, I believe, 
will deny but that those squires fulfil this end of their creation. 

Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper ; 
when happening to spring a covey of partridges near the border 
of that manor over which Fortune, to fulfil the wise purposes 
of Nature, had planted one of the game-consumers, the birds 
flew into it, and were marked, (as it is called,) by the two 
sportsmen, in some furze-bushes, about two or three hundred 
paces beyond Mr. All worthy's dominions. 

Mr. All worthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of 
forfeiting his place, never to trespass on any of his neighbours ; 
no more on those who were less rigid in this matter, than on 
the lord of this manor. With regard to others, indeed, these 
orders had not been always very scrupulously kept ; but, as the 
disposition of the gentleman with whom the partridges had 
taken sanctuary was well known, the gamekeeper had never yet 
attempted to invade his territories. Nor had he -ione it now, 


had not the yoanger sportsmau, who was excessively eager vto 
pursue the flying game, over-persuaded him ; but Jones being 
very impoitunate, the other, who was himself keen enough 
after the sport, yielded to his persuasions, entered the manor, 
and shot cue of the partridges. 

The gentleman himself was at that time on horseback, at a 
little distance from them; and, hearing the gun go off, he 
immediately made towards the place, and discovered poor 
Tom ; fcr the gamekeeper had leapt into the thickest part of 
the furze-brake, where he had happily concealed himself. 

The gentleman having searched the lad, and found the part- 
ridge upon him, denounced great vengeance, swearing he would 
acquaint Mr*. AUworthy. He was as good as his word ; for 
he ro*'.e immediately to his house, and complained of the 
trespass oi nis manor in as high terms, and as bitter language, 
as if his Iioust had been broken open, and the most valuable 
fumitun stole out of it. He added, that some other person 
was in hi^ company, though he could not discover him ; for 
that two guns had been discharged almost in the same instant. 
And, says he, " We have found only this partridge, but the 
Lord knows what mischief they have done. '' 

At his return home, Tom was presently convened before 
Mr. AUworthy. He owned the fact, and alleged no other 
excuse but what was really true, viz. that the covey was 
originally sprung in Mr. AUworthy^s own manor. 

Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr. 
AUworthy declared he was resolved to know, acquainting the 
culprit with the circumstance of the two guns, which had been 
deposed by the squire and both his servants ; Tom stoutly 
persisted in asserting that he was alone ; yet, to say the trutli, 
he hesitated a little at first, which would have confirmed Mr. 
All worthy's belief, had what the squire and his servants said 
wanted any further confirmation. 

The gamekeeper being a suspected person, was now sent for, 
and ihe question put to him ; but he, relying on the promise 
which Tom had made him, to take all upon himself, very reso- 
lutely denied being in company with the young gentleman, or 
indeed having seen him the whole afternoon. 

Mr. AUworthy then turned towards Tom, with more than 




usaal anger in his countenance, and advised him to confess who 
was with him ; repeating, that he was resolved to know. The 
lad however still maintained his resolution, and was dismissed 
with much wrath by Mr. All worthy, who told him, he 'should 
have to the next morning to consider of it, when he should be 
questioned by another person, and in another manner. 

Poor Jones spent a very melancholy night ; and the mors 
»o, as he was without his usual companion ; for M .ster Blifil 
was gone abroad on a visit with his mother. Fear of the' 
punishment he was to suffer was on this occasion his least evil •, 
his chief anxiety being, lest his constancy should fail him, and 
he should be brought to betray the gamekeeper, whose ruin he 
knew must now be the consequence. 

Nor did the gamekeeper pass his time mich jettei*. He 
nad the same apprehensions with the youth : for viose hononr 
he had likewise a much tenderer regard than for his skin. 

In the morning, when Tom attended the Reverenl Mr. 
Thwackura, the person to whom Mr. All worthy had jommitted 
the instructions of the two boys, he had the same questions put 
to him by that gentleman which he had been asked the evening 
before, to which he returned the same answers. The conse- 
quence of this was, so severe a whipping, that it possibly fell 
little short of the torture with which confessions are in some 
countries extorted from criminals. 

Tom bore his punishment with great resolution ; and though 
his master asked him, between every stroke, whether he would 
not confess, he was contented to be flayed rather than betray 
his friend, or break the promise he had made. 

The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr. 
All worthy himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings : 
for besides that Mr. Thwackum, being highly enraged that he 
was not able to make the boy say what he himself pleased, had 
carried his severity beyond the good man's intention, this latter 
began now to suspect that the squire had been mistaken ; which 
bis extreme eagerness and anger seemed to make probable ; and 
fi>s for what the servants had said in confirmation of their mas- 
ter's account, he laid no great stress upon that. Now, as cru- 
elty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr. AUworthy could 
by no iqeaus support the consciousness a single moment, he sent 


tor Tom, and after many kind and friendly exhortations, said, 
"I am convinced, my dear child, that my suspicions have 
wronged you ; I am sorry that you have been so severely pun- 
ished on this account/' And at last gave him a little horse 
tc make him amends ; again repeating his sorrow for what had 

Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could 
make it. He could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum 
than the generosity of All worthy. The tears burst from his 
eyes, and he fell upon his knees, crying, *' Oh I sir, you are too 
good to me. Indeed you are. Indeed I don't deserve it." 
And at that very instant, from the fullness of his heart, had 
almost betrayed the secret ; but the good genius of the game- 
keeper suggested to him what might be the consequence to the 
poor fellow, and this consideration sealed his lips. 

Thwackum did all he could to dissuade AUworthy from 
showing any compassion or kindness to the boy, saying, " He 
had persisted in an untruth :" and gave some hints that a se- 
cond whipping might probably bring the matter to light. 

But Mr. AUworthy absolutely refused to consent to the ex- 
periment. He said, the boy had suffered enough already for 
concealing the truth, even if he was guilty, seeiug that he could 
have no motive but a mistaken point of honour for so doing. 

"Honour I" cried Thwackum, with some warmth, "mere 
stubbornness and obstinacy ! Can honour teach any one to 
tell a lie, or can any honour exist independent of religion ?" 

This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended ; 
and there were present Mr. AUworthy, Mr. Thwackum, and a 
third gentleman, who now entered into the debate, and whon, 
before wo proceed any farther, we shall briefly introdvco to our 
reader's acquaintance. 


The character of Mr. Square the philosopher j and of Mr. Thioackum the 
divine ; with a dispute concerning . 

The name of this gentleman, who had then resided somei 
time at Mr. AUworthy 's aouse, was Mr. Square. His natmal 
parts ^^ere not of the fi^3t rate, but he had greatly improved 


the.u by a learned education. He was deeply read in the an- 
cients, and a professed master of all the works of Plato and 
Aristotle. Upon wliich great models he had principally formed 
himself; sometimes according with the opinion of the one, and 
sometimes with that of the other. In morals he was a professed 
Platonist, and in religion he inclined to be an Aristotelian. 

But though he had, as we have said, formed his morals ca 
the Platonic model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of 
Aristotle, in considering that great man rather in the quality of 
a philosopher or a speculatist, than as a legislator. This sen- 
timent he carried a great way ; indeed, so far as to regard all 
virtue as matter of theory only. This, it is true, he never 
affirmed, as I have heard, to any one ; and yet, upon the least 
attention to his conduct, I cannot help thinking it was his real 
opinion, as it will perfectly reconcile some contradictions which 
might otherwise appear in his character. 

This gentleman and Mr. Thwackum scarce ever met without 
a disputation ; for their tenets were, indeed, diametrically op- 
posite to each other. Square held human nature to be the p3> 
fection of all virtue, and that vice was a deviation from our 
nature, in the same manner as deformity of body is. Thwackum, 
on the contrary, maintained that the human mind, sln^e the fail, 
was nothing but a sink of iniquity, till purified and redeemed 
by grace. In one point only they agreed, which was, in all 
their discourses on morality, never to mention the word good- 
ness. The favourite phrase of the former was — the natural 
beauty of virtue; that of the latter was — the divine power of 
grace. The former measured all actions by the unalterable 
rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things ; the latter decided 
all matters by authority ; but, in doing this, he always used the 
scriptures and their commentators, as the lawyer doth his Coke 
upon Littleton, where the comment is of equal authority with 
the text. 

After this short introduction, the reader will be pleased to 
remember, that the parson had concluded his speech with a 
triumphant question, to which he had apprehended no answer, 
viz. Can any honour exist independent of religion ? 

To this Square answered, that it was impossible to discourse 
philosophically concerning words, till their meaning was first 
established : that there were scree any two words of a more 


Ta^ue and uncertain signification, than the two he had men- 
tioned ; for that there were almost as many different opinions 
concerning honour^ as concerning rjeligion. " But," says he, *' if 
by honour you mean the true naturb^ beauty of virtue, I will 
maintain it may exist independent of any religi<^ whatever. 
Tay,'' added he, "you yourself will allow it may exist inde* 
pendent of all but one : so will a Mahometan, a Jew, and all 
the maintainers of all the different sects in the world.'' 

Thwackum replied, this was arguing with the usual malice 
of all the enemies to the true church. lie said, he doubted 
not but that all the infidels and heretics in the world would, if 
they could, confine honour to their own absurd errors and 
damnable deceptions. *' But honour," says he. " is not there 
fore manifold, because there are many absurd opinions about 
it : nor is religion manifold, because there are various sects and 
heresies in the world. When I mention reli^^on, I mean the*, 
christian religion ; and not only the christian religion, but the 
protestant religion j and not only the protestant religion, but 
the church of England. And when I mention honour, I mean 
that mode of divine grace which is not only consistent with, 
but dependent upon, this religion ; and is consistent with and 
dependent upon no other. Now, to say that the honour I hero 
mean, and which was, I thought, all the honour I could be 
supposed to mean, will uphold, much less dictate, an untruth, 
is to assert an absurdity too shocking to be conceived." 

"I purposely avoided," says Square, " drawing a conclusion 
vhich I have thought evident from what I have said ; but if 
you i)erceived it, I am sui'o you have not attempted to answer 
it. However, to drop *Le article of religion, I think it is plain, 
from wlat you have said, that we have different ideas of honour ; 
or why do we agree in the same terms of its explanation ? I 
have asserted, that true honour and true virtue are almost sy- 
nonymous terms, and they are both formed on the unalterable 
rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things ; to which an un- 
truth being absolutely repugnant and contrary, it is certain 
That true honour cannot support an untruth. In this, therefore, 
I think w*> aie agreed ; but that this honour can be said to be 
founded on religion, to \vhich it is antecedent, if by religion bo 
meant any positive law " 

L — 12 


•' Jagres," ans;«rered Thwackum, with great warmth, " with 
a man who asserts honour to be antecedent to religion ? Mi 
All worthy, did I agree V^ 

He was proceeding, when Mr. All worthy interrupted . telling 
them very coldly, they lad both mistaken his meaning ; for 
that he had said nothing of true honour. — It is poss'.Me, 'low- 
ever, he would not have easily quieted the d'spatants, w^ ) 
Tvere growing equally warm, lad not -injther matter now fallen 
out, which pnt a final end to the conversation ac pre8eii>i. 


Containing a necessart/ apology for the author; and a childish incident, which 
perhaps requires an apology likewise. 

Before I proceed farther, I shall beg leave to obviate some 
misconstructions, into which the zeal of some few readers may 
lead them ; for I would not willingly give offence to any, espe- 
cially to men who are warm jn the pause of virtue or religion. 

I hope, therefore, no man will, by the grossest misunder- 
standing, or perversion, of my meaning, misrepresent me, as 
endeavouring to cast any ridicule on the greatest perfections of 
human nature ; and which do, indeed, alone purify and ennoble 
the heart of man, and raise him above the brute creation. 
This, reader, I will venture to say, (and by how much the 
better man yourself, by so much the more you will be inclined 
to believe me,) that I would rather have buried the sentiments 
of these two persons in eternal oblivion, than have done any 
injury to either of these glorious causes. 

On the contrary, it is with m, view co their service, that I 
have taken upon me to record the lives and actions of two of 
their false and pretended champions. A treacherous friend is 
the most dangerous enemy ; and I will say boldly, that both 
religion and virtue have received more real discredit from hy- 
pocrites, than the wittiest profligates or infidels could ever cast 
upon them i nay, farther, as these two, in their purity, are 
rightly called the oands of civil society, and are, indeed, the 
greatest of blessings^ so when poisoned and corrupted with 
fraud, pretence and affectation, they have become the worsv 


of civil curses, and have enabled men to perpetrate the most 
r.mel mischiefs to their own species. 

Indeed, I doubt not but this ridicule will in general be 
sllowed ; my chief apprehension is, as many true and just sen- 
timents often came from the mouths of these persons, lest the 
w^^ole should be taken together, and I should be conceived to 
ridicule ell alike. Now, the reader will be pleased to consider, 
that, as neither of these men were fools, they could not be sup- 
posed to have holden any but wrong principles, and to have 
uttered nothing but absurdities ; what injustice, therefore, must 
I have done to their characters, had I selected only what was 
bad I And how terribly wretched and maimed must their 
arguments have appeared I 

Upon the whole it is not religion or virtue, but the want of 
them, which is here exposed. Had not Thwackum too much 
neglected virtue, and Square religion, in the composition of 
their several systems, and bad not both utterly discarded all 
natural goodness of heart, they had never been represented as 
th^ objects of derision in this history ; in which we will now 
pr jcecd. 

This matter, then, which put an end to the debate mentioned 
in the last chapter, was no other than a quarrel between Master 
Blifil and Tom Jonee, the coneeauence of which had been a 
bloody nose to the former ; for though Master Blifil, notwith- 
ntanding he was the younger, was in size above the other's 
match, yet Tom was muck tfta superior at the noble art of 

Tom, bowever, cantionsTy avoided all engagements with that 
youth ; for besides that Tommy Jones was ai inoffensive lad 
aii-idst all his roguery, and really loved Blifil, Mr. Thwackum 
being always the second of the latter, would have been suflB- 
Ment to deter him. 

But well says a certain author, No man is wise at all hours ; 
tt is therefore no wonder that a boy is not so. A difference 
alsing at play between the two lads, Master Blifil called Tom 
ft !)eggard!y bastaid. Upon which the latter, who was s:me- 
•v'iiat passionatft in his disposition, immediately caused that 
pi^enomdion in ttie fac« of the former, which we have f'lc-^' 


Master Blifil now, with his blood running from his nose, and 
the tears galloping after from his eyes, appeared before his 
uncle and the tremendous Thwackum; in which court an 
indictment of assault, battery, and wounding, was instantly 
preferred against Tom ; who, in his excuse, only pleaded the 
provocation, which was indeed all the matter that Master Blifil 
had omitted. 

It is indeed possible that this circumstance might have 
escaped his memory ; for, in his reply, he positively insisted, 
that he had made use of no such appellation ; adding, * Heaven 
forbid such naughty words should ever come out of his mouth f 

Tom, though against all form of law, rejoined in the affirm- 
ance of the words. Upon which Master Blifil said, *'It is no 
wonder. Those who will tell one fib, will hardly stick at 
another. If I had told my master such a wicked fib as you 
have done, I should be ashamed to show my face." 

** What fib, child?" cries Thwackum pretty eagerly. 

"Why," he told you that nobody was with hira a shooting 
when he killed the partridge; but he knows," (here he burst 
into a flood of tears,) " yes, he knows, for he confessed it to me, 
that Black George the gamekeeper was there. Nay, he said, — 
yes, you did, — deny it if you can, that you would not have 
confessed the truth, though master had cut you to pieces." 

At this the fire flashed from Thwackum's eyes, and he cried 
out in triumph, " Oh 1 oh I this *& your mistaken notion of 
honour I This is the boy wno was not to be whipped again.-' 
But Mr. All worthy, with a more gentle aspect, turned towards 
«he lad, and said, *' Is this true, child 7 How came you to per- 
sist so obstinately Ai a falsehood ?" 

Tom said, *'Ke scorned a lie as much as any one; but he 
thought his honour engaged him to act as he did : for he had 
promised the poor fellow to conceal him ; which," he said, "he 
thought himself farther obliged to, as the gamekeeper har; 
begged hira not to go into the gentleman's manor, and had at 
last gone himself in compliance with his persuasions." He said, 
*' this was the whole truth of the matter and he would take hit 
oath of i^: j'' and concluded with very passionately begging Mr. 
AllwDrthy "to have compassion on the poor fellow's family 
especially as he himself only had been guilty, and the ocl et hu-^ 


been very difficultly prevailed on to do what he did. Indeed, 
sir, '' said he, " it could hardly be called a lie that I told ; for the 
poor fellow was entirely innocent of the whole matter. I should 
I'ATe gone alone after the birds ; nay, I did go at first, and he 
only followed me to prevent more mischief. Do, piay, sir, let 
TLP be punished ; take my little horse away again ; but pra^ , 
S11 , forgive poor George. ' ' 

Mi Allworthy hesitated a few moments, and then dismissed 
tie boys, advising then to live more friendly and j)t»nce*hj 


7** ojf.-mt.n8 of the divine and (he philosopher concerning the two boye ; with 
tome reatont for their opinions, and other matter*. 

It is probaMo that, by disclosing this secret, which had 
been communicated ^n the utmost confidence to him, young 
Blifil preserved his companion from a good lashing ; for the 
offence of the bloody nose would have been of itsolf sufficient 
cause for Thwaclmm to have proceeded to correction ; but now 
this was totally absorbed in tha consideration of the other 
matter ; and with regard to this, Mr. Allworthy declared pri- 
vately, he thought the hi)y deserved reward rather than pnnish- 
ment ; so that Thwackum c hand was withheld bv a general 

Thwackum, whose meditations weie full of birch, exclaimed 
against this weak, and, as he saia, he would venture to call it, 
wicked lenity. To remit the punishment of such crimes was, 
he said, to encourage them. He enlarged much on the correc- 
tion of children, anu quoted many texts from Solomon, and 
others ; which being to be found in so many other books, shall 
rot be found here. He then applied himself to the vice of 
lyjpi^, on which head he was altogether as learned as he had 
'»cen on the other. 

Square said, be had been endeavouring to reconcile the be- 
haviour of Tom with bis idea of perfect virtue ; but could not. 
He f-wned there was something which at first sight appeared 
I»k3 fortitadc in the action ; but, as fortitude was a virtue, and 
fe.46e!ioo<l a vice, they could bv no means agree or unite to 


gether. He added, that as this was in some measure to con- 
found virtue and vice, U might be worth Mr. Thwackum's con- 
sideration, whether a larger castigation might not be laid on 
upon that account. 

As botn these learned men concurred in censuring Jones, so 
were l^ey no less unanimous in applauding Master Blifil. To 
bring truth to light was by the parson asserted to be the duty 
of every religious man ; and by the philosopher this was de- 
clared to be highly conformable with che rule of right, and the 
eternal and unalterable fitness of things. 

All this, however, weighed very little with Mr. Allworthy. 
He could not be prevailed on to sign the warrant for the exe* 
cution of Jones. There was something within his own breast 
with which the invincible fidelity which that youth had pre- 
served, corresponded much better than it had done with the 
religion of Thwackum, or with the virtue of Square. Fe 
therefore strictly ordered the former of these gentlemen to ab- 
stain from laying violent hands on Tom for what had passed. 
The pedagogue was obliged to obey those orders ; but not 
without great reluctance, and frequent muttcrings, that the boy 
would be certainly spoiled. 

Towards the gamekeeper the good man behaved with more 
severity. He presently summoned that poor fellow before 
him, and, after many bitter remonstrances, paid him his wages, 
and dismissed him from his service ; for Mr. Allworthy rightly 
observed, that there was a great dil^erence between being 
guilty of a falsehood to excuse yDursv.P, and to excuse another. 
He likewise urged, as the .rincipai "uotive to his inflexible 
severity against this man, thao he had basely suffered Tom 
Jones to undergo so heavy a punishment for his sake, whereas 
he ought to have prevented it by making the discovery himself. 

When this story became public, many people differed from 
Square and Thwackum, in judging the conduct of the two lad? 
on the occasion. Master Blifil was generally called a sneak 
ing rascal, a poor-spirited wretch, with other epithets of tho 
like kind ; while Tom was honoured with the .appellation of a 
brave lad, a jolly dog, and an honest fellow. Indeed, his be- 
haviour to Black George much ingratiated him with all the 
servants; for though that fellow was before universally dis 


Ijked, yet he was no sooner turned away than he was as vni- 
^ei rally pitied; and the friendship and gallantry of To:, 
.icnes were celebrated by them all with the highest applause ; 
and they condemned Master Blifil, at openly as they durst, 
vathout incurring the danger of offending h^s mother. For all 
this, however, poor Tom smarted in the flesh ; for though 
Tnw&cknm had been inhibited to exercise his arm on the fore- 
going account, yet, as the proverb says, ** It is easy to find a 
stick," &c., so was it easy to find a rod : and, indeed, the -lot 
being able to find one was the only thing which could have 
jb3pt Thwackum any longer time from chastising poor Jones. 

Had the oare delight in the sport been the only inducement 
ti/ the pedagogue, it is probable Master Blifil would likewic • 
have bad hir share ; but though Mr. All worthy had given hin 
frequent orders to make no difference between the lads, yet 
T??as Thwackum altogether as kind and gentle to this youth, as 
!ie was harsh, nay, even barbarous, to the other. To say the 
tr:th, Blifil had greatly gained his master's affections ; partly 
ry the profound respect he always showed his person, but 
much more b} the decent reverence with which he received hh 
doctrine ; for hv *iaQ ^et b^ heart, and frequently repeated, 
hid phrases, and maintaii»tc. all nis master's religious principles 
with a zeal which was surprising in one so young, and which 
greatly endeared him to the worthy preceptor. 

Tom Jones, on the other hand, was not only deficient in out- 
ward tokens of respect, often forgetting to pull off his hat, or 
to bo\^ at his master's approach ; but was altogether as unmin^ 
ful both of his master's precepts and example. He was indeed 
a thougltless giddy youth, with littl sobnety in his manners, 
and less in his countenance ; and wr uld often very impudently 
and indecently iaug' at his companion for h?8 serious behaviour. 

Mr. Square had the same reason for liis preference of the 
former lad; for Tom Jones showec no more regard to the 
learned discourses which this gentleman would sometimes throw 
away upon him, than to those of .Thwackum. He once ven- 
tured to make a jest of the rule of right; and at another time 
said, he believed ther» was no rule in the world capable of 
making such a man a. his father, (for so Mr. Allworthy suffered 
himself to b© cpUec' ) 


Master Blifil, on the contrary, had address enough at sixteen 
to recommend himself at one and the same time to both these 
opposites. With one he was all religion, with the other he 
was all virtue. And, when both were present, he was pro- 
foundly silent, which both interpreted in his favour and in their 

Nor was Blifil contented with flattering both these gentlemen 
to their faces ; he took frequent occasions of praising them be- 
hind their backs to Allworthy ; before whom, when they two 
were alone, and his uncle commended any religious or virtuous 
sentiment, (for many such came constantly from him,) he seldom 
failed to ascribe it to the good instructions he had received 
from either Thwackum or Square ; for he knew his uncle re- 
peated all such compliments to the persons for whose use they 
were meant ; and he found by experience the great impressions 
which they made on the philosopher, as well as on the divine : 
for, to say the truth, there is no kind of flattery so irresistible 
as this, at second-hand. 

The young gentleman, moreover, soon perceived how ex- 
tremely grateful all those panegyrics on his instructors were to 
Mr. Allworthy himself, as they so loudly resounded the praise 
of that singular plan of education which he had laid down : for 
this worthy man, having observed the imperfect insptitution of 
our public schools, and the many vices which boys'ww^ there 
liable to learn, had resolved to educate his nephew, as well as 
the other lad, whom he had in a manner adopted, in his own 
house ; where he thought their morals would escape all that 
danger of being corrupted, to which they would unavoidably bo 
exposed in any public school or university. 

Having therefore determined to commit these boys to the 
tuition of a private tutor, Mr. Thwackum was recommended to 
him for that office, by a very particular friend, of whose under- 
standing Mr. Allworthy had a great opinion, and in whose in- 
tegrity he placed much confidence. This Thwackum was fel- 
low of a college, where he almost entirely resided ; and had a 
great reputation for learning, religion, and sobriety of manners. 
And these were doubtless the qualifications by which Mr. All- 
worthy's friend had been induced to recommend him ; though 
'"''eed this friend had some obligations to Thwackum 's family, 


who were the most considerable persons in a borongh which 
that gentleman represented in parliament. 

Thwacknm, at his first arrival, was extremely agreeable to 
Allworthy; and indeed he perfectly answered the character 
woich had been criven of him. TJpon longer acquaintance, 
however, and more intimate con-rersaaon, thii* worthy man saw 
iDhrmities in the tutor, which he could have wished ^im to have 
oeen without * though, as those seemed great'; overbalanced by 
nis good qualities, they did not incline Mr. Allworthy to part 
with him ; nor would they indeed have justified such a proceed- 
ing ; for the reader is greatly mistakcL if he conceives that 
Thwockum appeared to Mr. Allworthy in the same light as he 
dot) to him in this history ; and he is as much deceived, if ho 
imagines that the most intimate acquaintance which he himself 
cjuld have had with that divine, wouic have informed him of 
those things which we, froir oui inspiration, are enabled to 
open alio discover. Of rer.ders, who, from such conceits as 
these, condemn the wisdom or penetration of Mr. Allworthy, I 
shall not scruple to say, that they rake a very bad and ungrate- 
ful use of that knowledge which wc have communicated to them. 

These apparent errors in the doctrine of Thwackum servei 
greatly to palliate the contrary errors in that of Square, which 
our ?ood man no less saw and condemned. He thought, indeed, 
that the different exuberances of these gentlemen would correct 
t^.ii diferent imperfections; and that from both, especially 
with his assistance, the two lads would derive sufficient precepts 
of true religion and virtue. If the event happened contrary to 
his expectations, this possibly proceeded from some fault in the 
plan iiself ; which the reader hath my leave to discover if he 
can : for we do not pretend to introduce any infallible charac- 
kera into this history ; where we hope nothing will be found 
which hath never yet been seen in human nature. 

To ratum, therefore : the reader will not, I think, wonder 
ti*at the different behaviour of the two lads above commemo- 
rated produced the different effects of which he hath already 
b. ^n some instance ; and besides this, there was another reason 
^O'. tl.; conduct of the philosopher and the pedagogue ; but 
thia bein^. a matter of great importance, we shall reveal it in 
the JiteJA chapter. 



Containing a better reason still for the before mentioned opinions^ 

It is to be known, then, that those two learned personagt^^, 
who have lately made a considerable figure on the theatre of 
iW history, had, from their first arrival at Mr. AUworthy's 
house, taken so great an affection, the one to his virtue, th>. 
other .to his rehgion, that they had meditated the closes-; 
alliance with him. 

For this purpose they had cast their eyes on that fair widow, 
whom, though we have not for some time made any mention 
of her, the reader, we ♦^^rust, hath not forgot. Mrs. Bli^l was 
indeed the object to which they both aspired. 

It may seem remarkable, that, of four persons whom we 
have commemorated at Mr. All worthy ^s house, three of them 
should fix their inclinations ^n a lady who was never greatly 
celebrated for iier beauty, and who was, moreover, now a little 
descended into the vale of years ; but, in reality, bouom friends 
and intimate acquaintance have a kind of natural propensity 
to particular females at the house of a friend, viz. to his grand- 
mother, mother, sister, daughter, aunt, niece, or cousin, when 
they are rich ; and to his wife, sister, daughter, niece, coasin, 
mistress, or servant-maid, if they should be handsome. 

We would not, however, have our reader imagine, that 
p:rsons of such characters as were supported by Thwacku'"» 
and Square, would undertake a matter of this kind, whioh 
lath been a little censured by some rigid moralists, before they 
had thoroughly examined it, and considered whether it was, 
(as Shakspeare phrases it,) " Stuff o' the conscience," or no. 
Thwackum was encouraged to the undertaking by reflecting: 
that to covet your neighbour's sister is no where forbidden ; 
and he knew it was a rule, in the construction of all laws, tha: 
" Expressum facit cessare taciturn,^ ^ The sense of which is, 
" When a lawgiver sets down plainly his whole meaning, vr*^ 
are prevented from making him mean what we please our- 
selves. " As some instances of women, therefore, are mentioned 
in the divine law, which forbids us to covet our neighfco-z's 
goods, and that of a sister omitted, he concluded it to be lai^* 

fi\. Ac da to Sqaaie, who was in his person what is called 
r. jolly fellow, or a widow's man, be easily reconciled his choice 
to the eternal fitness of things 

New, as both these gentlemen were inirstrion? in taking 
every opportunity of recommending themseives t:> the widow, 
they apprehended one certain method was, by giving r3r son 
the constant preference to the other lad ; and, as the} conceived 
the Mndncss and affection which Mr. Allworthy showed the 
latu." mast be highly disagreeable to her, they doubted not but 
the laying hold on all occasions to degrade and vilify him would 
be highly pleasing to her ; who, as she hated the boy, must love 
all those who did him any hurt In this, Thwackum had the 
advantage ; for while Square could orly scarify the poor lad's 
reputation, he could flay his Fkin ; and, indeed, he considered 
every lasb he gave him as a compliment paid to his mistress ; so 
that he could, with the utmost propriety, repeat this old 
flogging line, ** Castigo te non quod odio habeam^ ned quod 
Amsn. I chastise thee not out of hatred, but out of love.'' 
And this, indeed, he often had in his mouth, or rather, accord- 
ing to the old phrase, never more properly applied, at hi? 
fingers' ends. 

For this reason principally, the two gentlemen concurred, at 
wo have seen above, in their opinion, concerning the two lads ; 
this being, indeed, almost the only instance of their concurring 
on any point ; for, beside the difference of their principles, they 
tad botJi long ago strongly suspected each other's design, and 
bated one another with no little degree of inveteracy. 

This mutual animosity was a good deal increased by their 
utematr successes ; for Mrs. Blifil knew what they would be at 
long before they imagined it ; or, indeed, intended she should : 
.'or they proceeded with great caution, lest she should be 
offended, and acquaint Mr. Allworthy. But they had no 
treason for any such fear ; she was well enough pleased with a 
passion, of which she intended none should have any fruits but 
herself. And the only fruits she designed for herself were, 
fiattery and courtship ; for which purpose, she soothed them 
^y turns, aLd a long time equally. She was, indeed, rather 
inclined. tc» iavour tlr parson's principles; but Square's 
^/cnioi: lu r-t-r^ agrcx^^^iblo to her eye, for he was a comely 


ma:i , whereas the pedagogue did in (5cunt<3Eanee "^ary ce&tly 
resemble taat gentleman who, in the ^Harlot's Progress, is 
seen correcting the ladies in BilJewell. 

Whether Lirs. Blifil ha('i been surfeited with the sweets of 
marriags, or disgusted by its bitters, or from r^hat other cause 
it prc^edea, I will not determine ; but she could neyer be 
brought to listen to any second proposals. However, she at 
last conversed with Sqrare with such a degree of intii.acy, 
that malicious tongues began to whisper things of '»\ei, to 
which, as well for the sake of the lady, as that tney t^ere 
highly disagreeable to the rule of right and the fitness of things, 
we will give no credit, and therefore shall not blot our paper 
with them. The pedagogue, 'tis certain, whipped on, Tithout 
getting a step nearer to Ms .iuu'**xey's end. 

Indeed, he had comm'tted a grea^. error, and that Square 
discovered much sooner than himseif. ^ Mrs. Blifil, (as, per- 
haps, the reader may have formerly guessed,) was not over and 
above pleased with the behaviour of her husband ; nay, to be 
honest, she absolutely hated him, till his death at last a little 
reconciled him to her affections. It will not h^ therefore* 
greatly wondered at, if she had not the most violent regard to 
the offspring she had by him. And, in fact, she had so little 
of this regard, that in his infancy she seldom saw her sen, or 
took any notice of him ; and hence she acquiesced, after a little 
reluctance, in all the favours which Mr. -Ill worthy showered on 
the foundling ; whom the good man called his own boy, and in 
all things put on an entire equality with Master Blifil. This 
acquiescence in Mrs. Bliiil was considered by the neighfc * .r^, 
and by the family, as a mark of her condesc^nsicn t? ti^ 
brother's humour, and she was imagined by all others, as will 
as Thwackum and Square, to hate the foundling in her ha-ut ; 
nay, the more civility she showed him, the more they concei ^j * 
she detested him, and the surer schemes she was laying for ViH 
ruin ; for as they thought it her interest to hate him, it ^ .j 
very difficult for her to persuade them she did not 

Thwackum was the more confirmed in his opinion, as she hft'i 
more than once slyly caused him to whip Tom Jones, when Mr. 
AUworthy, who was an enemy to this exercise, wag aoroal; 
whereas she had never given any such or ders concerning jowrf^ 


Blifil. And this had likewise imposed upon Sqnare. In re- 
ality, though she certainly hated her own son, of which, how- 
ever monstrous it appears, I am assured she is not a singular 
instance, she appeared, notwithstanding all her outward com- 
pliance, to be in her heart sufficiently displeased with all the 
favour shown by Mr. AUworthy to the foundling. She fre- 
frequently complained of this behind her brother's back, and 
very sharply censured him for it, both to Thwackum and 
Sqnare ; nay, she would throw it in the teeth of AUworthy 
himself, when a little quarrel, or mifiF, as it is vulgarly called, 
arose between them. 

However, when Tom grew up, and gave tokens of that gal- 
lantry of temper which greatly recommends men to women, this 
disinclination which she had discovered to him when a child, 
by degrees abated, and at last she so evidently demonstrated 
her affection to him to be much stronger than what she bore 
her own son, that it was impossible to mistake her any longer. 
Sne was so desirous of often seeing him, and discovered such 
batisfaction and deMght in his company, that before he was 
eighteen years old he was become a rival to both Square and 
Thwackum ; and, what is worse, the whole country began to 
talk as loudly of her iiiclination to Tom, as they had before 
done of that which she had shown to Square ; on which ac- 
count the philosopher had conceived the most implacable hatred 
for our poor hero. 



In which the author himself makes his appearance on the staff e. 

Though Mr. AUworthy was not of himself hasty to see 
things in a disadvantageous light, and was a stranger to the 
public voice, which seldom reaches to a brother or husband, 
though it rings in the ears of all the neighbourhood ; yet was 
this affection of Mrs. Blifil to Tom, and the preference which 
she too visibly gave him to her own son, of the utmost advan- 
tage to that youth. 

For such was the compassion which inhabited Mr. All- 
worthy's mind, that nothing but the steel of justice could ever 
gnbdne it. To be unfortunate in any respect was sufficient, if 

L — 18 K 


there was no demerit to counterpoise it, to turn tlie scale of 
that good man's pitj, and to engage his friendship and \}}3 

When, therefore, he plainly saw Master Blifil was absolutely 
deserted (for that he was) by his own mother, he began, on 
that account only, to look with an eye of compassion upon 
him ; and what the effects of compassion are, in good and be- 
nevolent minds, I need not here explain to most of my readers. 

Henceforward he saw every appearance of virtue in tho 
youth through the magnifying end, and viewed all his faults 
with the glass inverted, so that they became scarce perceptible. 
And this perhaps the amiable temper of pity may make com- 
mendable ; but the next step the weakness of human nature 
alone must excuse ; for he no sooner perceived that preference 
which Mrs. Blifil gave to Tom, than that poor youth (however 
innocent) began to sink in his affections as he rose in hers. 
This, it is true, would of itself alone never have been able to 
eradicate Jones from his bosom ; but it was greatly injurious to 
him, and prepared Mr. All worthy's mind for those impressions 
which afterwards produced the mighty events that will be con- 
tained hereafter in this history ; and to which it must be con- 
fessed the unfortunate lad, by his own wantonness, wildnese^ 
and want of caution, too much contributed. < 

In recording some instances of these, we shall, if rightly 
understood, afford a very useful lesson to those well-disposed 
youths who shall hereafter be our readers ; for they may here, 
find, that goodness of heart, and openness of temper, though 
these may give them great comfort within, and administer to 
an honest pride in their own minds, will by no means, alas I do 
their business in the world. Prudence and circumspection are 
necessary even to the best of men. They are, indeed, as it 
were, a guard to virtue, without which she can never be safe. 
It is not enough that your designs, nay that your actions, are 
intrinsically good ; you must take care they shall appear so. 
If your inside be never so beautiful, you must preserve a fair 
outside also. This must be constantly looked to, or malice and 
envy will take care to blacken it so, that the sagacity and good- 
ness of an AUworthy will not be able to see through it, and to 
discern the beauties within. Let this^ my young readers, b« 


yonr constant maxim, that no man can be good enough to 
enable him to neglect the rules of prudence ; nor will Yirtue 
herself look beautiful, unless she be bedecked with the outward 
ornaments of decency and decorum. And this precept, my 
worthy disciples, if you read with due attention, you will, I hope, 
find sufficiently enforced by examples in the following pages. 

I ask pardon for this short appearance, by way of chorus, on 
the stage. It is in reality for my own sake, that, while I am 
discoTcring the rocks on which innocence and goodness often 
split, I may not be misunderstood to recommend the very 
means to my worthy readers by which I intend to show them 
they will be undone. And this, as I could not prevail on any 
of my actors to speak, I myself was obliged to declare. 


A ehUdUh inddentj m whkh, however, is seen a good-natured disposition in 

Tom Jonta. 

The reader may remember, that Mr. Allworthy gave Tom 
Jones a little horse, as a kind of smart-money for the punish- 
ment which he had suffered innocently. 

This horse Tom kept above half a year, and then rode him 
to a neighbouring fair, and sold him. 

At his return, being questioned by Thwackum, what he had 
done with the money for which the horse was sold, he frankly 
declared he would not tell him. 

" O, ho 1" says Thwackum, '* you will not, then I will have it 
cat of your br — ^h ;'' that being the place to which he always 
applied for information on every doubtful occasion. 

Tom was now mounted on the back of a footman, and every 
thing prepared for execution, when Mr. Allworthy, entering the 
loom, gave the criminal a reprieve, and took him with him into 
another apartment ; where, being alone with Tom, he put the 
same question to him which Thwackum had before asked him. 

Tom answered, he could in duty refuse him nothing, but as 
for that tyrannical rascal, he would never make him any other 
aaswer than with a cudgel, with which he hoped soon to be 
able to pay him- for all his barbarities. 


Mr. AUworthy very severely reprimanded the lad for his 
indeceut and disrespectful expressions concerning his master ; 
but much more for his avowing an intention of revenge. He 
threatened him with the entire loss of his favour, if he ever 
heard such another word from his mouth ; for he said he would 
never support or befriend a reprobate. By these and the like 
declarations, he extorted some compunction from Tom, in which 
that youth was not over-sincere ; for he really meditated some 
return for all the smarting favours he had received at the hands 
of the pedagogue. He was, however, brought by Mr. All- 
worthy to express a concern for his resentment against Thwack- 
um ; and then the good man, after some wholesome admoni- 
tion, permitted him to proceed, which he did as follows : 

" Indeed, my dear sir, I love and honour you more than all 
the world : I know the great obligations I have to you, and 
should detest myself if I thought my heart was capable of 
ingratitude. Could the little horse you gave me speak, I am 
sure he could tell you how fond I was of your present ; for I 
had more pleasure in feeding him than in riding him. Indeed, 
sir, it went to my heart to part with him ; nor would I have 
sold him upon any other account in the world than what I did. 
You yourself, sir, I am convinced, in my case, would have done 
the same; for none ever so sensibly felt the misfortunes of 
others. What would you feel, dear sir, if you thought your- 
self the occasion of them ? Indeed, sir, there never was any 
misery like theirs.'' — -'Like whose child?" says All worthy : 
* 'What do you mean ? ' ' — .' ' Oh, sir I " answered Tom, ' * your poor 
gamekeeper, with all his large family, ever since your discard- 
ing him, have been perishing with all the miseries of cold and 
hunger. I could not bear to see these poor wretches naked and 
starving, and at the same time know myself to have been the 
occasion of all their sufferings. I could not bear it, sir ; upon 
my soul, I could not. [Here the tears ran down his cheeks, 
and he thus .proceeded.] It was to save them from absolute 
destruction I parted with your dear present, notwithstanding 
all the value I had for it : I sold the horse for them, and they 
have every farthing of the money. " 

Mr. Allworthy now stood silent for some moments, and be- 
fore he spoke the tears started from his eyes. He at length 


dismissed Tom with a gentle rebuke, advising him forthefature 
to apply to him in cases of distress, rather than to use extra- 
ordinary means of relieving them himself. 

This aJBfair was afterwards the subject of much debate be- 
tween Thwackum and Square. Thwackum held, that this was 
flying in Mr. All worthy's face, who had intended to punish 
the fellow for his disobedience. He said, in some instances, 
what the world called charity, appeared to him to be opposing 
the will of the Almighty, which had marked some particular 
persons for destruction ; and that this was in like manner 
acting in opposition to Mr. Allworthy ; concluding, as usual, 
with a hearty recommendation of birch. 

Square argued strongly on the other side, in opposition per- 
haps to Thwackum, or in compliance with Mr. Allworthy, who 
seemed very much to approve what Jones had done. As to 
what he urged on this occasion, as I am convinced most of my 
readers will be much abler advocates for poor Jones, it would 
be impertinent to relate it. Indeed, it was not diflScult to re- 
concile to the rule of right an action which it would have been 
impossible to deduce from the rule of wrong. 


Cantatninff an ineideni of a more heinous kind, with the comments of Thwackum 
and Square, 

It hath been observed by some man of much greater wisdom 
than myself, that misfortunes seldom come single. An instance 
of this may, I believe, be seen in those gentlemen who have 
the misfortune to have any of their rogueries detected ; for here 
discovery seldom stops till the whole is come out. Thus it 
happened to poor Tom ; who was no sooner pardoned for sell- 
ing the horse, than he was discovered to have some time before 
gold a fine Bible which Mr. Allworthy gave him, the money 
arising from which sale he had disposed of in the same manner. 
This Bible, Master Blifil had purchased, though he had already 
such another of his own, partly out of friendship to Tom, being 
unwilling that the Bible should be sold out of the family at 
half-price. He therefore disbursed the said haif-price himself; 

150 THE HI8T0BT 07 

for he was a very pradent lad, aud so carefbl of his money, that 
he had laid up almost every penny which he had received from 
Mr. AUworthy. 

Some people have been noted to be able to read in no book 
but their own. On the contrary, from the time when Master 
Blifil was first possessed of this Bible, he never used any other. 
Nay, he was seen reading in it much oftener than he bad befor j 
been in his own. Now, as he frequently asked Thwackum to 
explain difficult passages to him, that gentleman unfortunately 
took notice of Tom's name, which was written in many parts 
of the book. 

This brought on an inquiry, which obliged Master Blifil to 
discover the whole matter. 

Thwackum was resolved a crime of this kind, which he called 
sacrilege, should not go unpunished. He therefore proceeded 
immediately to castigation ; and not contented with that, he 
acquainted Mr. AUworthy, at their next meeting, with this 
monstrous crime, as it appeared to him; inveighing against 
Tom, in the most bitter terms, and likening him to the buyers 
and sellers who were driven out of the Temple. 

Square saw this matter in a very different light. He said, 
he could not perceive any higher crime in selling one book than 
in selling another. That to sell Bibles was strictly lawful by 
all laws, both divine and human, and consequently there was 
no unfitness in it. He told Thwackum, that his great concern 
on this occasion brought to his mind the story of a devout 
woman, who, out of pure regard to religion, stole Tillotson's 
Sermons from a lady of her acquaintance. 

This story caused a vast quantity of blood to rush into the 
parson's face, which of itself was none of the palest ; and he 
was going to reply with great warmth and anger, had not Mrs. 
Blifil, who was present at this debate, interposed. That lady 
declared herself absolutely of Mr. Square's side. She argued, 
indeed, very learnedly in support of his opinion ; and con- 
cluded with saying, if Tom had been guilty of any fault, she 
must confess her own son appeared to be equally culpable ; for 
that she could see no difference between the buyer and the 
seller ; both of whom were alike to be driven out of the Temple. 

"'js. Blifil, having declared her opinion, put an end to the 


debate. Square's triamph would almost have stopped his 
words, bad he needed them ; and Thwackum, who, for reasons 
before mentioned, durst not venture at disobliging the lady, 
was almost choked with indignation. As to Mr. Allworthy, 
he said, since the boy had been already punished, he would not 
deliver his sentiments on the occasion ; and whether he was or 
was not angry with the lad, I must leave to the reader's own 

Soon after this, an action was brought against the game- 
keeper by Squire Western, (the gentleman in whose manor the 
partridge was killed,) for depredations of the like kind. This 
was a most unfortunate circumstance for the fellow, as it not 
only of itself threatened his ruin, but actually prevented Mr. 
Allworthy from restoring him to his favour : for as that gentle- 
man was walking out one evening with Master Blifil and young 
Jones, the latter slyly drew him to the habitation of Black 
George ; where the family of that poor wretch, namely, his 
wife and children, were found in all the misery with which cold, 
hunger, and nakedness, can affect human creatures : for as to 
the money they had received from Jones, former debts had con- 
sumed almost the whole. 

Such a scene as this could not fail of affecting the heart of 
Mr. Allworthy. He immediately gave the mother a couple of 
guineas, with which he bid her clothe her children. The poor 
woman burst into tears at this goodness, and while she was 
thanking him, could not refrain from expressing her gratitude 
to Tom ; who had, she said, long preserved both her and hers 
from starving. "We have not," says she, "had a morsel to 
eat, nor have these poor children had a rag to put on, but what 
his goodness had bestowed on us." For, indeed, besides the 
horse and the Bible, Tom had sacrificed a night-gown, and 
other things, to the use of this distressed family. 

On their return home, Tom made use of all his eloquence to 
display the wretchedness of these people, and the penitence of 
Black George himself; and in this he succeeded so well, that 
Mr. Allworthy said he thought the man had suffered enough 
for what was passed ; that he would forgive hira, and think of 
Bome means of providing for hira and his family. 

Jones was so delighted with this news, that, though it was 


dark when they returned home, he coald not help going back a 
mile, in a shower of rain, to acquaint the poor woman with the 
glad tidings ; but, like other hasty divulgers of news, he only 
brought on himself the trouble of contradicting it : for the ill 
fortune of Black George made use of the very opportunity of 
his Mend's absence to overturn all again. 


In which Master BliJU and Jones appear in different UghU. 

Master Blifil fell very short of his companion in the amiable 
quality of mercy ; but he as greatly exceeded him in one of a 
much higher kind, namely, in justice ; in which he followed both 
*^ the precepts and example of Thwackum and Square ; for though 
\i they would both make frequent use of the word mercy, yet it 
was plain that in reality Square held it to be inconsistent with 
the rule of right ; and Thwackum was for doing justice, and 
leaving mercy to Heaven. The two gentlemen did indeed some- 
what differ in opinion concerning the objects of this sublime 
virtue ; by which Thwackum would probably have destroyed 
one half of mankind, and Square the other half. 

Master Blifil, then, though he had kept silence in the presence 
of Jones, yet, when he had better considered the matter, could 
by no means endure the thoughts of suffering his uncle to con- 
fer favours on the undeserving. He therefore resolved imme- 
diately to acquaint him with the fact which we have above 
slightly hinted to the readers. The truth of which was as fol- 
lows : 

The gamekeeper, about a year after he was dismissed from 
Mr. Allworthy's service, and before Tom's selling the horse, 
being in want of bread, either to fill his own mouth or those 
of his family, as he passed through a field belonging to Mr. 
Western, espied a hare sitting in her form. This hare he had 
basely and barbarously knocked on the head, against the laws 
of the land, and no less against the laws of sportsmen. 

The higgler, to whom the hare was sold, being unfortunately 
taken many months after with a quantity of game upon him, 
was obliged to make his peace with the squire, by becoming 


eyidence against some poacher. And now Black George was 
pitched upon by him, as being a person already obnoxious to 
Mr. Western, and one of no good fame in the country. He 
wfis, besides, the best sacrifice the higgler could make, as he 
had supplied him with no game since ; and by this means the 
witness had an opportunity of screening his better customers ; 
for the squire, being charmed with the power of punishing Black 
George^ whom a single transgression was sufficient to ruin, 
nade no further inquiry. 

Had this fact been truly laid before Mr. Allworthy, it might 
probably have done the gamekeeper very little mischief. But 
•.here is no zeal blinder than that which is inspired with the love 
of justice against offenders. Master Blifil had forgot the dis- 
lADce of the time. He varied likewise in the manner of the 
fact ; and by the hasty addition of the single letter S, he con- 
siderably altered the story : for he said that George had wired 
hares. These alterations might probably have been set right, 
had not Master Blifil unluckily insisted on a promise of secrecy 
from Mr. Allworthy before he revealed the ma.tter to him ; but 
by that means the poor gamekeeper was condemned without 
naving any opportunity to defend himself : for as the fact of 
killing the hare, fuid of the action brought, were certainly true, 
Mr. Allworthy had no doubt concerning the rest. 

Short-lived then was the joy of these poor people ; for Mr. 
Allworthy the next morning declared he had fresh reason, with- 
out assigning it, for his anger, and strictly forbad Tom to men- 
tion George any more : though, as for his family, he said he 
would endeavour to keep them from starving ; but as to the 
fellow himself, he would leave him to the laws, which nothing 
could keep him from breaking. 

Tom could by no means divine what had incensed Mr. All- 
worthy, for of Master Blifil he had not the least suspicion. 
However, as his friendship was to be tired out by no disappoint- 
ments, he now determined to try another method of preserving 
the gamekeeper from ruin. 

Jones was lately grown very intimate with Mr. Western. 
He had so greatly recommended himself to that gentleman, by 
leaping over five-barred gates, and by other acts of sportsman- 
ship, that the squire had declared Tom would certainly make 


t54 . THE HI8T0BT OF 

a great man, if he had bnt sufficient enconragement. He often 
wished he had himself a son with snch parts : and one day 
Tery solemnly asserted at a drinking bout, that Tom should 
hunt a pack of hounds, for a thousand pounds of his money, 
with any huntsman in the whole country. 

By such kind of talents he had so ingratiated himself with 
the squire, that he was a most welcome guest at his table, and 
a favourite companion in his sport: every thing which the 
squire held most dear, to wit, his guns, dogs, and horses, were 
now as much at the command of Jones, as if they had been 
his own. He resolved, therefore, to make use of this favour 
on behalf of his friend Black George, whom he hoped to intro- 
duce into Mr. Western's family, in the same capacity in which 
he had before served Mr. AUworthy. 

The reader, if he considers that this fellow was already ob 
noxious to Mr. Western, and if he considers farther the weighty 
business by which that gentleman's displeasure had been in- 
curred, will perhaps condemn this as a foolish and desperate 
undertaking ; but if he should totally condemn young Jones 
on that account, he will greatly applaud him for strengthening 
himself with all imaginable interest on so arduous an occasion. 

For this purpose, then, Tom applied to Mr. Western's 
daughter, a young lady of about seventeen years of age, whom 
her father, next after those necessary implements of sport just 
before mentioned, loved and esteemed above all the world. 
Now, as she had some influence on the squire, so Tom had 
some little influence on her. But this being the intended 
heroine of this work, a lady with whom we ourselves are greatly 
in love, and with whom many of our readers will probably be 
in love too before we part, it is by no means proper she should 
make her appearance in the end of a book. 





Coniaimng five pages of paper. 

As truth distinguishes onr writings from those idle romances 
which are filled with monsters, the productions not of nature, 
f ut of distempered brains ; and which h^-ve been therefore re- 
commended by an eminent critic to the sole use of the pastry- 
cook ; so, on the other hand, we would avoid any resemblance 
tc that kind of history which a celebrated poet geems to think 
is no less calculated for the emolument of the brewer, as the read- 
^ng it should be always attended with a tankard of good ale. — 

While — history with her comrade ale, 
Soothes the sad series of her serious tale. 

EoT as this is the liquor of modern historians, nay, perhaps 
their muse, if we may believe the opinion of Butler, who at- 
tributes inspiration to ale, it ought likewise to be the potation 
of their readers, since every book ought to be read with the 
same spirit, and in the same manner, as it is writ. Thus the 
famous author of Hurlothrumbo told a learned bishop, that 
the reason his lordship could not tauie the excellence of his 
piece was, that he did not read it with a fiddle in his hand ; 
which instrument he himself had alwj;3^s had in his own when 
he composed it. 

That our work, therefore, might be in no danger of being 
likened to the labours of these historians, we have taken every 
occasion of interspersing through the whole sundry similes, 
descriptions, and other kind of poetical embellishments. These 
are, indeed, designed to supply the place of the said ale, and 
to refresh the mind, whenever those slumbers, which in a long 
work are apt to invade the reader as well as the writer, shall 
begin to creep upon him. Without interruptions of this kind, 
the best narrative of plain matter of fact must overpower every 
reader; for nothing but the everlasting watchfulness, which 
Homer has ascribed only to Jove himself, can be proof against 
ft newspaper of many volumes. 


We shall leave to the reader to determine with what jodg- 
ment we have chosen the several occasions for inserting those 
ornamental parts of onr work. Surely it will be allowed that 
none could be more proper than the present, where we are 
about to introduce a considerable character on the scene ; no 
less, indeed, than the heroine of t!his heroic, historical, prosaic 
poem. Here, therefore, we have thought proper to prepare 
the mind of the reader for her reception, by filling it with 
every pleasing image which we can draw from the face of 
nature. And for this method we plead many precedents. 
First, this is an art well known to, and much practised by, our 
tragic poets ; who seldom fail to prepare their audience for 
the reception of their principal characters. 

Thus the hero is always introduced with a flourish of drums 
and trumpets, in order to rouse a martial spirit in the audience, 
and to accommodate their ears to bombast and fustian, which 
Mr. Locke's blind man would not have grossly erred in liken- 
ing to the sound of a trumpet. Again, when lovers are com- 
ing forth, soft music often conducts them on the stage, either 
to soothe the audience with the softness of the tender passion, 
or to lull and prepare them for that gentle slumber in which 
they will most probably be composed by the ensuing scene. 

And not only the poets but the masters of these poets, the 
managers of playhouses, seem to be in this secret ; for besides 
the aforesaid kettle-drums, &c., which denote the hero's ap- 
proach, he is generally ushered on the stage by a large troop 
of half a dozen scene-shifters ; and how necessai^ these are 
imagined to his appearance, may be concluded from the follow- 
ing theatrical story : 

King Pyrrhus was at dinner at an ale-house bordering on 
the theatre, when he was summoned to go on the stage. The 
hero, being unwilling to quit his shoulder of mutton, and as 
unwilling to draw on himself the indignation of Mr. Wilks 
(his brother manager) for making the audience wait, had 
bribed these his harbingers to be out of the way. While Mr. 
Wilks, therefore, was thundering out, ** Where are the carpen- 
ters to walk on before king Pyrrhus ?" that monarch very 
«"iptly.ate his mutton, and the audience, however impatient^ 
iiiged to entertain themselves with music in his absence 


To be plain, I much question whether the politician, who 
hath generally a good nose, hath not scented out somewhat of 
the utility of this practice. I am convinced that awful magis- 
trate, my lord-mayor, contracts a good deal of that reverence 
which attends him through the year, by the several pageants 
which precede his pomp. Nay, I must confess, that even I 
myself, who am not remarkably liable to be captivated with 
show, have yielded not a little to the impressions of much pre- 
ceding state. When I have seen a man strutting in a proces- 
sion, after others whose business was only to walk before him, 
I have conceived a higher notion of his dignity, than I have 
felt on seeing him in a common situation. But there is one in- 
stance, which comes exactly up to my purpose. This is the 
custom of sending on a basket-woman, who is to precede the 
pomp at a coronation, and to strew the stage with flowers, be- 
fore the great personages begin their procession. The ancients 
would certainly have invoked the goddess Flora for this pur- 
pose, and it would have been no difficulty for their priests or 
politicians to have persuaded the people of the real presence 
of the deity, though a plain mortal had personated her, and 
performed her office. But we have no such design of imposing 
on our reader ; and therefore those who object to the heathen 
theology may, if they please, change our goddess into the 
above-mentioned basket-woman. Our intention, in short, is 
to introduce our heroine with the utmost solemnity in our 
power, with an elevation of style, and all other circumstances 
proper to raise the veneration of our reader. Indeed we 
would, for certain causes, advise those of our male readers, 
who have any hearts, to read no farther, were we not well as- 
sured, that how amiable soever the picture of our heroine will 
appear, as it is really a copy from nature, many of our fair 
country-women will be found worthy to satisfy any passion, 
and answer any idea of female perfection which our pencil will 
be able to raise. 

And now, without any further preface, we proceed to our 
ne^ chapter. 

I 14 



A short hint of what we eon do in the subUme, and a description of Mu$ 
Sophia Western, 

Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of 
the winds confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy 
Boreas, and the sharp-pointed nose of bitter-biting Eurus 
Do thou, sweet Zephyrus, rising from thy fragrant bed, mount 
the western sky, and lead on those delicious gales, the charms 
of which call forth the lovely Flora from her chamber, per- 
fumed with pearly dews, when on the first of June, her birth- 
day, the blooming maid, in loose attire, gently trips it o'er the 
verdant mead, where every flower rises to do her homage, till 
the whole field become enamelled^ and colours contend with 
sweets which shall ravish her most. 

So charming may she now appear ; and you, the feathered 
choristers of nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can 
excel, tune your melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. 
From love proceeds your music, and to love it returns. 
Awaken, therefore, that gentle passion in every swain : for lo I 
adorned with all the charms in which nature can array her, be- 
decked with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence, modesty, 
and tenderness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and 
darting brightness from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia 

Reader, perhap% thou hast seen the statue of the Vemis de 
Medicis. Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beauties 
at Hampton-Court. Thou mayest remember each bright 
Churchill of the galaxy, and all the toast of the Kit-Cat. Or, 
if their reign was before thy times, at least thou hast seen their 
daughters, the no less dazzling beauties of the present age ; 
whose names, should we here insert, wo apprehend they would 
fill the whole volume. 

Now, if thou hast seen all these, be not afraid of the rude 
answer which lord Rochester once gave to a man who had seen 
many things. No. If thou hast seen all these without know- 
ing what beauty is, thou hast no eyes ; if without feeling ita 
power, thou hast no heart. 


Yet it is possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all C^ 
these without being able to fonn an exact idea of Sophia : for 
she did not exactly resemble any of them. She was most like 
the picture of lady Ranelagh ; and, I have heard, more still to 
the famous duchess of Mazarine ; but most of all, she resem- 
bled one whose image never can depart from my breast, and 
whom, if thou dost remember, thou hast then, my friend, an 
adequate idea of Sophia. 

But lest this should not have been thy fortune, we will en- 
deavour with our utmost skill to describe this paragon, though 
we are sensible that our highest abilities are very inadequate to 
the task. 

Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr. Western, was a mid- 
dle-sized woman ; but rather inclining to tall. Her shape was 
not only exact, but extremely delicate ; and the nice propor- 
tion of her arms promised the truest symmetry in her limbs. 
Her hair, which was black, was so luxuriant, that it reached 
her middle, before she cut it to comply with the modem 
fashion ; and it was now curled so gracefully in her neck, that 
few could believe it to be her own. If envy could find any part 
of the face which demanded less commendation than the rest, 
it might possibly think her forehead might have been higher 
without prejudice to her. Her eyebrows were full, even and 
arched beyond the power of art to imitate. Her black eyes 
had a lustre in them, which all her softness could not extin- 
guish. Her nose was exactly regular, and her mouth, in which 
were two rows of ivory, exactly answered Sir John Suckling's 
description in those lines : 

Her lips were red, and one was thin, 
Compar'd to that was next her chin, 
Some bee had stung it newly. 

Her cheeks were of the oval kind : and in her right she had a 
dimple, which the. least smile discovered. Her chin had cer- 
tainly its share in forming the beauty of her face ; but it was 
difficult to say it was either large or small, though perhaps it 
was rather of the former kind. Her complexion had rather 
more of the lily than the rose ; but when exercise or modesty 
increased her natural colour, no vermilion could equal it. 
Then one might indeed cry out with the celebrated Dr. Donne : 


Her pure and eloquent blood 

Spoke in her cheeks, and bo distinctly wrought 
That one might almost say her body thought. 

Her neck was long and finely turned : and here, if I was not 
afraid of offending her delicacy, I might justly say, the highest 
beauties of the famous Venus de Medicis were outdone. Here 
was whiteness, which no lilies, ivory, nor alabaster could match. 
The finest cambric might indeed be supposed from envy to cover 
that bosom which was much whiter than itself. — It was indeed, 
Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius. 
A gloss shining beyond the purest brightness of Parian marble. 

Such was the outside of Sophia; nor was this beautiful 
frame disgraced by an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind 
was every way equal to her person ; nay, the latter borrowed 
some charms from the former ; for when she smiled, the sweet- 
ness of her temper diffused that glory over her countenance 
which no regularity of features can give. But as there are no 
perfections of the mind which do not discover themselves in 
that perfect intimacy to which, we intend to introduce our 
reader ^dth this charming young creature, so it is needless to 
mention them here : nay, it is a kind of tacit affront to our 
reader's understanding, and may also rob him of that pleasure 
which he will receive in forming his own judgment of her 

It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental 
accomplishments she had derived from nature, they were some- 
what improved and cultivated by art : for she had been edu- 
cated under the care of an aunt, who was a lady of great dis- 
cretion, and was thoroughly acquainted with the world, having 
lived in her youth about the court, whence she had retired 
some years since into the country. By her conversation and 
instructions, Sophia was perfectly well bred, though perhaps 
she wanted the little of that ease in her behaviour which is to 
be acquired only by habit, and living within what is called the 
polite circle. But this, to say the truth, is often too dearly 
purchased ; and though it hath charms so inexpressible, that 
the French, perhaps, among other qualities, mean to express 
this, when they declare they know not what it is ; yet its ab- 

is well compensated by innocence ; nor can good sense 

nataral gentility ever stand in need of it. 



Wherein the history goes back to commemorate a trifling incident that hap^ 
pened some years since; but which, trifling as it was, had some future con' 

The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year, when 
she is introduced in this history. Her father, as hath been 
said, was fonder of her than of any other human creatnre. To 
her, therefore, Tom Jones applied, in order to engage her in- 
terest on the behalf of his friend the gamekeeper. 

But before we -proceed to this business, a short recapitulation 
of some previous matters may be necessary. 

Though the different tempers of Mr. AUworthy and of Mr. 
Western did not admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet 
they lived upon what is called a decent footing together ; by 
which means the younger people of both families had been 
acquainted from their infancy ; and, as they were all near of 
the same age, had been frequent playmates together. 

The gayety of Tom's temper suited better with Sophia, than 
the grave and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the 
preference which she gave the former of these would often 
appear so plainly, that a lad of a more passionate turn than 
Master Blifil was, might have shown some displeasure at it. 

As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, 
it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost re- 
cesses of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the 
most secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their 
closets and cupboards, only to discover their poverty and mean- 
ness to the world. 

However, as persons, who suspect they have given others 
cause of offence, are apt to conclude they are offended, so So- 
phia imputed an action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the 
superior sagacity of Thwackum and Square discerned to have 
arisen from a much better principle. 

Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a 
little bird, which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up, 
and taught to sing. 

Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so 
extremely fond, that her chief business was to feed and tend it^ 
14* L 


and her chief pleasure to play with it. By these means little 
Tommy, for so the bird was called, was become so tame, that 
it would feed out of the hand of its mistress, would perch upon 
her finger, and lie contented in her bosom, where it seemed 
almost sensible of its own happiness : though she always kept 
a small string about its leg, nor would eyer trust it with the 
liberty of flying away. 

One day, when Mr. AUworthy and his whole family dined at 
Mr. Western's, Master Blifil, being in the garden with little So- 
phia, and observing the extreme fondness that she showed for 
her little bird, desired her to trust it for a moment in his hands, 
gophia presently complied with the young gentleman's request, 
and, after some previous caution, delivered him her bird ; of 
which he was no sooner in possession, than he slipt the string 
from its leg, and tossed it into the air. 

The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than, 
forgetting all the favours it had received from Sophia, it flew 
directly from her, and perched on a bough at some distance. 

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

He was no sooner informed of what had happened, than he 
cursed Blifil for a pitiful malicious rascal ; and then immediately 
stripping off his coat, he applied himself to climbing the tree 
tc which the bird escaped. 

Tom had almost recovered his little name-sake, when the 
branch on which it was perched, and that hung over a canal, 
broke, and the poor lad plumped over head and ears into the 

Sophia's concern now changed its object ; and, as she ap- 
prehended the boy's life was in danger, she screamed ten times 
louder than before ; and, indeed. Master Blifil himself now 
seconded her with all the vociferation in his power. 

The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden, 
were instantly alarmed, and came all forth ; but, just as they 
reached the canal, Tom, (for the water was luckily pretty shal- 
low in that part,) arrived safely on shore. 

Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dropping 
and shivering before him, when Mr. AUworthy desired him to 


hayc patience; and, turning to Master Blifil, said, *'Pray, 
child, what is the reason of all this distarbance ?" 

Master Blifil answered, ''Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for 
what I have done ; I have been unhappily the occasion of it all. 
I had Miss Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the poor 
creature languished for liberty, I own I could not forbear giv- 
ing it what it desired ; for I always thought there was some- 
thing very cruel in confining any thing. It seemed to be 
against the law of nature, by which everything hath a right to 
liberty ; nay, it is even unchristian, for it is not doing what we 
would be done by : but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would 
have been so much concerned at it, I am sure I would never 
have done it ; nay, if I had known what would have happened 
to the bird itself : for when Master Jones, who climbed up that 
tree after it, fell into the water, the bird took a second flight, 
and presently a nasty hawk carried it away." 

Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy's fate, 
(for her concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it when 
it happened,) shed a shower of tears. These Mr. Allworthy 
endeavoured to assuage, promising her a much finer bird : but 
she declared she would never have another. Her father chid 
her for crying so for a foolish bird ; but could not help telling 
young Blifil, if he was a son of his, his back-side should be well 

Sophia now returned to her chamber, the two young gentle- 
men were sent home, and the reat of the company returned to 
their bottle ; where a conversation ensued on the subject of the 
bird, so curious, that we think it deserves a chapter by itself. 


Containing aueh very deep and grave mattfrs, that some readers, perhaps, nag 
not relish it. 

Square had no sooner lighted his pipe, than, addressing 
himself to Allworthy, he thus began : " Sir, I cannot help con- 
gratulating you on your nephew ; who, at an age when few lads 
have any ideas but of sensible objects, is arrived at a capacity 
of distinguishing right from wrong. To confine anything seems 


to me against the law of nature, by which everything hath a 
right to liberty. These were his words ; and the impression 
they made on me is never to be eradicated. Can any man have 
a higher notion of the rule of right, and the eternal fitness of 
things ? I cannot help promising myself from such a dawn, 
that the meridian of this youth will be equal to that of either 
the elder or the younger Brutus.'' 

Here Thwackum hastily interrupted, and spilling some of his 
wine, and swallowing the rest with great eagerness, answered, 
** From another expression he made use of, I hope he will re- 
semble much better men. The law of nature is a jargon of 
words, which means nothing. I know not of any such law, nor 
of any right which can be derived from it. To do as we would 
be done by is, indeed, a Christian motive, as the boy well ex- 
pressed himself; and I am glad to find my instructions have 
borne such good fruits." 

*' If vanity was a thing fit, '' says Square, ** I might indulge 
some on the same occasion ; for whence only he can have learned 
his notions of right or wrong, I think is pretty apparent. If 
there be no law of nature, there is no right nor wrong." 

" How 1" says the parson, ''do you then banish revelation? 
Am I talking with a deist or an atheist?" 

*' Drink about," says Western. " Pox of your laws of na- 
ture. I don't know what you mean, either of you, by right 
and wrong. To take away my girl's bird was wrong in my 
opinion ; and my neighbour AUworthy may do as he pleases ; 
but to encourage boys in such practices, is to breed them up to 
the gallows." 

AUworthy answered, ' ' That he was sorry for what his nephew 
had done ; but could not consent to punish him, as he acted 
rather from a generous than unworthy motive. " He said, ** If 
the boy had stolen the bird, none would have been more ready 
to vote for a severe chastisement than himself; but it was plain 
that it was not his design ; and, indeed, it was as apparent to 
him, that he could have no other view but what he had himself 
avowed. (For as to that malicious purpose which Sophia sus- 
pected, it never once entered into the head of Mr. AUworthy.) 
He at length concluded with again blaming the action as in- 
considerate, and which, he said, was pardonable only in a child, " 


Square had delivered his opinion so openly, that if he was 
now silent he mnst snbmit to have his judgment censured. He 
said, therefore, with some warmth, " That Mr. Allworthy had 
too much respect to the dirty consideration of property. That 
in passing our judgments on great and mighty actions, all pri- 
vate regards should be laid aside ; for, by adhering to those 
narrow rules, the younger Brutus had been condemned of in- 
gratitude, and the elder of parricide." 

'^And if they had been hanged too for those crimes," said 
Thwackum, " they would have had no more than their deserts. 
A couple of heathenish villains 1 Heaven be praised, we have 
no Brutuses now-a-days. I wish, Mr. Square, you would de- 
sist from filling the minds of my pupils with such antichristian 
stuff : for the consequence must be, while they are under my 
care, its being well scourged out of them again. There is your 
disciple Tom almost spoiled already. I overheard him the 
other day disputing with Master Blifil,.that there was no merit 
in faith without works. I know that is one of your tenets, and 
I suppose he had it from you." 

*' Don't accuse me of spoiling him," says Square. "Who 
taught him to Jaugh at whatever is virtuous and decent, and fit 
and right in the nature of things ? He is your own scholar, 
and I disclaim him. No, no. Master Blifil is my boy. Young 
as he is, that lad's notions of moral rectitude I deiy you ever 
to eradicate." 

Thwackum put on a contemptuous sneer at this, and replied, 
" Ay, ay, I will venture him with you. He is too well grounded 
for all your philosophical cant to hurt. No, no, I have taken 
care to instil such principles into him " 

" And I have instilled principles into him too," cries Square. 
" What but the sublime idea of virtue could inspire a human 
mind with the generous thought of giving liberty ? And I 
repeat to you again, if it was a fit thing to be proud, I might 
claim the honour of having infused that idea. " 

"And if pride was not forbidden," said Thwackum, *'I 
might boast of having taught him that duty which he himself 
assigned as his motive." 

'* So, between you both," says the squire, "the young gentle- 
; hath been taught to rob my daughter of her bird. I find 


I must take care of my partridge-mew. I shall hare some 
virtuous religious man or other set all my partridges at liberty." 
Then slapping a gentleman of the law, who was present, on 
the back, he cried out, ''What say you to this, Mr. Coun- 
sellor ? Is not this against law ?" 

The lawyer, with great gravity, delievered himself as fol- 
lows : — 

'*If the case be put of a partridge, there can be no doubt 
but an action would lie ; for though this be fer<B naturcBf yet 
being reclaimed, property vests ; but being the case of a sing- 
ing bird, though reclaimed, as it is a thing of base nature, it 
must be considered as nullius in bonis. In this case, there- 
fore, I conceive the plaintiff must be nonsuited : and I shonld 
disadvise the bringing of any such action." 

'*Well,'' says the squire, '4f it be nullus bonus, let us 
drink about, and talk a little of the state of the nation, or 
some such discourse that we all understand ; for I am sure I 
don't understand a word of this. It may be learning and sense 
for aught I know ; but you shall never persuade me into it. 
Pox 1 you have neither of you mentioned a word of that poor 
lad who deserves* to be commended : to venture breaking his 
neck to oblige my girl was a generous spirited action : I have 
learning enough to see that. D — ^n me, here's Tom's health. 
I shall love the boy for it the longest day I have to Uve." 

Thus was the debate interrupted ; but it would, probably, 
have been soon resumed, had not Mr. Allworthy presently called 
for his coach, and carried off the two combatants. 

Such was the conclusion of this adventure of the bird, and 
of the dialogue occasioned by it ; which we could not help re- 
counting to our reader, though it happened some years before 
that stage or period of time at which our history is now arrived. 


Containing matter accommodated to every toHe, 

''Parva leves capiunt animos — Small things affect light 
minds," was a sentiment of a great master of the passion of 
love. And certain it is, that from this day Sophia b^^an to 


hare some little kindness for Tom Jones, and no little arersion 
for his companion. 

Many accidents from time to time improved both these pas- 
sions in her breast : which, without our recounting, the reader 
may well conclude, from what we have before hinted of the 
different tempers of these lads, and how much the one suited 
with her own inclinations more than the other. To say the 
truth, SopMa, when very young, discerned that Tom, though 
an idle, thoughtless, rattling rascal, was nobody's enemy but 
his own ; and that Master Blifil, though a prudent, discreet, 
sober young gentleman, was at the same time strongly attached 
to the interest only of one single person ; and who that single 
person was, the reader will be able to divine without any assist- 
ance of ours. 

These two characters are not always received in the world 
with the different regard which seems severally due to either ; 
and which one would imagine mankind, from seif-interest, should 
show towards them. But, perhaps, there may be a political 
reason for it : in finding one of a truly benevolent disposition, 
men may very reasonably suppose they have found a treasure, 
and be desirous of keeping it, like all other good things, to 
themselves. Hence they may imagine, that to trumpet forth 
the praises of such a person, would, in the vulgar phrase, be 
crying Koast-meat and calling in partakers of what they intend 
to apply solely to their own use. If this reason does not 
satisfy the reader, I know no other means of accounting for 
the little respect which I have commonly seen paid to a cha- 
racter which really does great honour to human nature, and is 
productive of the highest good to society. But it was other- 
wise with Sophia She honoured Tom Jones, and scorned 
Master Blifil, almost as soon as she knew the meaning of those 
two words. 

Sophia had been absent upwards of three years with her 
aunt ; during all which time she had seldom seen either of these 
young gentlemen. She dined, however, once, together with 
her aunt, at Mr* Allworthy 's. This was a few days after the ad- 
venture of the parteidge, before commemorated. Sophia heard 
the whole story at table, where she said nothing ; nor indeed 
eonld htr aunt get many words from her as she returned home j 


but her maid, when undressing her, happening to say, " Well, 
miss, I suppose yoa have seen young Master Blifil to-day ?*» 
She answered with much passion, ** I hate the name of Master 
Blifil, as I do whatever is base and treacherous ; and I wonder 
Mr. AUworthy would suffer that old barbarous schoolmaster to 
punish a poor boy so cruelly for what was only the effect of his 
good nature. " She then recounted the story to her maid, and 
concluded with saying, *^ Don't you think he is a boy of a no- 
ble spirit?" 

This young lady was now returned to her father ; who gave 
her the command of his house, and placed her at the upper end 
of his table, where Tom, (who, for his great love of hunting, 
was become a great favourite of the squire,) often dined. 
Young men of open generous dispositions, are naturally in- 
clined to gallantry, which, if they have good understandings, 
as was in reality Tom's case, exerts itself in an obliging com- 
plaisant behaviour to all women in general. This greatly dis- 
tinguished Tom from the boisterous brutality of mere country 
squires on the one hand, and from the solemn and somewhat 
sullen deportment of Master Blifil on the other ; and he began 
now, at twenty, to have the name of a pretty fellow among all 
the women in the neighbourhood. 

Tom behaved to Sophia with no particularity, unless, per- 
haps, by showing her a higher respect than he paid to any 
other. This distinction her beauty, fortune, sense, and amia- 
ble carriage, seemed to demand ; but, as to a design upon her 
person, he had none ; for which we shall at present BuSer the 
reader to condemn him of stupidity ; but perhaps we shall be 
able indifferently well to account for it hereafter. 

Sophia, with the highest degree of innocence and modesty, 
had a remarkable sprightliness in her temper. This was so 
greatly increased whenever she was in company with Tom, that 
had he not been very young and thoughtless, he must have ob- 
served it ; or had not Mr. Western's thoughts been generally 
either in the field, the stable, or the dog-kennel, it might have 
perhaps created some jealousy in him : but so far was the good 
gentleman from entertaining any such suspicion, that he gave 
Tom every opportunity with his daughter which any lover could 
have wished : and this Tom innocently improved to a better 


advantage, by following only the dictates of his natural g^- 
lantry and good-natnre, than he might perhaps have done had 
he had the deepest designs on the young lady. 

But, indded, it can occasion little wonder that this matter 
escaped the observation of others, since poor Sophia herself 
never remarked it ; and her heart was irretrievably lost before 
she suspected it was in danger. 

Matters were in this situation, when Tom one afternoon, find- 
ing Sophia alone, began, after a short apology, with a very se- 
rious face, to acquaint her that he had a favour to ask of her, 
which he hoped her goodness would comply with. 

Though neither the young man's behaviour, nor indeed his 
manner of opening this business, were such as could give her 
any just cause of suspecting he intended to make love to her ; 
yet, whether Nature whispered something into her ear, or from 
what cause it arose, I will not determine ; certain it is, some 
idea of that kind must have intruded itself ; for her colour for- 
sook her cheeks, her limbs trembled, and her tongue would have 
faltered, had Tom stopped for an answer : but he soon relieved 
her from her perplexity, by proceeding to inform her of his re- 
quest ; which was, to solicit her interest on behalf of the game- 
keeper, whose own ruin, and that of a large family, must be, he 
said, the consequence of Mr. Western's pursuing his action 
against him. 

Sophia presently recovered her confusion, and, with a ^mile 
full of sweetness, said, "Is this the mighty favour you asked 
inth so much gravity ? I will do it with all my heart. I really 
pity the poor fellow, and no longer ago than yesterday sent a 
email matter to his wife." This small matter was one of her 
gowns, some linen, and ten shillings in money, of which Tom 
had heard, and it had, in reality, put this solicitation into his 

Our youth now, emboldened with his success, resolved to 
push the matter farther, and ventured even to beg her recom- 
mendation of him to her father's service ; protesting that he 
thought him one of the honestest fellows in the country, and 
extremely well qualified for the place of a gamekeeper, which 
Inddly th^ happened to be vacant. 

Sophia answered, "Well, I will undertake this too ; but I 
I. — 16 


cannot promise you as much success as in the former part, 
which I assure you I will not quit my father without obtaining. 
However, I will do what I can for the poor fellow ; for I sin- 
cerely look upon him and his family as objects of great com- 
passion. And now, Mr. Jones, I must ask you a favour." 

**A favour, madam 1'' cried Tom: "if you knew the plea- 
sure you have given me in the hopes of receiving a command 
from you, you would think by mentioning it you did confer the 
greatest favour on me ; for, by this dear hand, I would sacri- 
fice my life to oblige you." 

He then snatched her hand, and eagerly kissed it, which 
was the first time his lips had ever touched her. The blood, 
which before had forsaken her cheeks, now made her sufficient 
amends, by rushing all over her face and neck with such vio- 
lence, that they became all of a scarlet colour. She now first 
felt a sensation to which she had been before a stranger, and 
which, when she had leisure to reflect on it, began to acquaint 
her with some secrets, which the reader, if he does not already 
guess them, will know in due time. 

Sophia, as soon as she could speak, (which was not instantly), 
informed him, that the favour she had to desire of him was, not 
to lead her father through so many dangers in hunting : for 
that, from what she had heard, she was terribly frightened 
every time they went out together, and expected some day or 
other, to see her father brought home with broken limbs. She 
therefore begged him, for her sake, to be more cautious ; and, 
as he well knew Mr. Western would follow him, not to ride so 
madly, nor to take those dangerous leaps for the future. 

Tom promised faithfully to obey her commands ; and, after 
thanking her for her kind compliance with his request, took his 
leave, and departed highly charmed with his success. 

Poor Sophia was charmed too, but in a very different way. 
Her sensations, however, the reader's heart, (if he or she have 
any,) will better represent than I can, if I had as many months 
as every poet wished for, to eat, I suppose, those many dainties 
with which he was so plentifully provided. 

It was Mr. Western's custom every afternoon, as soon as he 
was drunk, to hear his daughter play on the harpsichoFd ; for he 
—1 a great lover of music, and, perhaps, had he lived in town. 


might hare passed for a connoissenr ; for he always excepted 
against the finest compositions of Mr. Handel. He never 
relished any music but what was light and airy : and indeed his 
most faronrite tones were old Sir Simon the King, St. George 
he was for England, Bobbing Joan, and some others. 

His daughter, though she was a perfect mistress of music, 
and would nerer willingly have played any but Handel's, was 
so devoted to her father's pleasure, that she learned all those 
tunes to oblige him. However, she would now and then 
endeavour to lead him into her own taste ; and when he 
required the repetition of his ballads, would answer with a — 
"nay, dear sir;" and would often beg him to suffer her to 
play something else. 

This evening, however, when the gentleman was retired from 
his bottle, she played all his favourites three times over, with- 
out any solicitation. This so pleased the good squire, that he 
started from his couch, gave his daughter a kiss, and swore her 
band was greatly improved. She took this opportunity to 
execute her promise to Tom ; in which she succeeded so well, 
that the squire declared, if she would give him t'other bout of 
old Sir Simon, he would give the gamekeeper his deputation 
the next morning. Sir Simon was played again and again, till 
the charms of the music soothed Mr. Western to sleep. In the 
morning Sophia did not fail to remind him of his engagement ; 
and his attorney was immediately sent for, and ordered to stop 
any further proceedings in the action, and to make out the 

Tom's success in this affair soon began to ring over the 
country, and various were the censures passed upon it : some 
greatly applauding it as an act of good nature ; others sneer- 
ing, and saying, *' No wonder that one idle fellow should love 
another." Young Blifil was greatly enraged at it. He had 
long hated Black George in the same proportion as Jones 
delighted in him ; not from any offence which he had ever 
received, but from his great love to religion and virtue ; — for 
Black George had the reputation of a loose kind of a fellow. 
Blifil therefore represented this as flying in Mr. All worthy's 
face ; and declared, with great concern, that it was impossible 
to find any other motive for doing good to such a wretch 

112 THE HISTOBY 01* 

Thwackum and Square likewise sang to the same tune. They 
were now, (especially the latter,) become greatly jealous of 
young Jones with the widow : for he now approached the age 
of twenty, was really a fine young fellow, and that lady, by her 
encouragements to him, seemed daily more and more to think 
him so. 

Allworthy was not, however, moved with their malice. He 
declared himself very well satisfied with what Jones had done. 
He said the perseverance and integrity of his friendship was 
highly commendable, and he wished he see more frequent 
instances of that virtue. 

But Fortune, who seldom greatly relishes such sparks as my 
friend Tom, perhaps because they do not pay more ardent ad- 
dresses to her, gave now a very different turn to all his actions, 
and showed them to Mr. Allworthy in a light far less agree- 
able than that gentleman's goodness had hitherto seen them. 


An apology for the insensihilily of Mr, Jones to all the ekamu of the lovdy 
Sophia; in which possibly we may, in a considerable degree, lower hit cha- 
racter in the estimation of those men of vnt and gallantry , who approve the 
heroes in most of our modern comedies. 

There are two sorts of people, who, I am afraid, have 
already conceived some contempt for my hero, on account of 
his behaviour to Sophia. The former of these will blame his 
prudence in neglecting an opportunity to possess himself of 
Mr. Western's fortune ; and the latter will no less despise him 
for his backwardness to so fine a girl, who seemed ready to fly 
into his arms, if he would open them to receive her. 

Now, though I shall not perhaps be able absolutely to ac- 
quit him of either of these charges, (for want of prudence ad- 
mits of no excuse ; and what I shall produce against the latter 
charge will, I apprehend, be scarce satisfactory ;) yet, as evi- 
dence may sometimes be offered in mitigation, I shall set forth 
the plain matter of fact, and leave the whole to the reader's 

Mr.' Jones had somewhat about him, which, though I think 


writers we not thoronghly agreed in its name, doth certainly 
inhabit some human breasts ; whose nse is not so properly to 
distingoish right from wrong, as to prompt and incite them to 
the former, and to restrain and withhold them from the latter. 
This somewhat may be indeed resembled to the famous trunk- 
maker in the playhouse ; for, whenever the person who is pos- 
sessed of it doth what is right, no ravished or friendly spec- 
tator is so eager or so bad in his applause : on the contrary, 
when he doth wrong, no critic is so apt to hiss and explode 

To give a higher idea of the principle I mean, as well as 
one more familiar to the present age, it may be considered as 
sitting on its throne in the mind, like the lord high chancellor 
of this kingdom in his court; where it presides, governs, 
directs, judges, acquits, and condemns, according to merit and 
justice, with a knowledge which nothing can escape, a pene- 
tration which nothing can deceive, and an integrity which no- 
thing can corrupt. 

This active principle may perhaps be said to constitute the 
most essential barrier between us and our neighbours the 
brutes ; for if there be some in the human shape who are not 
under any such dominion, I choose rather to consider them as 
deserters from us to our neighbours ; among whom they will 
have the fate of deserters, and not be placed in the first rank. 
Our hero, whether he derived it from Thwackum or Square 
I will not determine, was very strongly under the guidance of 
this principle ; for though he did not always act rightly, yet he 
never did otherwise without feeling and suffering for it. It 
was this which taught him, that to repay the civilities and 
little friendships of hospitality by robbing the house where you 
have rec^ved them, is to be the basest and meanest of thieves. 
He did not think the baseness of this offence lessened by the 
height of the injury committed ; on the contrary, if to steal 
another's plate deserved death and infamy, it seemed to him 
difficult to assign a punishment adequate to the robbing a man 
of his whole fortune, and of his child into the bargain. 

This principle, therefore, prevented him from any thought 
of making his fortune by such means, (for this, as I have said, 
is an active principle, *nd doth not content itself with know* 


ledge or belief only.) Had he been greatlj enamonred of 
Sophia, he possibly might have thought otherwise ; but give 
me leave to say, there is great difference between running away 
with a man's daughter from the motive of love, and doing the 
same thing from the motive of theft. 

Now, though this young gentleman was not insensible of the 
charms of Sophia, though he greatly liked her beauty, and 
esteemed all her other qualifications, she had made, however, 
no deep impression on his heart ; for which, as it renders him 
liable to the charge of stupidity, or at least of want of taste, 
we shall now proceed to account. 

The truth then is, his heart was in the possession of another 
woman. Here I question not but the reader will be surprised 
at our long taciturnity as to this matter ; and quite at a loss 
to divine who this woman was, since we have hitherto not drop- 
ped a hint of any one likely to be a rival to Sophia ; for as to 
Mrs. Blifil, though we have been obliged to mention some sus- 
picions of her affection for Tom, we have not hitherto given 
the least latitude for imagining that he had any for her ; and, 
indeed, I am sorry to say it, but the youth of both sexes are 
too apt to be deficient in their gratitude for that regard with 
which persons more advanced in years are sometimes so kind 
as to honour them. 

That the reader may be no longer in suspense, he will be 
pleased to remember, that we have often mentioned the family 
of George Seagrim, (commonly called Black George, the 
gamekeeper,) which consisted at present of a wife and five 

The second of these children was a daughter, whose name 
was Molly, and who was esteemed one of the handsomest girls 
in the whole country. 

Congreve well says, there is in true beauty something which 
vulgar souls cannot admire ; so can no dirt or rags hide this 
something from those souls which are not of the vulgar stamp. 

The beauty of this girl made, however, no impression on 
Tom, till she grew towards the age of sixteen, when Tom, who 
was near three years older, began first to cast the eyes- of 
affection upon her. And this affection he had fixed on the girl 
long before he could bring himself to attempt the possession 


of her person ; for though his constitation urged him greatly 
to this, his- principles no less frequently restrained him. To 
debauch a young ¥^oman, however low her condition was, 
appeared to him a very heinous crime ; and the ^ood-will he 
bore the father, with the compassion he had for his family, very 
strongly corroborated all such sober reflections; so that he 
once resolved to get the better of his inclinations, and he 
actually abstained three whole months without ever going to 
Seagrim's house, or seeing his daughter. 

Now though Molly was, as we have said, generally thought 
a very fine girl, and in reality she was so, yet her beauty was 
not of the most amiable kind. It had indeed very littie of 
feminine in it, and would have become a man at least as well 
as a woman ; for, to say the truth, youth and florid health had 
a very considerable share in the composition. 

Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As this 
was tall and robust, so was that bold and forward. So little 
had she of modesty, that Jones had more regard for her virtue 
than she herself. And as most probably she liked Tom as well 
as he liked her ; so when she perceived his backwardness, she 
herself grew proportionably forward ; and when she saw he 
hjad entirely deserted the house, she found means of throwing 
herself in his way, and behaved in such a manner, that the 
youth must have had very much, or very little of the hero, if 
her endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, she soon 
triumphed over all the virtuous resolutions of Jones ; for though 
she behaved at last with all decent reluctance, yet I rather 
choose to attribute the triumph to her, since, in fact, it was her 
design which succeeded. 

In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played 
her part, that Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, 
and considered the young woman as one who had yielded to 
the violent attacks of his passion. He likewise imputed her 
yielding to the ungovernable force of her love towards him ; 
and this the reader will allow to have been a very natural and 
probable supposition, as we have more than once mentioned 
the uncommon comeliness of his person ; and indeed he was 
one of the handsomest young fellows in the world. 

As there are some minds whose affections, like Master Blifil's, 


are solely placed on one single person, whose interest and 
indulgence alone they consider on every occasion, regarding 
the good and ill of all others as merely indiflferent, any farther 
than as th^ contribute to the pleasure or advantage of that 
person ; so there is a different temper of mind, which borrows 
a degree of virtue even from self-love. Such can never receive 
any kind of satisfaction from another, without loving the 
creature to whom that satisfaction is owing, and without making 
its well-being in some sort necessary to their own ease. 

Of this latter species was our hero. He considered this 
poor girl as one whose happiness or misery he had caused to 
be dependent on himself. Her beauty was still the object of 
desire, though greater beauty, or a fresher object, might have 
been more so ; but the little abatement which fruition had 
occasioned to this, was highly over-balanced by the considera- 
tions of the affection which she visibly bore him, and of the 
situation into which he had brought her. The former of these 
created gratitude, the latter compassion ; and both, together 
with his desire for her person, raised in him a passion, which 
might, without any great violence to the word, be called love ; 
though, perhaps, it was at first not very judiciously placed. 

This, then, was the true reason of that insensibility which he 
had shown to the charms of Sophia, and that behaviour in her, 
which might have been reasonably enough interpreted as an 
encouragement to his addresses ; for as he could not think of 
abandoning his Molly, poor and destitute as she was, so no 
more could he entertain a notion of betraying such a creature 
as Sophia. And surely, had he given the least encouragement 
to any passion for that young lady, he must have been abso- 
lutely guilty of one or other of those crimes ; either' of which 
would, in my opinion, have very justly subjected him to that 
fate, which, at his first introduction into this history, I 
mentioned to have been generally predicted as his certain 



Being the shortest chapter in this booh. 

Heb mother first perceived the alteration in the shape of 
Molly ; and, in order to hide it from her neighbours, she fool- 
ishly clothed her in that sack which Sophia had sent her ; though, 
indeed, that young lady had little apprehension that the poor 
woman would have been weak enough to let any of her daugh- 
ters wear it in that form. 

Molly was charmed with the first opportunity she ever had 
of showing her beauty to advantage ; for though she could very 
well bear to contemplate herself in the glass, even when dressed 
in rags, and though she had in that dress conquered the heart 
of Jones, and perhaps of some others ; yet she thought the ad- 
dition of finery would much improve her charms, and extend 
her conquests. 

Molly, therefore, having dressed herself out in this sack, 
with a new laced cap, and some other ornaments which Tom 
bad given her, repairs to church with her fan in her hand the 
very next Sunday. The great are deceived, if they imagine 
they have appropriated ambition and vanity to themselves. 
These noble qualities flourish as notably in a country church, 
and church-yard, as in the drawing-room, or in the closet. 
Schemes have indeed been laid in the vestry, which would hardly 
disgrace the conclave. Here is a ministry, and here is an op- 
position. Here are plots and circumventions, parties and fac- 
tions, equal to those which are to be found in courts. 

Nor are the women here less practised in the highest femi- 
nine arts, than their fair superiors in quality and fortune. 
Here are prudes and coquettes, here are dressing and ogling, 
falsehood, envy, malice, scandal ; in short, everything that is 
common to the most splendid assembly or politest circle. Let 
those of high life, therefore, no longer despise the ignorance of 
their inferiors ; nor the vulgar any longer rail at the vices of 
iheir betters. 

Molly had seated herself some time before she was known by 
her aeighbours. And then a whisper ran through the whole 
congregation, *' Who is she V* But when she was discovered. 


178 THE HISTORY 01* 

such sneering, giggling, tittering, and laughing, ensued among 
the women, that Mr. Allworthy was obliged to exeri; his autho- 
rity to preserve any decency among them. 


A baUU tung by the mu8e in the ffomeriean ttyle, and which none htU the 
dassieal reader can taste, 

Mb. Western had an estate in this parish ; and as his house ' 
stood at little greater distance from this church than from his 
own, he very often came to divine service here ; and both he 
and the charming Sophia happened to be present at this time. 

Sophia was much pleased with the beauty of the girl, whom 
she pitied for her simplicity, in having dressed herself in that 
manner, as she saw the envy which it had occasioned among 
her equals. She no sooner came home, than she sent for the 
gamekeeper, and ordered him to bring his daughter to her; 
saying, she would provide for her in the family, and might pos- 
sibly place the girl about her own person, when her own maid, 
who was now going away, had left her. 

Poor Seagrim was thunderstruck at this; for he was no 
stranger to the fault in the shape of his daughter. He an- 
swered, in a stammering voice, ''That he was afraid Molly 
would be too awkward to wait on her ladyship, as she had 
never been at service." '' No matter for that,'' says Sophia : 
" she will soon improve. I am pleased with the girl, and am 
resolved to try her.'' 

Black George now repaired to his wife, on whose prudent 
counsel he depended to extricate him out of this dilemma ; but 
when he came thither, he found his house in some confusion. 
So great envy had this sack occasioned, that when Mr. All- 
worthy and the other gentry were gone from church, the rage, 
which had hitherto been confined, burst into an uproar ; and, 
having vented itself at first in opprobrious words, laughs, hisses, 
and gestures, betook itself at last to certain missile weapons ; 
which though, from their plastic nature, they threatened neither 
the loss of life or of limb, were, however, sufficiently dreadful 
to a well-dressed lady Molly had too much spirit to bear thii 
t^* ijely. Having, therefore — but hold, as we are dif- 


fident of our own abilities, let us here invite a superior power 
to our assistance. 

Ye muses, then, whoever ye are, who love to sing battles, 
and principally thou who whilom didst recount the slaughter in 
those fields where Hudibras and TruUa fought, if thou wert not 
starved with thy friend Butler, assist me on this great occasion. 
All things are not in the power of all. 

As a vast herd of cows in a rich farmer's yard, if, while they 
are milked, they hear their calves at a distance, lamenting the 
robbery which is then committing, roar and bellow, so roared 
forth the Somersetshire mob an halloo, made up of almost as 
many squalls, screams, and other different sounds, as there were 
persons, or indeed passions, among them ; some were inspired 
by rage, others alarmed by fear, and others had nothing in 
their heads but the love of fun ; but chiefly Envy, the sister of 
Satan, and his constant companion, rushed among the crowd, 
and blew up the fury of the women, who no sooner came up to 
Molly, than they pelted her with dirt and rubbish. 

Molly, having endeavoured in vain to make a handsome re- 
treat, faced about ; and laying hold of ragged Bess, who ad- 
vanced in the front of the enemy, she at one blow felled her to 
the ground. The whole army of- the enemy, (though near a 
hundred in number,) seeing the fate of their general, gave back 
many paces, and retired behind a new-dug grave; for the 
church-yard was the field of battle, where there was to be a fu- 
neral that very evenirfg. Molly pursued her victory, and, 
catching up a skull which lay on the side of the grave, dis- 
charged it with such fury, that, having hit a tailor on the head, 
the two skulls sent equally forth a hollow sound at their meet- 
ing, and the tailor took presently measure of his length on the 
ground, where the skulls lay side by side, and it was doubtful 
which was the more valuable of the two. Molly then, taking 
a thigh-bone in her hand, fell in among the flying ranks, and 
dealing her blows with great liberality on either side, overthrew 
the carcass of many a mighty hero and heroine. 

Recount, muse, the names of those who fell on this fatal 
day. First, Jemmy Tweedle felt on his hinder head the direful 
bone. Him the pleasant banks of sweetly-winding Stour had 
noorisbed, where he first learned the vocal art, with which, 


wandering up and down at wakes and fairs, he cheered the ru- 
ral nymphs and swains, when upon the green they interweaved 
the sprightly dance ; while he himself stood fiddling and jump- 
ing to his own music. How little now avails his fiddle 1 He 
thumps the verdant floor with his carcass. Next old Echepole, 
the sow-gelder, received a blow in his forehead from our Ama- 
zonian heroine, and immediately fell to the ground. He was a 
swingeing fat fellow, and fell with Almost as much noise as a 
house. His tobacco-box dropped at the same time from his 
pocket, which Molly took up as lawful spoils. Then Kate of 
the Mill tumbled unfortunately over a tombstone, which, catch- 
ing hold of her ungartered stocking, inverted the order of na- 
ture, and gave her heels the superiority to Ifer head. Betty 
Pippin, with young Roger her lover, fell both to the ground, 
where, perverse fate I she salutes the earth, and he the sky. 
Tom Freckle, the smith's son, was the next victim to her rage. 
He was an ingenious workman, and made excellent pattens ; 
nay, the very patten with which he was knocked down was his 
own workmanship. Had he been at that time singing psalms 
in the church, he would have avoided a broken head. Miss 
Crow, the daughter of a farmer ; John Giddish, himself a far- 
mer ; Nan Slouch, Esther Codling, Will Spray, Tom Bennet ; 
the three Misses Potter, whose father keeps the sign of the Red 
Lion ; Betty Chambermaid, Jack Ostler, and many others of 
inferior note, lay rolling among the graves. 

Not that the strenuous arm of Molly reached all these ; for 
many of them in their flight overthrew each other. 

But now Fortune, fearing she had acted out of character, 
and had inclined too long to the same side, especially as it was 
the right side, hastily turned about : for now Goody Brown, — 
whom Zekiel Brown caressed in his arms ; nor he alone, but 
half the parish besides ; so famous was she in the field of Ye- 
nus, nor indeed less in those of Mars : the trophies of both 
these her husband always bore about on his head and face ; for 
if ever human head did by its horns display the amorous glo- 
ries of a wife, ZekiePs did ; nor did his well-scratched face less 
denote her talents (or rather talons) of a different kind. 

No longer bore this Amazon the shameful flight of her party. 
She stopped short, and, calling aloud to all who fled, spoke bM 


follows: "Ye Somersetshire men, or rather, ye Somersetshire 
women, are ye not ashamed thns to fly from a single woman ? 
But if no other will oppose her, I myself and Joan Top here 
will have the honour of the victory." Having thus said, she 
flew at Molly Seagrim, and easily wrenched the thigh-bone 
from her hand, at the same time clawing off her cap from her 
head. Then, laying hold of the hair of Molly with her left 
hand, she attacked her so furiously in the face with the right, 
that the blood soon began to trickle from her nose. Molly was 
not idle this while. She soon removed the clout from the head 
of Goody Brown, and then fastening on her hair with one hand, 
with the other she caused another bloody stream to issue forth 
from the nostrils of the enemy. 

When each of the combatants had borne off suflScient spoils 
of her hair from the head of her antagonist, the next rage was 
against the garments. In this attack they exerted so much vio- 
lence, that in a very few minutes, they were both naked to the 

It is lucky for the women, that the seat of fistycuff war is 
not the same with them as among men ; but though they may 
seem a little to deviate from their sex, when they go forth to 
battle, yet I have observed they never so far forget it as to as- 
sail the bosoms of each other ; where a few blows would be fatal 
to most of them. This, I know, some derive from their being 
of a more bloody inclination than the males. On which ac- 
count they apply to the nose, as to the part whence blood may 
most easily be drawn ; but this seems a far-fetched, as well as 
ill-natured supposition. 

Goody Brown had great advantage of Molly in this parti- 
cular ; for the former had indeed no breasts, her bosom, (if it 
may be so called,) as well in colour as in many other properties, 
exactly resembling an ancient piece of parchment, upon which 
any one might have drummed a considerable while without 
doing her any great damage. 

Molly, beside her present unhappy condition, was differently 
formed in those parts, and might, perhaps, have tempted the 
envy of Brown to give her a fatal blow, had not the lucky 
arrival of Tom Jones at this instant put an immediate end to 
the bloody scene. 

..82 THE HISTORY 01* 

This accident was luckily owing to Mr. Square ; for he, Mas- 
ter Blifil, and Jones, had mounted their horses, after church, 
to take the air, and had ridden about a quarter of a mile, when 
Square, changing his mind, (not idly, but for a reason which 
we shall unfold as soon as we have leisure,) desired the young 
gentlemen to ride with him another way than they had at first 
purposed. This motion being complied with, brought them 
of necessity back again to the church-yard. 

Master Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a mob assembled, 
and two women in the posture in which we left the combatants, 
stopped his horse to inquire what was the matter. A country 
fellow, scratching his head, answered him : ''I don't know, 
measter, un't I; an't please your honour, here hath been a 
vight, I think, between Goody Brown and Moll Seagrim.'' — 
''Who, who?" cries Tom; but, without waiting for an an- 
swer, having discovered the features of his Molly through all 
the discomposure in which they now were, he hastily alighted, 
turned his horse loose, and, leaping over the wall, ran to her. 
She now, first bursting into tears, told him how barbarously 
she had been treated. Upon which, forgetting the sex of 
Goody Brown, or, perhaps, not knowing it in his rage — for, 
in reality, she had no feminine appearance but a petticoat, 
which he might not observe — he gave her a lash or two with 
his horsewip ; and then flying at the mob, who were all accused 
by Moll, he dealt his blows so profusely on all sides, that, 
unless I would again invoke the muse, (which the good-natured 
reader may think a little too hard upon her, as she hath so 
lately been violently sweated,) it would be impossible for me 
to recount the horse- whipping of that day. 

Having scoured the whole coast of the ^nemy, as well as any 
of Homer's heroes ever did, or as Don Quixote, or any knight- 
errant in the world, could have done, he returned to Molly, 
whom he found in a condition which must give both me and my 
reader pain, was it to be described here. Tom raved like a 
madman, beat his breast, tore his hair, stamped on the ground, 
and vowed the utmost vengeance on all who had been con- 
cerned. He then pulled off his coat, and buttoned it round 
her ; put his hat upon her head, wiped the blood from her face 
as well as he could with his handkerchief, and called out to the 


seryaut to ride as fast as possible for a side-saddle, or a pillion, 
that he might carry her safe home. 

Master BlifQ objected to the sending away the servant, as 
they had only one with them ; but, as Square seconded the order 
of Jones, he was obliged to comply. 

The servant returned in a very short time with a pillion, and 
Molly, having collected her rags as well as she could, was 
placed behind him : in which manner she Was carried home, 
Square, Blifil, and Jones, attending. 

Here Jones, having received his coat, given her a sly kiss, 
and whispered her that he would return in the evening, quitted 
his Molly, and rode on after his companions. 


Containing matter of no very peaceable colour. 
Molly had no sooner apparelled herself in her accustomed 
rags, than her sisters began to fall violently upon her, particu- 
larly her eldest sister, who told her she was well enough served. 
"How had she the assurance to wear a gown which young 
Madam Western had given to mother I If one of us was to 
wear it, I think," says she, " I myself have the best right ; but 
I warrant you think it belongs to your beauty. I suppose you 
think yourself more handsomer than any of us." — " Hand her 
down the bit of glass from over the cupboard," cries another ; 
"I'd wash the blood from my face before I talked of my 
beauty." — "You'd better have minded what the parson says," 
cries the eldest, "and not a hearkened after men voke." — "In- 
deed, child, and so she had," says the mother, sobbing: "she 
hath brought a disgrace upon us all. She's the vurst of the 
vamily that ever was a whore." — "You need not upbraid me 
with that, mother," cries Molly; "you yourself was brought 
to-bed of sister there within a week after you was married." — 
"Yes, hussy," answered the enraged mother, "so I was, and 
what was the mighty matter of that ? I was made an honest 
woman then ; and if you was to be made an honest woman,* I 
should not be angry ; but you must have to doing with a gen- 
tleman, yon nasty slut ; you will have a bastard, hussy, yon 
will ; and that I defy any one to say of me." 


In this sitnation Black George found his family, when he 
came home for the purpose before mentioned. As his wife and 
three daughters were all of them talking together, and most of 
them ciying, ifr^as some time before he could get an opportu- 
nity of being heard ; but as soon as such an interval occurred, 
he acquainted the company with what Sophia had said to him. 

Goody Seagrim then began to revile her daughter afresh. 
*' Here," says she, "you have brought us into a fine quandary 
indeed. What will madam say to that big belly ? O that ever 
I should live to see this day I" 

Molly answered with great spirit, "And what is this mighty 
place which you have got for me, father?" (for she had not 
well understood the phrase used by Sophia of being about her 
person.) "I suppose it is to be under the cook; but I shan't 
wash dishes for any body. My gentleman will provide better 
for me. See what he hath given me this afternoon. He hath 
promised I shall never want money; and you shan't want 
money neither, mother, if you will hold your tongue, and know 
when you are well." And so saying, she pulled out several 
guineas, and gave her mother one of them. 

The good woman no sooner felt the gold within her palm, 
than her temper began, (such is the efl&cacy of that panacea,) 
to be mollified. "Why, husband," fiays she, "would any but 
such a blockhead as you, not have inquired what place this was 
before he had accepted it ? Perhaps, as Molly says, it may be 
in the kitchen ; and truly I don't care my daughter should be a 
scullion wench ; for, poor as I am, I am a gentlewoman. And 
thof I was obliged, as my father, who was a clergyman, died 
worse than nothing, and so could not give me a shilling of po- 
tion, to undervalue myself by marrying a poor man, yet I would 
have you to know, I have a spirit above all them things. 
Marry come up I it would better become Madam Western to 
look at home, and remember who her own grandfather was. 
Some of my family, for aught I know, might ride in their 
coaches, when the grandfathers of some voke walked a-voot. 
1 warrant she fancies she did a mighty matter, when she sent 
us that old gownd ; some of my family would not have picked 
up such rags' in the street : but poor people are always trampled 
upon. The parish need not have been in such a fluster with 


Molly. You might have told them, child, jour grandmother 
wore better things new out of the shop." 

'*Well, but consider,'* cried George, *'what answer shall I 
make to Madam ?" — '* I don't know what answer," says she ; 
" you are always bringing your family into some quandary or 
other. Do you remember when you shot the partridge, the 
occasion of all our misfortunes ? Did not I advise you never 
to go into Squire Western's manor ? Did not I tell you many 
a good year ago what would come of it ? But you would have 
your own headstrong ways ; yes, you would, you villain. " 

Black George was, in the main, a peaceable kind of fellow, 
and nothing choleric nor rash : yet did he bear about him 
something of what the ancients called the irascible, and which 
his wife, if she had been endowed with much wisdom, would 
have feared. He had long experienced, that when the storm 
grew very high, arguments were but wind, which served rather 
to increase than to abate it. He was, therefore, seldom 
unprovided with a small switch, a remedy of wonderful force, 
as he had often essayed, and which the word villain served as a 
hint for his applying. 

No sooner, therefore, had this symptom appeared, than he 
had immediate recourse to the said remedy, which, though as it 
is usual in all very efficacious medicines, it at first seemed to 
heighten and inflame the disease, soon produced a total calm, 
and restored the patient to perfect ease and tranquillity. 

This is, however, a kind of horse medicine, which requires a 
very robust constitution to digest, and is, therefore, proper only 
for the vulgar, unless in one single instance, viz., where supe- 
riority of birth breaks out : in which case we should not think 
it very improperly applied by any husband whatever, if the 
application was not in itself so base, that like certain applica- 
tions of the physical kind, which need not be mentioned, it so 
much degrades and contaminates the hand employed in it, 
that no gentleman should endure the thought of any thing so 
low and detestable. 

The whole family were soon reduced to a state of perfect 

quiet ; for the virtue of this medicine, like that of electricity, is 

often communicated through one person to many others, who 

are not touched by the instrument. To say the truth, as they 



both Operate by friction, it may be doubted whether there is 
not something analogous between them, of which Mr. Freke 
would do well to inquire, before he publishes the next edition 
of his book. 

A council was now called, in which, after many debates, 
Molly still persisting that she would not go to service, it was 
at length resolved, that Goody Seagrim herself should wait on 
Miss Western, and endeavour to procure the place for her 
eldest daughter, who declared great readiness to accept it; 
but Fortune) who seems to have been an enemy of this little 
family, afterwards put a stop to her promotion. 


A itory told by Mr. Supple^ the curate. The penetration of Squire Western. 
His great love for his daughter ^ and the return to it made by her. 

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

The lovely Sophia shone forth that day with more gayety 
and sprightliness than usual. Her battery was certainly 
levelled at our hero ; though, I believe, she herself scarce yet 
knew her own intention ; but if she had any design of charming 
him, she now succeeded. 

Mr. Supple, the curate of Mr. All worthy's parish, made one 
of the company. He was a good-natured worthy man ; but 
chiefly remarkable for his great taciturnity at table, though his 
mouth was never shut at it. In short, he had one of the best 
appetites in the world. However, the cloth was no sooner 
taken away, than he always made sufficient amends for his 
silence : for he was a very hearty fellow ; and his conversation 
was often entertaining, never offensive. 

At his first arrival, which was immediately before the entrance 
of the roast-beef, he had given an intimation that he had 
brought some news with him, and was beginning to tell, that 
he came that moment from Mr. Allworthy's, when the sight of 
the roast-beef struck him dumb, permitting him only to say 
grace, and to declare he must pay his respects to the baronet, 
for so he called the sirloin. 


When dinner was oyer, being reminded by Sophia of his 
news, he began as follows : "I belieye, lady, your ladyship 
observed a young woman at church yesterday at even-song, 
who was dressed in one of your outlandish garments : I think 
I have seen your ladyship in such a one. However, in the 
country, such dresses are 

Bara avis in terris, nigroque Bimillima cygno. 

** That is, madam, as much as to say, ' A rare bird upon the 
earth, and very like a black swan. ' The verse is in Juvenal. 
But to return to what I was relating. I was saying such 
garments are rare sights in the country ; and perchance, too, 
it was thought the more rare, respect being had to the person 
who wore it, who, they tell me, is the daughter of Black 
George, your worship's game-keeper, whose sufferings, I should 
have opined, might have taught him more wit, than to dress 
forth his wenches in such gaudy apparel. She created so much 
confusion in the congregation, that if Squire Allworthy had 
not silenced it, it would have interrupted the service ; for I was 
once about to stop in the middle of the first lesson. Howbeit, 
nevertheless, after prayer was over, and I was departed home, 
this occasioned a battle in the church-yard, where, among other 
mischief, the head of a travelling fiddler was very much broken. 
This morning the fiddler came to Squire Allworthy for a 
warrant, and the wench was brought before him. The squire 
was inclined to have compounded matters ; when, lo I on a 
sudden the wench appeared, (I ask your ladyship's pardon,) 
to be, as it were, at the eve of bringing forth a bastard. The 
squire demanded of her who was the father ? But she perti- 
naciously refused to make any response : so that he was about 
to make her mittimus to Bridewell when I departed." 

" And is a wench having a bastard all your news, doctor f 
cries Western ; ' ' I thought it might have been some public 
matter, something about the nation." 

'*I am afraid it is too common, indeed," answered the 
parson; **butl thought the whole story altogether deserved 
commemorating. As to national matters, your worship knows 
them best. My concerns extend no farther than my own 


** Why, ay,*' says the squire, "L believe I do know a little 
of that matter, as you say. But, come. Tommy, drink about ; 
the bottle stands with you. " 

Tom begged to be excused, for that he had particular 
business ; and getting up from table, escaped the clutches of 
the squire, who was rising to stop him, and went oflF with very 
little ceremony. 

The squire gave him a good curse at his departure; and 
then, turning to the parson, he cried out, *'I smoke it: I 
smoke it. Tom is certainly the veather of this bastard. Zooks, 
parson, you remember how he recommended the veather o' her 
to me. D — n un, what a sly b — ch 'tis. Ay, ay, as sure as 
two-pence, Tom is the veather of the bastard." 

" I should be very sorry for that," says the parson. 

**Why sorry," cries the squire: "where is the mighty 
matter o't ? What, I suppose dost pretend that thee hast 
never got a bastard ? Pox ! more good luck's thine ; for I 
warrant hast done a therefore many's the good time and 

"Your worship is pleased to be jocular," answered the par 
son : *'but I do not only animadvert on the sinfulness of the 
action, — though that surely is to be greatly deprecated, — but 
I fear his unrighteousness may injure him with Mr. AUworthy. 
And truly, I must say, though he hath the character of being 
a little wild, I never saw any harm in the young man ; nor can 
I say I have heard any, save what your worship now mentions. 
I wish, indeed, he was a little more regular in his responses at 
church ; but altogether he seems 

Ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris. 
That is a classical line, young lady ; and, being rendered into 
English, is, * A lad of an ingenuous countenance, and of an 
ingenuous modesty :' for this was a virtue in great repute both 
among the Latins and Greeks. I must say, the young gentle- 
man, (for so I think I may call him, notwithstanding his birth,) 
appears to me a very modest civil lad, and I should be sorry 
that he should do himself any injury in Squire Allworthy'g 

" Pooh I" says the squire : " Injury with AUworthy I Why 
AUworthy loves a wench himself. Doth not all the country 


kBow whose son Tom is ? Tou mast talk to anotlier person 
in that manner. I remember Allworthy at college. '^ 

"I thought," said the parson, "he had never been at the 

'* Yes, yes, he was," says ihe sqnire ; " and many a wench 
have we two had together. As arrant a whoremaster as any 
within five miles o' nn. No, no. It will do'n no harm with 
he, assure yourself; nor with any body else. Ask Sophy there 
i— You have not the worst opinion of a young fellow for get^ 
ting a bastard, have yotl, girl ? No, no, the women will like 
on the better for't." 

This was a cruel question to poor Sophia. She had ob- 
served Tom's colour change at the parson's story ; and that^ 
with his hasty and abrupt departure, gave her sufficient reason 
to think her father's suspicion not groundless. Her heart now 
at once discovered the great secret to her which it had been so 
long disclosing by little and little ; and she found herself highly 
interested in this matter. In such a situation, her father's 
malapert question rushing suddenly upon her, produced some 
symptoms which might have alarmed a suspicious heart ; but, 
to do the squire justice, that was not his fault. When she 
arose, therefore, from her chair, and told him, a hint from him 
was always sufficient to make her withdraw, he suffered her to 
leave the room ; and then, with great gravity of countenance, 
remarked, *' That it was better to see a daughter over-modest 
than over-forward," a sentiment which was highly applauded 
by the parson. 

There now ensued, between the squire and the parson, a 
most excellent political discourse, framed out of newspapers 
and political pamphlets ; in which they made a libation of four 
bottles of wine to the good of their country ; and then the 
squire being fast asleep, the parson lighted his pipe, mounted 
his horse, and rode home. 

When the squire had finished his half-hour's nap, he sum- 
moned his daughter to her harpsichord ; but she begged to be 
excused that evening, on account of a violent headache. 
This remission was presently granted ; for indeed she seldom 
had occasion to ask him twice, as he loved her with such 
ardent affection, that, by gratifying her, he commonly conveyed 


the highest gratification to himself. She was really, what he 
frequently called her, his little darling ; and she well deserved 
to be so ; for she returned all his affection in the most ample 
manner. She had preserved the most inviolable duty to him 
in all things ; and this her love made not only easy, but so 
delightful, that, when one of her companions laughed at her 
for placing so much merit in such scrupulous obedience, as that 
young lady called it, Sophia answered, "You mistake me, 
madam, if you think I value myself upon this account ; for 
besides that I am barely discharging my duty, I am likewise 
pleasing myself. I can truly say, I have no delight equal to 
that of contributing to my father's happiness ; and if I value 
myself, my dear, it is on having this power, and not on 
executing it.'' 

This was a satisfaction, however, which poor Sophia was in- 
capable of tasting this evening. She, therefore, not only de- 
sired to be excused from her attendance at the harpsichord, but 
likewise begged that he would suffer her to absent herself from 
supper. To this request, likewise, the squire agreed, though 
not without some reluctance ; for he scarce ever permitted her 
to be out of his sight, unless when he was engaged with his 
horses, dogs, or bottle. Nevertheless, he yielded to the desire 
of his daughter, though the poor man was, at the same time, 
obliged to avoid his own company, (if I may so express myself,) 
by sending for a neighbouring farmer to sit with him. 


The narrow escape of Molly Seagrim, vnth eome obeemationa for whkh wt 
have been forced to dive pretty deep into nature, 

Tom Jones had ridden one of Mr. Western's horses that 
morning in the chase ; so that having no horse of his own in 
the squire's stable, he was obliged to go home on foot ; this he 
did so expeditiously, that he ran upwards of three miles within 
the half-hour. 

Just as he arrived at Mr. AUworthy's outward gate, he met 

the constable and company, with Molly in their possession, 

* n they were conducting to that house where the inferior 


sort of people may learn one goo^ lesson, viz., respect and de- 
ference to their superiors ; since it must show them the wide 
distinction Fortune intends between those persons who are to 
be corrected for their faults, and those who are not ; which les- 
son, if they do not learn, I am afraid they very rarely learn any 
other good lesson, or improve their morals, at the house of cor- 

A lawyer may, perhaps, think Mr. Allworthy exceeded his 
authority a little in this instance. And, to say the truth, I 
question, as here was no regular information before him, whe- 
ther his conduct was strictly regular. However, as his inten- 
tion was truly upright, he ought to be excused in foro consci- 
entias ; since so many arbitrary acts are daily committed by 
magistrates, who have not this ipxcuse to plead for themselves. 

Tom was no sooner informed by the constable whither they 
were proceeding, (indeed, he pretty well guessed it of himself,) 
than he caught Molly in his arms, and embracing her tenderly 
before them all, swore he would murder the first man \vlio 
offered to lay hold of her. He bid her dry her eyes, and be 
comforted ; for, wherever she went, he would accompany her. 
Then turning to the constable, who stood trembling;' with his 
hat off, he desired him, in a very mild voice, to retuni with liim 
for a moment only to his father, (for so he now called All- 
worthy ;) for he durst, he said, be assured, that, when lie had 
alleged what he had to say in her favour, the girl would be dis- 

The constable, who, I make no doubt, would have surren- 
dered his prisoner, had Tom demanded her, very readily con- 
sented to this request. So back they all went into Mr. All- 
worthy's hall ; where Tom desired them to stay till his return, 
and then went himself in pursuit of the good man. As soon as 
he was found, Tom threw himself at his feet, and, having begged 
a patient hearing, confessed himself to be the father of the child 
of which Molly was then big. He entreated him to have com- 
passion on the poor girl, and to consider, if there was any guilt 
in the case, it lay principally at hi^ door. 

"If there is any guilt in the case!" answered Allworthy 
warmly : ''are you then so profligate and abandoned a libertine 
to doabt whether the breaking the laws of God and man, tho 


corrupting and ruining a poor girl, be guilt ? I own, indeed, 
it doth lie principally upon you ; and so heavy is it, that you 
ought to expect it should crush you." 

** Whatever may be my fate/' says Tom, ** let me succeed in 
my intercessions for the poor girl. I confess I have corrupted 
her ; but whether she shall be ruined depends on you. For 
Heaven's sake, sir, revoke your warrant, and do not send her 
to a place which must unavoidably prove her destruction." 

AUworthy bid him immediately call a servant. Tom an- 
swered, there was no occasion ; for he had luckily met them at 
the gate, and, relying upon his goodness, had brought them all 
back into his hall, where they now waited his final resolution, 
which, upon his knees, he besought him might be in favour of 
the girl ; that she might be permitted to go home to her pa- 
rents, and not be exposed to a greater degree of shame and 
scorn than must necessarily fall upon her. *' I know," said he, 
'* that is too much. I know I am the wicked occa^on of it. I 
will endeavour to make amends, if possible ; and if you shall 
have hereafter the goodness to forgive me, I hope I shall de- 
serve it." 

AUworthy hesitated some time, and at last said, "Well, I 
will discharge my mittimus. You may send the constable to 
me.'* He was instantly called, discharged, and so was the 

It will be believed that Mr. AUworthy failed not to read 
Tom a very severe lecture on this occasion ; but it is unneces- 
sary to insert it here, as we have faithfully transcribed what he 
said to Jenny Jones in the first book, most of which may bo 
applied to the men, equally with the women. So sensible an 
effect had these reproofs on the young man, who was no hard- 
ened sinner, that he retired to his own room, where he passed 
the evening alone, in much melancholy contemplation. 

AUworthy was sufficiently offended by this transgression of 
Jones ; for, notwithstanding the assertions of Mr. Western, it is 
certain this worthy man had never indulged himself in any loose 
pleasures with women, and greatly condemned the vice of in- 
continence in others. Indeed, there is much reason to imagine^ 
that there was not the least truth in what Mr. Western afifirmed, 
espetnally as he laid the scene of those imparities at the imiTecw 


sity, where Mr. AUworthy had never been. In fact, the good 
squire was a little too apt to indulge that kind of pleasantry 
which is generally called rhodomontade ; but which may, with 
as much propriety, be expressed by a much shorter word ; and 
perhaps we too often supply the use of this little monosyllable 
by others ; since very much of what frequently passes in the 
world for wit and humour should, in the strictest purity of lan- 
guage, receive that shdrt appellation, which, in conformity to 
the well-bred laws of custom, I here suppress. 

But whatever detestation Mr. AUworthy had to this or to 
any other vice, he was not so blinded by it but that he could 
discern any virtue in the guilty person, as clearly indeed as if 
there had been no mixture of vice in the same character. While 
he was angry, therefore, with the incontinence of Jones, he was 
no less pleased with the honour and honesty of his self-accusa- 
tion. He began now to form in his mind the same opinion of 
this young bellow, which, we hope, our reader may have con- 
ceived. And in balancing his faults with his perfections, the 
latter seemed rather to preponderate. 

It was to no purpose, therefore, that Thwackum, who was 
immediately charged by Mr. Blifil with the story, unbended all 
his rancour against poor Tom. AUworthy gave a patient 
hearing to their invectives, and then answered coldly, ''That 
young men of Tom's complexion were too generally addicted 
to this vice ; but he believed that youth was sincerely affected 
with what he had said to him on the occasion, and lie hoped 
he would not transgi'ess again." So that, as the days of whip- 
ping were at an end, the tutor had no other vent but his own 
mouth for his gall, the usual poor resource of impotent revenge. 

But Square, who was a less violent, was a much more artful 
man ; and, as he hated Jones more perhaps than Thwackum 
himself did, so he contrived to do him more mischief in the 
mind of Mr. AUworthy. 

The reader must remember the several little incidents of the 
partridge, the horse, and the Bible, which were recounted in 
the second book : by all which Jones had rather improved than 
injured the affection which Mr. AUworthy was inclined to en- 
tertain for him. The same, I believe, must have happened to 
bim with every other person who hath any idea of friendship, 

I It M 


generosity, and greatness of spirit ; that is to say, who hath 
any traces of p:ooclness in his mind. 

Square himself was not unacquainted with the true impres- 
sion which those seyeral instances of f^oodness had made on 
the excellent heart of Mr. Allworthy ; for the philosopher very 
well knew what virtue wa&, though he was not always, perhaps, 
steady in its pursuit ; but as for Thwacknm, from what reason 
J will not determine, no such thoughts ever entered into his 
head : he sa^v Jones in a bad light, and he imagined Allworthy 
saw him in the same ; but that he was resolved, from pride and 
stubbornness of spirit, not to give up the boy whom he had 
once cherished ; since, by so doing, he must tacitly acknow- 
ledge that his former opinion of him had been wrong. 

Square therefore embraced the opportunity of injuring Jones 
in the tenderest part, by giving a very bad tnrn to all these 
before mentioned occurrences. **I am sorry, sir,*' said he, 
*'to own I have been deceived as well as yourself. I could 
not, I confess, help being pleased with what I ascribed to the 
motive of friendship, though it was carried to an excess, and 
all excess is faulty and vicious ; but in this I made allowance 
for youth. Little did I suspect that the sacrifice of truth, which 
we both imagined to have been made to friendship, was in 
reality a prostitution of it to a depraved and debauched appe- 
tite. You now plainly see whence all the seeming generosity 
of this young man to the family of the gamekeeper proceeded. 
He supported the father, in order to corrupt the daughter, and 
preserved the family from starving, to bring one of them to 
shame and ruin. This is friendship ! this is generosity ! As 
Sir Richard Steele says, * Gluttons, who give high prices for 
delicacies, are very worthy to be called generous.' In short, 
I am resolved, from this instance, never to give way to the 
weakness of human nature more, nor to think any thing vhine, 
which doth not exactly quadrate with the unerring rule of 

The goodness of Allworthy had prevented these considera- 
tions from occurring to himself; yet were they too plausible to 
be absolutely and hastily rejected, when laid before his eyes by 
another. Indeed, what Square had said sunk very deeply into 
his mind, and the nneaainesa ^Yv\c\i \\> Vlkiei^ ^^aXa^^u^^^ty 


fisible to the other ; though the good man would not acknow 
ledge this, but made a very slight answer, and forcibly drove 
off the discourse to some other subject. It was well perhaps 
for poor Tom, that no such suggestions had been made before 
he was pardoned ; for they certainly stamped in the mind of 
Allworthy the first bad impression concerning Jones. 


Ocntammff muen dearer matters ; but which flowed from the same fountain 
with those in the preceding chapter. 

The reader will be pleased, I believe, to return with me to 
Sophia. She passed the night, after we saw her last, in no 
very agreeable manner. Sleep befriended her but little, and 
dreams less. In the morning, when Mrs. Honour, her maid, 
attended her at the usual hour, she was found already up and 

Persons who live two or three miles' distance in the country 
are considered as next-door neighbours, and transactions at 
the one house fly with incredible celerity to the other. Mrs. 
Honour, therefore, had heard the whole story of Molly's 
shame ; which she, being of a very communicative temper, 
had no sooner entered the apartment of her mistress, than she 
began to relate in the following manner : — 

*'La, ma'am, what doth your la'ship think ? The girl that 
your la'ship saw at church on Sunday, whom you thought so 
handsome ; though you would not have thought her so hand- 
some neither, if yon had seen her nearer ; but to be sure she 
hath been carried before the justice for being big with child. 
She seemed to me to look like a confident slut: and to be 
sure she hath laid the child to young Mr. Jones ; and all the 
parish says, Mr. Allworthy is so angry with young Mr. Jones, 
tba; he won't see him. To be sure, one can't help pitying 
the poor young man, and yet he doth not deserve much pity 
neither, for demeaning himself with such kind of trumpery. 
Yet he is so pretty a gentleman, I should be sorry to have 
him turned out of doors. I dares to swear ftv^ ^^wOci^^a* ^% 
w£lb0^ as he, for she was always a forwati. YmdL ol \kO^> 


And when wenches are so coming, yoang men are not so much 
to be blamed neither ; for to be sure they do no more than 
what is natural. Indeed it is beneath them to meddle with 
such dirty draggletails ; and whatever happens to them, it is 
good enough for them. And yet, to be sure, the vile bag- 
gages are most in fault. I wishes, with all my heart, they 
were to be well whipped at the cartas tail ; for it is a pity they 
should be the ruin of a pretty young gentleman ; and nobody 
can deny but that Mr. Jones is one of the most handsomest 
young men that ever '^ 

She was running on thus, when Sophia, with a more peevish 
voice than she had ever spoken to her before, cried, *' Prithee, 
why dost thou trouble me with all this stuff ? What concern 
have I in what Mr. Jones doth ? I suppose you are all alike. 
And you seem to me to be angry it was not your own case. " 

''I, ma'am 1" answered Mrs. Honour. **I am sorry your 
ladyship should have such an opinion of me. I am sure no- 
body can say any such thing of me. All the young fellows in 
Ihe world may go to the devil for me. Because I said he was 
a handsome man 1 Every body says it as well as I. To bs 
sure, I never thought it was any harm to say a young man 
was handsome ; but to be sure I shall never think him so any 
more now j for handsome is that handsome does. A beggar 
vN^ench I '' 

*'Stop thy torrent of impertinence," cries Sophia, ** and 
see whether my father wants me at breakfast." 

Mrs. Honour then flung out of the room, muttering much 
to herself, of which, "Marry come up, I assure you," waa 
all that could be distinguished. 

Whether Mrs. Honour really deserved that suspicion, of 
which her mistress gave her a hint, is a matter which we can- 
not indulge our reader's curiosity by resolving. We will, 
however, make him amends in disclosing what passed in the 
mind of Sophia. 

The reader will be pleased to recollect, that a secret affec- 
tion for Mr. Jones had insensibly stolen into the bosom of this 
young lady. That it had there grown to a pretty great height 
before she herself had discovered it. When she first begim to 
perceive its symptoms, tbe senaaXivoTia \?^t^ ao «NR^^t and pie 


Ing, that she had not resolution sufficient to check or repel 
them ; and thus she went on cherishing a passion, of which she 
never once considered the consequences. 

This incident relating to Molly first opened her eyes. She 
now first perceived the weakness of which she had been guilty ; 
and though it caused the utmost perturbation in her mind, yet 
it had the effect of other nauseous physic, and for the time ex- 
pelled her distemper. Its operation indeed was most wonder- 
fully quick ; and in the short interval, while her maid was ab- 
sent, so entirely removed all symptoms, that when Mrs. Honour 
returned with a summons from her father, she was become per- 
fectly easy, and had brought herself to a thorough indifference 
for Mr. Jones. 

The diseases of the mind do, in almost every particular, imi- 
tate those of the body. For which reason, we hope, that 
learned faculty, for whom we have so profound a respect, will 
pardon us the violent hands we have been necessitated to lay 
on several words and phrases, which of right belong to them, 
and without which our descriptions must have been often un- 

Now there is no one circumstance in which the distempers 
of the mind bear a more exact analogy to those which are 
called bodily, than that aptness which both have to a relapse. 
This is plain in the violent diseases of ambition and avarice. 
I have known ambition, when cured at court by frequent dis- 
appointments, (which are the only physic for it,) to break out 
again in a contest for foreman of the grand jury at an assizes ; 
and have heard of a man who had so far conquered avarice, 
as to give away many a sixpence, that comforted himself, at 
last, on his death-bed, by making a crafty and advantageous 
bargain concerning his ensuing funeral, with an undertaker 
who had married his only child. 

In the affair of love, which, out of strict conformity with the 
stoic philosophy, we shall here treat as a disease, this proneness 
to relapse is no less conspicuous. Thus it happened to poor 
Sophia ; upon whom, the very next time she saw young Jones, 
all the former symptoms returned, and from that time cold and 
hot fits alternately seized her heart. 

The sitnatjon of this young lady was now \eT^ dASSfcX^\v\i\x^\s2L 


what it had ever been before. That passidn, which had 
formerly been so exquisitely delieions, became now a scorpion 
in her bosom. She resisted it, therefore, with her utmost 
force, and summoned every argument her reason, (which was 
surprisingly strong for her age,) could suggest, to subdue and 
expel it. In this she so far succeeded, that She began to hope, 
from time and absence, a perfect cure. She resolved therefore 
to avoid Tom Jones as much as possible ; for which purpose 
she began to conceive a design of vjsiting her aunt, to which 
she made no doubt of obtaining her father's consent. 

But Fortune, who had other designs in her head, put an 
immediate stop to any such proceeding, by introducing an 
accident, which will be related in the next chapter. 


A dreadful accident which befel Sophia. The gallant behaviour of Jones, and 
th^. more dreadful consequences of that behaviour to the young lady ; with a 
short digression in favour of the female sex. 

Mr. Western grew every day fonder and fonder of Sophia, 
insomuch that his beloved dogs themselves almost gave place 
to her iu his affections ; but as he could not prevail on himself 
to abandon these, he contrived very cunningly to enjoy their 
company, together with that of his daughter, by insisting on 
her riding a hunting with him. 

Sophia, to whom her father's word was a law, readily com- 
plied with his desires, though she had not the least delight in a 
sport, which was of too rough and masculine a nature to suit 
with her disposition. She had, however, another motive, 
beside her obedience, to accompany the old gentleman in the 
chase; for, by her presence, she hoped in some measure to 
restrain his impetuosity, and to prevent him from so frequently 
exposing his neck to the utmost hazard. 

Tlie strongest objection was, that which would have formerly 

been an inducement to her, namely, the frequent meeting with 

young Jones, whom she had determined to avoid ; but, as the 

end of the hunting season now approached, she hoped, by a short 

e with her aunt, tc reaaoii \i€t^^\i ^Tvtvc^ly out of her 


«nfori.anate passion ; and had not any doubt of being able to 
meet him in the field the subsequent season without the least 

On the second day of her hunting, as she was returning from 
the chase, and was arrived within a little distance from Mr. 
Western's house, her horse, whose mettlesome spirit required a 
better rider, fell sudd^y to prancing and capering in such a 
manner, that she was in the most imminent peril of falling. 
Tom Jones, who was at little distance behind, saw this, and 
immediately galloped up to her assistance. As soon as he came 
up, he leaped from his own horse, and caught hold of hers by 
the bridle. The unnily beast presently reared himself an end 
on his hind legs, and threw his lovely burden from his back, 
and Jones caught her in his arms. ^ 

Sh^ was so affected with the fright, tliat she wa& not immedi- 
ately able to satisfy Jones, who was very solicitous to know, 
whether she had received any hurt. She soon after, however, 
recovered her spirits, assured him she was safe, and thanked 
him for the care he had taken of her. Jones answered, '* If 
I have preserved you, madam, I am sufficiently repaid ; for, I 
promise you, I would have secured you from the least harm at 
the expense of a much greater misfortune to myself than I have 
suffered on this occasion." 

*' What misfortune ?" replied Sophia, eagerly : " I hope you 
have come to no mischief?" 

**Be not concerned, madam," answered Jones. ''Heaven 
be praised you have escaped so well, considering the danger 
you was in. If I have broke my arm, I consider it as a trifle, 
in comparison of what I feared upon your account " 

Sophia then screamed out, '* Broke your arm. Heaven 

"I am afraid I have, madam," says Jones ; ''but I beg you 
will suffer me first to take care of you. I have a right-hand 
yet at your service, to help you into the next field, whence we 
have but a very little walk to your father's house. " 

Sophia, seeing his left-arm dangling bv his side, while he 
was using the other to lead her, no lo. ^vi- doubted of the 
truth. She now grew much paler than her fears for herself 
had made her before. All her limbs \NCt^ ^^yl^^ ^Nisi^L ^ 


trembling, insomuch that Jones could scarce support her ; and, 
as her thoughts were in no less agitation, she could not refrain 
from giving Jones a look so full of tenderness, that it almost 
argued a stronger sensation in her mind, than even gratitude 
and pity united can raise in the gentlest female bosom, without 
the assistance of a third more powerful passion. 

Mr. Western, who was advanced at some distance when this 
accident happened, was now returned, as were the rest of the 
horsemen. Sophia immediately acquainted them with what had 
befallen Jones, and begged them to take care of him. Upon 
whieli Western, who had been much alarmed by meeting his 
daughter's horse without its rider, and was now overjoyed to 
find her unhurt, cried out, "I am glad it is no worse. If Tom 
hath broken his arm, we will get a joiner to mendun again.'* 

The squire alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his 
house on foot, with his daughter and Jones. An impartial 
spectator who had met them on the way, would, on viewing 
their several countenances, have concluded Sophia alone to 
have been the object of compassion : for as to Jones, he ex- 
ulted in having probably saved the life of the young lady at the 
price only of a broken bone ; and Mr. Western, though he was 
not unconcerned at the accident which had befallen Jones, was, 
however, delighted in a much higher degree with the fortunate 
escape of his daughter. 

The generosity of Sophia's temper construed this behaviour 
of Jones into great bravery 5 and it made a deep impression on 
her heart ; for certain it is, that there is no one quality which 
so generally recommends men to women as this ; proceeding, 
if we believe the common opinion, from that natural timidity 
of the sex, which is, says Mr. Osborne, *'so great, that a wo- 
man is the most cowardly of all the creatures God ever made ;" 
— a sentiment more remarkable for its bluntness than for its 
truth. Aristotle, in his Politics, doth them, I believe, more 
justice, when he says, "The modesty and fortitude of men dif- 
fer from those virtues in women ; for the fortitude which be- 
comes a woman, would be cowardice in a man ; and the modesty 
which becomes a man, would be pertness in a woman." Nor 
is there, perhaps, more of truth in the opinion of those who 
derive the partiality which womeiv ax^ mclined to show to tho 


brave, froiu the excess of their fear. Mr. Bayle, (I think, in his 
Article of Helen,) imputes this, and with greater probability, 
to their violent love of glory ; for the truth of which, we have 
the authority of him, who, of all others, saw farthest into hu- 
man nature, and who introduces the heroine of his Odyssey, 
the great pattern of matrimonial love and constancy, assigning 
the glory of her husband as the only source of her affection to- 
wards him.* 

However this be, certain it is, that the accident operated 
very strongly on Sophia, and indeed, after much inquiry into 
the matter, I am inclined to, believe, that, at this very time, the 
charming Sophia made no less impression on the heart of Jones ; 
to say the truth, he had for some time become sensible of the 
irresistible power of her charms. 


The arrival of a surgeon, Jlis operations ; and a long dialogue between Sophia 
and her maid. 

When they arrived in Mr. Western's hall, Sophia, who had 
tottered along with much difficulty, sunk down in her chair ; 
but, by the assistance of hartshorn and water, she was prevented 
from fainting away, and had pretty well recovered her spirits, 
when the surgeon, who was sent for to Jones, appeared. Mr. 
Western, who imputed these symptoms in his daughter to her 
fall, advised her to be presently blooded, by way of prevention. 
In this opinion he was seconded by the surgeon, who gave so 
many reasons for bleeding, and quoted so many cases where 
persons had miscarried for want of it, that the sqnire became 
very importunate, and indeed insisted peremptorily that his 
daughter should be blooded. 

Sophia soon yielded to the commands of her father, Jiongh 
entirely contrary to her own inclinations ; for she suspected, I 
believe, less danger from the fright, than either the squire or 
the surgeon. She then stretched out her beautiful arm, and the 
operator began to prepare for his work. 

*The English reader will not find this in the poesci*, toT >i>aft ^^TLVASsi^\>Nk 
ii mtirelj \eft out fa the translation. 


While the servants were busied in providing materials, the 
sorgeon, who imputed the backwardness which had appeared in 
Sophia to her fears, began to comfort her with assurances that 
there was not the least danger ; for no accident, he said, could 
ever happen in bleeding, but from the monstrous ignorance of 
pretenders to surgery, which he pretty plainly insinuated was 
not at present to be apprehended. Sophia declared she was 
not under the least apprehension; adding, ''If you open an 
artery, I promise you Pll forgive you." ''Will you?'' cries 
Western : " D — ^n me, if I will. — If he does thee the least mis- 
chief, d — n me if I don't ha' the heart's blood o' un out." 
The surgeon assented to bleed her upon these conditions, and 
then proceeded to his operation, which he performed with as 
much dexterity as he had promised ; and with as much quick- 
ness : for he took but little blood from her, saying, it was much 
safer to bleed again and again, than to take away too much at 

Sophia, when her arm was bound up, retired : for she was 
not willing, (nor was it, perhaps, strictly decent,) to be pre- 
sent at the operation on Jones. Indeed, one objection which 
she had to bleeding, (though she did not make it,) was the de- 
lay which it would occasion to setting the broken bone. For 
Western, when Sophia was concerned, had no consideration 
but for her ; and as for Jones himself, he "sat like Patience on 
a monument, smiling at grief." To say the truth, when he saw 
the blood springing from the lovely arm of Sophia, he scarce 
thought of what had happened to himself. 

The surgeon now ordered his patient to be stripped to his 
shirt, and then entirely baring the arm, he began to stretch and 
examine it in such a manner, that the tortures he put him to, 
caused Jones to make several wry faces ; which the surgeon ob- 
serving, greatly wondered at, crying, " What is the matter, sir ? 
I am sure it is impossible I should hurt you." And then, 
holding forth the broken arm, he began a learned and very long 
lecture on anatomy, in which simple and double fractures were 
most accurately considered ; and the several ways in which Jones 
might have broken his arm were discussed, with proper anno- 
tations, showing how many of these would have been betteTi 
^Dd bow many worse, than the pieswi^, ^^^. 


Having at length finished his laboured harangue, with which 
the audience, thougn it had greatly raised their attention and 
admiration, were not much edified, as they really understorod 
not a single syllable of all he had said, he proceeded to busi- 
ness, which he was more expeditious in finishing, than he had 
been in beginning. 

Jones was then ordered into a bed, which Mr. Western com 
pelled him to accept at his own house, and sentence of water- 
gruel was passed upon him. 

Among the good company which had attended in the hall 
during the bone-setting, Mrs. Honour was one ; who being 
summoned to her mistress as soon as it was over, and being 
asked by her how the young gentleman did, presently launched 
into extravagant praises on the " magnimity,'' as she called it, 
of his behaviour, which, she said, ''was so charming in so pretty 
a creature. " She then burst forth into much warmer enco- 
miums on the beauty of his person ; enumerating many particu- 
lars, and ending with the whiteness of his skin. 

This discourse had an effect on Sophia's countenance, which 
would not perhaps have escaped the observance of the saga- 
cious waiting-woman, had she once looked her mistress in the 
face all the time she was speaking ; but as a looking-glass, 
which was most commodiously placed opposite to her, gave 
her an opportunity of surveying those features, in which, of all 
others, she took most delight, so she had not once removed her 
eyes from that amiable object during her whole speech. 

Mrs. Honour was so entirely wrapt up in the subject on 
which she exercised her tongue, and the object before her eyes, 
tliat she gave her mistress time to conquer her confusion; 
which having done, she smiled on her maid, and told her, 
".She was certainly in love with this young fellow." ''I in 
love, madam 1" answers she : ''upon my word, ma'am, I assure 
you, ma'am, upon my soul, ma'am, I am not." "Why, if 
you was," cries her mistress, "I see no reason that you should 
be ashamed of it ; for he is certainly a pretty fellow. " " Yes, 
ma'am," answered the other, "that he is, the handsomest man 
I ever saw in my life. Yes, to be sure, that he is, and, as your 
ladyship says, I don't know why I should be asham<id q^ \QV\\>k% 
Um, though he is my betters. To be sure, ft^uW^^o^^ ^x'SiVvc^ 


flesh and blood no more than us servants. Besides, as for Mr. 
Jones, thof Squire Allworthy hath made a gentleman of him, 
he was not so good as myself by birth ; for thof I am a poor 
body I am an honest person's child, and my father and mother 
were married, which is more than some people can say, as high 
as they hold their heads. Marry, come up I I assure you, my 
dirty cousin ; thof his skin be so white, and to be sure it is the 
most whitest that ever was seen, I am a christian as well as he, 
and nobody can say that I am base bom ; my grandfather was 
a clergyman,* and would have been very angry, I believe, to 
have thought any of his family should have taken up with Molly 
Seagrim's dirty leavings.'' 

Perhaps Sophia might have suffered her maid to run on in 
this manner, from wanting suflBcient spirits to stop her tongue, 
which the reader may probably conjecture was no very easy 
task; for certainly there were some passages in her speech 
which were far from being agreeable to the lady. However, 
she now checked the torrent, as there seemed no end of its flow- 
ing. "I wonder," says she, "at your assurance in daring to 
talk thus of one of my father's friends. As to the wench, I 
order you never to mention her name to me. And, with regard 
to the young gentleman's birth, those who can say nothing 
more to his disadvantage, may as well be silent on that head, 
as I desire you will be for the future." 

" I am sorry I have offended your ladyship," answered Mrs. 
Honour. '' I am sure I hate Molly Seagrim as much as your 
ladyship can ; and as for abusing Squire Jones, I can call all 
the servants in the house to witness, that whenever any talk 
hath been about bastards, I have always taken his part ; for 
which of you, says I to the footman, would not be a bastard, 
if he could, to be made a gentleman of? And, says I, I am 
sure he is a very fine gentleman ; and he hath one of the 
whitest hands in the world ; for to be sure so he hath : and, 
says I, one of the sweetest temperedst, best naturedst men in 
the world he is ; and, says I, all the servants and neighbours 

* This is tbo second person of low condition whom we have recorded in 

this history to have sprung from the clergy. It is to be hoped such in- 

Btances will, in future ages, when some provision is made for the families 

of the inferior clergy, appear straxv^OT t\iwa. \Itl^^| CiW\. b^ thoni^t at 



ail round the country loves him. And, to be sure, I could tell 
your ladyship something, but that I am afraid it would offend 
you." — "What could you tell me, Honour?" says Sophia. 
** Nay, ma'am, to be sure he meant nothing by it ; therefore I 
would not have your ladyship be offended." — ''Prithee tell 
me," says Sophia: ''I will know it this instant." — ''Why, 
ma'am," answered Mrs. Honour, "he came into the room one 
day last week, when I was at work, and there lay your lady- 
ship's muff on a chair, and to be sure he put his hands into it ; 
that very muff your ladyship gave me but yesterday. La ! says 
1, Mr. Jones, you will stretch my lady's muff, and spoil it ; but 
he still kept his hands in it ; and then he kissed it — ^to be sure, 
I hardly ever saw such a kiss in my life as he gave it." — "I 
suppose he did not know it was mine," replied Sophia. 
" Your ladyship shall hear, ma'am. He kissed it again and 
again, and said, it was the prettiest muff in the world. La I 
sir, says I, you have seen it a hundred times. Yes, Mrs. 
Honour, cried he ; but who can see any thing beautiful in the 
presence of your lady, but herself? — Nay, that's not all, 
neither ; but I hope your ladyship won't be offended, for to be 
sure he meant nothing. One day as your ladyship was playing 
on the harpsichord to my master, Mr. Jones was sitting in the 
next room, and methought he looked melancholy. La I says I, 
Mr. Jones, what's the matter? a penny for your thoughts, 
says I. Why, hussy, says he, starting up from a dream, wha 
can I be thinking of, when that angel your mistress is playing . 
And then squeezing me by the hand. Oh ! Mrs. Honour says 
he, how happy will that man be — and then he sighed. Upon 
my oath, his breath is as sweet as a nosegay. — But to be sure 
ne meant no harm by it. So I hope your ladyship will not 
mention a word ; for he gave me a crown never to mention it, 
and made me swv!\r upon a book ; but I believe, indeed, it was 
not the Bible." 

Till something of a more beautiful red than vermilion can be 
found out, I shall say nothing of Sophia's colour on this occa- 
sion. "Ho — nour," siiys she, "I — if yon will not mention 
this any mon; to me, — nor to any body else, I will not betray 
you — I mean, I will not be angry ; but I am v\.^\^\^ ^1 ^<^^qx 
tongue. Why, my girl, will you give \\. b.\icJcl X^^xNXfc'e.'O'*— 

L — 18 


"Nay, ma'am," answered she, "to be sure, I would sooncT 
cut out my tongue than oflfend your ladyship. To be sure, I 
shall never mention a word that your ladyship would not have 
me." — "Why, I would not have you mention this any more/' 
said Sophia, "for it may come to my father's ears, and he 
would be angry with Mr. Jones ; though I really believe, as 
you say, he meant nothing. I should be very angry myself, if 
I imagined — " " — Nay, ma'am," says Honour, "I protest I 
believe he meant nothing. I thought he talked as if he was 
out of his senses ; nay, he said he believed he was beside himself 
when he had spoken the words. Ay, sir, says I, I believe so 
too. Yes, said he. Honour. — But I ask your ladyship's par- 
don; I could tear my tougue out for offending you.'' — " Go 
on," says Sophia ; "you may mention any thing you have not 
told me before." — "Yes, Honour, says he, (this was sometime 
afterwards, when he gave me the crown,) I am neither such a 
coxcomb, or such a villain, as to think of her in any other de- 
light but as my goddess ; as such I will always worship and 
adore her while I have breath. — This was all, ma'am, I will be 
sworn, to the best of ray remembrance. I was in a passion 
%ith him myself, till I found he meant no harm." — "Indeed, 
Honour," says Sophia, "I believe you have a real affection for 
me. I was provoked the other day when I gave you warning ; 
but if you have a desire to stay with me, you shall." — "To be 
sure, ma'am," answered Mrs. Honour. " I shall never desire to 
part with your ladyship. To be ejure, I almost cried my eyes 
out when you gave me warning. It would be very ungrateful 
in me to desire to ?eave your ladyship ; because as why, t 
should never get so good a place uigaiu. I am sure I would 
live and die with ^our ladyship : for, tts poor Mr. Jones said, 
happy is the map. — '' 

Here the dinner-bell interrupted a conversation which had 
wrought such an elToct on Sophia, chat she was, perhaps, more 
obliged to her bit^etrnu* in the mornincr, thfin .shu, at the time, 
had apprehended she sliould bo. A s to the present situation 
of her mind, I shall adhere lo a rule of Horace, by not at- 

^ tempting to describe it, from despair of kucccs*. Most of my 
renders will suggest it easily to theuisoives ; and he few who 

cannot, would not onderstatid i\v^i ^\eV\«^, v>t \».\.\«^1 ^oald 

tienjr it to he natural, if ever %o weW c^x^^xv. 






Of the ferioua in vrriting ; and for what purpose it is introduced, 

- Feraivventure there may be no parts in this prodigious 
work which will givo the reader less pleasure in the perusing, 
than those which have given the author the greatest pains in 
composing. Among these, prol?ably, may be reckoned those 
initial essays which we have prefixed to the historical matter 
contained in every book ; and which we have determined to be 
essentially necessary to this kind of writing, of which we have 
set ourselves at the head. 

For this our determination we do not hold ourselves strictly 
bound to assign any reason ; it being abundantly sufficient that 
we have laid it down as a rule necessary to be observed in all 
prosai-comi-epic writing. Who ever demanded the reasc^ 
of that nice unity of time or place which is now established to 
be so essential to dramatic poetry ? What critic hatli been 
ever asked, why a play may not contain two days as well as 
one ? Or why the audience, (provided they travel, like elec- 
tors, without any expense,) may not be wafted fifty miles as 
well as five ? Hath any commentator well accounted for the 
limitation which an ancient critic hath set to the drama, which 
he will have contain neither more nor less than five acts ? Or 
hath any one living attempted to explain what the modern 
judges of our theatres mean by that word low; by which 
they have happily succeeded in banishing all humour from the 
stage, and have mader the theatre as dull as a drawing-room ? 
Upon all these occasions, the world seems to have embraced a 
maxim of our law, viz., cuicunqiie in arte sua j^ciHto creden- 
dum est: for it seems, perhaps, difficult to conceive, that any 
one should have had enough of impudence to lay down dog- 
matical rules of any art or science withowl Ww, \^"&csX. lo.wxA'a.- 
tion. Id aucb caees, therefore, we are apl lo eoyvcVw^^ ^^x^ 


are sound and good reasons at the bottom, though we are un- 
fortunately not able to see so far. 

Now, in reality, the 'vorld have paid too great a compli- 
ment to critics, and have imagined them men of much greater 
profundity than they really are. 1<toill this c .mplaisance, the 
critics have been emboldened co assume a dictatorial power, 
and have so far succeeded, that they have now become the 
masters, and have the assurance co give laws to those authors, 
from whose predecessors they originally received them. 

The critic, rightly considered, is no more than the clerk, 
whose oflBce it is to transcribe the rules and Uws laid down by 
those great judges, whose vast strength of genius hath placed 
them in the light of legislators, in the several sciences over 
which they presided. This office was all which the critics of 
old aspired to ; nor did they ever dare to advance a sentence, 
without supporting it by the authority of the judge from whenco 
it was borrowed. 

. But, in process of time, and in ages of ignorance, the clerk 
began to invade the power, and assume the dignity of his 

fiaster. The laws of writing were no longer founded on the 
ractice of the author, but on the dictates of the critic. The 
clerk became the legislator ; and those very peremptorily 
gave laws, whose business it was, at first, only to transcribe 

Hence rose an obvious, and, perhaps, an unavoidable error; 
for these critics, being men of shallow capacities, very easily 
mistook mere form for substance. They acted as a judge 
would, who should adhere to the lifeless letter of law, and re- 
ject the spirit. Little circumstances, which were, perhaps, 
accidental in a great author, were by these critics considered 
to constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as essentials to 
be observed by all his successors. To these encroachments, 
time and ignorance, the two great supporters of imposture, 
gave authority : and thus many rules for good writing have 
been established, which have not the least foundation in truth 
or nature ; and which commonly serve for no other purpose 
than to curb and restrain genius, in the same manner as it 
would have restrained the dancing-master, had the many ex- 
cellent treatises on that art laid it down as an essential rule 
v/ man must dance in chains 


To ayoid, therefore, all imputation of laying down a rule for 
posterity, founded only oii the authority of ipse dixit, — for 
which, to say the truth, we have nou the profoundest venera- 
tion, — we shall here waive the privilege above contended for, 
and proceed to lay before the reader the reasons which have 
induced us to intersperse these several digressive essays in the 
course of this work. 

And here we shall, of necessity, be led to open a new vein 
of knowledge, which, if it hath been discovered, hath not, to 
our remembrance, been wrought on by any ancient or modem 
wTiter. This vein is no other than that of contrast, which runs 
through all the works of the creation, and may probably have 
a large share in constituting in us the idea of all beauty, as 
well natural as artificial : for what demonstrates the beauty and 
excellence of any thing, bui it£ reverse ? Thus the beauty of 
day, and that of summer, is set off by the horrors of night and 
winter. Aod, I believe, if it was possible for a man to have 
Men only the two former, he would have a very imperfect idea 
of their beauty. 

But to avoid too serious an air ; can it be doubted, but that 
th« finest woman in the world would lose all benefit of he* 
charms in the eye of a man who had never seen one of another 
.?*i-t: The ladies themselves seem so sensible of this, that 
they are all industrious to procure foils ; nay, they will become 
foils to themselves ; for I have observed, (at Bath particularly,) 
that they endeavour to appear as ugly as possible in the morn- 
ing, in order to set off that beauty whici they intend to show 
you in the evening. 

Most artists have this secret in practice, though some, 
pe.rhaps, have not much studied the theory. The jeweller 
Liiowv^ that the finest brilliant requires a foil ; and the painter, 
by the contrast of his figures, often acquires great applause. 

A gri;at genius among us wall illustrate this matter fully. I 
cmnot, indeed, range him under any general head of common 
artists, as he hath a title to be placed among those 

Inventas qui vitara excoluere per artes. 
Who by invented arts have life improvM. 

I mean here, the inventor of that most exquisite entertain- 
ment, called the English Pantomime. 


This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the in\ Cfitor 
distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The 
serious exhibited a certain namber of heathen gods and heroes, 
who were certainly the worst and dullest company into which 
an audience wa« ever introduced: and, (which was a secret 
known to few,) were actually intended so to be, in order to 
contrast the comic part of the entertainment, and to display 
the tricks of Harlequin to the better advantage. 

This was, perhaps, no very civil use of such personages ; but 
the contrivance was, nevertheless, ingenious enough, and had 
its effect. And this will now plainly appear, if, instead of 
serious and comic, we supply the words duller and dullest ; for 
the comic was certainly duller than any thing before shown on 
the stage, and could be set off only by that superlative de€:reo 
of dullness which composed the serious. S - intolerably serious, 
indeed, were these gods and heroes, that Harlequin, (though 
the English gentleman of that name is not at ill related to the 
French family, for he is of a much more serious disposition ) 
was always welcome on the stage, as he relieved "iht vidien3-» 
from worse company. 

• Judicious writers have always practised this art of coutrast 
with great success. I have been surprised that Horace should 
cavil at this art in Homer ; but, indeed, he contradicts hims*?. ' 
in the very next line : 

Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus, 
Verum opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum. 
I grieve if e'er great Homer chance to sleep; 
Yet slumbers on long works have right to creep. 

For we are not here to understand, as, perhaps, bome have, 
that an author actually falls asleep while he is writing. It is 
true, that readers are too apt to be so overtaken ; but, if the 
work was as long as any of Oldmixon, the author 'aims-jlf 's 
too well entertained to be subject to the least drowsiness. He 
is, as Mr. Pope observes. 

Sleepless himself to give his readers sleep. 

To say the truth, these soporific parts are so many scenes of 

serious artfally interwoven, in order to contr.^t and set off the 

rest; and this is the true meamwg oi vji.\«u\,^^ft.^^M\Ci\v5»\re\tfir who. 

A FOU^ DLING. 211 

told the public, that whenever he was dull they might be assured 
there was a design in it. 

In this light, then, or rather in this darkiMss, I would have 
the reader to consider these initial essays. And, after the 
warning, if he shall be of opinion that he can find enough of 
serious in other parts of this history, he may pass over these, 
in which wo profess to be laboriously dull, and begin the follow- 
ing books at the second chapter. 


In whicn Mr, Jones receives mam/ friendly visits during his confinement ; with 
some fine touches of the passion oflove^ scarce visible to the naked eye, 

Tom Jones had many visitors during his confineuient, though 
some, perhaps, were not very agreeable to him. Mr. Allworthy 
saw him almost every day ; but though he pitied Tom's suffer- 
ings, and greatly approved the gallant behaviour which had 
occasioned them, yet he thought this was a favourable oppor- 
tunity to bring, him to a sober sense of this indiscreet conduct ; 
and that wholesome advice for that purpose could never be ap^ 
plied at a more proper season than at the present, when the 
mind was softened by pain and sickness, and alarmed by dan- 
ger ; and when its attention was unembarrassed with those tur- 
bulent passions which engage us in the pursuit of pleasure. 

At all seasons, therefore, when the good man was alone with 
the youth, especially when the latter was totally at ease, he 
took occasion to remind him of his former miscarriages, but in 
the mildest and tenderest manner, and only in order to intro- 
duce the caution which he prescribed for his future behaviour ; 
"on which alone,'' he assuieo him, "would depend his own 
felicity, and the kindness which he might yet promise himself 
to receive at the hands of his father by adoption, unless he 
should hereafter forfeit his good opinion : for as to whar had 
passed," he said, "it should be forgiven and forgotten. He, 
therefore, advised him to make a good use of this accident, that 
80 in the end it might prove a visitation for his own good. 

Thwackum was likewise pretty assiduoxis \\\ \\\^V\'&\\s»\ «xA. 
hB too considered a sick-hed to be a con've\i\etv\. ^^^xv^ ^ox \^^ 


tares. His style, however, vas more severe Aan Mr. Jl^l* 
worthy's ; he told his pupil, '* That he ought to look on his 
broken limb as a judgment from Heaven on his sins. That it 
would become him to be daily on his knees, pouring forth 
thanksgivings that he had broken his arm only, and not his 
neck ; which latter,*' he said, " was very probably reserved for 
some future occasion, and that, perhaps, not very remote. For 
his part,'' he said, ''he had often wondered some judgment 
had not overtaken him before ; but it might be perceived by 
this, that divine punishments, though slow, are always sure." 
Hence, likewise, he advised him, ' ' to foresee, with equal cer- 
tainty, the greater evils which were yet behind, and which were 
as sure as this of overtaking him in his state of reprobacy 
These are," said lie, "to be averted only by such a thorough 
and sincere repentance as is not to be expected or hoped for 
from one so abandoned in his youth, and whose mind, I am 
afraid, is totally coiTupted. It is my duty, however, to exhort 
you to this repentance, though I too well know all exhortations 
will be vain and fruitless. But liberavi animam meani. I 
can accuse mg own conscience of no neglect ; though It is at 
the same time with the utnK)st concern I see you travelling on 
to certain misery in this world, and to us certain damnation in 
the next. ' ' 

Square talked in a very different strain : he said, " Such ac- 
cidents as a broken bone were below the consideration of a wise 
man. That it was abundantly sufficient to reconcile the mind 
to any of these mischances, to reflect that they are liable to be- 
fall the wisest of mankind, and are undoubtedly for the good 
of the whole.'' He said, **it was a mere abuse of words, to 
call those things evil, in which there was no moral unfitness : 
that pain, which was the worst consequence of such accidents, 
was the most contemptible thing in the world ;" with more of 
the like sentences, extracted jut of the second book of Tully's 
Tusculan Questions, and from the great Lord Shaftesbury. In 
pronouncing these, he was one day so eager, that he unfortu- 
nately bit his tongue ; and in such a manner, that it not only 
put an end to his discourse, but created much emotion in him, 
and caused him to mutter an oath or two ; but, what was worst 
of all, this accident gave Thwackum, who was present, and 


who held all sach doctrine to be heatheuish and atheistical; aa 
opportunity to clap a judgment on his back. Now this was 
done with so malicious a sneer, that it totally unhinged (if I 
may so say,) the temper of the philosopher, which the bite of 
his tongue had somewhat ruffled ; and, as he was disabled from 
venting his wrath at his lips, he had possibly found a more vio- 
lent method of revenging himself, had not the surgeon, who 
was then luckily in the room, contrary to his own interest, in- 
terposed, and preserved the peace. 

Mr. Blifil visited his friend Jones but seldom, and never 
alone. This worthy young man, however, professed much re- 
gard for him, and as great concern at his misfortune : but cau- 
tiously avoided any intimacy, lest, as he frequently hinted, it 
might contaminate the sobriety of his own character : for which 
purpose he had constantly in his mouth that proverb in which 
Solomon speaks against evil communication. Not that he was 
so bitter as Thwackum ; for he always expressed some hopes 
of Tom's reformation; "which," he said, 'Mhe unparalleled 
goodness shown by his uncle on this occasion must certainly 
effect in one not absolutely abandoned:" but concluded, ''if 
Mr. Jones ever offends hereafter, I shall not be able to say a 
syllable in hib favour." 

As to Squire Western, he was seldom out of the sick room, 
unless when he was engaged either in the field or over his 
bottle. Nay, he would sometimes retire hither to take his 
beer, and it was not without difficulty that he was prevented 
from forcing Jones to take his beer too ; for no quack ever 
held his nostrum to be a more general panacea than he did 
this ; which, he said, had more virtue in it than was in all the 
physic in an apothecary's shop. He was, however, by much 
entreaty, prevailed on to forbear the application of this medi- 
cine ; but from serenading his patient every hunting morning 
with the horn under his window, it was impossible to withhold 
him: nor did he ever lay aside that halloo, with which he 
entered into all companies, when he visited Jones, without any 
regard to the sick persor 'a being at that time cither awake or 

This boisterous behaviour, as it meant no harm, so happily 
it effected none, and was abundantly compensated to Jones, 

814 IHE niSTO&T OF 

aa soon as he was able to sit np, by the compaDy of Sophia, 
whom the Squire then brought to visit him ; nor was it, in- 
deed, long before Jones was able to attend her to the harpsi- 
chord, where she would kindly condescend, for hours together, 
to charm him with the most delicious music, unless when the 
Squire thought proper to interrupt her, by insisting an Old 
Sir Simon, or some other of his favourite pieces. 

Notwithstanding the nicest guard which Sophia endeavoured 
to set on her behaviour, she could not avoid letting some ap- 
pearances now and then slip forth : for love may again be 
likened to a disease in this, that when it is denied a vent in 
one part, it will certainly break out in another. What her 
lips therefore concealed, her eyes, her blushes, and many little 
involuntary actions, betrayed. 

One day, when Sophia was playing on the harpsichord, and . 
Jones was attending, the Squire came into the roDm, trying, 
" There, Tom, I have had a battle for thee below stairs with 
thick Parson Thwackum. He hath been a telling AUworthy 
before my face, that the broken bone was a judgment upon 
thee. D — n it, says I, how can that be ? Did he not come 
by it in defence of a youug woman ? A judgment, indeed I 
Pox, if he never doth anything worse, he will go to Heaven 
sooner than all the parsons in the country. He hath more 
reason to glory in it, than to be ashamed of it." — ** Indeed, 
sir,'' says Jones, '' I have no reason for either ; but if it pre- 
served Miss Western, I shall always think it the happiest acci- 
dent of my life.'' — ''And to gu," said the Squire, ** to zet All- 
worthy against thee vor it I D — n un, if the parson had unt 
had his petticoats on, I should have lent un a flick ; for I love 
thee dearly, my boy, and d — n me if there is anything in my 
power which I won't do for thee. Sha't take thy choice of all 
the horses in my stable to-morrow morning, except only the 
Chevalier and Miss Slouch." Jones thanked him, but de- 
clined accepting the offer. *' Nay," added the Squire, " sha't 
ha the sorrel mare that Sophia rode. She cost me fifty guineas, 
and comes six years old this grass." — '^If she had cost me a 
thousand," cries Jones passionately, *' I would have given her 
^o the dogs. " — '' Pooh 1 poolv 1" answered Western : ** what^ 
ise she broke thy arm ? 8\io\3L\^«lt iot^^\. vo.^ *Qt^Vi I. 


thought hadst heen more of a man than to bear malice against 
a dumb creature." — Here Sophia interposed, and put an end 
to the conversation, by desiring her father's leave to play to 
him a request which he never refused. 

The countenance of Sophia had undergone more than one 
change during the foregoing speeches ; and probably she im- 
puted the passionate resentment which Jones had expressed 
against the mare to a different motive from that from which 
her fatbei had derived it. Her spirits were at this time in a 
visible flutter ; and she played so intolerably ill, that had not 
Western soon fallen asleep he must have remarked it. Jones, 
however, who was sufficiently awake, and was not without an 
ear, any more than without eyes, made some observations'; 
which, being joined to all which the reader may remember to 
have passed formerly, gave him pretty strong assurances, when 
ho cam^> to reflect on the whole, that all was not well in the 
tender bosom of Sophia ; an opinion which many young gen- 
tlemen will, I doubt not, extremely wonder at his not having 
been well confirmed in long ago. To confess the truth, he had 
rather too much diffidence in himself, and was not forward 
enough in seeing the advances of a young lady ; a misfortune 
which can be cured only by that early town education, which 
is at present so generally in fashion. 

When these thoughts had fully taken possession of Jones, 
'they occasioned a perturbation in his mind^ which, in a con- 
stitution lesH pure and firm than his, might have been, at such 
a season, attended with very dangerous consequences. He 
was truly sensible of the great worth of Sophia. He extremely 
liked her person, no less admired her accomplishments, and 
tenderly loved her goodness. In reality, as he had never once 
entertained any thought of possessing her, nor had ever given 
the least voluntary indulgence to his inclinations, he had a 
much stronger passion for her than he himself was acquainted 
with. His heart now brought forth the full secret, at the same 
time that it assured him the adorable object returned his 



Which all who have no heart will think to contain much ado i . ^ .-io 'a*3 

The reader will, perhaps, imagine the sensations which now 
arose in Jones to have been so sweet and delicious, that they 
would rather tend to produce a cheerful serenity in the raind, 
than any of those dangerous effects which we have mentioned ; 
but, in fact, sensations of this kind, however delicious, are, at 
their first recognition, of a very tumultuous nature, and have 
very little of the opiate in them. They were, moreover, in ;he 
present case, embittered with certain circumstances, which, 
being mixed with sweeter ingredients, tended Itotrether to 
compose a draught that might be termed bitter-sweet; thau 
which, as nothing can be more disagreeable to ':he palate, r?o 
nothing, in the metaphorical sense, can be so vjnr! jus to the 

For, first, though he had sufficient foundation to flatter aim- 
self in what he had observed in Sophia, he was not yet frej 
from doubt of misconstruing compassion, or, :U best, esteeoi; 
into a warmer regard. He was far from u sanc^aine assurance 
that Sophia had any such affection cowards him, as might 
promise his inclinations that harvest, -vhich, if they were 
encouraged and nursed, they would finally jrow up to require. 
Besides, if he could hope to find no bar vO his lappinesa from 
the daughter, he thought himself certain of meeting an effectual 
bar in the father ; who, though he was a country squire in his 
diversions, was perfectly a man of the world in whatever 
regarded his fortune ; had the most violent affection for his 
only daughter, and had often signified, in his cups, che plea- 
sure he proposed in seeing her married to one of .he richest 
men in the country. Jones was not so vain and senseless a 
coxcomb as to expect, from any regard which Western had 
professed for him, that he would ever be induced x) lay aside 
these views of advancing his daughter. He well knew, that 
fortune is generally the principal, if not the sole consideration, 
which operates on the best of parents in these mattei's : tor 
friendship makes us warmly espouse the interest of others ; but 
It 18 very cold to the grati&caliou ot \);iOT ^«£&vn^. lr>dA^^ 


to feel the happiness which may result from this, it is necessary 
we should possess the passion ourselves. As he had, there- 
fore, no hopes of obtaining her father's consent, so he thought 
to endeavour to succeed without it, and by such means to frus- 
trate the great point of Mr. Western's life, was to make a very 
ill use of his hospitality, and a very ungrateful return to the 
many little favours received, (however roughly,) at his hands. 
If he saw such a consequence with horror and disdain, how 
much more was he shocked with what regarded Mr. Allworthy : 
«o whom, as he had more than filial obligations, so had he for 
him more than filial piety ! He knew the nature of that good 
man to be so averse to any baseness or treachery, that the least 
attempt of such a kind would make the sight of tlie guilty 
person for ever odious to his eyes, and his name a detestable 
sound in his ears. The appearance of such unsurmountable 
difficulties was sufficient to have inspired him with despair, 
however ardent his wishes had been ; but even these were 
controlled by compassion for another woman. The idea of 
lovely Molly now intruded itself before him. He had sworn 
eternal constancy in her arms, and she had as often vowed 
never to outlive his deserting her. He now saw her in all the 
most shocking postures of death ; nay, he considered all the 
miseries of prostitution to which she would be liable, and of 
which he would be doubly the occasion ; first by seducing, and 
then by deserting her : for he well knew the hatred which all 
her neighbours, and even her own sisters, bore her, and how 
ready they would all be to tear her to pieces. Indeed, he had 
exposed her to more envy than shame, or rather to the latter 
hy means of the former ; for many women abused her for being a 
whore, while they envied her her lover and her finery, and would 
have been glad themselves to have purchased these at the same 
rate. The ruin, therefore, of the poor girl must, he foresaw, 
onavoidably attend his deserting her ; and this thought stung 
him to the soul. Poverty and distress seemed to him to give 
none a right of aggravating those misfortunes. The meanness 
of her condition did not represent her misery as of little couse- 
qaence in his eyes, nor did it appear to justify, or q,n^m \^ 
palliate, his guilt, in hriDging that misery \ipoii\x^^. "^x^X.^Vj 
do I mention JastiScation ? His own heart ^^o\x\& xvoV ^xi^^^^VvKs 


to destroy a human creature, who he thought loved him, and 
had to that love sacrificed her innocence. His own good heart 
pleaded her cause ; not as a cold venal advocate, but as one 
interested in the event, and which must itself deeply share in 
all the agonies its owner brought on another. 

When this powerful advocate had suflBciently raised the pity 
of Jones, by painting poor Molly in all the circumstances of 
wretchedness, it artfully called in the assistance of another pas- 
sion, and represented the girl in all the amiable colours of 
youth, health, and beauty ; as one greatly the object of desire, 
and much more so, at least to a good mind, from being, at the 
same time, the object of compassion. 

Amidst these thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless 
night, and in the morning the result of the whole was to abide 
by Molly, and to think no more of Sophia. '"" 

In this virtuous resolution he continued all the next day tit< 
the evening, cherishing the idea of Molly, and driving Sophia 
from his thoughts ; but in the fatal evening, a very trifling acci- 
dent set all his passions again on float, and worked so total a 
change in his mind, that we think it decent to communicate it 
in a fresh chapter. 



A little chapter in ivhick is contained a little incident. 

Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the 
young gentleman in his confinement, Mrs. Honour was one. 
The reader, perhaps, when he reflects on some expressions 
which have formerly dropped from her, may conceive that she 
herself had a very particular aifection for Mr. Jones ; but, in 
reality, it was no such thing. Tom was a handsome youBg 
fellow ; and for that species of men Mrs. Honour had some re- 
gard ; but this was perfectly indiscriminate ; for having been 
crossed in the love which she bore a certain nobleman's foot- 
man, who had basely deserted her after a promise of marriage* 
she had so securely kept together the broken remains of her 
heart, that no man had ever since been able to possess himself 
pf any single fragment. She viewed all handsome men with 


thau equal regard and uencvoience which a sober and virtuons 
mind bears to all the good. She might indeed be called a 
lover of men, as Socrates wag a lover of mankind, preferring 
ono to another for corporeal, as he for mental qualifications ; 
but never carrying this preference so far as to cause any per- 
turbation in the philosophical serenity of her temper. 

The day after Mr. Jones had that conflict with himself, which 
wo have seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs. Honour came into 
hiw room, and, finding him alone, began in the following man- 
ner : *• La, sir, where do you think I have been ? I warrants 
you, you would not guess in fifty years ; but if you did guess, 
lo be sure, I must not tell you neither.'' *' Nay, if it bs some- 
thing which you must not tell me, " said Jones, " I shall have 
tho curiosity to inquire, and I know you will not be so birba- 
rous as to refuse me.'' "I don't know," cries she, '* why I 
should refhse you neither, for that matter ; for to be sure you 
won't mention it any more. And for that matter, if you knew 
where I have been, unless you knew what I have been about, it 
would not signify much. Nay, I don't see why it should be 
kept a secret, for my part : for to be sure she is the best lady 
in the world." Upon this, Jones began to beg earnestly to bo 
let into this secret^ and faithfully promised not to divulge it. 
She then proceeded thus: "Why, you must know, sir, my 
joung lady sent me to inquire after Molly Seagrini, and to sec 
whethev the wench wanted any thing : to be sure, I did not care 
to go, methitks; but servants must do what they arc ordered. 
Fow could you undervalue yourself so, Mr. Jones ? So my 
lady bid me go, and carry her some linen, and other things. 
She is too good. If such forward sluts were sent to Bridewell, 
Si would be better for them. I told my lady, says I, madam, 
your ia'ship ii encouraging idleness." "And was ray Sophia 
«0£Ood?" says Jones. "My Sophia, I assure you I marry 
come up !" answered Honour. "And yet if you knew all, — in- 
deed, if I was as Mr. Jones, I should look a little higher than 
such trumpery as Molly Seagrim." " What do you mean by 
these words, " replied Jones, *' if I knew all ?" "I mean what 
I mean," says Honour. "Don't you remember putting your 
hands in my lady's muff once*? I vow I could almost find in 
my heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would never come to 

220 THE iiisToay of 

the hearing on't. " Jones then made severai aolemn proT/esti^ 
tions ; and Honour proceeded — ** Then, to be sure, my lady 
gave me that muflF; and afterwards, upon hearing what you had 

done '' '' Then you told her viiat I had Joue I" Interrupted 

Jones. *' If I did, sir," answered she, '^you need not be an- 
gry with me. Many's the man would have given his head to 
have had my lady told, if they had known — for, to be sure, the 
biggest lord in the land might be proud — but, I protest, I have 
a great mind not to tell you.^' Jones fell to entreaties, and 
soon prevailed on her to go on thus : '* You must know then, 
sir, that my lady had given this muff to me ; but about a day 
or two after I had told her the story, she quarrels Tith her new 
muff, and to be sure it is the prettiest that ever was seen. Ho- 
nour, says she, this is an odious muff ; it is too big for me ; I 
can't wear it : till I can get another, you must let me have my 
old one again, and you may have this in the room on't — for 
she's a good lady, and scorns to give a thing and take a thing, 
I promise you that. So to be sure I fetched it her back again., 
and, I believe, she hath worn it upon her arm almost ever since, 
and T warrants hath ^iven it many a kiss when nobody hath 
seen her." 

Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr. Western him- 
self, who came to summon Jones to the harpsichord ; whither 
the poor young fellow went all pale and trembling. This 
Western observed ; but, on seeing Mrs. Honour, imputed it to 
a wrong cause ; and, having given Jones a hearty curse 
between jest and earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and no: 
poach up the game in his warren. 

Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty ; 
and we may believe it was no small addition to her charms, in 
the eye of Mr. Jones, that she now happened to nave on her 
right arm this very muff. 

She was playing one of her father's favourite tunes, and he 
was leaning on her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers^ 
and put her out. This so disconcerted the squire, that he 
snatched the muff from her, and with a hearty curse threw it 
into the fire. Sophia instantly started up, and with the utmost 
eagerness recovered it from the flames. 

Though this incident will probably appear of little conse* 


qaence to many of our readers, yet, trifling as it was, it had so 
violent an effect on poor Jones, that we thought it our duty to 
relate it In reality, there are many little circumstances ton, 
often omitted by injudicious historians, from which events of the 
utmost importance arise. The world may indeed be considered 
as a vast machine, in which the great wheels arc originally set 
in motion by those which are very minute, and almost imper- 
ceptible to any but the strongest eyes. 

Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia ; not 
all the dazzling brightness and languishing softness of her eyes ; 
the hai-mony of her voice and her person ; not all her wit, 
good-humour, greatness of mind, or sweetness of disposition, 
had been able so abs lutely to conquer and enslave the heart 
of poor Jones, as thio little incident of the muff. Thus the 
poet sweetly sings of Troy — 

Captique do! is lachrymisque coaoti 

Quos nequo Tydidcs, neo Larissosus Achilles, 
Non anni domuere decern, non millo carime. 

What Diomed , or Thetis* greater son, 

A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege had done. 

False tears, and fawning words, tho city won. 

The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprise.* All those 
considerations of honour and prudence, which our hero had 
laielj with so much military wisdom placed as guards over the 
avenues of his heart, ran away from their posts, and the god 
cf love marched in in triumph. 


A very long chapter, containing a very grea* incident. 

But though this victorious deity easily expelled his avowed 
enemies from the heart of Jones, he found it more difficult to 
fenpplant the garrison which he himself had placed there. To 
lay aside all allegory, the concern for what must become of 
poor Alolly greatly disturbed and perplexed the mind of the 
Worthy youth. The superior merit of Sophia totally eclipsed, 
or rather extinguished, all the beauties of the poor girl ; but 
eompassion instead of contempt succeeded to love. He was 


convincfid the girl had placed all her affections, and all he> 
prospect of future happiness, iu him only. For this he had, 
he knew, given sufficient occasion, by the utmost profasion of 
tenderness towards her ; o tenderness which he had taken every 
means to persuade her he would always maintain. She, en 
her side, had assured him of her firm belief in his promises, 
and had with the most eolemn vows declared, that on his 
fulfilling or breaking these promises it depended whether 8li6 
should be the happiest or most miserable of womankind. And 
to be the author of this highest degree of misery to a human 
being, was a thought on which he could not bear to ruminate a 
single moment. He considered this poor girl as having sacrificed 
to him every thing in her little power ; as having been at her 
own expense the object of his pleasure; as sighing and 
languishing for him even nt that very instant. Shall then, says 
he, my recovery, for which she hath so ai'dently wished ; shall 
my presence, which she hath so eagerly expected, instead of 
giving her that joy with which she hath flattered aerself, f»jist 
her at once down into misery and despair f Can I- be such a 
villain? Here, when the genius of poor Molly eeemed 
triumphant, the love of Sophia towards him, which now 
appeared no longer dubious, rushed upon his mind, anu bore 
away every obstacle before him. 

At length it occurred to him, that he might possibly be able 
to make Molly amends another way ; namely, by giving her a 
sum of money. This, nevertheless, he almost despaired of her 
accepting, when he recollected the frequent and vehemeuu 
assurances he had received from her, that the world put 'n 
balance with him would make her no amends for his loss. 
However, her extreme poverty, and chiefly her egregiois 
vanity, (somewhat of -vhich hath been already hinted to tb3 
reader,) gave him some little hope, that, notwithstanding iil 
her avowed tenderness, she might in time be brought to contoiit 
herself with a fortune superior to her expectation, and which 
might indulge her vanity, by setting her above oil her equals. 
He resolved, therefore, to take the first opportunity uf makir«j 
a proposal of this kind. 

One day, accordingly, when his arm was so well reco7e.*:.d 
^Aat be could walk easily with it slung v\\ ^ scish, he sto^c forti), 


at a season when the squire was engaged in his field exercises, 
and visited his fair one. Her mother and sisters, whom he 
found taking their tea, informed him first that Molly was not 
at home ; but, afterwards, the eldest sister acquainted him, with 
a malicious smile, that she was above stairs a-bed. Tom had 
no objection to this situation of his mistress, and immediately 
ascended the ladder which led towards her bed-chamber ; but 
when he came to the top, he, to his great surprise, found the 
door fast ; nor could he for some time obtain any answer from 
-within : for Molly, as she herself afterwards Informed him, was 
fast asleep. 

The extremes of grief and joy have been remarked to pro- 
vince very similar effects ; and when either of these rushes on 
us by surprise, it is apt to create such a total perturbation and 
confusion, that we are often thereby deprived of the use of all 
our faculties. It cannot therefore be wondered at, that the un- 
expected sight of Mr. Jones should so strongly operate on the 
mind of Molly, and should overwhelm her with such confusion, 
that for some minutes she was unable to express the great rap- 
tures, with which the reader will suppose she was affected on 
this occasion. As for Jones, he was so entirely possessed, and 
as it were enchanted, by the presence of his beloved object, 
that he for a while forgot Sophia, and consequently the princi- 
pal purpose of his visit 

This, however, soon recurred to his memory ; and after the 
first transports of tlicir meeting were over, he found means by 
degrees to introduce a discourse on the fatal consequences 
which must attend their amour, if Mr. Alhvorthy, who had 
strictly forbidden him ever seeing her more, should discover 
that he still carried on this commerce. Such a discovery, which 
his enemies gave him reason to think would be unavoidable, 
must, he said, end in his ruin, and consequently in hers. Since, 
therefore, their hard fates had determined that they must sepa- 
rate, he advised her to bear it with resolution, and swore he 
would never omit any opportunity, thronpch the course of his 
life, of showing her the sincerity of his affection, by i)roviding 
for her in a manner beyond her utmost expectation, or even be- 
yond her wishes, if ever that should be in his power ; con- 
clacUng at last, tliat she might soon find some man who would 


marry her, and who would make her mnch happier thau bhe 
could be by leading a disreputable life with him. 

Molly remained a few moments in silence, and then bursting 
into a flood of tears, she began to upbraid him in the following 
words : ' * And this is your love for me, to forsake me in this 
manner, now you have ruined me I IIow often, when I have 
told you that all men are false and perjury like, and grow tired 
of us as soon as ever they have had their wicked wills of us, 
how often have you sworn you would never forsake me I And 
can you be such a perjury man after all ? What signifies all 
the riches in the world to me without you, now you have gained 
my heart, so you have — you have — ? Why do you mention 
another man to me ? I can never love any other man as long 
as I live. All other men are nothing to me. If the greatest 
squire in all the country would come a suiting to me to-morrow, 
I would not give my company to him. No, I shall always hate 
and despise the whole sex for your sake. ' ' — 

She was proceeding thus, when an accident put a stop to her 
tongue before it had run out half its career. The room, or 
rather garret, in which -Nrolly lay, being up one pair of stairs, 
that is to say, at the top of the house, was of a sloping figure, 
resembling the great Delta of the Greeks. The English reader 
may, perhaps, form a better idea of it, by being told, that it 
was impossible to stand upright any where but in the middle. 
Now, as this room wanted the conveniency of a closet, Molly 
had, to supply that defect, nailed up an old rug against the 
rafters of tlie house, which enclosed a little hole where her best 
apparel, such as the remains of that sack which we have for* 
merly mentioned, some caps, and other things with which she 
had lately provided herself, were hung up and secured from the 

Tliis enclosed place exactly fronted the foot of the bed, to 
which, indeed, the rug hung so near, that it served in a manner 
to snjiply the want of curtains. Now, whether Molly, in the 
agonies of her rage, pushed this rug with her feet ; or Jones 
might touch it ; or whether the pin or nail gave way of its own 
accord, I am not certain ; but, as Molly pronounced these last 
words, which are recorded above, the wicked rug got loose 
from its fastening, and discovered every thing hid behind it ; 


where, among other female utensils, appeared, (with shame I 
write it. and with sorrow will it be read,) — the philosopher 
Square, in a posture, (for the place would not near admit his 
standing upright,) as ridiculous as can possibly be conceived. 

The posture, indeed, in which he stood, was not greatly un- 
like that of a soldier, who is tied neck and heels ; or rather 
resembling the attitude in which we often see fellows in the 
public streets of London, who are not sufifering, but deserving, 
punishment by so standing. He had a nightcap belonging to 
Molly on his head, and his two large eyes, the moment the rug 
fell, stared directly at Jones ; so that, when the idea of phi- 
losophy was added to the figure now discovered, it would have 
been very difficult for any spectator to have refrained from im- 
moderate laughter 

I question not but the surprise of the reader will be here 
fjqual to that of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise 
from the appearance of this wise and grave man in such a 
place, may seem so inconsistent with that character which he 
hath, doubtless, maintained hitherto, in the opinion of every 

But, to confes.. the truth, this inconsistency is rather imagi- 
nary than real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood 
as well as othc human creatures ; and however sublimated 
and refined the theory o^ thest may be, a little practical frailty 
is as incident to theit as to other mortals. It is, indeed, in 
theory only, and noi iii practice, as we have before hinted, 
that consists the difi'erence : for though such great beings 
think much better and more wiseij. thcj always act exactly 
like other men. They know very weL now to subdue all appe- 
tites and passiona, and to despise both pain and pleasure ; and 
this knowledge affords much delightful contemplation, and is 
tasi-y accnired; but the pf-ctice would be vexatious and 
iroublesomt. and, therefore, the same wisdom which teaches 
tnem to knov^ this, leached them to avoid carrying it into exe- 

Mr. Square happsLec lo be at church on that Sunday, 
when, as the reader may bt pleased to remember, the appear- 
ance of Mollv in her sack had caused all that disturbance. 
Here he first observed ^ei, and was so pleased with her 



beauty, that lie prevailed with the young gentlemen to change 
their intended ride that evening, that he might pass by the 
habitation of Molly, and by that means might obtain a second 
chance of seeing her. This reason, however, as he did not at 
that time mention to any, so neither did we think proper to 
communicate it then to the reader. 

Among other particulars which constituted the unfitness of 
things in Mr. Square's opinion, danger and difficulty were two. 
The difficulty, therefore, which he apprehended there might be 
in corrupting this young wench, and the danger which would 
accrue to his character on the discovery, were such strong dis- 
suasives, that it is probable he at first intended to have con- 
tented himself with the pleasing ideas which the sight of 
beauty furnishes us with. These the gravest men, after a full 
meal of serious meditation, often allow themselves by way of 
dessert : for which purpose, certain books and pictures find 
their way into the most private recesses of their study, and a 
certain liquorish part of natural philosophy is often the prin- 
cipal subject of their conversation. 

But when the philosopher heard, a day or ;wo afterwards, 
that the fortress of virtue had already been subdued, 'le j)egan 
to give a larger scope to his desires. His ai)petite was not 
of thai squeamish kind which cannot feed on a dainty because 
another hath tasted it. In short, ne liked the girt the better 
for the want of that chastity, wliich, if she had possessed it, 
must liave been a bar to his pleasures ; ho pursued, and ol>- 
tained her. 

The reader will be mistaken . jf h«) thinks Molly gave Square 
the preference to the /oun ^er lover ; on the coptrary, had she 
been confined to the choice of one only, Tom Jones would un- 
doubtedly have been, of the two, the victorious person. Nor 
was it solely tlie considcra:ion, that two are better than one. 
(tliough this had its proper weight,) to whicli Mr. Square 
owed his success : the absence of Jones during his confinement 
was an unlucky circumstance ; unJ, in that interval, some well- 
chosen presents from the philosopher so softened and un- 
guarded the girPs heart, that a favourable opportunity bo- 
came irresistible, and Square triumphed over the poor remains 
of virtue which subsisted in the bosom of Mol^y. 


It was now abont a fortnight since this conquest, when Jones 
paid the above-mentioned visit to his mistress, at a time when 
she and Sqnare were in bed together. This was the true reason 
why the mother denied her, as we have seen ; for, as tlie old 
woman shared in the profits arising from the iniquity of licr 
daughter, she encouraged and protected her in it to the utmost 
of her power ; but such was the envy and hatred which the 
eldest sister bore towards Molly, that, notwithstanding she had 
some part of the booty, she would willingly have parted with 
this to ruin her sister, and spoil her trade. Hence she had 
acquainted Jones with her being above-stairs in bed, in hoi)cs 
that he might have caught her in Square's arms. This, how- 
ever, Molly found means to prevent, as the door was fastened : 
which gave her an opportunity of conveying her lover behind 
that rug or blanket where he now was unhappily discovered. 

Square no sooner made his appearance, than Molly flung 
herself back in her bed, cried out she was undone, and 
abandonee^ herself to despair. This poor girl, who was yet 
but a novice in her business, had not arrived to that perfection 
of assurance which helps off a town lady in any extremity ; 
«nd either prompts her with an excuse, or else inspires her to 
brazen out the matter with her husband ; who, from love of 
qniet^ or out of fear of his reputation, and sometimes, perhaps, 
fiom fear of the gallant, who like Mr. Constant in the play, 
wears a sword, is glad to shut his eyes, and contented to put 
his horns in his pocket. Molly, on the contrary, was silenced 
by this evidence, and vwy fairly gave up a cause which she had 
hitherto maintained with so many tears, and with such solemn 
and vehement protestations of the purest love and constancy. 

As to the gentleman behind the arras, he was not in much 
less consternation. He stood for a while motionless, and 
seemed equally at a loss what to say. or whither to direct his 
eyes. Jones, though, perhaps, the most astonished of the 
three, first founcJ his tongue ; and, being immediately recovered 
ftom those uneasy sensations which Molly by her upbrai dings 
had occasioned, he burst into a loud laughter, and then saluting 
Mr. Square, advanced to take him by the hand, and to relieve 
him from his place of confinement. 

Square, being now arrived in the middle of the room, iu 


which part only he conld stand npright, looked a- Jo.ictJ with 
a gnive countenance, and said to him, -^Wcll, sir, I 'ce you 
enjoy this mighty discovory, and, I dare swear, take great 
delight in the thoughts of exposing me ; but, if you will con- 
sider the matter fairly, you will find you are yourself only to 
blame. I am not guilty of corrupting innocence. I have 
done nothing for which that part of the world, which jnilges of 
matters by the rule of right, will condemn me. Fitness is 
governed by the nature of things, and not by c»istoms, forms, 
or municipal laws. Nothing is, indeed, unfit, which is not 
unnatural.'' — '*Well reasoned, old boy,'' answered Jones; 
* ' but why dost thou think that I should desire to expose thee ? 
I promise thee, I was never better pleased with tliee \v ray 
life ; and, unless thou hast a mind to discover it thyself, this 
affair may remain a profound secret for me." — "N-iy, Mr. 
Jones," replied Square, *' I would not be thought to auder- 
value reputation. Good fame is a species of the Kilon, and 
it is by no means fitting to neglect it. Besides, lo murder 
one's own reputation is a kind of suicide, a detestable and 
odious vice. If you think proper, therefore, to conceal any 
infirmity of mine, (for such I may have, since no man is per- 
fectly perfect,) I promise you I will not betray myself. Things 
raa}^be fitting to be done, which are not fitting to be boasted 
of; for, by the perverse judgment of the world, that .^ifceu 
becomes the subject of censure, which is, in truth, ii'); onlf 
innocent, but laudable." 

" Right !" cries Jones : '' what can be more innocent than the 
indulgence of a natural appetite ? or what more laudable than 
the propagation of our species ?" — "To be serious with v")i." 
answered Square, *' I profess they always appeared so to me. ' 
— ''And yet," said Jones, ''you was of a different opini.n 
when my affair with this girl was first discovered." — ** VVr:/, 
I must confess, " says Square, "as the matter was misrepra- 
sented to me by that parson Thwackum, I might condemn lAd 
corruption of innocence: it was that, sir, it was that — a:d 
that — ; for you must know, Mr. Jones, in the '»onsi deration of 
fitness, very minute circumstances, sir, very minute circum- 
stances cause great alteration. " — *'Well," cries Jones, *'be 
that as it will, it shall be your own fault, as I have promised 


you, if you ever hear any more of this adventure. Behave 
kindly to the girl, and I will never open my lips concerning 
the matter to any one. And, Molly, do you be faithful to your 
friend, and I will not only forgive your infidelity to me, but will 
do you all the service lean." So saying, he took a hasty 
leave, and, slipping down the ladder, retired with much 

Square was rejoiced to find this adventure was likely to have 
no worse conclusion ; and, as for Molly, being recovered from 
her confusion, she began at first to upbraid Square with having 
been the occasion of her loss of Jones ; but that gentleman 
soon found the means of mitigating her anger, partly by 
caresses, and partly by a small nostrum from his purse, of 
wonderful and approved efficacy in purging off the ill humours 
of the mind, and in restoring it to a good temper. 

She then poured forth a vast profusion of tenderness towards 
her new lover ; turned all she had said to Jones, and Jones 
himself, into ridicule; and vowed, though he once had the 
possession of her person, that none but Square had ever been 
master of her heart. 


By comparing which with the former^ the reader i,iay possibly correct some 
ahrAiif which he hath formerly been guilty o/, i> the application of the word 

The infidelity of Molly, which Joncs liad now discovered, 
would perhaps, havo vindicated a much greater degree of 
rtrtfcc..,ment than he expressed on the occasici: : 'inJ, if he had 
abanaoned her directly from that moment, ve;7 few, I believe, 
would have blamed him. 

Certain, however, it is, that he saw her in the light of com- 
passion ; and though his love to her was not of that kind which 
could give him any great uneasiness at her inconstancy, yet 
was he not a little shocked on reflecting that he had himself 
originally corrupted her innocence ; for to this corruption he 
imputed all the vice into which she appeared now so likely to 
plunge herself. 

This consideration gave him no little uneasiness, till Betty, 

r— 20 


the elder sister, was so kind, some time afterwards, entirely to 
cure him, by a hiut that one Will Barnes, and not himself, had 
been the first seducer of Molly ; and that the little child, which 
he had hitherto so certainly concluded to be his own, might 
very probably have an equal title, at least, to claim Barnes for 
its father. 

Jones eagerly pursued this scent when he had first received 
it ; and, in a very short time, was sufficiently assured that the 
girl had told him truth, not only by the confession of the fellow, 
but, at last, by that of Molly herself. 

This Will Barnes was a country gallant, and had acquired 
as many trophies of this kind as any ensign or attorney's clerk 
in the kingdom. He had, indeed, reduced Several women to 
a state of utter profligacy, had broke the hearts of -iome, and 
had the honour of occasioning the violent death of one ooor 
girl, who had cither drowned herself, or, what was /a'^h^^r 
more probable, had been drowned by him. 

Among other of his conquests, this fellow had triumi>hed 
over the heart of Molly Seagrim. He had made love to her 
long before Molly was grown to be a fit object jf that pastime : 
but had afterwards deserted her. and applied to Iier sister; ^ith 
whom he had almost immediate success. Now W'll iaJ, '3 
reality, the sole possession of Molly's affection, vnile Joi?^ 
and Square were almos* equal sacrifices *.o her Jiterest, ar.a io 
her pride. 

Hence had grown that implacable hatred which we aave 
before seen raging in the mind of Betty ; though we aid not 
think it necessary to assign this cause sooner, as envy itself 
alone was adequate to all the effects we have mentioned. 

Jones was become perfectly easy by possession of this secret 
with regard to Molly; but, as to Sophia, he was far from 
being in a str.te of tranquillity ; nay, indeed, he was mider 
the most violent perturbation : his heart was now, if I may 
use the metaphor, entirely evacuated, and Sophia took absolute 
possession of it. He loved her with an unbounded passion, 
and plainly se^^' the tender sentiments she had for him ; yet 
could not tbfs assurance lessen his despair of obtaining tJie 
consent of hei* father, nor the horrors which attended his pursuit 
'^^ her by any base or treacherous method. 


Tbo injary which he must thus do to Mr. Western, and the 
conceni which would accrue to Mr. Allworthy, were circum- 
Btanccs that torirented him all day, and haunted him on his 
pillow at night. His life was a constant struggle between 
lionoui and inclination, which alternately triumphed over each 
other in nis mind. He often resolved, in the absence of Sophia, 
to leai?e her father's house, and to see her no more ; and as 
often, in her presence, forgot all those resolutions, and deter- 
mined to pursue her at the hazard of his life, and at the for- 
teiturc of what was much dearer to him. 

This conflict began soon to produce very strong and visible 
Tijffects : for he lost all his usual sprightliness and gayety of 
temper, and became not only melancholy when alone, but 
dejected and absent in company ; nay, if ever he put on a 
forced mirth, to comply with Mr. Western's humour, the con- 
straint appeared so plain, that he seemed to have been giving 
the strongest evidence of what he endeavoured to conceal by 
fuch ostentation. 

It may, perhaps, be a question, whether the art which he 
Lud to conceal his passion, or the means which honest nature 
employed to reveal it, betrayed him most : for while art made 
him more than ever reserved to Sophia, and forbade him to 
address any of his discourse to her ; nay, to avoid meeting her 
eyes, with the utmost caution ; nature was no less busy in coun- 
terplotting him. Hence, at the approach of the young lady, 
ne grew pci*^ ; and, if this was sudden, started. If his eyes 
accidentally met hers, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and 
hib countenance became all over scarlet. If common civility 
ever obliged him to speak to her, as to drink her health at 
table, his tongue was sure to falter. If he touched her, his 
hand, nay, his whole frame, trembled. And if any discourse 
tended, however remotely, to raise the idea of love, an involun- 
tary sigh seldom failed to steal from his bosom. Most o^ 
which accidents nature was wonderfully industrious to throw 
in his way. 

All these symptoms escaped the notice of the squire ; but not 
80 of Sophia. She soon perceived these agitations of mind in 
Jones, and was at no loss to discover the cause ; for, indeed, 
«he recognised it in her own breast. And this recognition is 


I suppose, that sympathy which hath been jo of: -n noted in 
lovers, and which will sufficiently account for her being so 
much quicker-sighted than her father. 

But, to say the truth, there is a more simple and plain method 
of accounting for that prodigious superiority of penetration 
which we must observe in some men over the rest of the human 
species, and one which will serve not only in the case of lovers, 
but of all others. From whence is it that the knave is gene- 
rally so quick-sighted to those symptoms r,nd operations of 
knavery, which often dupe an honest .nan of a much belter un- 
derstanding? There surely is no general sympathy among 
knaves ; nor have they, like freemasons, any common sign ol 
communication. In reality, it Is only because they have the 
same thing in their heads, and iheir thoughts are turned the 
same way. Thus, that Sophia saw, and that Western did not 
sec, the plain symptoms of love in Jones, ctin be no wonder, 
when we consider that the idea jf love never entered into the 
head of the father, whereas, the daughter at present thought 
of nothing else. 

When Sophia was well satisfied of the violent passion which 
tormented poor Jones, and no less certain that she aerself wae 
its object, she had not the least difficulty in discovering the 
true cause of his present behaviour. This highly endeared 
him to her, and raised in her mind two of the best affections 
which any lover can wish to raise in a mistress. These were, 
esteem and pity ; for sure the most outrageously rigid among 
her sex will excuse her pitying a man, whom she saw miser- 
able on her own account ; nor can they blame her for esteem- 
ing one, who visibly, from the most honourable motives, en- 
deavoured to smother a flame in his own bosom, wnicn, like 
the famous Spartan theft, was preying upon and consuming 
his very vitals. Thus his backwardness, his shunning her, his 
coldness, and his silence, were the forwardest, the most dili- 
gent, the warmest, and most eloquent advocates ; and wrought 
so violently on her sensible and tender heart, that she soon felt 
for him all those gentle sensations, which are consistent with a 
virtuous and elevated female mind. • In short, all which esteem, 
gratitude, and pity, can inspire in such towards an agreeable 
man. Indeed, all which the nicest delicacy can alloi In ^ 
word, she was in love with him to distraction. 

A i'OUNDLlNa. 283 

One day this young couple accidentally met in the garden, 
at the end of the two walks, which were both bounded by that 
canal In whict Jones had formerly risked drowning to retrieve 
the little birc^ that Sophia had there lost. 

This place had been of late much frequented by Sophia. 
Here she used to rumiuate, Avith a mixture of pain and plea- 
sure, on an incident, which, however trifling in itself, had pos- 
sibly sown th first seeds of that affection, which was now ar- 
rived to such maturity in her heart. 

Here then this young coup'io met. They were almost close 
together before either of them knew anything of the other's 
approach A bystander would have discovered suflBcient 
marks of confusion in the countenance of each ; but they felt 
too much themselves to make any observation. As soon as 
Jones had a little recovered his first surprise, he accosted the 
young lady with some of the ordinary forms of salutation, 
which she in the same manner returned ; and their conversa- 
tion began, as usua', on the delicious beauty of the morning. 
Hence they passed tO the beauty of the place, on which Jones 
launched forth very high encomiums. When they came to the 
treo whence he had formerly tumbled into the canal, Sophia 
could not help reminding him of that accident, and said, " I 
fancy, Mr. Jones, you have some little shuddering when you 
see that water." — '* I assure you, madam,'* answered Jones, 
*' the concern you felt at the loss of your little bird will always 
appear to me the highest circumstance in that adventure. 
Poor little Tommy ! there is the branch he stood upon. How 
could the little wretch have the folly to fly away from that 
state of happiness in which I had the honour to place him ? 
His fate was a just punishment for his ingratitude. '* — ''Upon 
my word, Mr Jones," said she, ''your gallantry very nar- 
rowly escaped as severe a fate. Sure, the remembrance must 
affect you." — ''Indeed, madam," answered he, "if Ihave any 
reason to reflect with sorrow on it, it is, perhaps, that the 
water had not been a little deeper, by which I might have 
escaped many bitter heart-aches that Fortune seems to hav'3 in 
store for me." — "Fie, Mr. Jones," replied Sophia; "I am 
sure you cannot be in earnest now. This affected contempt 
of life is only an excess of your complaisance to me. Yon 


would endeavour to lessen the obligation of having twice ven- 
tured it for my sake. Beware the third time." She spoke 
these last words with a smile, and a softness inexpressible. 
Jones answered, with a sigh, **He feared it was already too 
late for caution :** and then, looking tenderly and steadfastly 
on her, he cried, "Oh, Miss Western I can you desire me ti 
live ? Can you wish me so ill f Sophia looking down on thj 
ground, answered with some hesitation, " Indeed, Mr. Jones, 
I do not wish you ill.'^ — " Oh, I know too well that heavenly 
temper," cries Jones, "that divine goodness, which is beyond 
every other charm.'' — ''Nay, now,'' answered she, **I under- 
stand you not. I can stay no longer." — *' I — I would not be 
understood I" cries he ; **nay, I can't be understood. I know 
not what I say. Meeting you here so unexpectedly, I have 
been unguarded : for Heaven's sake pardon me, if I have said 
anything to offend you. — I did not mean it. Indeed, I would 
rather have died — nay, the very thought would kill me." 
"You surprise me," answered she. ** How can you possibly 
think you have offended me?" — "Fear, madam," says he. 
" easily runs into madness ; and there is no degree of fear like 
that which I feel of offending you. How can I speak, then ? 
Nay, don't look angrily at me : one frown will destroy me. I 
mean nothing. Blame my eyes, or blame those beauties. 
What am I saying? Pardon me if I have said too much. 
My heart overflowed. I have struggled with my love to the 
utmost, and have endeavoured to conceal a fever, which preys 
on my vitals, and will, I hope, soon make it impossible for me 
ever to offend you more." 

Mr. Jones now fell a trembling as if he had been shaken with 
the fit of an ague. Sophia, who was *n a situation not 'ery 
different from his, answered in these words : " Mr. Jones, I 
will not affect to misunderstand you : indeed I understand you 
too well ; but, for Heaven's sake, if you have any affection for 
me, let me make the best of my way into the house. — I wish 
I may be able to support myself thither." 

Jones, who was hardly able to support himself, offered her 
his arm, which she condescended to accept, but begged he 
would not mention a word more to her of this nature at present. 
He promised he would not ; insisting only on her forgivcnesb 

A rOUNDLlNO. 235 

of what love, without the leave of his will, had forced from 
him : this, she told him, he knew how to obtain by his future 
behayiour; and thus this young pair tottered and trembled 
along ; the lover not onc« daring to squeeze the hand of his 
mistress, though it was locked in his. 

Sophia immediately retired to her chamber, where Mrs. 
Honour and the hartshorn were summoned to her assistance. 
Ap to poor Jones, the only relief to his distempered mind was 
an unwelcome piece of news, which, as it opens a scene of a 
diu'e^nt nature from those in which the reader hath lately been 
eonversant, will be communicated to him in the next chapter. 


.«ii vflueh Mr, AUworthy appear* on a tick bed. 

Mil. vViiJSTEikN was become so fond of Jones, that he was un- 
willing to part with him, tiiongh his arm had been long since 
cured ; and Jones, either from the love of sport, or from some 
other reason, was easily persuaded to continue at his house, 
^hich he did sometimes for a fortnight together, without pay- 
ing a sing.e visit at Mr. Alhvorthy^s ; nay, without ever hear- 
in u( from thence. 

Mr. AUworthy had been for some days ir.disposcd with a 
cold, which had been attended with a little fever. This he had, 
however, neglected ; as it was usual with him to do all manner 
or disorders which did not confine him to his bed, or prevent 
bis several faculties from performing their ordinary functions ; 
— a conduct which we would by no means be thought to ap- 
];jrovo or recommend to imitation ; for surely the gentlemen of 
the JSscAlapian art arc in the right in advising, that the 
moment the disease has entered at one door, the physician 
should be introduced at the other. What else is meant by that 
cJd odage, Venienti occurriie morho ? " Oppose a distemper 
lit its first approach." Thus the doctor and the disease meet 
m fair and equal conflict ; whereas, by giving time to the latter, 
we ofen suffer him to fortify and entrench himself, like a French 
^^rmy : so tb/a the learned gentleman finds it very difficult, and 
soiiietirieB impossible, to come at the enemy. Nay, sometimes. 


by gaining time, the disease applies to the French military 
polities, and corrupts nature over to his side, and then all the 
powers of physic must arrive too late. Agreeable to these db- 
scrvations was, I remember, the complaint of the great Poctor 
Misaubin, who used very pathetically to lament the late nppli- 
cations which were made to his skill; saying, -'Bygar, me be- 
lieve my pation take me for de undertaker ; for dey never end 
for me till the physicion have kill dem.'' 

Mr. Allworthy's distemper, by means of this neglect, ga^n^id 
such ground, that, when the increase of his fever ol??iged him 
to send for assistance, the doctor at his first arri ;^al shook his 
head, wished he liad been sent for sooner, and intimated thai 
he thought him in very imminent danger. Mr. Allworthy, who 
had settled all his affairs in this world, and was as well pre- 
pared as it is possible for human nature to oe for the other, re- 
ceived this information with the utmost calmness and unconcern. 
He could, indeed, whenever he laid himself doivn to ^'est. say 
with Cato in the tragical poem — 

Let guilt or fear 

, Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them • 

Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. 

In reality, he could say 'his .vith ten times more reason ^.^.a 
confidence than Cato, or any other proud fellow among the 
ancient or modern hef >cs ; for he was not only devoid of fear, 
but might be considered as a faithful labourer, when at the end 
of liarvcst he is summoned to receive his reward at the hands 
of a bountiful master. 

Tlie good man ga ^c immediate orders for all his family to be 
summoned round him. None of were then abroad, bat 
Mrs. Blifil, wlio had been some time in London, and Mr. 
Jones, whom tlie reader nas just parted from at Mr. Western's, 
and who received this summons just as Sophia had left him. 

The news of Mr. All worthy "s danger, (for the servant tolrt 
him he was dying,) drove all thouglits of love out of his head. 
He hurried instantly into the chariot which was sent for hiin, 
and ordered the coachman to drive with all imaginable haste ; 
nor did the idea of Sophia, I believe, once occur to him ct: thu. 

And now the whole family, namely, Mr. B^'dl. Mr. Juoes^ 


Mr. Tl.wacknm, Mr. Square^, and some of the servants, (for 
sach were Mr. All worthy's orders,) being all assembled round 
his bed, the good man sat up in it, and was beginning to speak, 
when Blifil fell to blubbering, and began to express very loud 
and bitter lamentations. Upon this Mr. Allworthy shook him 
by the hand, and said, *' Do not sorrow thus, my dear nephew, 
tet the most ordinary of all human occurrences. When mis- 
fortunes befall our friends, we are justly grieved ; for those are 
Stccidents which might often have been avoided, and which 
nay seem to render the lot of one man more peculiarly unhappy 
than that of otters ; but death is certainly unavoidable, and 
is that common let in which alone the fortunes of all men 
agree ; nor is the time when this happens to us very material. 
If the wisest of men have compared life to a span, surely we 
may bo allowed to consider it as a day. It is my fate to leave 
it in the evening ; but those, who are taken away earlier, have 
only lost a few hours, at the best little worth lamenting, and 
much oftener hours of labour and fatigue, of pain and sorrow. 
One of the Roman poets, I remember, likens our leaving life 
to our departure from a feast; — a thought which hath often 
occurred to me, when I have seen men struggling to protract 
ai? entertainment, and to enjoy the company of their friends a 
few moments longer. Alas I how short is the most protracted 
of such enjoyments I How immaterial the difference between 
tim who retires the soonest, and him who stays the latest I 
This is seeing life in the best view, and this unwillingness to 
quit our friends is the most amiable motive, ft*om which we 
can derive the fear of death ; and yet the longest enjoyment 
which we can hope for of this kind is of so trivial a duration, 
that it is to a wise man truly contemptible. Few men, I own, 
think in this manner ; for, indeed, few men think of death till 
they are in its jaws. However gigantic and terrible an object 
this may appear when it approaches them, they are neverth?less 
incapable of seeing it at any distance ; nay, though they have 
been ever so much alarmed and frightened when they have 
apprehended themselves in danger of dying, they are no sooner 
cleared from this apprehension, than even the fears of it arc 
erased from their minds. But, alas I he who escapes from 
death is not pardoned ; he is only reprieved, and reprieved to 
a ihort day. 


•* Griere, therefore, no more, my dear cliihl, on this occiisioQ ; 
an event which may happen every hour, which every dement, 
nay almost every particle of matter that surrounds us. is 
capable of producing, ani which must and will most unavoid- 
ably reach us all at last, ^ught neither to occasion our surprise, 
nor onr lamentation. 

' ' My physician having acquainted me, (which I take vcrr 
kindly of him,) that I am in danger of leaving you all v^ry 
shortly, I have determined to say a few words to you at this 
our parting, before my distemper, which I find grows very 
fast upon me, puts it out of my power. 

''Butl shall waste my strength too nuch. I intended tv*) 
speak *oncennng my will, which, though I have settled long 
c^o, I think proper to mention such heads of it as concern any 
of you, that I may. have the comfort of perceiving you are all 
salisfied with the provision I have there made for you; 

'* Nephew Blifil, I leave you the heir to my whole estate, 
except )nly 500Z. a-year, wliich is to revert to you after the 
death of your mother, and except one other estate of 500Z. a- 
year, and the sum of 6000Z., which I have bestowed in thj 
following manner : 

'* The estate of 500Z. a-year I have gi rcn to you, Mr. Jones : 
and, as I know the inconvenience which attends the want of 
ready money, I have added lOOOZ. in specie. In this I know 
not whether I have exceeded or fallen short of your expectation. 
Parhaps you will think I have given you too little, and the 
wor d will be as ready to condemn me for giving you too 
mi'c'i ; but the latter censure I despise ; and as to the former, 
unless you should entertain that common error, which I 
have often heard in my life pleaded as an excuse for a total 
want of charity, namely, that, instead of raising gratitude by 
voluntary acts of bounty we are apt to raise demands, which 
of all others are the most boundless and most difficult to 
satisfy. — Pardon me the bare mention of this : I . will not 
suspect any such thing." 

Jones flung himself at his benefactor's feet, and taking 
eagerly hold of his hand, assured him his goodness to him, 
lioth now and at all other times, had so infinitely exceeded not 
only his merit but his hopes, that no words could express his 

suific 01 It ''And I assure you, sir,'- said ht, "your ;resent 
generosity hath left me no other concern than for the present 
melancholy occasion. Oh, Ty frend ! my father!" Here 
his words choked him, ^^.nd h turned away to hide a tear which 
was starting from his eyes. 

Allworthy then gently squeezed his hand, and proceedeJl 
thus : ** I am convinced, my child, that you havt much good- 
ness, jrenerosity, and hoi our, in your temper : if ycu will add 
piudence and . eligion t( thes^,, you must be happy; for the 
three former qualities, I admit, make you worthy of happi- 
ness, but they are the latter only which will put you in posses- 
sion of it. 

'• One thousand pounds, I have given to you, Mr. Thwackum ; • 
a sum, I am convinced, which greatly exceeds your desires, as 
wel. as your wants, llowever, you will receive it as a me- 
morial of my friendship ; and whatever superfluities may re- 
dound to you, that piety you so rigidly maintain, will instruct 
you how to dispose of them. 

**A like sum, Mr. Square, I have bequeathed to you. This, 
I hope, will enable you to pursue your profession with better 
success than hitherto. I have often observed with concern, 
that distress is more apt to excite contempt than commisera- 
tion, especially among men of business, with whom poverty is 
understood to indicate want of ability. But the little I have 
been able to leave you will extricate you from those difficulties 
with which you have formerly struggled ; and then I doubt 
not but you will meet with sufficient prosperity to supply what 
a man of your philosophical temper will require. 

'* I find myself growing faint, so I shall refer you to my will 
for my disposition of the residue. My servants will there find 
some tokens to remember me by ; and there are a few charities 
which, I trust, my executors will see faithfully performed. 
Bless you all I I am setting out a little before you.'' — 

Here a footman came hastily into the room, and said there 
was an attorney from Salisbury, who had a particular message, 
which he said he must communicate to Mr. Allworthy himself : 
tliat he seemed in a violent hurry, and protested he had so 
much business to do, that, if he could cut himself into four 
quarters, all would not be sufficient 


"Go, child," said All worthy to Blilil, "sec what the gcntlc- 
X .an wants. I ani not able to do any business now, nor can 
'le have any with me, in which yoa are not at present more 
concerned than myself. Besides, 1 really ai . — I am incapable 
of seeing any one at present, or of any longer attention.-* 
He then saluted :hem all, saying, perh'.ps he pbould be uh!e 
to see them again ; but he should be now giad to compose 
himself a little, finding that he had too muca cxhausoc.i his 
spirits in discourse. 

Some of the company shed tears a,t their parting ; and ^ivrn 
the philosopher Square wiped his eyes, albeit unused to the 
melting mood. As to Mrs. Wilkins, she dropped her pearlfl 
as fast as the Arabian trees their medicinal gums ; for this was 
a ceremonial which that gentlewoman never omitted on a 
proper occasion. 

After this, Mr. Allworthy again laid himself down on his 
pillow, and endeavoured to compose himself to rest. 


Containing matter rather natural than pleasing. 

Besides grief for her master, there was another source for 
that briny stream which so plentifully rose above the two moun- 
tainous cheek-bones of the housekeeper. She was no sooner 
retired, than she began to mutter to herself in the following 
pleasant strain : " Sure master might have made some differ- 
ence, methinks, between me and the other servants. I suppose 
he hath left me mourning ; but, i'fackins I if that be all, the 
devil shall wear it for him, for me. I'd have his worship 
know I am no beggar. I have saved five hundred pounds ia 
his service, and after all to be used in this manner. — It is a 
fine encouragement to servants to be honest ; and, to be sure, 
if I have taken a little something now and then, others have 
taken ten times as much ; and now we are all put in a lump 
together. If so be that it be so, the legacy may go to the 
devil with him that gave it. No, I won't give it up neitheir, 
because that will please some folks. No, I'll buy the gajiit 
gown I can get, anu dance over the old curmudgeon's grave 


in it. This is my reward for taking his part so often, wiien all 
the country have cried shame of him, for breeding up hia 
bastard in that manner ; but he is going now where he must 
pay for all. It would have become him better to have repented 
of his sins on his death-bed, than to glory in them, and give 
away his estate out of his own family to a misbegotten child. 
Found in his bed, forsooth 1 a pretty story ! ay, ay, those that 
hide know where to find. Lord forgive him 1 I warrant he 
hath many more bastards to answer for, if the truth was known. 
One comfort is, they will all be known where he is a going 
now. — 'The servants will find some tokens to remember me 
by :' those were the very words ; I shall never forget them, if 
I was to live a thousand years. Ay, ay, I shall remember you 
for huddling me among the servants. One would have thought 
he might have mentioned my name as well as that of Square ; 
but he is a gentleman, forsooth, though he had not clothes on 
bis back when he came hither first. Marry come up with such 
gentlemen I though he hath lived here this many years, I don't 
believe there is arrow a servant in the house ever saw the colour 
of his money. The devil shall wait upon such a gentleman for 
me.'' Much more of the like kind sfie muttered to herself; 
bat this taste shall suffice to the reader. 

N'^ither Thwackum nor Square were much better satisfied 
with their legacies. Though they breathed not their resent- 
ment so loud, yet, from the discontent which appeared in their 
coimtenances, as well as from the following dialogue, we 
collect mat no great pleasure reigned in their minds. 

About an hour after they had left the sick room, Square 
met Thwackum in the hall, and accosted him thus: *'Well, 
air, have you heard any news of your friend since we parted 
ft-om him?" — "If you mean Mr. Allwortby," answered 
Thwackum, ** I think you might rather give him the appella- 
tion of your friend ; for he seems to me to have deserved that 
title." — " The title is as good on your side," replied Square, 
" for his bounty, such as it is, hath been equal to both." — "I 
should not have mentioned it first," cries Thwackum, "but 
sioce you begin, I must inform you I am of a different opinion. 
There is a wide distinction between voluntary favours and 
rewards. The duty I have done in his family, and the care I 

I.— 21 Q 


have taken in the education of his two boys, are services fo» 
which some men might have expected a greater return. I 
would not have you imagine I am therefore dissatisfied ; for 
St. Paul hath taught me to be content with the little I have. 
Had the modicum been less, I should have known my duty. 
But though the scripture obliges me to remain contented, it 
doth not enjoin me to shut my eyes to my own merit, nor 
restrain me from seeing, when I am injured by an unjust com- 
parison." — " Since you provoke roe,'' returned Square, " that 
injury is done to me ; nor did I ever imagine Mr. Allworthy 
had held my friendship so light, as to put me in balance with 
one who received his wages. I know to what it is owing: 
it proceeds from those narrow principles which you have been 
so long endeavouring to infuse into him, in contempt of every 
thing which is great and noble. The beauty and loveliness of 
friendship is too strong for dim eyes, nor can it be perceived 
by any other medium than that unerring rule of right, which 
you have so often endeavoured to ridicule, that you have per- 
verted your friend's understanding." — '* I wish," cries Thwack- 
um, in a rage, "I wish, for the sake of his soul, your damna- 
ble doctrines have not perverted his faith. It is to this I im- 
pute his present behaviour, so unbecoming a Christian, Who 
but an atheist could think of leaving the world without having 
first made up bis account ? without confessing his sins, and 
receiving that absolution which he knew he had one in the 
house duly authorised to give him ? He will feel the waat of 
these necessaries when it is too late, when he is arrived at that 
place where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. It is then 
he will find in what mighty stead that heathen goddess, that 
virtue, which you and all other deists of the age adore, will 
stand him. He will then summon his priest, when there is 
none to be found, and will lament the want of that absolution, 
without which no sinner can be safe." — * ' If it be so material, " 
says Square, **why don't you present it him of your own 
accord?" — *'It hath no virtue," cries Thwackum, "but to 
those who have sufficient grace to require it. But why do I 
talk thus to a heathen and an unbeliever ? It was you that 
taught him this lesson, for which you have been well rewarded 
in this world, as I doubt not your disciple will soon be in the 


other." — "I know not what you mean by reward," said 
Square; "but if you hint at that pitiful memorial of our 
friendship, which he hath thought fit to bequeath me, I despise 
it ; and nothing but the unfortunate situation of my circum- 
stances should prevail on me to accept it." 

The physician now arrived, and began to inquire of the two 
disputants, how we all did above stairs? '*In a miserable 
way, ' ' answered Th wackufm. ' ' It is no more than I expected, ' ' 
cries the doctor : " but pray what symptoms have appeared 
since I left you?" — "No good ones, I am afraid," replied 
Thwackum : " after what passed at our departure, I think 
there were little hopes." The bodily physician, perhaps, 
misunderstood the curer of souls : and before they came to an 
explanation, Mr. Blifil came to them with a most melancholy 
countenance, and acquainted them that he brought sad news ; 
for that his mother was dead at Salisbury : that she had been 
seized on the road home with the gout in her head and stomach, 
which had carried her oflF in a few hours. ^ * Good-lack-a-day ! ' ' 
says the doctor. " One cannot answer for events ; but I wish 
I had been at hand, to have been called in. The gout is a 
distemper which it is difficult to treat ; yet I have been re- 
remarkably successful in it." Thwackum and Square botl* 
condoled with Mr. Blifil for the loss of his mother, which the 
MM advised him to bear like a man, and the other like a Chris- 
taan. The young gentleman said, he knew very well we wens 
all mortal, and he would endeavour to submit to his loss au 
well as he could. That he could not, however, help complain* 
ing a little against the peculiar severity of his fate, whict 
brought the news of so great a calamity to him by surprise, 
and that at a sime when he hourly expected the severest blo^ 
he was capable of feeling from the malice of fortune. He said, 
the present occasion would put to the test those excellent rudi- 
ments which he had learnt from Mr. Thwackum and Mr. 
Square ; and it would be entirely owing to them, if he was 
enabled to survive such misfortunes. 

It was now debated whether Mr. Allworthy should be in- 
formed of the death of his sister. This the doctor violently 
opposed ; in which, I believe, the whole college would agree 
wiUi him ; but Mr. Blifil said, he had received such positive 


and repeated orders from his uncle, never to keep any secret 
from him, for fear of the disquietude which it might give him, 
that he durst not think of disobedience, whatever might be the 
consequence. He said, for his part, considering the religious 
and philosophic temper of his uncle, he could not agree with 
the doctor in his apprehensions. He was therefore resolved to 
communicate it to him: for if his uncle recovered, (as he 
heartily praved he might,) he knew he would never forgive an 
endeavour to keep a secret of this kmd from him. ' 

The physician was forced to submit to these resolutions, 
which the two other learned gentlemen very highly commended. 
So together moved Mr. Blifil and the doctor towards the sick 
room ; where the ])hysician first entered, and approached the 
bod, in order to feel his patient's pulse, which he had no sooner 
done, tlian he declared lie was much better ; that the last ap- 
plication had succeeded to a miracle, and had brought the fever 
to intermit ; so that, he said, there appeared now to be as little 
danger, as he had before ai)prehended there were hopes. 

To say the truth, !Mr. Allworthy's situation had never been 
FO bad as the great caution of the doctor had represented it; 
but as a wise general never despises his enemy, however inferior 
that enemy's force may be, so neither doth a wise physician 
over despise a distemper, however inconsiderable. As the 
former preserves the same strict discipline, places the same 
guards, and employs the same scouts, though the enemy be 
never so weak; so the latter maintains the same gravity of 
countenance, and shakes his head with the same significant air, 
let the distemper be never so trifling. And both, among many 
other good ones, may assign this solid reason for their conduct, 
that by these means the greater glory redounds to them if they 
gain tlie victory, and the less disgrace, if by any unlucky acxji- 
dent they should happen to be conquered. 

Mr. Allworthy had no sooner lifted up his eyes, and thanked 
Heaven for these hopes of his recovery, than Mr. Blifil drew 
. near, with a very dejected aspect, and having applied his hand- 
kerchief to his eye, either to wipe away his tears, or to do, as 
Ovid somewhere expresses himself on another occasion. 
Si nullus erit, tamen excute nuUum, 
If there be none, then wipe away that none. 


he communicated to his uncle what the reader hath been just 
before acquainted with. 

AUwortiiy received the news with concern, with patience, 
and with resignation. He dropped a tender tear, then com 
posed his countenance, and at last cried, *' The Lord's will be 
done in every thing.'' 

He now inquired for the messenger : but Blifil told him, it 
had been impossible to detain him a moment ; for he appeared 
by the great hurry he was in to have some business of import- 
ance on his hands : that he complained of being hurried, and 
driven and torn out of his life, and repeated many times, that 
if he could divide himself into four quarters, he knew how to 
dispose of every one. 

Allworthy then desired Blifil to take care of the funeral. 
He said, he would have his sister deposited in his own chapel ; 
and as to the particulars, he left them to his own discretion, 
only mentioning the person whom he would have employed on 
this occasion. 


Which, among other things, may serve as a comment on that saying of 
JEschineSj ** Drunkenness shows the mind of a man, as a mirror reflects 
hii person,** 

The reader may, perhaps, wonder at hearing nothing of Mr. 
Jones in the last chapter. In fact, his behaviour was so dif- 
ferent from that of the persons there mentioned, that we chose 
not to confound his name with theirs. 

When the good man had ended his speech, Jones was the 
last who deserted the room. Thence he retired to his own 
apanmeiit, to give vent to his concern ; but the restlessness 
of his mind would not suffer him to remain long there : he 
slipped softly, therefore, to Allwortby's chamber-door, where 
he. listened a considerable time without hearing any kind of 
motion within, unless a violent snoring, which at last his fears 
misrepresented as groans. This so alarmed him, that he could 
not forbear entering the room ; where he found the good man 
in the bed, in a sweet composed sleep, and his nurse snoring 
in the above-mentioned hearty manner, at the bed's feet. He 


imruediawiT took the only method of silencing this thorough 
ba.<{?. wi.}>e m'.i>io he feared might disturb Mr. Allworthy; 
4:ii '-I'm <i-.:LL;j: down hy the nurse, he remained motionless 
ti. Blii' d::d :iie doctor came in together, and waked the sick 
ajdP. ir. orvlor :hat the doctor might feel his pidse, and that the 
o-ih^r tiv.^h: oo lumunicate to him that piece of news, which had 
Jcv-e> b^t^'A apprised of it, would have had great difficulty of 
I?" ii-i: ::s w;iy to Mr. Allworthy 's ear at such a season. 

\Y >.-':: ho first heard Blifil tell his uncle this story, Jones 
tx»"I.: hardly contain the wrath which kindled in him at the'< ir.vlisoretion, especially as the doctor shook his head, 
and d-.vlarod his unwillingness to have the matter mentioned 
to *[::> pationt. But as his passion did not so far deprive him 
of all use of his understanding, as to hide from him the conse- 
qaonoos which any violent expression towards Blifil might have 
on the siok. this apprehension stilled his rage at the present ; 
and ho grow afterwards so satisfied with finding that his news 
had. in fact, produced no mischief, that he suffered his anger 
10 dio in his own bosom, without ever mentioning it to Blifil. 

The physician dined that day at Mr. AUworthy's; and 
having after dinner visited his patient, he returned to the com- 
pany, and told them, -thfrt he had now the satisfaction to say, 
with assurance, that his patient was out of all danger ; that 
ho had brought his fever to a perfect intermission, and doubted 
not. by throwing in the bark, to prevent its return. 

Tlus account so pleased Jones, and threw him into such im- 
moilorate excess of rapture, that he might be truly said to be 
drunk with joy ; — an intoxication which greatly forwards the 
vftVots of wine ; and as he was very free too with the bottle on 
this occasion, (for he drank many bumpers to the doctor's 
hoalih, as well as to other toasts,) he became very soon literally 

Jones had naturally violent animal spirits: these being set 
ou tloat, and augmented by the spirit of wine, produced most 
vv\travagant effects. He kissed the doctor, and embraced him 
with the most passionate endearments ; swearing that, next to 
Sir. Allworthy himself, he loved him of all men living. " Doc- 
|j>f^»> added he, "you deserve a statue to be erected to you at 
pense, for having preserved a man, who Is no"* 


only the darling of all good men who know him, but a blessing 
to society, the glory of his country, and an honour to human 
nature. D — n me if I don't love him better than -my own 

"More shame for you," cries Thwackum. *' Though I 
think you have reason to love him, for he hath provided very 
well for you. And, perhaps, it might have been better for 
some folks, that he hath not lived to see just reason of revoking 
his gift." 

Jones now, looking on Thwackum with inconceivable dis- 
dain, answered, ''And doth thy mean soul imagine, that any 
such considerations could weigh witli me ? No, let the earth 
open and swallow her own dirt, (if I had millions of acres, I 
would say it,) rather than swallow up my dear glorious frier d." 

Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus 
Tarn cliari capitis?* 

The doctor now interposed, and prevented the effects of a 
wrath which was kindling between Jones and Thwackum ; 
after which the former gave a loose to mirth, sang two or three 
amorous songs, and fell into every frantic disorder which un- 
bridled joy is apt to inspire ; but so far was he from any dis- 
position to quarrel, that he was ten times better humoured, if 
possible, than when he was sober.. 

To say truth, nothing is more erroneous than the common 
observation, that men, who are ill-natured and quarrelsome 
when they are drunk, are very worthy persons when they are 
sober ; for drink in reality, doth not reverse nature, or create 
passions in men, which did not exist in them before. It takes 
away the guard of reason, and consequently forces us to pro- 
dace those symptoms, which many, when sober, have art 
enough to conceal. It heightens and inflames our passions, 
(generally indeed that passion which is uppermost in our mind,) 
so that the angry temper, the amorous, the generous, the good- 
hamoured, the avaricious, and all otlicr dispositions of men, 
are in their cups heightened and exposed. 

* "What modosty or measure can set bounds to our desire of so dear 
a friend?" The word deaiderium here cannot* be easily translated. It in- 
elndes our desire of enjoying our friend again, and the 'gciQi which at 
tends that desire. 

:4^ THE HisToar of 

And jet, as no nation prodaces so many dranken qaarrels, 
eap«-ial;v anon? the lower people, as England, (for. indeed, 
with tbem to drink and to Cerht together, are almost synony- 
mouse terms. J I wouM lo:, methinks. hare it thence conclnded, 
that the English are the worst-natured people alive. Perhaps 
the love of glory only is at the bottom of this ; so that the fair 
conela-ioa 5*.-enis to ue, that our countrymen have more of that 
love, and more of bravery, than any other plebeians. And 
this tlie rather, as there is seldom anything ungenerous, unfair, 
or iil-natured, exercised on these occasions ; nay, it is common 
for the combatants to express good- will for each other even at 
the lime tf the conflict : and as their drunken mirth generally 
ends in a battle, so do most of their battles end in friendship. 

But to return to our history. Though Jones had shown no 
design of giving offence, yet Mr. Blifil was highly offended at 
a behaviour which was so inconsistent with the sober and 
prudent reserve of his own temper. He bore it too with the 
greater impatience, as it appeared to him very indecent at this 
season: "When," as he said, *'the house was a honse of 
mourninir, on the account of his dear mother ; and if it had 
pleased Iieaven to give him some prospect of Mr. Allworthy's 
recovery, it would become them better to express the exidta- • 
tioiis of their hearts in thanksgiving, than in drunkenness and 
riot : V, hich were properer methods to increase the divine wrath, 
than to avert it. '' Thwackum, who had swallowed more liquor 
thiin Jones, but without any ill effect on his brain, seconded 
the }>i«.ius harangue of Blifil ; but Square, for reasons which 
the reader may probably guess, was totally silent. 

"Wine had not so totally overpowered Jones, as to prevent 
his recollecting Mr. Blifil's loss, the moment it was mentioned. 
A.s no person, therefore, was more ready to confess and con- 
demn his own errors, he offered to shake Mr. Blifil by the hand, 
and begged his pardon, saying, **His excessive joy for Mr. 
A 11 worthy's recovery had driven every other thought out of his 

Blifil scornfully rejected his hand ; and, with much indigna- 
tion, answered, "It was little to be wondered at, if tragical 
spe(;taclcs made no impression on the blind ; but, for his pari, 
' ' ' *he misfortune to know who his parents were, and con- 
must be affected with their loss." 


Jones, who, notwithstanding his good-humour, had some 
mixture of the irascibe in his constitution, leaped hastily from 
his chair, and catching hold of BlifiPs collar, cried out, '* D — n 
you for a rascal I do you insult me with the misfortune of my 
birth ?" He accompanied these words with such rough actions, 
that they soon got the better of Mr. BlifiPs peaceful temper; 
and a scuffle immediately ensued, which might have produced 
mischief, had it not been prevented by the interpositiqn of 
Thwacknm and the physician ; for the philosophy of Square 
rendered him superior to all emotions, and he very calmly 
smoked his pipe, as was his custom in all broils, unless when 
be apprehended some danger of haying it broke in his mouth. 

The combatants being now prevented from executing present 
vengeance on each other, betook themselves to the common re- 
sources of disappointed rage, and vented their wrath in threats 
and defiance. In this kind of conflict. Fortune, which, in the 
personal attack, seemed to incline to Jones, was now altogether 
as favourable to his enemy. 

A truce, nevertheless, was at lengtft agreed on, by the media- 
tion of the neutral parties, and the whole company again sat 
down at the table ; where Jones being prevailed on to ask par- 
don, and Blifil to give it, peace was restored, and every tiling 
seemed in statu quo. 

But though the quarrel was, in all appearance, perfectly re- 
conciled, tbe good-humour, which had been interrupted by it, 
was by no means restored. All merriment was now at an end, 
and the subsequent discourse consisted only of grave relations 
of matters of fact, and of as grave observations upon them ; — 
a species of conversation, in which, though there is much of 
dignity and instruction, there is but little entertainment. As 
we presume, therefore, to convey only this last to the reader, 
we shall pass by whatever was said, till the rest of the company 
having by degrees dropped off, left only Square and the phy- 
sician together ; at which time the conversation was a little 
heightened by some comments on what had happened between 
the two young gentlemen ; both of whom the doctor declared 
to be no better than scoundrels , to which appellation the 
philosopher, very sagaciously shaking his head, agreed. 



Si'Xi'j the truth of many obgerrauy'tf -/ OciL and rf other more ffrart 
writers, tcho have proved, beyond c->ntr^dtc:ici*, that teime is often t/4e fore- 
runner of incontinenqf. 

JoNKs rotiriMl from the company, in which we have seen him 
enpi^rt'tl, into tlu* iioUls, where he intended to cool himself by 
ft walk in tlio opiMi air, before he attended Mr. Allworthy. 
ThiTO, whilst ho roiiowod those meditations on his dear Sophia, 
wliifli the dangerouvs iUness of liis friend and benefactor had 
for some time interrupted, an accident happened, which with 
sorrow we relate, and with sorrow doubtless will it be read ; 
however, that historic truth, to which we profess so inviolable 
an attachment, obliges us to communicate it to posterity. 

It was now a pleasant evening in the latter end of Jane, 
when our hero was walking in a most delicious grove, where 
the gentle breezes ftmning the leaves, together with the sweet 
trilling of a murmuring stream, and the melodious notes of 
ni'^htingalcs, formed altogether the most enchanting harmony. 
In this scene, so sweetly accommodated to love, he meditated 
on his dear Sophia. While his wanton fancy roved unbounded 
over all her beauties, and his lively imagination painted the 
charming maid in various ravishing forms, his warm heart 
molted with tenderness ; and, at length, throwing himself on 
the ground, by the side of a gently murmuring brook, he broke 
forth in the following ejaculation : 

**0, Sophia, would Heaven give thee to my arms, how 
blest would be my condition ! Curst be that fortune which sets 
a distance between us. "Was I but possessed of thee, one only 
suit of rags thy whole estate, is there a man on earth whom I 
would envy ! How contemptible would the brightest Circas- 
sian beauty, dressed in all the jewels of the Indies, appear to 
luv eyes I But why do I mention another woman ? Could I 
think my eyes capable of looking at any other with tenderness, 
those hands should tear them from my head. No, my Sophia, 
If cruel fortune separates us for ever, my soul shall doat ou 
ihce alone. The chastest constancy will I ever preserve to thy 
jMMgc. Though I should never have possession of thy charm- 
IH^ person, still shalt thou alone have possession of my thoughts^ 


my love, my soul. Oh! my fond heart is so wrapt in (hat 
terder bosom, that the brightest beauties would for me have 
no charms, nor would a hermit be colder in their embraces. 
Sophia, Sophia alone shall be mine. What raptures arc in 
that name I I will engrave it on every tree." 

At these words he started up, and beheld — not his Sophia 
— no, nor a Circassian maid richly and elegantly attired for 
the grand seignior's seraglio. No ; without a gown, in a 
shift that was somewhat of the coarsest, and none of the clean- 
est, bedewed likewise with some odoriferous effluvia, the pro- 
duce of the day's labour, with a pitchfork in her hand, Molly 
Seagrim approached. Our hero had his penknife in his hand, 
which he had drawn for the before-mentioned purpose of 
carving on the bark ; when the girl coming near him, cried out 
with a smile, " You don't intend to kill me, squire, I hope ?'' 
— "Why should you think I would kill you ?'' answered Jones. 
*'Nay," replied she, '* after your cruel usage of me when I 
saw you last, killing me, would, perhaps, be too great kindness 
for me to expect." 

Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not tliink myself obliged 
to relate it, I shall omit. It is sufficient tliat it lasted a full 
quarter of an hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into 
the thickest part of the gi'ove. 

Some of my readers may be inclined to think this event 
unnatural. However, the fact is true, and, perhaps, may be 
sufficiently accounted for by suggesting, that Jones probably 
thought one woman better than none ; and Molly as probably 
imagined two men to be better than one. Besides the before- 
mentioned motive assigned to the present behaviour of Jones, 
the reader will be likewise pleased to recollect in his favour, 
that he was not at this time perfect master of that wonderful 
power of reason, which so well enables grave and wise men to 
subdue their unruly passions, and to decline any of these pro- 
hibited amusements. Wine now had totally subdued this 
power in Jones. He was, indeed, in a condition, in which, if 
reason had interposed, though only to ad\iso, she might have 
received the answer which one Cleostratus gave many yoars ago 
to a silly fellow, who asked him if he was not ashamed to bo 
dmnkf *^Are not you," said Cleostratus, "ashamed to 


admonish a drunken man ?'' — To say the tnith, in a court of 
justice, drunkenness must not be an excuse, yet in a court of 
conscience it is greatly so ; and therefore Aristotle, who com- 
mends the laws of Pittacus, by which drunken men receive 
double punishment for their crimes, allows there is more of 
policy than justice in that law. Now, if there are any trans- 
gressions pardonable from drunkenness, they are certainly such 
as Mr. Jones was at present guilty of; on which head I could 
pour forth a vast profusion of learning, if I imagined it would 
either entertain my reader, or teach him any thing more than 
he knows already. For his sake, therefore, I shall keep my 
learning to myself, and return to my history. 

It hath been observed, that Fortune seldom doth things by 
halves. To say truth, there is no end to her freaks, whenever 
she is disposed to gratify or displease. No sooner had our 
hero retired with his Dido, but 

Speluncara BliJU dux et divinus eandem 


the parson and the youhg squire, who were taking a serious 
walk, arrived at the stile which leads into the grove, and the 
latter caught a view of the lovers just as they sinking out 
of sight. 

Blifil knew Jones very well, though he was at above a hundred 
yards' distance, and he was as positive to the sex of his com- 
panion, though not to the individual person. He started, 
blessed himself, and uttered a very solemn ejaculation. 

Tvvackum expressed some surprise at these sudden emotions, 
and asked the reason of them. To which Blifil* answered, 
*'IIc was certain he had seen a fellow and a wench retire 
together among the bushes, which he doubted not was with 
some wicked purpose. " As to the name of Jones, he thought 
proper to conceal it, and why he did so, must be left to the 
judgment of the sagacious reader; for we never choose to 
assign motives to the actions of men, when there is any possi- 
bility of our being mistaken. 

The parson, who was not only strictly chaste in his own 
person, but a great enemy to the opposite vice in all others, 
fired at this information. He desired Mr. Blifil to conduct 
him immediately to the place, which as he approached, hr 


l!>reatlied forth Vengeance mixed with lamentations ; nor did ho 
refrain fipom casting some oblique reflections on Mr. Allworthy ; 
insinuating that the wickedness of the country was principally 
owing to the encouragement he had given to vice, by having 
exerted such kindness to a bastard, and by having mitigated 
that just and wholesome rigour of the law, which allots a very 
severe punishment to loose wenches. 

The way, through which our hunters were to pass in pursuit 
of their game, was so beset with briars, that it greatly obstructed 
their walk, and caused, besides, such a rustling, that Jones had 
sufficient warning of their amval before they could surprise 
himu; nay, indeed, so incapable was Thwackum of concealing 
his indignation, and such vengeance did he mutter forth every 
step he took, that this alone must have abundantly satisfied 
Jones that he was, (to use the language of sportsmen,) found 


In which a nmile in Mr, Pope's period of a mile introducet an bloody a battle 
ae can possibly be fought without the assistance of steel or cold iron. 

As in the season of rutting (an uncouth phrase, by wliich 
the vulgar denote that gentle dalliance, which in the well- 
wooded* forest of Hampshire, passes between lovers of the 
ferine kind,) if, while the lofty-crested stag meditates the 
amorous sport, a couple of puppies, or any other beasts of 
hostile note, should wander so near the temple of Yenus Ferina, 
that the fair hind should shrink from the place, touched with 
that somewhat either of fear or frolic, of nicety or skittishness, 
with which nature hath bedecked all females, or hath, at least, 
instructed them how to put it on ; lest, through the indelicacy 
of males, the Samian mysteries should be pried into by 
unhallowed eyes ; — for at the celebration of these rites, the 
female priestess cries out with her in Yirgil, (who was then, 
probably, hard at work on such celebration,) 

Procul, procul este, profani ; 

Proclamat vates, totoque absistite luco. 

* This is an ambiguous phrase, and may mean either a forest well 
ttothed with wood, or well stript of it. 
I.— 22 


Far hence be souls profane, 

The sibyl cry'd, and from the groTe abstain. 


If, I say, while these sacred rites, which are in common to 
genus omne animantiumj are in agitation between the stag 
and his mistress, any hostile beasts should venture too near, 
on the first hint given by the frightful hind, fierce and 
tremendous rushes forth the stag to the entrance of the thicket : 
there stands he sentinel over his love, stamps the ground with 
his foot, and with his horns brandished aloft in air, proudly 
provokes the apprehended foe to combat. 

Thus, and more terrible, when he perceived the entmy's 
approach, leaped forth our hero. Many a step advanced he 
forwards, in order to conceal the trembling hind, and, if 
possible, to secure her retreat. And now Thwackum, having 
first darted some livid lightning from his fiery eyes, began to 
thunder forth : ' ' Fie upon it ! Fie upon it I Mr. Jones. Is it 
possible you should be the person ?'' — '^ You see," answered 
Jones, "it is possible I should be here.'' — *' And who," said 
Thwackum, " is that wicked slut with you ?" — *' If I have any 
wicked slut with me," cries Jones, "it is possible I shall not 
let you know who she is." — **I command you to tell me 
immediately," says Thwackum ; **and I would not have you 
imagine, young man, that your age, though it hath somewhat 
abridged the purpose of tuition, hath totally taken away the 
authority of the master. The relation of the master and 
scholar is indelible ; as, indeed, all other relations are ; for they 
all derive their original from Heaven. I would have you 
think yourself, therefore, as much obliged to obey me now, as 
when I taught you yonr first rudiments." — **I believe you 
would,'' cries Jones; "but that will not happen^ unless you 
had the same birchen argument to convince me." — "Then 
I must tell you plainly," said Thwackum, ''I am resolved to 
discover the wicked wretch." — "And I must tell you plainly,'* 
returned Jones, "lam resolved you shall not." Thwackum 
then offered to advance, and Jones laid hold of his arms ; which 
Mr. Blifil endeavoured to rescue, declaring, " he would not sea 
his old master insulted. " 

now, finding himself engaged with two, thought h 


necessary to rid himself of one of his antagonists as soon as 
possible. He, therefore, applied to the weakest first ; and, 
letting the parson go, he directed a blow at the young squire's 
breast, which luckily taking place, reduced him to measure his 
length on the ground. 

Thwackum was so intent on the discovery, that, the moment 
he found himself at liberty, he stepped forward directly into 
the fern, without any great consideration of what might, in the 
mean time, befall his friend ; but he had advanced a very few 
paces into the thicket, before Jones, having defeated Blifil, 
overtook the parson, and dragged him backward by the skirt 
of hifi coat. 

This parson had been a champion in his youth, and had won 
much honour by his fist, both at school and at the university. 
He had now, indeed, for a great number of years, declined the 
practice of that noble art ; yet was his courage full as strong 
as his faith, and his body no less strong than either. He was, 
moreover, as the reader may, perhaps, have conceived, some- 
what irascible in his nature. When he looked back, therefore, 
and saw his friend stretched out on the ground, and found him- 
self, at the same time, so roughly handled by one who had for- 
merly been only passive in all conflicts between them (a circum- 
stance which highly aggravated the whole), his patience at 
length gave way ; he threw himself into a posture of offence, 
and, collecting all his force, attacked Jones in the front with 
as much impetuosity as he had formerly attacked him in the 

Oar hero received the enemy's attack with the most undaunted 
intrepidity, and his bosom resounded with the blows. This he 
presently returned with no less violence, aiming likewise at the 
parson's breast; but he dexterously drove down the fist of 
Jones, so that it reached only his belly, where two pounds of 
beef, and as many of pudding, were then deposited, and whence, 
consequently, no hollow sound could proceed. Many lusty 
blows, much more pleasant as well as easy to have seen than to 
read or describe, were given on both sides ; at last, a violent 
fall, in which Jones had thrown his knees into Thwackum 's 
breast, so weakened the latter, that victory had been no lor 
dnbions. had not Blifil, who had now recovered his stn 


ftjEain renewed the fisiit. vhL br enneiB^ idiSi Joses. ciTing 

the parson a moxseiii's time to shake his em acd to regain hiJ 

And noir both tos-etber attacked otir hero, irhose blovs did 
not retain that force with vhich thej had fillen ax first, so 
weakened was he br his combat with Thwacknin : for though 
the pedagogue chose rather to plav »>Zcii( on the human instru- 
ment, and had been lately used to those onlr, yet he still re- 
tained enough of his ancient knowledge to perform his pari 
venr well in a duet. 

The victory, according to modern custom, wjis like to be 
decided by numbers, when, on a suOden, a fourth pair of fists 
appeared in the battle, and immediately paid their compliments 
to the parson ; and the owner of them, at the same time, cry- 
in jr out, '• Are not you ashamed, and be d — n'd to you, to fall 
two of you upon one ?* " 

The battle, which was of the kind that for distinction's sake 
is called royal, now raged with the utmost riolence during a 
few minutes ; till Blifil, being a second time laid sprawling by 
Jones, Thwackum condescended to apply for quarter to his 
new antagonist, who was now found to be Mr. YTestem him- 
self; for, in the heat of the action, none of the combatants had 
recognised bim. 

In fact, that honest squire, happening, in his aftemocn's 
walk with some company, to pass through the field where the 
bloody battle was fought, and having concluded, from seeing 
three men engaged, that two of them must be on a side, he 
hastened from his companions, and with more gallantry than 
policy, espoused the cause of the weaker party. By which 
generous proceeding, lie very probably prevented Mr. Jones 
from becoming a victim to the wrath of Thwackum, and to the 
pious friendship which Blifil bore his old master ; for, besides 
the disadvantage of such odds, Jones had not yet suflSciently 
recovered the former strength of his broken arm. This rein- 
forcement, however, soon put an end to the action, and Jones 
with his ally obtained the victory 



In which is seen a more moving spectacle than all the blood in the bodies of 
Thwaekum and Blifil^ and of twenty other such, is eapabh of producing. 

The rest of Mr. Western's company were now come up, 
being just at the instant when the action was over. These 
were the honest clergyman, whom we have formerly seen at Mr. 
Western's table ; Mrs. Western, the aunt of Sophia ; and, 
lastly, the lovely Sophia herself. 

At this time, the following was the aspect of the bloody 
field. In one place lay on the ground, all pale, and almost 
breathless, the vanquished Blifil. Near him stood the con- 
queror Jones, almost covered with blood, part of which was 
naturally his own, and part had been lately the property of 
the Rev. Mr. Thwaekum. In a third place stood the said 
Thwaokum, like king Porus, sullenly submitting to the con- 
queror. The last figure in the piece was Western the Great, 
most gloriously forbearing the vanquished foe. 

Blifil, in whom there was little sign of life, was at first the 
principal object of the concern of every one, and particularly 
of Mrs. Western, who had drawn from her pocket a bottle of 
hartshorn, and was herself about to apply it to his nostrils, 
when, on a sudden, the attention of the whole company was 
diverted from poor Blifil, whose spirit, if it had any such de- 
sign, might have now taken an opportunity of stealing off to 
the other world without any ceremony. 

For now a more melancholy and more lovely object lay 
motionless before them. This was no other than the charming 
Sophia herself, who, from the sight of blood, or from fear for 
her father, or from some other reason, had fallen down in a 
swoon, before any one could get to her assistance. 

Mrs. Western first saw her, and screamed. Immediately 
two or three voices cried out, *'Miss Western is dead I" 
Hartshorn, water, every remedy, were called for, almost at 
one and the same instant. 

The reader may remember, that, in our description of this 

grove, we mentioned a murmuring brook, which brook did not 

come there as such gentle streams flow through vulgar roman- 

'»4W, with no other purpose than to murmur. No ; Fortune 

22* E 


had decreed to ennoble this little brook with a higher honour 
than any of those which wash the plains of Arcadia erer de- 

Jones was rubbing BlifiPs temples, for he began to fear he 
had given him a blow too much, when the words, " Miss Wes- 
tern'' and ''Dead I'' rushed at once on his ear. He started 
up, left Blifil to his fate, and flew to Sophia, whom, while all 
the rest were running against each other, backward and for- 
ward, looking for water in the dry paths, he caught her up in 
his arms, and then ran away with her over the field to the 
rivulet above-mentioned; where, plunging himself into the 
water, he contrived to besprinkle her face, head, and neck, 
very plentifully. 

Happy was it for Sophia, that the same confusion which 
prevented her other friends from serving her, prevented them 
likewise from obstructing Jones. He had carried her half 
way before they knew what he was doing, and he had actually 
restored her to life before they reached the water-side. Slw 
stretched out her arms, opened her eyes, and cried, ''Oh, 
Heavens !" just as her father, aunt, and the pdrson came up. 

Jones, who had hitherto held his lovely burden in his arms, 
now relinquished his hold ; but gave her at the same instant a 
tender caress, which, had her senses been then perfectly re- 
stored, could not have escaped her observation. As she ex- 
pressed, therefore, no displeasure at this freedom, we suppose 
she was not sufficiently recovered from her swoon at the time. 

This tragical scene was now converted into a sudden scene 
of joy. In this our hero was most certainly the principal cha- 
racter ; for as he probably felt more ecstatic delight in having 
saved Sophia, than she herself received from being saved, so 
neither were the congratulations paid to her equal to what 
were conferred on Jones, especially by Mr. Western himself, 
who, after having once or twice embraced his daughter, fell to 
hugging and kissing Jones. He called him the preserver of 
Sophia, and declared there was nothing, except Jier, or his 
estate, which he would not give him ; but, upon recollection, 
he afterwards excepted his fox-hounds, the Chevalier and Miss 
Slouch, (for so he called his favourite mare.) 
All fears for Sophia being now i^mo^ed, Jones oecame th* 


object of the squire's consideration. '* Come, my lad," says 
Western, "d'off thy quoat, and wash thy feace ; for att in a 
devilish pickle, I promise thee. Come, come, wash thyself, 
and shat go huome with me ; and we'll zee to vind thee an* 
other quoat." 

Jones immediately complied, threw off his coat, went down 
to the water, and washed both his face and his bosom ; for the 
latter was exposed and as bloody as the former. But though 
the water could clear off the blood, it could not remove the 
black and blue marks which Thwackum had imprinted on both 
his face and breast, and which, being discerned by Sophia, 
drew from her a sigh, and a look full of inexpressible tender- 

Jones received this full in his eyes, and it had infinitely a 
stronger effect on him than all the contusions which he had re- 
ceived before : an effect, however widely different ; for so soft 
and balmy was it, that, had all his former blows been stabs, it 
would for some minutes have prevented his feeling their smart. 

The company now moved backwards, and soon arrived 
where Thwackum had got Mr. Blifil again on his legs. Here 
we cannot suppress a pious wish, that all quarrels were to be 
decided by those weapons only with which Nature, knowing 
what is proper for us, hath supplied us ; and that cold iron 
was to be used in digging no bowels but those of the earth. 
Then would war, the pastime of monarchs, be almost inoffen- 
sive ; and battles between great armies might be fought at the 
particular desire of several ladies of quality ; who, together 
with the kings themselves, might be actual spectators of the 
conflict. Then might the field be this moment well strewed 
with human carcasses, and the next, the dead men, or infinitely 
the ^eatest part of them, might get up, like Mr. Bayes's 
troops, and march off either at the sound of a drum or fiddle, 
M should be previously agreed on. 

I would avoid, if 'possible, treating this matter ludicrously, 
lest grave men and politicians, whom I know to be offended at 
a jest, may cry pish at it ; but, in reality, might not a battle be 
as well decided by the greater number of broken heads, bloody 
. noses, and black eyes, as *oy the greater heaps of mangled axv^L 
murdered human bodies? Might ivot lovju^Xi^^o'c^^fc^^^^^'^'^ 


in the same manner ? Indeed, this may be thought too detri- 
mental a scheme to the Frenoh interest, since they would thus 
lose the advantage they have over other nations in the superi- 
ority of their engineers ; but when I consider the gallantry and 
generosity of that people, I am persuaded they would never 
decline putting themselves upon a par with their adversary ; or, 
as the phrase is, making themselves his match. 

But such reformations are rather to be wished than hoped 
for : I shall content myself, therefore, with this short hint, and 
return to my narrative. 

Western began now to inquire into the original rise of this 
quarrel. To which neither Blifil nor Jones gave any answer ; 
but Thwackum said surlily, ^' I believe the cause is not far off; 
if you beat the bushes well, you may find her." " Find her 1" 
replied Western : " what, have you been fighting for a wench ?" 
"Ask the gentleman in his waistcoat, there,'' said Thwackum : 
**he best knows." ''Nay, then," cries Western, '*it is a 
wench, certainly. Ah, Tom, Tom, thou art a liquorish dog. 
But come, gentlemen,' be all friends, and go home with me, and 
make final peace over a bottle." *' I ask your pardon, sir," 
says Thwackum : ** it is no such slight matter for a man of my 
character to be thus injuriously treated, and buffeted by a boy, 
only because I would have done my duty, in endeavouring to 
detect and bring to justice a wanton harlot ; but, indeed, the 
principal fault lies in Mr. Allworthy and yourself; for if you 
put the laws in execution, as you ought to do, you will soon 
rid the country of these vermin." 

*' I would as soon rid the country of foxes," cries Western. 
** I think we ought to encourage the recruiting those numbers 
which we are every day losing in the war. But where is she ? 
Prithee, Tom, show mc." He then began to beat about, in 
the same language, and in tbe same manner, as if he had been 
beating for a hare ; and at last cried out, •' Soho I Puss is not 
far off. Here 's her form, upon my soul ; I believe I may cry, 
stole away 1" And indeed so he might ; for he had now dis- 
covered the place whence the poor girl had, at the beginning 
of the fray, stolen away, upon as many feet as a hare generally 
ases in travelling. 

Sophia now desired her fattiet to T^tatrv home, saying, she 


found herself very faint, and apprehended a relapse. The 
sqnire immediately complied with his daughter's reqaest (for he 
was the fondest of parents). He earnestly endeavoured to pre- 
vail with the whole company to go and sup with him ; but Blifil 
and Thwackum absolutely refused; the former saying there 
were more reasons than he could then mention, why he must 
decline this honour : and the latter declaring (perhaps rightly), 
that it was not proper for a person of his function to be seen 
at any place in his present condition. 

Jones was incapable of refusing the pleasure of his being 
with his Sophia ; so on he marched with Squire Western and 
his ladies, the parson bringing up the rear. This had, indeed, 
offered to tarry with his brother Thwackum, professing his 
regard for the cloth would not permit him to ^epart ; but 
Thwackum would not accept the favour, and with no great 
civility, pushed him after Mr. Western. 

Thus ended this bloody fray ; and thus shall end the fifth 
book of this history. 




Of Love. 

In our last book we have been obliged to deal pretty much 
with the passion of love ; and, in our succeeding book, shall 
be forced to handle this subject still more largely It may not, 
therefore, in this place, be improper to apply ourselves to the 
examination of that modern doctrine, by which certain philoso- 
phers, among many other wonderful discoveries, pretend to 
have found out, that there * is no such passion in the human 

Whether these philosophers be the same with that surprising 
sect, who are honourably mentioned by the late Dr. Swift, as 
having, by the mere force of genius alone, without the least 
assistoiace of any kind of learning, or even reading, discovered 
that profound and invaluable secret, that there is no God -^ ot 
whether they are not rather the same witToi Wio^^ ^Vo, v^\&!^ 


jears since, very mach alarmed the world, by showing that 
there were no such things as virtue or goodness really existing 
in human nature, and who deduced our best actions from pride, 
I will not here presume to determine. In reality, I am inclined 
to suspect, that all these several finders of truth are the very 
identical men, who are by others called the finders of gold. 
The method used in both these searches after truth and after 
gold, being, indeed, one and the same, viz. the searching, rum- 
maging, and examining into a nasty place; indeed, in the 
former instances, into the nastiest of all places, A bad mind. 

But though in this particular, and, perhaps, in their success, 
the truth-finder and the gold-finder may very properly be com- 
pared together ; yet, in modesty, surely, there can be no com- 
parison betiKcen the two : for who ever heard of a gold-finder 
that had the impudence or folly to assert, from the ill-success 
of his search, that there was no such thing as gold in the world f 
Whereas the truth-finder, having raked out that jakes, his own 
mind, and being there capable of tracing no ray of divinity, 
nor any thing virtuous or good, or lovely or loving, very fairly, 
honestly, and logically, concludes, that no such things exist in 
the whole creation. 

To avoid, however, all contention, if possible, with these 
philosophers, if they will be called so, and to show our own 
disposition to accommodate matters peaceably between ns, we 
shall here make them some concessions, which may, possibly, 
put an end to the dispute 

First, we will grant that many minds, and perhaps those of 
the philosophers, are entirely free from the least traces of such 
a passion. 

Secondly, that what is commonly called love, namely, the 
desire of satisfying a voracious appetite with a certain quantity 
of delicate white human flesh, is by no means that passion for 
which I here contend. This is, indeed, more properly hunger ; 
and, as no glutton is ashamed to apply the word love to his 
appetite, and to say he loves such and such dishes ; so may 
the lover of this kind, with equal propriety, say, he hungebs 
after such and such women. 

Thirdly, I will grant, which, I believe, will be a most ac- 
ceptable concession, that this love for which I am an advocate. 


ihongh it satisfies itself in a much more delicate manner, doth 
nevertheless seek its own satisfaction as much as the grossest of 
all our appetites 

And, lastly, that this love, when it operates towards one of 
a different sex, is very apt, towards its complete gratification, 
to call in the aid of that hunger which I have mentioned above ; 
and which it is so far from abating, that it heightens all its 
delights to a degree scarce imaginable by those who have never 
been susceptible of any other emotions than what have pro- 
ceeded from appetite alone. 

In return to all these concessions, I desire of the philoso- 
phers to grant, that there is in some (I believe in many) human 
breasts a kind and benevolent disposition, which is gratified by 
contributing to the happiness of others. That ia^this gratifi- 
cation alone, as in friendship, in parental and filial affection, 
as, indeed, in general philanthropy, there is a great and ex- 
quisite delight. That if we will not call such disposition love, 
we have no name for it. That though the pleasures arising 
from such pure love may be heightened and sweetened by the 
assistance of amorous desires, yet the former can subsist alone, 
nor are they destroyed by the intervention of the latter. Lastly, 
that esteem and gratitude are the proper motives to love, as 
youth and beauty are to desire ; and, therefore, though such 
desire may naturally cease, when age or sickness overtakes its 
object, yet these can have no effect on love, nor ever shake or 
remove, from a good mind, that sensation or passion which 
hath gratitude and esteem for its basis. 

To deny the existence of a passion of which we often see 
manifest instances, seems to be very strange and absurd ; and 
can, indeed, proceed only from that self-admonition which we 
have mentioned above : but how unfair is this I Doth the man 
who recognises in his own heart no traces of avarice or ambition 
conclude, therefore, that there are no such passions in human 
nature ? Why will we not modestly observe the same rule in 
judging of the good, as well as the evil, of others ? Or why, 
in any case, will we, as Shakspeare phrases it, * ' put the world 
in our own person V^ 

Predominant vanity is, I am afraid, too much concerned hero 
Thia is one instance of that adulation vrhiciii Y?^\i^%\jci^ ov^ wa 


minds, and this almost nniyersally. For there is scarce anj 
man, how much soever he may despise the character of a 
flatterer, but will condescend in the meanest manner to flatter 

To those, therefore, I apply for the truth of the above ob- 
servations, whose own minds can bear testimony to what I have 

Examine your heart, my good reader, and resolve whether 
you do believe these matters with me. If you do, you may 
now proceed to their exemplification in the following pages ; 
if you do not, you have, I assure you, already read more than 
you have understood ; and it would be wiser to pursue your 
business, or your pleasures, (such as they are,) than to throw 
away any more of your time in reading what you can neither 
taste or comprehend. To treat of the efiFects of love to you, 
must be as absurd as to discourse on colours to a man bom 
blind ; since possibly, your ^dea of love may be as absurd as 
that which we are told such blind man once entertained of the 
colour scarlet ; that colour seemed to him to be very much like 
the sound of a trumpet : and love probably may, in your opinion, 
very greatly resemble a dish of soup, or a sirloin of roast-beef. 


The character of Mrs. Western. Her great learning and knowledge of ths 
world, and an instance of the deep penetration which she derived from those 

The reader hath seen Mr. Western, his sister, and daughter, 
with young Jones, and the parson, going together to Mr. Wes- 
tern's house, where the greater part of the company spent the 
evening with much joy and festivity. Sophia was, indeed, the 
only grave person ; for, as to Jones, though love had now got- 
ten entire possession of his heart, yet the pleasing reflection on 
Mr. AUworthy's recovery, and the presence of his mistress, 
joined to some tender looks which she now and then could not 
refrain from giving him, so elevated our hero, that he joined 
Vhe mirth of the other three, who were, perhaps, as good- 
bamoured people as any in the world. 


Sophia retained the same gravity of countenance the next 
iQoming at breakfast ; whence she retired likewise earlier than 
usual, leaving her father and aunt together. The squire took 
no notice at this change in his daughter's disposition. To say 
the truth, though he was somewhat of a politician, and had 
been twice a candidate in the country interest at an election, 
he was a man of no great observation. His sister was a lady 
of a diflferent turn. She had liyed about the court, and had 
seen the world. Hence she had acquired all that knowledge 
which the said world usually communicates ; and was a perfect 
mistress of manners, customs, ceremonies, and fashions. Nor 
did her erudition stop here. She had considerably improved 
her mind by study : she had not only read all the modern plays, 
operas, oratorios, poems, and romances, in all which she was 
a critic ; but had gone through Rapin's History of England, 
Echard's Roman History, and many French MSmoires pour 
servir d VHistoire : to these she had added most of the 
political pamphlets and journals published within the last twenty 
years. From which she had attained a very competent skill in 
politics, and could discourse very learnedly on the affairs of 
Europe. She was, moreover, excellently well skilled in the 
doctrine of amour, and knew better than any body who and 
who were together ; a knowledge which she more easily 
attained, as her pursuit of it was never diverted by any affairs 
of her own : for either she had no inclinations, or they had 
never been solicited ; which last is, indeed, very probable ; for 
her masculine person, which was near six feet high, added to 
her manner and learning, possibly prevented the other sex from 
regarding her, notwithstanding her petticoats, in the light of 
a woman. However, as she had considered the matter scien- 
tifically, she perfectly well knew, though she had never practised 
them, all the arts which fine ladies use when they desire to give 
encouragement, or to conceal liking, with all the long appen- 
dage of smiles, ogles, glances, &c. as they are at present 
practised in the bcau-mondc. To sum the whole, no species 
of disguise or affectation had escaped her notice ; but, as to 
the plain simple workings of honest nature, as she had never 
seen ^uiy such, she could know but little of them. 

By means of this wonderful sagacity, Mrs. "W^^X^txvXv^i^T^Q^^ 



as she thoufrht, made a discovery of something in the mind of 
Sophia. The first hint of this she took from the behaviour of 
the young lady in the field of battle : and the suspicion, which 
she then conceived, was greatly corroborated by some observa- 
tions which she had made that evening and the next morning. 
However, being greatly cautious to avoid being found in a 
mistake, she carried the secret a whole fortnight in her bosom, 
giving only some oblique hints, by simpering, winks, nods, and 
now and then dropping an obscure word, which, indeed, suffi- 
ciently alarmed Sophia, but did not at all affect her brother. 

Being at length, however, thoroughly satined of the truth 
of her observation, she took an opportunity, one morning, 
when she was alone with her brother, to interrupt one of his 
whistles in the following manner : — 

* * Pray, brother, have you not observed something very ex- 
traordinary in my niece lately?" "No, not I," answered 
Western ; ** is anything the matter with the girl ?" " I think 
there is,'' replies she ; *' and something of much consequence, 
too.'' '*Why, she doth not complain of anything," cries 
Western; "and she hath had the small-pox." "Brother,'' 
returned she, " girls are liable to other distempers besides the 
small-pox, and sometimes possibly to much worse." Here 
Western interrupted her with much earnestness, and begged 
her, if anything ailed his daughter, to acquaint him immedi- 
ately, adding, " she knew lie loved her more than his own soul, 
and that he would send to the world's end for the best physi- 
cian to her.'' "Nay, nay," answered she, smiling, "the dis- 
temper is not so terrible ; but I believe, brother, you are 
convinced I know the world, and I promise you I was never 
more deceived in my life, if my niece be not most desperately 
in love." " How I in love," cries Western, in a passion ; "in 
love, without acquainting me I I '11 disinherit her j I '11 turn 
her out of doors stark naked, without a farthing. Is all my 
kindness vor 'ur, and vondness o' 'ur come to this, to fall in 
love without asking me leave?" "But you will not," an- 
swered Mrs. Western, "turn this daughter, whom you love 
better than your own soul, out of doors, before you know 
whether you shall approve her choice. Suppose she should 
have £xed on the very per&ou ^lokom you yourself would wish. 


I hope yo;i would not be angry then?" **No, no,'* criea 
Western, "that would make a diflference. If she marries the 
man I would ha' her, she may love whom she pleases, I shan't 
trouble my head about thaf "That is spoken," answered 
the sister, ' * like a sensible man ; but I believe the very person 
she hath chosen would be the very person you would choose for 
her. I will disclaim all knowledge of the worid, if it is not so ; 
and I believe, brother, you will allow I have some." "Why, 
lookee, sister," said Western, "I do believe you have as much 
as any woman ; and to be sure those are women's matters. 
You know I don't love to hear you talk about politics ; they 
belong to us, and petticoats should not meddle ; but come, who 
is the man?" "Marry I" said she, "you may find him out 
yourself, if you please. You, who are so great a politician, 
can be at no great loss. The judgment which can penetrate 
into the cabinets of princes, and discover the secret springs 
which move the great state wheels in all the political machines 
of Europe, must surely, with very little difficulty, find out 
what passes in the rude uninformed mind of a girl." "Sis- 
ter," cries the squire, "I have often warned you not to talk 
the court gibberish to me. I tell you, I don't understand the 
lingo ; but I can read a journal, or the London Evening Post. 
Perhaps, indeed, there may be now and tan a verse which I 
can't make much of, because half the letters are left out ; yet 
I know very well what is meant by that, and that our afiFairs 
don't go so well as they should do, because of bribery and cor- 
ruption." "I pity your country ignorance from my heart," 
cries the lady. " Do you ?" answered Western ; "and I pity 
your town learning : I had rather be anything than a courtier, 
and a Presbyterian, and a Hanoverian, too, as some people, I 
believe, are." "If you mean me," answere'l she, "you know 
I am a woman, brother ; and it signifies nothing what I am. 

Besides " "I do know you are a woman," cries the 

squire, "and it 's well for thee that art one; if hadst been a 
man, I promise thee I had lent thee a flick long ago. " " Ay, 
there," said she, "in that flick lies all your fancied superiority. 
Your bodies, and not your brains, are stronger than ours. 
Believe me, it is well for you that you are able to beat us ; or, 
wich is the superiority of our understandrng, ^^ ^wi\^ \^i^ 


all of you what the brave, and wise, and witty, and polite, are 
abready — our slaves.'' ''I am glad I know your mind," 
answered the squire. *' But we '11 talk more of this matter 
another time. At present, do tell me what man is it you 
mean about my daughter." "Hold a moment," said she, 
*' while I digest that sovereign contempt I have for your sex; 

or else I ought to be angry, too, with you. There 1 have 

made a shift to gulp it down. And now, good politic 
sir, what think you of Mr. Blifil ? Did she not faint away on 
seeing him lie breathless on the ground ? Did she not, after 
he was recovered, turn pale again the moment we came up to 
that part of the field where he stood ? And pray what else 
should be the occasion of all her melancholy that night at sup- 
per, the next morning, and, indeed, ever since?" "'Fore 
George I" cries the squire, ** now you mind me on't, I remem- 
ber it all. It is certainly so, and I am glad on 't with all my 
heart. I knew Sophy was a good girl, and would not fall in 
love to make me angry. I was never more rejoiced in my life : 
for nothing can lie so handy together as our two estates. I had 
this matter in my head some time ago ; for certainly the two 
estates are in a manner joined together in matrimony already, 
and it would be a thousand pities to part them. It is true, 
indeed, there be larger estates in the kingdom, but not in this 
county; and I had rather bate something, than marry my 
daughter among strangers and foreigners. Besides, most o' 
zuch great estates be in the hands of lords, and I hate the very 
name of themmun. Well but, sister, what would you advise 
me to do ; for I tell you women know these matters better than 
we do */" — *' Oh, your humble servant, sir, " answered the lady : 
'* we are obliged to you for allowing us a capacity in any thing. 
Since you are pleased then, most politic sir, to ask my advice, 
I think you may propose the match to Mr. AUworthy yourself. 
There is no indecorum in the proposals coming from the parent 
of either side. King Alcinous, in Mr. Pope's Odyssey, oflfers 
his daughter to Ulysses. I need not caution so politic a per- 
son not to say that your daughter is in love ; that would indeed 
be against all rules." — "Well," said the squire, *'I will pro- 
pose it; but I shall certainly lend un a flick, if ho should r^ 
fuse me. " — ''Fear not," cries Mts. Western : '' the match is too 


advantageous to be refused." — "I don't know that,'' answered 
the squire : *' All worthy is a queer b — ch, and money hath no 
effect o' un." — "Brother/' said the lady, "your politics 
astonish me. Are you really to be imposed on by professions ? 
Do you think Mr. All worthy hath more contempt for money 
than other men, because he professes more ? Such credulity 
would better become one of us weak women, than that wise sex 
which Heaven hath formed for politicians. Indeed, brother, 
you would make a fine plenipo to negotiate with the French. 
They would soon persuade you, that they take towns out of 
mere defensive principles." — " Sister," answered the squire, 
with much scorn, *Met your friends at court answer for the 
towns taken ; as you are a woman, I shall lay no blame upOn 
you ; for I suppose they are wiser than to trust women with 
secrets." He accompanied this with so sarcastical a laugh, 
that Mrs. Western could bear no longer. She had been all 
this time fretted in a tender part, (for she was indeed very 
deeply skilled in these matters, and very violent in them,) and 
therefore burst forth in a rage, declared her brother to be both 
a clown and a blockhead, and that she would stay no longer in 
his house. 

The squire, though perhaps he had never read Machiavel, 
was, however, in many points, a perfect politician. He 
strongly held all those wise tenets, which are so well inculcated 
in that Politico -Peripatetic school of Exchange-alley. He 
knew the just value and only use of money, viz., to lay it up. 
He was likewise well skilled in the exact value of reversions, 
expectations, &c., and had often considered the amount of his 
Bister's fortune, and the chance which he or his posterity had 
of inheriting it. This he was infinitely too wise to sacrifice to 
a trifling resentment. When he found, therefore, he had car- 
ried matters too far, he began to think of reconciling them ; 
which was no very difficult task, as the lady had great affection 
for her brother, and still greater for her niece ; and though too 
susceptible of an affront offered to her skill in politics, on 
which she much valued herself, was a woman of a very extra- 
ordinary good and sweet disposition. 

Having first, therefore, laid violent hands on the horses, fo^ 
whose escape from the stable no place Wl t\i^ -^vcl^-l^ -^^sa.^^ 


open, he next applied himself to his sister, softened and soothed 
her, by unsaying all he had said, and by assertions directly con- 
trary to those which had incensed her. Lastly, he summoned 
the eloquence of Sophia to his assistance, who, besides a most 
graceful and winning address, had the adyantage of being 
heard with great favour and partiality by her aunt. 

The result of the whole was a kind smile from Mrs. Western, 
who said, "Brother, you are absolutely a perfect Croat; but 
as those have their use in the army of the empress queen, so 
you likewise have some good in you. I will, therefore, once 
more sign a treaty of peace with you, and see that you do not 
infringe it on your side ; at least, as you are so excellent a 
politician, I may expect you will keep your leagues, like the 
French, till your interest calls upon you to break them." 


Containing two defiances to the critics. 

The squire having settled matters with his sister, as we have 
seen in the last chapter, was so greatly impatient to com- 
municate the proposal to Allworthy, that Mrs. Western had 
the utmost difficulty to prevent him from visiting that gentle- 
man in his sickness for this purpose. 

Mr. Allworthy had been engaged to dine with Mr. Western 
at the time when he was taken ill. He was therefore no 
sooner discharged out of the custody of physic, but he thought, 
(as was usual with him on all occasions, both the highest and 
the lowest,) of fulfilling his engagement. 

In the interval between the time of the dialogue in the last 
chapter, and this day of public entertainment, Sophia had, 
from certain obscure hints thrown out by her aunt, collected 
some apprehension that the sagacious lady suspected her passion 
for Jones. She now resolved to take this opportunity of 
wiping out all such suspicion, and for that purpose to put an 
entire constraint on her behaviour. 

First, she endeavoured to conceal a throbbing melancholy 
heart with the utmost sprightliness in her countenance, and 
^ho hi^Ji^gl gay ety in her maniieiT. ^^eoi^dX-^^^V^^ addresfled 


her whole discourse to Mr. Blifil, and took not the least notice 
of poor Jones the whole day. 

The squire was so delighted with this conduct of his daughter, 
that he scarce ate any dinner, and spent almost his whole time 
in watchiug opportunities of conveying signs of his approbation 
by winks and nods to his sister, who was not at first altogether 
so pleased with what she saw as was her brother. 

In short, Sophia so greatly overacted her part, that her aunt 
was at first staggered, and began to suspect some affection in 
her niece ; but as she was herself a woman of great art, so she 
soon attributed this to extreme art in Sophia. She remembered 
the many hints she had given her niece concerning her being in 
love, and imagined the young lady had taken this way to rally 
her out of her opinion, by an overacted civility ; a notion that 
was greatly corroborated by the excessive gayety with which 
the whole was accompanied. We cannot here avoid remarking, 
that this conjecture would have been better founded had Sophia 
lived ten years in the air of Grosvenor Square, where young 
ladies do learn a wonderful knack of rallying and playing with 
that passion, which is a mighty serious thing in woods and 
groves an hundred miles distant from London. 

To say the truth, in discovering the deceit of others, it 
matters much that our own art be wound up, if I may use the 
expression, in the same key with theirs ; for very artful men 
sometimes miscarry by fancying others wiser, or, in other 
words, greater knaves than they really are. As this observation 
is pretty deep, I will illustrate it by the following short story. 
Three countrymen were pursuing a Wiltshire thi^f through 
Brentford- The simplest of them, seeing ''the Wiltshire 
house," written under a sign, advised his companion to enter 
it, for there most probably they would find their countryman. 
The second, who was wiser, laughed at this simpUcity; but 
the third, who was wiser still, answered, " Let us go in, how- 
ever, for he may think we should not suspect him of going 
amongst his own countrymen." They accordingly went in, 
and searched the house, and by that means missed "overtaking 
the thief, who was at that time but a little way before them ; 
and who, as they all knew, but had never once reflected, could 
not read. 


The reader will pardon a digression in which so invaloable 
a secret is communicated, since every gamester will agree how 
necessary it is to know exactly the play of another, in order to 
countermine him. This will, moreover, aflford a reason, why 
the wiser man, as is often seen, is the bubble of the weaker, 
and why many simple and innocent characters are so generally 
misunderstood and misrepresented ; but what is more material, 
this will account for the deceit which Sophia put on her 
politic aunt. 

Dinner being ended, and the company retired into the garden, 
Mr. Western, who was thoroughly convinced of the certainty 
of what his sister had told him, took Mr. All worthy aside, and 
very bluntly proposed a match between Sophia and young Mr. 

Mr. Allworthy was not one of those men whose hearts flutter 
at any unexpected and sudden tidings of worldly profit. His 
mind was, indeed, tempered with that philosophy which 
becomes a man and a Christian. He affected no absolute 
superiority to all pleasure and pain, to all joy and grief; but 
was not at the same time to be discomposed and ruffled by every 
accidental blast, by every smile or frown of fortune. He 
received, therefore, Mr. Western's proposal without any visible 
emotion, or without any alteration of countenance. He said, 
the alliance was such as he sincerely wished ; then launched 
forth into a very just encomium on the young lady's merit; 
acknowledged the offer to be advantageous in point of fortune ; 
and after thanking Mr. Western for the good opinion he had 
professed of his nephew, concluded, that if the young people 
liked each other, he should be very desirous to complete the 

Western was a little disappointed at Mr. All worthy's answer, 
which was not so warm as he expected. He treated the doubt 
whether the young people might like one another with great 
contempt; saying, ''That parents were the best judges of 
proper matches for their children ; that, for his part, he should 
insist on fhe most resigned obedience from his daughter ; and 
if any young fellow could refuse such a bedfellow, he was his 
humble servant, and hoped there was no harm done." 
Allworthy endeavoured to soit^Ti \\v\^ T%i^^\iX\asi\i\» by many 


eologiums on Sophia, declaring he had no doabt but that Mr. 
Blifil would very gladly receive the offer ; but all was inef- 
fectual : he could obtain no other answer from the squire but 
— ** I'll say no more — I humbly hope there's no harm done— . 
that's all." Which words he repeated at least a hundred 
times before they parted. 

Allworthy was too well acquainted with his neighbour to be 
offended at this behayionr ; and though he was so averse to 
the rigour which some parents exercise on their children in the 
article of marriage, that he had resolved never to force his 
nephew's inclinations, he was nevertheless much pleased with 
the prospect of this union ; for the whole country resounded 
the praises of Sophia, and he had himself greatly admired the 
uncommon endowments of both her mind and person. To 
which, I believe we may add, the consideration of her vast for- 
tune, which, though he was too sober to be intoxicated with 
it, he was too sensible to despise. 

And here, in defiance of all the barking critics in the world, 
I must and will introduce a digression concerning true wisdom, 
of which Mr. Allworthy was in reality as great a pattern as 
he was of goodness. 

True wisdom, then, notwithstanding all which Mr. Hogarth's 
poor poet may have writ against riches, and in spite of all 
which any rich well-fed divine may have preached against 
pleasure, consists not in the contempt of either of these. A 
man may have as much wisdom in the possession of an affluent 
fortune, as any beggar in the streets; or may enjoy a hand- 
some wife, or a hearty friend, and still remain as wise as any 
popish recluse, who buries all his social faculties, and starves 
his belly, while he well lashes his back. 

To say the truth, the wisest man is the likeliest to possess 
all worldly blessings in an eminent degree : for as that mode- 
ration which wisdom prescribes is the surest way to useful 
wealth, so can it alone qualify us to taste many pleasures. 
The wise man gratifies every appetite and every passion, while 
the fool sacrifices all the rest to pall and satiate one. 

It may be objected, that very wise men have been notoriously 
avaricious. I answer, not wise in that instance. It ma.^ IvW 
wise be said, that the wisest men have Vi^eii \iv. \!tifcvt ^Q>a50ck. \sa? 



moderately fond of pleasure. I answer, they were not wise 

Wisdom, in short, whose lessons have been represented as 
so hard to learn by those who never were at her school, only 
teaches to extend a simple maxim, universally known and fol- 
lowed even in the lowest life, a little farther than life carries it. 
And this is, not to buy at too dear a price. 

Now, whoever takes this maxim abroad with him into the 
grand market of the world, and constantly applies it to hon- 
ours, to riches, to pleasures, and to every other commodity 
which that market affords, is, I will venture to afl&rm, a wise 
man, and must be so acknowledged in the worldly sense of the 
word : for he makes the best of bargains ; since in reality he 
purchases everything at the price only of a little trouble, and 
carries home all the good things I have mentioned, while he 
keeps his health, his innocence, and his reputation, the com- 
mon prices which are paid for them by others, entire and to 

From this moderation, likewise, he learns two other lessons, 
which complete his character. First, never to be intoxicated 
when he hath made the best bargain, nor dejected when the 
market is empty, or when its commodities are too dear for his 

But I must remember on what subject I am writing, and 
not to trespass too far on the patience of a good-natured 
critic. Here, therefore, I put an end to the chapter. 


Containing sundry curious matters, 

A.S soon as Mr. AUworthy returned home, he took Mr 
Blifil apart, and, after some preface, communicated to him the 
proposal whi<jh had been made by Mr. Western, and at the 
same time informed him how agreeable this match would be to 

The charms of Sophia had not made the least impression 

on BMl : not that his heart was pre-engaged ; neither waa he 

totally insensible of beauty, ox W^i «ii^ w^tsvxsssLlo women; 


but Ms appetites were by nature so moderate, that he was able, 
by philosophy, or by study, or by some other method, easily to 
subdue them ; and as to that passion which we have treated of 
in the first chapter of this- book, he had not the least tincture 
of it in his whole composition. 

But though he was so entirely free from that mixed passion, 
of which we there treated, and of which the virtues and beauty 
of Sophia formed so notable an object, yet was he altogether 
as well furnished with some other passions, that promised them- 
selves very full gratification in the young lady's fortune. Such 
were avarice and ambition, which divided the dominion of his 
mind between them. He had more than once considered the 
possession of this fortune as a very desirable thing, and had 
entertained some distant views concerning it; but his own 
youth, and that of the young lady, and indeed, principally, a 
reflection that Mr. Western might marry again, and have more 
children, had restrained him from too hasty or eager a pursuit. 

This last and more material objection was now in a great 
meastire removed, as the proposal came from Mr. Western him- 
self. Blifil, therefore, after a very short hesitation, answered 
Mr. All worthy, that matrimony was a subject on which he had 
not yet thought ; but that he was so sensible of his friendly 
and fatherly care, that he should in all things submit Mmself 
to his pleasure. 

All worthy . was naturally a man of spirit, and his present 
gravity arose from true wisdom and philosophy, not from any 
original phlegm in his disposition ; for He had possessed much 
fire in his youth, and had married a beautiful woman for love. 
He was not, therefore, greatly pleased with this cold answer of 
his nephew ; nor could he help launching forth into the praises 
of Sophia, and expressing some wonder that the heart of a 
young man could be impregnable to the force of such charms, 
unless it was guarded by some prior affection. 

Blifil assured him he had no such guard ; and then proceeded 
to discourse so wisely and religiously on love and marriage, 
that he would have stopped the mouth of a parent much less 
devoutly inclined than was his uncle. In the end, the good 
man was satisfied, that his nephew, far from \\«uN\w^ ^\\:3 oJ^^'^^* 
iiofui to Sophia, bad that esteem for \ver, ^\v\d(xVa. ^cJ*c>^x «sA 


virtuous minds is the sure foundation of friendship and love* 
And as he doubted not but the lover would, in a little time, be- 
come altogether as agreeable to his mistress, he foresaw great 
happiness arising to all parties by so proper and desirable an 
union. With Mr. BlifiPs consent, therefore, he wrote the next 
morning to Mr. Western, acquainting him that his nephew had 
very thankfully and gladly received the proposal, and would bo 
ready to wait on the young lady, whenever she should be 
pleased to accept his visit. 

Western was much pleased with this letter, and immediately 
returned an answer; in which, without having mentioned a 
word to his daughter, he appointed that very afternoon for 
opening the scene of courtship. 

As soon as he had dispatched this messenger, he went in 
quest of his sister, whom he found reading and expounding tho 
Gazette to Parson Supple. To this exposition he was obliged 
to attend near a quarter of an hour, though with great violence 
to his natural impetuosity, before he was suffered to speak. 
At length, however, he found an opportunity of acquainting 
the lady, that he had business of great consequence to impart 
to her; to which she answered, ** Brother, I am entirely at 
your service. Things look so well in the North, that 1 was 
never in a better humour.'' 

The parson then withdrawing. Western acquainted her with 
all which had passed, and desired her to communicate the affair 
to Sophia, which she readily and cheerfully undertook ; though 
perhaps her brother was a little obliged to that agreeable north- 
ern aspect, which had so delighted her, that he heard no com- 
ment on his proceedings ; for they were certainly somewhat too 
hasty and violent. 



In which is related what passed between Sophia and her aunt 

Sophia was in her chamber, reading, when her aunt came in. 

The moment she saw Mrs. Western, she shut the book with so 

much eagerness, that the good lady could not forbear asking 

her, '' What book that was which she seemed so much afraid 

of showing f " Upon my woid, m«L^«im,^'' ^\ss^^t^ Sophia^ 


" it is a book which I am neither ashamed nor afraid to own I 
Dave read. It is the production of a young lady of fashion, 
whose good understanding, I think, doth honour to her sex, 
and whose good heart is an honour to human nature." Mrs. 
Western then took up the book, and immediately after threw it 
down, saying — "Yes, the author is of a very good family; 
but she is not much among people one knows. I have never 
read it ; for the best judges say, there is not much in it." — ** I 
dare not, madam, set up my own opinion," says Sophia, 
" against the best judges, but there appears to me a great deal 
of human -nature in it; and, in many parts, so much true ten- 
derness and delicacy, that it hath cost me many a tear." — 
'* Ay, and do you love to'^cry, then ?" says the aunt. *' I love 
a teiider sensation,'' answered the niece, "and would pay the 
price of a tear for it at any time." — "Well, but show me," 
says the aunt, " what you was reading when I came in ; there 
was something very tender in that, I believe, and very loving 
too. You blush, my dear Sophia. Ah I child, you should 
read books which would teach you a little hypocrisy, which 
would instruct you how to hide your thoughts a little better." 
— "I hope, madam," answered Sophia, "I have no thoughts 
which I ought to be ashamed of discovering. " — '' Ashamed I 
no," cries the aunt, "I don't think you have any thoughts 
which you ought. to be ashamed of; and yet, child, you blushed 
just now when I mentioned the word loving. Dear Sophia, 
be assured you have not one thought which I am not well ac- 
quainted with ; as well, child, as the French are with our 
motions, long before we put them in execution. Did you think, 
child, because you have been able to impose upon your father, 
that you could impose upon me ? Do you imagine I did not 
know the reason of your overacting all that friendship for Mr. 
BliGl yesterday ? I have seen a little too much of the world, 
to be so deceived. Nay, nay, do not blush again. I tell you 
it is a passion you need not be ashamed of. It is a passion I 
myself approve, and have already brought your father into the 
approbation of it. Indeed, I solely consider your inclination ; 
for I would always have that gratified, if possible, though one 
may sacrifice higher prospects. Come, i have news which will 
delight your very soul Make me yout corfiL^-wiX., ^\A \ V^ 
L — ^4 


undertake you shall be happy to the Tery extent of your 
wishes. " — ** La I madam^'' says Sophia, looking more foolishly 
than ever she did in her life, " I know not what to say. Why, 
madam, should you suspect f — "Nay, no dishonesty," re- 
turned Mrs. Western. * * Consider, you are speaking to one 
of your own sex, to an aunt, and I hope you are convinced you 
speak to a friend. Consider, you are only revealing to me 
what I know already, and what I plainly saw yesterday through 
that most artful of all disguises, which you had put on, and 
which must have deceived any one who had not perfectly known 
the world. Lastly, consider it is a passion which I highly 

''La, madam," says Sophia, *'you come upon me so una- 
wares, and on a sudden. To be sure, madam, I am not blind, 
— and certainly, if it be a fault to see all human perfections 
assembled together — But, is it possible my father and you, 
madam, can see with my eyes ?" — ''I tell you," answered the 
aunt, " we do entirely approve ; and this very afternoon your 
father hath appointed for you to receive your lover." — '* My 
father I this afternoon !'' cries Sophia, with the blood starting 
from her face. ''Yes, child," said the aunt, "this afternoon. 
\ou know the impetuosity of my brother's temper. I ao- 
quairted him with the passion which I first discovered in you 
that evening when you fainted away in th& field. I saw it in 
your fainting. I saw it immediately upon your recovery. I 
Raw it that evening at supper, and the next morning at break- 
last, (you know, child, I have seen the world.) Well, I no 
sooner acquainted my brother, but he immediately wanted to 
propose it to Allworthy. He proposed it yesterday ; Allworthy 
consented, (as to be sure he must with joy ;) and this afternoon, 
I tell you, you are to put on all your best airs. " ' * This afternoon I " 
cries Sophia. " Dear aunt, you frighten me out of my senses. " 
— " I my dear," said the aunt, " you will soon come to your- 
self again ; for he is a charming young fellow, that 's the truth 
on 't." — " Nay, I will own," says Sophia, " I know none with 
such perfections. _ So brave, and yet so gentle, so witty, yet so 
inoflFensive ; so humane, so civil, so genteel, so handsome I 
What signifies his being base born, when compared with such 
qnaliBcationa as these ?" — * * Base \iOTTi\ ^V^V ^"Si ^^ou mean f " 


said the aiunt; **Mr. Blifil base born 1" Sophia tanied 
instantly pale at this name, and faintly repeated it. Upon 
which the aunt cried, *'Mr. Blifil I ay, Mr. Blifil; of whom 
else haye we been talking?'' — *'Good Heavens I'' answered 
Sophia, ready to sink, " of Mr. Jones, I thought ; I am sure 

I know no other who deserves " "I protest,'' cries the 

aunt, '*you frighten me in your turn. Is it Mr. Jones, and 
not Mr. Blifil, who is the object of your affection?" — "Mr. 
Blifil I" repeated Sophia.. ** Sure it is impossible you can be 
in earnest; if you are, I am the most miserable woman alive." 
Mrs. Western now stood a few moments silent, while sparks 
of fiery rage flashed from her eyes. At length, collecting all 
her force of voice, she thundered forth in the following articu- 
late sounds : — 

'* And is it possible you can think of disgracing your family 
by allying yourself to a bastard ? Can the blood of the Wes- 
terns submit to such contamination I If you have not sense 
sufficient to restrain such monstrous inclinations, I thought the 
pride of our family would have prevented you from giving the 
least encouragement to so base an affection ; much less did I 
imagine you would ever have had the assurance to own it to 
my face." 

** Madam," answered Sophia, trembling, " what I have said, 
you have extorted from me. I do not remember to have ever 
mentioned the name of Mr. Jones with approbation to any one 
before ; nor should I now, had I not conceived he had your 
approbation. Whatever were ray thoughts of that poor 
unhappy young man, I intended to have carried them with me 
to my grave. To that grave where only now I find, I am to 
seek repose." — Here she sunk down in her chair, drowned in 
her tears ; and, in all the moving silence of unutterable gricf^ 
presented a spectacle which must have affected almost the 
hardest heart. 

All this tender sorrow, however, raised no compassion in 
her aunt. On the contrary, she now fell into the most violent 
rage. — **And I would rather," she cried, *Mn a most velie- 
mcnt voice, " follow you to your grave, than I would see you 
disgrace yourself and your family by such a matc\v. O ^'^^sv* 
vena I conJd I have ever suspected that 1 a\io\]iV^\\N^ \.o V'fc'Kt ^ 


niece of mine declare a passion for such a fellow I You are the 
fost, — yes, Miss Western, you are the first of your name who 
ever entertained so grovelling a thought. A family so noted 
for the prudence of its women. " , Here she ran on full a quar 
ter of an hour, till, having exhausted her breath, rather than 
her rage, she concluded with threatening to go immediately and 
acquaint her brother. 

Sophia then threw herself at her feet, and laying hold of her 
hands, begged her, with tears, to conceal what she had drawn 
from her ; urging the violence of her father's temper, and pro- 
testing that no inclinations of hers should ever prevail with her 
to do any thing which might oflFend him. 

Mrs. Western stood a moment looking at her, and then, 
having recollected herself, said, ''That on one consideration 
only she would keep the secret from her brother; and this 
was, that Sophia should promise to entertain Mr. Blifil that 
very afternoon as her lover, and to regard him as the person 
who was to be her husband. " 

Poor Sophia was too much in her aunt's power to deny her 
any thing positively : she was obliged to promise that she 
would see Mr. Blifil, and be as civil to him as possible ; but 
begged her aunt that the match might not be hurried on. She 
said, ''Mr. Blifil was by no means agreeable to her, and she 
hoped her father would be prevailed on not to make her the 
most wretched of women. ' ' 

Mrs. Western assured her, ' ' That the match was entirely 
agreed upon, and that nothing could or should prevent it. — I 
must own," said she, "I looked on it as a matter of indiflFer- 
ence ; nay, perhaps, had some scruples about it before, which 
were actually got over by my thinking it highly agreeable to 
your own inclihations ; but now I regard it as the most eligible 
thing in the world ; nor shall there be, if I can prevent it, a 
moment of time lost on the occasion." 

Sophia replied, " Delay, at least, madam, I may expect from 
both your goodness and my father's. Surely you will give me 
tune to endeavour to get the better of so strong a disinclina« 
tion as I have at present to this person." 

The aunt answered, " She knew too much of the world to 
be 80 deceived ; that as she ^rro^ sew^VcAe ^.xiother man had her 


affections, she should persuade Mr. Western to hasten tho 
match as much as possible. It would be bad politics indeed," 
added she, **to protract a siege when the enemy's army is at 
hand, and in danger of relieving it. No, no, Sophy,'' said 
she, " as I am convinced you have a violent passion, which 
you can never satisfy with honour, I will do all I can to put 
your honour out of the care of your family : for when you are 
married, those matters will belong only to the consideration of 
your husband. I hope, child, you will always have prudence 
enough to act as becomes you ; but if you should not, marriage 
hath saved many a woman from ruin.'' 

Sophia well understood what her aunt meant ; but did not 
think proper to make her an answer. However, she took a 
resolution to see Mr. Blifil, and to behave to him as civilly as 
she could ; for on that condition only she obtained a promise 
from her aunt to keep secret the liking which her ill fortune, 
rather than any scheme of Mrs. Western had unhappily drawn 
from her. 


Containing a dialogue between Sophia and Mrs. Honour , which may a little 
rdieve those tender affections which the foregoing scene may have raised in 
the mind of a good-natured reader. 

Mrs. Western having obtained that promise from her niece, 
which we have seen in the last chapter, withdrew ; and pre- 
sently after arrived Mrs. Honour. She was at work in a 
neighbouring apartment, and had been summoned to the key- 
hole by some vociferation in the preceding dialogne, where she 
had continued during the remaining part of it. 

At her entry into the room, she found Sophia standing 
motionless, with the tears trickling from her eyes. Upon which 
she immediately ordered a proper quantity of tears into her own 
eyes, and then began : ** gemini I my dear lady, what is 
the matter ?" — *' Nothing," cries Sophia. — ** Nothing I 0, 
dear madam 1" answers Mrs. Honour, **you must not tell me 
that, when your la 'ship is in this taking, and when there hath 
been such a preamble between your la 'ship and Madam Wesr 
tern." — *' Don't tease me," cries SopMa \ "1 VO\^wi.\i!^'Cwwv% 


is tiie matter. Good Heavens I why was I born If" — " Nay, 
madam," says Mrs. Honour, "you shall never persuade me 
that your la'ship can lament yourself so for nothing. To be 
sure, I am but a servant ; but to be sure I have been always 
faithful to your la'ship, and to be sure I would serve yo^r 
la'ship with my life." — "My dear Honour," says Sophia, 
" 'tis not in thy pow(;r to be of any service to me. I am irre- 
trievably undone." — ** Heaven forbid," answered the waiting- 
woman : ** but if I can't be of any service to you, pray tell me, 
madam, — ^it will be some comfort to me to know ; — ^pray, dear 
ma'am, tell me what's the matter." — "My father," cries 
Sophia, '* is going to marry me to a man I both despise and 
hate." — "0, dear ma'am," answered the other, ** who is this 
wicked man ? for to be sure he is very bad, or your la'ship 
would not despise him." — " His name is poison to my tongue," 
replied Sophia: "thou wilt know it too soon." Indeed, to 
confess the truth, she knew it already, and, therefore, was not 
very inquisitive as to that point. She then proceeded thus : 
" I don't pretend to give your la'ship advice, whereof your 
la'ship knows much better than I can pretend to, being but a 
servant ; but, i-fackins I no father in England should marry 
me against my consent. And, to be sure, the squire is so good, 
that if he did but know your la'ship despises and hates the 
young man, to be sure he would not desire you to marry him. 
And if your la'ship would but give me leave to tell my master 
so — To be sure, it would be more properer to come from your 
own mouth ; but as your la'ship doth not care to foul your 
tongue with his nasty name" — You are mistaken. Honour," 
says Sophia ; "my father was determined before he ever 
thought fit to mention it to me." — "More shame for him," 
cries Honour; "yon are to go to bed to him, and not master; 
and tho'f a man may be a very proper man, yet every *roman 
mayn't think him handsome alike. I am sure my master would 
never act in this manner of his own head. I wish some people 
would trouble themselves only with what belongs to them : they 
would not, I believe, like to be served so, if it was their own 
case ; for though I am a maid, I can easily believe as how all 
men are not equally agreeable. And what signifies yonr 
la^sbip having so great a ioTl\Mie,\^^o\3ie^\0\.^Vssaft yourself 


with the man you think most handsomest? Well, I say 
nothing ; but to be sure it is a pity some folks bad not been 
better born; nay, as for that matter, I should not mind it 
myself ; but then there is not so much money ; and what of 
that ? your la'ship hath money enough for both ; and where 
can your la'ship bestow your fortune better ? for to be sure 
eyery one must allow that he is the most handsomest, charm- 
ingest, finest, tallest, properest man in the world.'' — **What 
do you mean by running on in this manner to me?'' cries 
Sophia, with a very grave countenance. ** Have I ever given 
any encouragement for these liberties?" — *'Nay. ma'am, I 
ask pardon; I meant no harm," answered she; **but to be 
sure the poor gentleman hath run in my head ever since I saw 
him this morning. To be sure, if your la'ship had but seen 
him just now, you must have pitied him. Poor gentleman I I 
wishes some misfortune hath not happened to him ; for he hath 
been walking about with his arras across, and looking so 
melancholy, all this morning : I vow and protest it almost 
made me cry to see him." — " To see whom ?" says Sophia. 
"Poor Mr. Jones," answered Honour. "See him! why, 
where did you see him?" cries Sophia. "By the canal, 
ma'am," says Honour. " There he hath been walking all this 
morning, and at last there he laid himself down ; I believe he 
lies there still. To be sure, if it had not been for my modesty, 
being a maid as I am, I should have gone and spoke to him. 
Do, ma'am, let me go and see, only for a fancy, whether he is 
there still." 

" Pugh !" says Sophia. "There I no, no : what should he 
do there ? He is gone before this time, to be sure. Besides, 
why — what — why should you go to see ? — ^besides, I want you 
for something else. Go, fetch me my hat and gloves. I shall 
walk with my aunt in the grove before dinner. " Honour did 
immediately as she was bid, and Sophia put her hat on ; when, 
looking in the glass, she fancied the riband with which her hat 
was tied did not become her, and so sent her maid back again 
for a riband of a different colour ; and then giving Mrs. 
Honour repeated charges not to leave her work on any account, 
as she said it was in violent haste, and mw?.\, b^ ^xvx^'fe^ '^'^ 
vary d*f, she mattered something mote a\io\v\i ^5v«\^^ ^»^ *^^ 


grove, and then sallied out the contrary way, and walked as 
fast as her tender trembling limbs conld carry her, directly 
toward the canal. 

Jones had been there, as Mrs. Honour had told her ; he 
had, indeed, spent two hours there that morning in melancholy 
contemplation on his Sophia, and had gone out from the garden 
at one door, the moment she entered it at another. So that 
those unlucky minutes, which had been spent in changing the 
ribands, had prevented the lovers from meeting at this time ; 
— a most unfortunate accident, from which my fair readers will 
not fail to draw a very wholesome lesson. And here I strictly 
forbid all male critics to intermeddle with a circumstance, 
which I have recounted only for the sake of the ladies, and 
upon which they only are at liberty to comment. 


A picture of formal courtship in miniature^ as it always ought to be drawn; 
and a scene of a tenderer kind, painted at full length. 

It was well remarked by one, (and, perhaps, by more,) that 
misfortunes do not come single. This wise maxim was now 
verified by Sophia, who was not only disappointed of seeing 
the man she loved, but had the vexation of being obliged to 
dress herself out, in order to receive a visit from the man she 

That afternoon, Mr. Western, for the first time, acquaiutt:d 
his daughter with his intention ; telling her, he knew very well 
that she had heard it before from her aunt. Sophia looked 
very grave upon this, nor could she prevent a few pearls from 
stealing into her eyes. " Come, come," says Western, "none 
of your maidenish airs : I know all ; I assure you, sister hath 
told me all.'' 

** Is it possible," says Sophia, "that my aunt can have be- 
trayed me already ?" — **Ay, ay," says Western ; ** betrayed 
you I ay. Why, you betrayed yourself yesterday at dinner. 
You showed your fancy very plainly, I think. But you yonug 
girls never know what you would Tse at. So you cry becanse 
I am going to marry y^u to \]![i^ mvwi^wsL «t^ ycw Ioyq ^th | 


Your mother, I remember, whimpered and whined just in the 
Bame manner; but it was all over within twenty-four hours 
after we were married : Mr. Blifil is a brisk young man, and 
will soon put an end to your squeamishness. Come, cheer up, 
cheer up : I expect un every minute.'' 

Sophia was now convinced that her aunt had behaved hon- 
ourably to her ; and she determined to go through that dis- 
agreeable afternoon with as much resolution as possible, and 
without giving the least suspicion in the world to her father. 

Mr. Blifil soon arrived ; and Mr. Western soon after with- 
drawing, left the young couple together. 

Here a long silence of near a quarter of an hour ensued ; 
for the gentleman, who was to begin the conversation, had all 
that unbecoming modesty which consists in bashfulness. He 
often attempted to speak, and as often suppressed his words 
just at the very point of utterance. At last, out they broke 
in a torrent of far-fetched and high-strained compliments, which 
were answered on her side by downcast looks, half bows, and 
civil monosyllables. Blifil, from his inexperience in the ways 
of women, and from his conceit of himself, took this behaviour 
for a modest assent to his courtship ; and when, to shorten a 
scene which she could no longer support, Sophia rose up and 
left the room, he imputed that, too, merely to bashfulness, and 
comforted himself that he should soon have enough of her 

He was indeed perfectly well satisfied with his prospect of 
success ; for as to that entire and absolute possession of the 
heart of his mistress, which romantic lovers require, the very 
idea of it never entered his head. Her fortune and her person 
were the sole objects of his wishes, of which he made no doubt 
soon to obtain the absolute property ; as Mr. Western's mind 
was so earnestly bent on the match ; and as he well knew the 
strict obedience which Sophia was always ready to pay to her 
father's will, and the greater still which her father would exact, 
if there was occasion. This authority, therefore, together 
with the charms which he fancied in his own person and con- 
Tersation, could not fail, he thought, of succeeding with a 
young lady, whose inclinations were, he doubted \MCi\,, ^\!^xt^ 

286 THE HI8T0R1 OF 

Of Jones he certainly bad not even the least jealousy ; and 
I have often thought it wonderful that he had not. Perhaps 
he imagined the character which Jones bore all over the coun- 
try, (how justly, let the reader determine,) of being one of the 
wildest fellows in England, might render him odious to a lady 
of the most exemplary modesty. Perhaps his suspicions 
might be laid asleep by the behaviour of Sophia, and of 
Jones himself, when they were all in company together. 
Lastly, and indeed principally, he was well assured there was 
not another self in the case. He fancied that he knew Jones 
to the bottom, and had in reality a great contempt for his un 
derstanding, for not being more attached to his own interest. 
He had no apprehension that Jones was in love with Sophia ; 
and as for any lucrative motives, he imagined they would sway 
little with so silly a fellow. Blifil, moreover, thought the 
affair of Molly Seagrim still went on, and indeed believed it 
would end in marriage ; for Jones really loved him from his 
childhood, and had kept no secret from him, till his behaviour 
on the sickness of Mr. AUworthy had entirely alienated his 
heart ; and it was by means of the quarrel which had ensued 
on this occasion, and which was not yet reconciled, that Mr. 
Blifil knew nothing of the alteration which had happened in 
the affection which Jones had formerly borne towards Molly. 

From these reasons, therefore, Mr. Blifil saw no bar to his 
success with Sophia. He concluded her behaviour was like 
that of all other young ladies on a first visit from a lover, and 
it had indeed entirely answered his expectations. 

Mr. Western took care to waylay the lover at his exit from 
his mistress. He found him so elevated with his success, so 
enamoured with his daughter, and so satisfied with her reception 
of him, that the old gentleman began to caper and dance 
about his hall, and by many other antic actions, to express the 
extravagance of his joy ; for he had not the least command 
over any of his passions; and that which had at any time 
the ascendant in his mind, hurried him to the wildest excesses. 

As soon as Blifil was departed, which was not till after many 

hearty kisses and embraces bestowed on him by Western, the 

good squire went instantly in quest of his daughter, whom he 

no sooner found, than \ie po\it^^ iox^XiVJci'^ 't&s^^.^xitxaTagaiit 


raptores, bidding her choose what clothes and jewels she 
j/ieased; and declaring that he had no other use for fortune 
but to make her happy. He then caressed lier again and 
again with the utmost profusion of fondness, called her by the 
most endearing names, and protested she was his only joy on 

SopWa, perceiving her father in this fit of affection, which 
she did not absolutely know the reason of, (for fits of fondness 
were not unusual to him, though this was rather more violent 
than ordinary,) thought she should never have a better oppor- 
tunity of disclosing herself than at present, as far at least as 
regarded Mr. Blifil; and she too well foresaw the necessity 
which she should soon be under of coming to a full explanation. 
After having thanked the squire, therefore, for all his pro- 
fessions of kindness, she added, with a look full of inexpressible 
softness, * * And is it possible that my papa can be so good to 
place all his joy in his Sophia's happiness ?'' which Western 
having confirmed by a great oath, and a kiss, she then laid hold 
of his hand, and, falling on her knees, after niany warm and 
passionate declarations of affection and duty, she begged him, 
" not to make her the most miserable creature on earth, by 
forcing her to marry a man whom she detested. This I entreat 
of you, dear sir," said she, ** for your sake, as well as my own, 
since you are so very kind to tell me your happiness depends on 
mine." — "Howl what!'' says Western, staring wildly. '* O, 
sir I'' continued she, "not only your poor Sophy's happiness, 
her very life, her being, depends upon your granting her request. 
I cannot live with Mr. Blifil. To force me into this marriage, 
would be killing me." — "You can't live with Mr. Blifil!" 
says Western. " No, upon my soul I can't," answered Sophia. 
"Then die and be d — d," cries he, spurning her from him. 
"Oh I sir," cries Sophia, catching hold of the skirt of his 
coat, "take pity on me, I beseech you. Don't look and say 

such cruel Can you be unmoved while you see your Sophy 

in this dreadful condition ? Can the best of fathers break my 
heart ? Will he kill me by the most painful, cruel, lingering 
death?"— ^" Pooh I pooh I" cries the squire ; "all stuff and 
nonsense; all maidenish tricks. Kill you, inda^dV '^'^ 
marrriage kill jou ?"— " Oh I sir," anawei^d. ^o^\i\'a., '' ^wsSql^ 


marriage is worse than death. He is not even indifferent ; I 
hate and detest him." — *'If you detest un never so much," 
cries Western, "you shall ha* un.'* This he bound by an oath 
too shocking to repeat ; and, after many violent asseverations, 
concluded in these words: **I am resolved upon the match, 
and, unless you consent to it, I will not give you a groat, not 
a single farthing ; no, though I saw you expiring with famine 
in the street, I would not relieve you with a morsel of bread. 
This is my fixed resolution, and so I leave you to consider on 
it. ' ' He then broke from her with such violence, that her face 
dashed against the floor : and he burst directly out of the room, 
leaving poor Sophia prostrate on the ground. 

When Western came into the hall, he there found Jones ; 
who, seeing his friend looking wild, pale, and almost breathless, 
could not forbear inquiring the reason of all these melancholy 
appearances. Upon which the squire immediately acquainted 
him with the whole matter, concluding with bitter denunci- 
ations against Sophia, and very pathetic lamentations of the 
misery of all fathers, who are so unfortunate as to have 

Jones, to whom all the resolutions which had been taken in 
favour of Blifil were yet a secret, was at first almost stmck 
dead with this relation ; but recovering his spirits a little, mere 
despair, as he afterwards said, inspired him to mention a 
matter to Mr. Western, which seemed to require more impu- 
dence than a human forehead was ever gifted with. He desired 
leave to go to Sophia, that he might endeavour to gain her 
concurrence with her father's inclinations. 

If the squire had been as quick-sighted as he was remarkable 
for the contrary, passion might at present very well have 
blinded him. He thanked Jones for offering to undertake the 
office, and said, "Go, go, prithee, try what canst do;" and 
then swore many execrable oaths that he would turn her oat 
of doors unless she consented to the match. 

.A FOUNDLINa. 289 


The metltng between Jones and Sophia. 

Jones departed instantly in quest of Sophia, whom he found 
just risen from the ground, where her father had left her, with 
the tears trickling from her eyes, and the blood running from 
her lips. He presently ran to her, and, with a voice at once 
full of tenderness and terror, cried out, '* 0, my Sophia, what 
means this dreadful sight?'' She looked softly at him for a 
moment before she spoke, and then said, " Mr. Jones, for 
Heaven's sake, how came yon here ? Leave me, I beseech you, 
this moment." ** Do not," says he, "impose so harsh a com- 
mand upon me — ^my heart bleeds faster than those lips. O 
Sophia I how easily could I drain my veins to preserve one 
drop of that dear blood." ''I have too many obligations to 
yon already," answered she, *'for sure you meant them such." 
Here she looked at him tenderly almost a minute, and then, 
bursting into an agony, cried, *' Oh, Mr. Jones, why did you 
save my life ? my death would have been happier for us both." 
"Happier for us both I" cried he. *' Could racks or wheels 

kill me so painfully as Sophia's 1 cannot bear the dreadful 

sound. Do I live but for her ?" Both his voice and look 
were full of inexpressible tenderness when he spoke these 
words ; and at the same time he laid gently hold on her hand, 
which she did not withdraw from him : to say the truth, she 
hardly knew what she did or suflFered. A few moments now 
passed in silence between these lovers, while his eyes were 
eagerly fixed on Sophia, and hers declining towards the ground : 
at last she recovered strength enough to desire him again to 
leave her, for that her certain ruin would be the consequence 
of their being found together; adding, *' Oh, Mr. Jones, you 
know not, you know not what hath passed this cruel afternoon." 
*'I know all, my Sophia," answered he: "your cruel father 
hath told me all, and he himself hath sent me hither to you." 
" My father sent you to me I" replied she : " sure you dream." 
** Would to Heaven," cries he, "it was but a dream I Oh I 
Sophia, your father hath sent me to you, to be an advocate for 
my odious rival, to solicit you his favour. I took any means 
to get access to you. O, speak to me, Sophia I comfort \sl^ 

I 35 T 


bleeding heart. Sure no one ever loved, ever doated, like me. 
Do not unkindly withhold this dear, this soft, this gentle hand. 
One moment, perhaps, tears you forever from me. Nothing 
less than this cruel occasion could, I believe, have ever con- 
quered the respect and awe with which you have inspired me." 
She stood a moment silent, and covered with confusion ; then, 
lifting up her eyes gently towards him, she cried, ** What would 
Mr. Jones have me say?'' **0, do but promise,'' cries he, 
**that you never will give yourself to Blifil." "Name not," 
answered she, * * the detested sound. Be assured, I never will 
give him what is in my power to withhold from him. " " Now, 
then," cries he, ** while you are so perfectly kind, go a little 
farther, and add that I may hope." *' Alas 1" says she, " Mr. 
Jones, whither will you drive me ? What hope have I to be- 
stow ? You know my father's intentions." "But I know," 
answered he, ^'your compliance with them cannot be com- 
pelled." *'What," says she, ''must be the dreadful conse- 
quence of my disobedience ? My own ruin is my least concern. 
I cannot bear the thoughts of being the cause of my father's 
misery " " He is himself the cause," cries Jones, "by exact- 
ing a power over you which nature hath not given him. Think 
on the misery which I am to gufifer, if I am to lose yon, and 
see on which side pity will turn the balance," *' Think of it 1" 
replied she : ' ' can you imagine I do not feel the ruin which I 
must bring on you, should I comply with your desire ? It is 
that thought which gives me resolution to bid you fly from me 
forever, and avoid your own destruction." "I fear no de- 
struction," cries he, "but the loss of Sophia. If yon will 
save me from the most bitter agonies, recall that cruel sen- 
tence. Indeed, I can never part with you, indeed I cannot." 

The lovers now stood both silent and trembling, Sophia 
being unable to withdraw her hand from Jones, and he almost 
as unable to hold it ; when the scene, which I believe eome of 
my readers will think had lasted long enough, was interrupted 
by one of so different a nature, that we shall reserve the relntiou 
of it for a different chapter. 



Being of a mtLch more tempestuous kind than the former. 

Before we proceed with what now happened to our lovers, 
it may be proper to recount what had passed in the hall during 
their tender interview. 

Soon after Jones had left Mr. Western in the manner above 
mentioned, his sister came to him, and was presently informed 
of all that had passed between her brother and Sophia relating 
to Blifil. 

This behaviour in her niece, the good lady construed to be 
an absolute breach of the condition on which she had engaged 
to keep her love for Mr. Jones a secret. She considered her- 
self, therefore, at full liberty to reveal all she knew to the squire, 
which she immediately did, in the most explicit terms, and 
wiHiout any ceremony or preface. 

The idea of a marriage between Jones and his daughter had 
never once entered into the squire's head, either in the warmest 
minutes of his affection towards that young man, or from sus- 
picion, or on any other occasion. He did indeed consider a 
parity of fortune and circumstances to be physically as neces- 
sary an ingredient in marriage, as diflfcrence of sexes, or any 
other essential ; and had no more apprehension of his daugh- 
ter's falling in love with a poor man, than with any animal of 
a different species. 

He became, therefore, like one thunder-struck at his sister's 
relation. He was, at first, incapable of making any answer, 
having been almost deprived of his breath by the violence of 
the surprise. This, however, soon returned, and, as is usual 
in other cases after an intermission, with redoubled force and 

The first use he made of the power of speech, after his 
recovery from the sudden effects of his astonishment, was to 
discharge a round volley of oaths and imprecations. After 
which he proceeded hastily to the apartment where he expected 
to find the lovers, and murmured, or indeed rather roared 
forth, intentions of revenge every step he went. 

As when two doves, or two wood-pigeoiia, ox ^-^ >«\i<s^%Nx.^* 
pboA BDd Fbillis, (for that couies neaieBX. \,o ^u\A ifckjwl^.^ ^^^^ 


retired into some pleasant, solitary grove, to enjoy the delight* 
ful conversation of love, that bashful boy, who cannot speak 
in public, and is never a good companion to more than two at 
a time ; here, while every object is serene, should hoarse thun- 
der burst suddenly through the shattered clouds, and rumbling 
roll along the sky, the frightened maid starts from the mossy 
bank or verdant turf, the pale livery of death succeeds the red 
regimentals in which love had before dressed her cheeks, fear 
shakes her whole frame, and her lover scarce supports her 
trembling tottering limbs. 

Or as when two gentlemen, strangers to the wondrous wit 
of the place, are cracking a bottle together at some inn or 
tavern at Salisbury, if the great dowdy who acts the part of a 
madman, as well as some setters-on do that of a fool, should 
rattle his chains, and dreadfully hum forth the grumbling catch 
along the gallery ; the frighted strangers stand aghast ; scared 
at the horrid sound, they seek some place of shelter from the 
approaching danger; and, if the well-barred windows did 
admit their exit, would venture their necks to escape the 
threatening fury now coming upon them. 

So trembled poor Sophia, so turned she pale at the noise of 
her father, who, in a voice most dreadful to hear, came on 
swearing, cursing, and vowing the destruction of Jones. To 
say the truth, I believe the youth himself would, from some 
prudent considerations, have preferred another place of abode 
at this time, had his terror on Sophia's account given him 
liberty to reflect a moment on what any otherwise concerned 
himself than as his love made him partake whatever affected 

And now the squire, having burst open the door, beheld an 
object which instantly suspended all his fury against Jones : 
this was the ghastly appearance of Sophia, who had fainted 
away in her lover's arms. This tragical sight Mr. Western 
no sooner beheld, than all his rage forsook him : he roared for 
help with his utmost violence ; ran first to his daughter, then 
to the door, calling for water, and then back again to Sophia, 
never considering in whose arms she then was, nor perhaps 
once recollecting that there was such a person in the world as 
Jones; for indeed, I belie^'i, tti^ ^x^^iiX. At«ws«i«W!L^ of hta 

A FOUNDXilNO. 293 

daxigbter were now bhe sole consideration which employed hig 

Mrs. Western and a great number of servants soon came to 
the assistance of Sophia with water, cordials, and every thing 
necessary on those occasions. These were applied with such 
snccess, that Sophia in a very few minutes began to recover, 
and all the symptoms of life to return. Upon which she was 
presently led off by her own maid and Mrs. Western : nor 
did that good lady depart ^without leaving some wholesome 
admonitions with her brother, on the dreadful effects of his 
passion, or, as she pleased to call it, madness. 

The squire, perhaps, did not understand this good advice, 
as it was delivered in obscure hints, shrugs, and notes of ad- 
miration ; at least, if he did understand it, he profited very 
little by it ; for no sooner was he cured of his immediate fears 
for his daughter, than he relapsed into his former frenzy, which 
must have produced an immediate battle with Jones, had not 
Parson Supple, who was a very strong man, been present, and 
by mere force restrained the squire from acts of hostility. 

The moment Sophia was departed, Jones advanced in a very 
suppliant manner to Mr. Western, whom the parson held in 
his arms, and begged him to be pacified ; for that, while he 
continued in such a passion, it would be impossible to give 
him any satisfaction. 

"I *wull have satifaction o' thee,'' answered the squire; 
" go doff thy clothes. At unt half a man, and I '11 lick thee as 
well as wast ever licked in thy life. ' ' He then bespattered the 
youth with an abundance of that language, which passes 
between country gentlemen who embrace opposite sides of the 
question r with frequent applications to him to salute that part 
which is generally introduced into all controversies that arise 
among the lower orders of the English gentry at horse-races, 
cock-matches, and other public places. Allusions to this part 
are likewise often made for the sake of the jest. And here, I 
believe, the wit is generally misunderstood. In reality, it lies 
in desiring another to kiss your a — , for having just before 
threatened to kick his ; for I have observed very accurately, 
that no one ever desires you to kick that wMcli b^lQ\i^^\,^\fi^«^ 
sdf^ nor offers to kiss this part in anottieT. 


It may likewise seem sarprising, that in the many thoosand 
kind invitations of this sort, which every one who hath con- 
versed with country gentlemen must have heard, no one, I he- 
lieve, hath ever seen a single instance where the desire hath 
been complied with ; — a great instance of their want of polite- 
ness : for, in town, nothing can be more common than for the 
finest gentlemen to perform this ceremony every day to their 
superiors, without having that favour once requested of them. 

To all such wit, Jones very cs^lmly answered, *' Sir, this 
usage may, perhaps, cancel every other obligation you have 
conferred on me ; but there is one you can never cancel ; nor 
will I be provoked by your abuse to lift my hand against the 
father of Sophia.'' 

At these words the squire grew still more outrageous than 
before; so that the parson begged Jones to retire; saying, 
" You behold, sir, how he waxeth wroth at your abode here ; 
therefore let me pray you not to tarry any longer. His angei 
is too much kindled for you to commune with him at present. 
You had better, therefore, conclude your visit, and refer what 
matters you have to urge in your behalf to some other oppor- 

Jones accepted this advice^ with thanks, and immediately 
departed. The squire now regained the liberty of -his hands, 
and so much temper as to express some satisfaction in the re- 
straint which had been laid upon him; declaring that he 
should certainly have beat his brains out ; and adding, " It 
would have vexed one confoundedly to have been hanged for 
such a rascal. ' ' 

The parson now began to triumph in the success of his 
peace-making endeavours, and proceeded to read a lecture 
against anger, which might perhaps rather have tended to raise 
than to quiet that passion in some hasty minds. This lecture 
he enriched with many valuable quotations from the ancients, 
particularly from Seneca; who hath, indeed, so well handled 
this passion, that none but a very angry man can read him 
without great pleasure and profit. The doctor concluded this 
harangue with the famous story of Alexander and Clytus ; but, 
as I find that entered in my common-place, under title Drunken* 
ness, I shall not insert it here. 


- The squire took no notice of this story, nor, perhaps, of any- 
thing he said ; for he interrupted him before he had finished, 
by calling for a tankard of beer ; observing, (which is, per- 
haps, aA true as any observation on this fever of the mind,) 
that anger makes a man dry. 

No sooner had the squire swallowed a large draught, than 
he renewed the discourse on Jones, and declared a resolution 
of going the next morning early to acquaint Mr. All worthy. 
His friend would have dissuaded him from this, from the mere 
motive of good-nature ; but his dissuasion had no other effect 
than to produce a large volley of oaths and curses, which 
greatly shocked the pious ears of Supple ; but he did not dare 
to remonstrate against a privilege which the squire claimed as 
a free-bom Englishman. To say truth, the parson submitted 
to plea;se his palate at the squire's table, at the expense of suf- 
fering now and then this violence to his ears. He contented 
nimself with thinking he did not promote this evil practice, 
and that the squire would not swear an oath the less, if he 
never entered within his gates. However, though he was not 
guilty of ill manners by rebuking a gentleman in his own 
house, he'paid him off obliquely in the pulpit ; which had not, 
indeed, th« good effect of working a reformation in the squire 
himself; yet it so far operated on his conscience, that he put 
the laws very severely in execution against others, and the 
magistrate was the only person in the parish who could swear 
with impunity. 



In which Mr. Western visits Mr. Allworthy. 

Mb. Allwobthy was now retired from breakfast with his 
nephew, well satisfied with the report of the young gentleman's 
successful visit to Sophia, (for he greatly desired the match, 
more on account of the young lady's character than of her 
riches,) when Mr. Western broke abruptly in upon them, and 
without any ceremony began as follows : — 

"There, you have done a fine piece of work truly. You 
have brought up your bastard to a fine purpose ; not that I 
believe you had any hand in it neither, that is, as a man maj 


say, designedly ; but there is a fine kettle of fish made on't up 
at our house. *' — ** What can be the matter, Mr. Western V* 
says All worthy. ''O, matter enow of all conscience: my 
daughter hath fallen in love with your bastard, that's all ; but 
I won't ge her a hapeny, not the twentieth part of a brass var- 
den. I always thought what would come o' breeding up a 
bastard like a gentleman, and letting un come about to vok's 
houses. It's well vor un I could not get at un ; I'd a lick'd 
un ; I'd a spoil'd his caterwauling ; I'd a taught the son of a 
whore to meddle with meat for his master. He shan't ever 
have a morsel of meat, of mine, or a varden to buy it : if she 
will ha un, one smock shall be her portion. I'll sooner ge my 
esteate to the zinking fund, that it may be sent to Hanover to 
corrupt our nation with." — "I am heartily sorry," cries All- 
worthy. ''Pox o' your sorrow," says Western; "it will do 
me abundance of good when I have lost my only child, my 
poor Sophia, that was the joy of my heart, and all the hope 
and comfort of my age ; but I am resolved I will turn her out 
o' doors ; she shall beg, and starve, and rot in the streets. 
Not one hapeny, not a hapeny, shall she ever hae o' mine. 
The son of a bitch was always good at finding a hare sitting, 
and be rotted to'n ; I little thought what puss he was looking 
after ; but it shall be the worst he ever vound in his life. She 
shall be no better than carrion : the skin o' her is all he shall 
ha, and zu you may tell un." — '* I am in amazement," cries 
Allworthy, *' at what you tell me, after what passed between 
my nephew and the young lady no longer ago than yesterday." 
— ' ' Yes, sir, ' ' answered Western, " it was after what passed 
between your nephew and she that the whole matter came out. 
Mr. Blifil there was no sooner gone, than the son of a whore 
came lurching about the house. Little did I think, when I 
used to love him for a sportsman, that he wsis all the while a 
poaching after my daughter." — ''Why, truly," says All- 
worthy, " I could wish you had not given him so many oppor- 
tunities with her ; and you will do me the justice to acknowledge 
that I have always been averse to his staying so much at your 
house, though, I own, I had no suspicion of this kind. " — 
'^ Wbjr, zounds 1" cries Western, "who could have thought it ? 
What the devil had she to do m'tvt ^^ ^\^ \i^'<» ^qisva there 


a courting tc her ; he came there a hunting with me."—'* Bui 
was it possible," says Allworthy, " that you shonld never discern 
any symptoms of love between them, when you have seen them, 
so often together ?" — '* Never in my life, as I hope to be zaved, ' ' 
cries Western : *' I never so much as zeed him kiss her in all 
my life ; and so far from courting her, he used rathor to be 
more silent when she was in company than at any other time : 
and as for the girl, she was always less civil to'n than to any 
young man that came to the house. As to that matter, I a.*u 
not more easy to be deceived than another ; I would not have 
you think I am, neighbour. " Allworthy could scarce refrain from 
laughter at this ; but he resolved to do a violence to himself ; 
for he perfectly well knew mankind, and had too much good- 
breeding and good-nature to offend the squire in his present 
circumstances. He then asked Western what he would have 
him do upon this occasion. To which the other answered, 
" That he would have him keep the rascal away from his house ; 
and that he would go and lock up the wench : for he was re- 
solved to make her marry Mr. Blifil in spite of her teeth." He 
then shook Blifil by the hand, and swore he would have no 
other son-in-law. Presently after which he took his leave : say- 
ing, his house was in such disorder, that it was necessary for 
him to make haste home, to take care his daughter did not give 
him the slip ; and as for Jones, he swore, if he caught him at 
his house, he would qualify him to run for the gelding ^s plate. 

When Allworthy and Blifil were again left together, a long 
silence ensued between them; all which interval the young 
gentleman filled up with sighs, which proceeded partly from 
disappointment, but more from hatred ; for the success of Jones 
was much more grievous to him than the loss of Sophia. 

At length his uncle asked him what he was determined to 
do, and he answered in the following words : '* Alas, sir, can it 
bo a question what step a lover will take, when reason and 
passion point different ways ? I am afraid it is too certain he 
wUl, in that dilemma, always follow the latter. Reason dic- 
tates to me to quit all thoughts of a woman who places her 
affections on another ; my passion bids me hope she may, in 
time, change her inclinations in my favour. Here, ho^^^^^K^,"^ 
eonceive an objection may be raised, wl[iid[i, \i\\, ^Q\JA\\si\.1xi^ 


be answered, would totally deter me from any further pursuit. 
I mean, the injustice of endeavouring to supplant another in a 
heart of which he seems already in possession ; but the deter- 
mined resolution of Mr. Western shows, that, in this case, I 
shall, by so doing, promote the happiness of every party ; not 
only that of the parent, who will thus be preserved from the 
highest degree of misery, but of both the others, who must be 
undone by this match. The lady, I am sure, will be undone 
in every sense ; for besides the loss of most part of her own . 
fortune, she will be not only married to a beggar, but the little 
fortune which her father cannot withhold from her will be 
squandered on that wench, with whom I know he yet converses. 
Nay, that is a trifle ; for I know him to be one of the worst 
men in the world ; for had my dear uncle known what I have 
hitherto endeavoured to conceal, he must have long since aban- 
doned so profligate a wretch.'' *'HowP' said AUworthy; 
*'hath he done anything worse than I already know? TeU 
me, I beseech you?'* ''No," replied Blifil ; it is now past, 
and perhaps he may have repented of it." ** I command you, 
on your duty," said AUworthy, *' to tell me what you mean." 
"You know, sir," says Blifil, "I never disobeyed you; but 1 
am sorry I mentioned it, since it may now look like revenge, 
whereas I thank Heaven, no such motive ever entered my heart ; 
and if you oblige me to discover it, I must be his petitioner to 
you for your forgiveness." "I will have no conditions," 
answered AUworthy ; '* I think I have shown tenderness enough 
towards him, and more perhaps than you ought to thank me 
for." " More, indeed, I fear, than he deserved,'' cried Blifil ; 
''for in the very day of your utmost danger, when myself and 
all the family were in tears, he filled the house with riot and 
debauchery. He drank, and sung, and roared ; and when I 
gave him a Lcentle hint of the indecency of his actions, he fell 
into a violent passion, swore many oaths, called me rascal, and 
struck me. " " How I" cries AUworthy ; " did he dare to strike 
you ?" "I am sure," cries Blifil, " I have forgiven him that 
long ago. I wish I could so easily forget his ingratitude to 
the best of benefactors ; and yet even that I hope you will for- 
give him, since he must have certainly been possessed with the 
devil: for that very evenmg, «l:& 'MLc. ^\!k^%Rk\uQL and myself 


were taking the air in the fields, and exulting in the good symp- 
toms which then first began to discover themselves, we nn- 
luckily saw him engaged with a wench in a manner not fit to be 
mentioned. Mr. Thwacknm, with more boldness than prudence, 
advanced to rebuke him, when (I am sorry to say it) he fell 
upon the worthy man, and beat him so outrageously that I 
wish he may have yet recovered his bruises. Nor was I with- 
out my share of the effects of his malice, while I endeavoured 
to protect my tutor ; but that I have long forgiven ; nay, I 
prevailed with Mr. Tfiwackum to forgive him too, and not to 
inform you of a secret which I feared might be fatal to him. 
And now, sir, since I have unadvisedly dropped a hint of this 
matter, and your commands have obliged me to discover the 
whole, let me intercede with you for him.'' '* O child 1'* says 
All worthy, " I know not whether I should blame or applaud 
your goodness, in concealing such villany a moment : but where 
is Mr. Thwacknm ? Not that I want any confirmation of what 
you say ; but I will examine all the evidence of this matter, 
to justify to the world the example I am resolved to make of 
such a monster." 

Thwacknm was now sent for, and presently appeared. He 
corroborated every circumstance which the other had deposed ; 
nay, he produced the record upon his breast, where the hand- 
writing of Mr. Jones remained very legible in black and blue. 
He concluded with declaring to Mr. Allworthy, that he should 
have long since informed him of this matter, had not Mr. Blifil, 
by the most earnest interpositions, prevented him. " He is,'' 
says he, "an excellent youth : though such forgiveness of ene- 
mies is carrying the matter too far." 

In reality, Blifil had taken some pains to prevail with the 
parson, and to prevent the discovery at that time ; for which 
he had many reasons. He knew that the minds of men are apt 
to be softened and relaxed from their usual severity by sickness. 
Besides, he imagined that if the story was told when the fact 
was so recent, and the physician about the house, who might 
have unravelled the real truth, he should never be able to give 
it the malicious turn which he intended. Again, he resolved 
to hoard up this business till the indiacretioii ot JoTi^fe's. ^oroS.^ 
afford u>me additional (jomplaints ; for \ift \J[iO\3L^\. "^^"^ \^^^ 


weight of many facts falling npon him together, would be tli« 
most likely to crush him ; and he watched, therefore, some such 
opportunity as that with which fortune had now kindly presented 
him. Lastly, by prevailing with Thwackum to conceal the 
matter for a time, he knew he should confirm an opinion of hia 
friendship to Jones, which he had greatly laboured to establish 
in Mr. Allworthy. 


A ihort chapter ; hut which contains sufficient matter to affect the good- 
natured reader. 

It was Mr. Allworthy's custom never to punish any one, no^ 
even to turn away a servant, in a passion. He resolved, there- 
fore, to delay passing sentence on Jones till the afternoon. 

The poor young man attended at dinner, as usual ; but his 
heart was too much loaded to suffer him to eat. His grief, too, 
was a good deal aggravated by the unkind looks of Mr. All- 
worthy; whence he concluded that Western had discovered 
the whole affair between him and Sophia ; but as to Mr. Blifil's 
story, he had not the least apprehension; for of much the 
greater part he was entirely innocent ; and for the residue, as 
he had forgiven and forgotten it himself, so he suspected no 
remembrance on the other side. When dinner was over, and 
the servants departed, Mr. Allworthy began to harangue. He 
set forth, in a long speech, the many iniquities of which Jones 
had been guilty, particularly those which this day had brought 
to light, and concluded by telling him, '' That unless he could 
clear himself of the charge, he was resolved to banish him his 
sight forever." 

Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his 
defence ; nay, indeed, he hardly knew his accusation ; for, as 
Mr, Allworthy, in recounting the drunkenness, &c. while he lay 
ill, out of modesty sunk every thing that related particularly to 
himself, which indeed principally constituted the crime, Jones 
could not deny the charge. His heart was, besides, almost 
broken already ; and his spirits were so sunk that he could say 
nothing for himself ; but acktvo^\^d^^d tha whole, and, like a 
^mir*^! ,-Q despair, threw Yv\msfe\i w^ow \xi««^^\j ^wss^x^S&ol^,^ 


'' Thftt though he must own himself guilty of many follies and 
inadvertencies, he hoped he had done nothing to deserve what 
would be to him the greatest punishment in the world.'' 

All worthy answered, ** That he had forgiven him too often 
already, in compassion to his youth, and in hopes of his 
amendment : that he now found he was an abandoned repro- 
bate, and such as it would be criminal in any one to support 
and encourage. Nay,'' said Mr. Allworthy to him, ''your 
audacious attempt to steal away the young lady, calls upon me 
to justify my own character in punishing you. The world, who 
have already censured the regard I have shown for you, may 
think, with some colour at least of justice, that I connive at so 
base and barbarous an action. An action of vhich you must 
have known my abhorrence ; and which, had you any concern 
for my ease and honour, as well as for my friendship, you would 
never have thought of undertaking. Fie upon it, young man I 
indeed there is scarce any punishment equal to your crimes, 
and I can scarce think myself justifiable in what I am now 
going to bestow on you. However, as I have educated you 
like a child of my own, I will not turn you naked into the 
world. When you open this paper, therefore, you will find 
something which may enable you, with industry, to get an 
honest livelihood ; but if you employ it to worse purposes, I 
shall not think myself obliged to supply you farther, being 
resolved, from this day forward, to converse no more with you 
on any account. I cannot avoid saying, there is no part of 
your conduct which I resent more than your ill treatment of thai 
good young man, (meaning Blifil,) who hath behaved with so 
much tenderness and honour towards you." 

These last words were a dose almost too bitter to be swal- 
lowed. A flood of tears now gushed from the eyes of Jones, 
and every faculty of speech and motion seemed to have deserted 
him. It was some time before he was able to obey Allworthy's 
peremptory commands of departing : which he at length did, 
having first kissed his hands with a passion difficult to be 
affected, and as difficult to be described. 

The reader must be very weak, if, when he considers the 
light in which Jones appeared to Mr. AlVwotVXs^ , \jkfc ^cs^\ 
h]ame the rigour of bis sentence. And "j^X. «XV ^'^ \i^\^gs^^^5^' 


hood, either from this weakness, or from some worse moti7es, 
coodemned this justice and severity as the highest cruelty. Nay, 
the very persons who had before censured the good man fof 
the kindness and tenderness shown to a bastard, (his own, 
according to the general opinion,) now cried out as loudly 
against turning his own child out of doors. The women, 
especially, were unanimous in taking the part of Jones, and 
raised more stories on the occasion than I have room, in this 
chapter, to set down. 

One thing must not be omitted, that, in their censures on 
this occasion, none ever mentioned the sum contained in the 
paper which Allworthy gave Jones, which was no less than five 
hundred pouncjpi ; but all agreed that he was sent away penni- 
less, and some said, naked, from the house of his inhuman 


Containing lov^-letlers, ^c. 

Jones was commanded to leave the house immediately, and 
told, that his clothes, and every thing else should be sent to 
him whithersoever he should order them. 

He accordingly set out, and walked above a mile, not regard- 
ing, and indeed scarce knowing, whither he went. At length a 
little brook obstructing his passage, he threw himself down 
by the side of it; nor could he help muttering with some 
little indignation, *' Sure my father will not deny me this place 
to rest inl^' 

Here he presently fell into the most violent agonies, tearing 
his hair from his head, and using most other actions which 
generally accompany fits of madness, rage, and despair. 

When he had in this manner vented ike first emotions of 
passion, he began to come a little to himself. His grief now 
took another turn, and discharged itself in a gentler way, till 
he became at last cool enough to reason with his passion, and 
to consider what steps were proper to be taken in his deplor- 
able condition. 

And now the great doubt was, how to act with regard to 
Sophia. The thoughts of \ea\\xig \i'et ^ksy^^X. ^^\iL\» ^\s heart 


asnnder ; but the consideration of reducing her to ruin and 
beggary still racked him, if possible, more ; and if the violent 
desire of possessing her person could have induced him to 
listen one moment to this alternative, still he was by no means 
certain of her resolution to indulge his wishes at so high an 
expense. The resentment of Mr. Allworthy, and the injury he 
must do to his quiet, argued strongly against this latter ; and 
lastly, the apparent impossibility of his success, even if he 
would sacrifice all these considerations to it, came to his as- 
sistance ; and thus honour at last backed with despair, with 
gratitude to his benefactor, and with real love to his mistress, 
got the better of burning desire, and he resolved rather to quit 
Sophia, than pursue her to ruin. 

It is difficult for any who have not felt it, to conceive the 
glowing warmth which filled his breast on the first contempla- 
tion of this victory over his passion. Pride flattered him so 
agreeably, that his mind perhaps enjoyed perfect happiness ; 
but this was only momentary: Sophia soon returned to his 
imagination, and allayed the joy of his triumph with no less 
bitter pangs than a good-natured general must feel, when he 
surveys the bleeding heaps, at the price of whose blood ho 
hath purchased his laurels ; for thousands of tender ideas lay 
murdered before our conqueror. 

Being resolved, however, to pursue the paths of this giant 
honour, as the gigantic poet Lee calls it, he determined to 
write a farewell letter to Sophia ; and accordingly proceeded 
to a house not far off, where, being furnished with proper ma- 
terials, he wrote as follows : — 

" Madam, 

''When you reflect on the situation in which I write, I am 
sure your good-nature will pardon any inconsistency or ab- 
surdity which my letter contains; for everything here flows 
fi'om a heart so full, that no language can express its dictates. 

" I have resolved, madam,- to obey your commands, in flying 
for ever from your dear, your lovely sight. Cruel indeed those 
commands are ; but it is cruelty which proceeds from fortune, 
not from my Sophia. Fortune hath made it uec^^^^'rj ^ xs^^^^'s.- 
tuaj to your preservation, to forget there e^ex ^^"^ ^^Oa. ^^^^K?^ 
MS I am. 


' Believe me, I would not hint all my sufferings to jon, if I 

agined they could possibly escape your ears. I know the 

)odness and tenderness of yonf heart, and woold avoid giving 

>u any of those pains which yon always feel for the miserable. 

^let nothing, which you shall hear of my hard fortune, cause 

. moment's concern I for, after the loss of you, everything is 

,0 me a trifle. 

*' O Sophia I it is hard to leave you ; it is harder still to 
desire you to forget me ; yet the sincerest love obliges me to 
both. Pardon my conceiving that any remembrance of me 
can give you disquiet; but if I am so gloriously wretched, 
sacrifice me every way to your relief. Think I never loved 
you; or think truly how little I deserve you; and learn to 
scorn me for a presumption which can never be too severely 
punished. — I am unable to say more. — May guardian angels 
protect you for ever I" 

He was now searching his pockets for his wax, but fouud 
none, nor indeed anything else, therein ; for in truth he had, 
in his frantic disposition, tossed everything from him, and 
amongst the rest, his pocket-book, which he had received from 
Mr. All worthy, which he had never opened, and which now 
first occurred to his memory. 

The house supplied him with a wafer for his present purpose, 
with which having sealed his letter, he returned hastily towards 
the brook-side, in order to search for the things which he had 
there lost. In his way he met his old friend Black George, 
who heartily condoled with him on his misfortune; for thu 
had already reached his ears, and indeed those of all the neigh- 

Jones acquainted the gamekeeper with his loss, and he a 
readily went back with him to the brook, where they searche 
every tuft of grass in the meadow, as well where Jones hf 
not been as where he had been ; but all to no purpose, f 
they found nothing : for indeed, though the things were tb 
in the meadow, they omitted to search the only place wh 
they were deposited ; to wit, in the pockets of the said Geor 
for he had just before found them, and being luckily appr 
of their value, had very carefully put them up for his own 
The gamekeeper having exetled a.^ mxi^V ^^\^«wi^>3^c 
^ *h< lost goods, as if he had hop^d \,o ^\i^ ^Cvi^m, ^^yw 


Jones to recollect if he had been in no other place : " For 
snre," said he, "if you had lost them here so lately, the things 
must have been here still ; for this is a very unlikely place for 
any one to pass by.'' And indeed it was by great accideDt 
that he himself had passed through that field, in order to lay 
wires for hares, with which he was to supply a poulterer at 
Bath the next morning. 

Jones now gave over all hopes of recovering his loss, and 
almost all thoughts concerning it; and, turning to Black 
Gkorge, asked him earnestly, if he would do him the greatest 
favour in the world ? 

George answered, with some hesitation, ' ' Sir, you know you 
may command me whatever is in my power, and I heartily wish 
it was in my power to do you any service.'' In fact, the 
question staggered him ; for he had, by selliug game, amassed 
a pretty good sum of money in Mr. Western's service, and was 
afraid that Jones wanted to borrow some small matter of him ; 
but he was presently relieved from his anxiety, by being desired 
to convey a letter to Sophia, which with great pleasure he 
promised to do. And indeed I believe there are few favours 
which he would not have gladly conferred on Mr. Jones ; for 
he bore as much gratitude towards him as he could, and was 
as honest as men who love money better than any other thing 
in the universe generally are. 

Mrs. Honour was agreed by both to be the proper means 
by which this letter should pass to Sophia. They then sepa- 
rated ; the gamekeeper returned home to Mr. Western's, and 
Jones walked to an alehouse at half a mile's distance, to wait 
for his messenger's return. 

George no sooner came home to his master's house, than ho 
met with Mrs. Honour, to whom, having first sounded her with 
a few previous questions, he delivered the letter for her mis- 
tress, and received at the same time another from her, for Mr. 
Jones ; which Honour told hijn she had carried all that day in 
her bosom, and began to despair of finding any means of de- 
livering it. 

The gamekeeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who, 
having received Sophia's letter from him, \IiS\,Wi^X^ m^^^'i^x 
sod eagerif breaking it open, read as f o\\o^% \ 
^6* V 



"It is impossible to express what I have felt since I saw 
you. Your submitting, on my account, to such cruel insults 
from my father, lays me under an obligation I shaQ erer own. 
As' you know his temper, I beg you will, for my sake, avoid 
him. I wish I had any comfort to send you ; but believe this, 
that nothing but the last violence shall ever give my hand or 
heart where you would be sorry to see them bestowed." 

Jones read this letter a hundred times over, and kissed it a 
hundred times as often. His passion now brought all tender 
desires back into his mind. He repented that he had writ to 
Sophia in the manner we have seen above ; but he repented 
more that he had made use of the interval of his messenger's 
absence to write and d3spatch a letter to Mr. AUworthy, in 
which he had faithfully promised and bound himself to quit all 
thoughts of his love. However, when his cool reflections 
returned, he plainly perceived that his case was neither mended 
nor altered by Sophia's billet, unless to give him some little 
glimpse of hope, from her constancy, of some favourable acci- 
dent hereafter. He therefore resumed his resolution, and 
taking leave of Black George, set forward to a town about five 
miles distant, whither he had desired Mr. AUworthy, unless 
he pleased to revoke his sentence, to send his things after him. 


The behaviour of Sophia on the present occasion ; which none of her Bex wiU 
blame, who are capable of behaving in the same manner. And the diseus" 
sion of a knotty point in the court of conscience, 

Sophia had passed the last twenty-four hours in no very 
desirable manner. During a large part of them she had been 
entertained by her aunt with lectures of prudence, recommend- 
ing to her the example of the polite world, where love, (so the 
good lady said,) is at present entirely laughed at, and where 
women consider matrimony, as men do offices of public trust, 
only as the means of making their fortunes, and of advancing 
tbemselvea in the world. In commenting on which text Mrs 
Western had displayed her doc^ueiicie ^w\\\i^^^^^\^Vka\«s 


These iagacionsr lectures, though little salted either to the 
taste or inclination of Sophia, were, however, less irksome to 
her than her own thoughts, that formed the entertainment of 
the night, during which she never once closed her eyes. 

But though she could neither sleep nor rest in her bed ; yet, 
having no avocation from it, she was found there by her 
father at his return from Allworthy's, which was not till past 
ten o'clock in the morning. He went directly up to her apart- 
ment, opened the door, and seeing she was not up, cried, * * Oh I 
you are safe then, and I am resolved to keep you so.'' He 
then locked the door, and delivered the key to Honour, having 
first giv^i her the strictest charge, with great promises of ' 
rewards for her fidelity, and most dreadful menaces of punish- 
ment in case she should betray her trust. 

Honour's orders were, not to suffer her mistress to come out 
of her room without the authority of the squire himself, and to 
admit none to her but him and her aunt ; but she was herself 
to attend her with whatever Sophia pleased, except only pen, 
ink, and paper, of which she was forbidden the use. 

The squire ordered his daughter to dress herself, and attend 
him at dinner ; which she obeyed ; and having sat the usual 
time, was again conducted to her prison. 

In the evening, the gaoler, Honour, brought her the letter 
which she received from the gamekeeper. Sophia read it very 
attentively twice or thrice over, and then threw herself upon 
the bed, and burst into a flood of tears. Mrs. Honour ex- 
pressed great astonishment at this behaviour in her mistress ; 
nor could she forbear very eagerly begging to know the cause 
of this passion. Sophia made her no answer for some time, 
and then, starting suddenly up, caught her maid by the hand, 
and cried, "O Honour! I am undone." "Marry forbid," 
cries Honour : " I wish the letter had been burnt before I had 
brought it to your la'ship. I 'm sure I thought it would have 
comforted your la'ship, or I would have seen it at the devil 
before I would have touched it." ** Honour," says Sophia, 
"you are a good girl, and it is vain to attempt concealing 
longer my weakness from you ; I have thrown away my heart 
on a man who hath forsaken me." •* A.ivdis^T.^cywi'S!.,'''' ^\jl- 
iwered the maid, ''sach a perfidy man?" " 'a^\v^>3a\ai«yKCL\sv% 

808 THE HI8T0BT or 

leave of me/' says Sophia, "forever in that letter. Nay, he 
hath desired me to forget him. Could he have desired that if 
he had loved me? Could he have borne such a thought? 
Could he have written such a word ?" " No, certainly, ma'am," 
cries Honour; *'and to be sure, if the best man in England 
was to desire me to forget him, I 'd take him at his word. 
Marry, come up I I am sure your la 'ship hath done him too 
much honour ever to think on him ; — a young lady who may 
take her choice of all the young men in the country. And to 
be sure, if I may be so presumptuous as to offer my poor 
opinion, there is young Mr. Blifil, who, besides that he is come 
of honest parents, and will be one of the greatest squires all 
hereabouts, he is, to be sure, in my poor opinion, a more hand- 
somer and a more politer man by half; and besides, he is a 
young gentleman of a sober character, and who may defy any 
of the neighbours to say black is his eye ; he follows no dirty 
trollops, nor can any bastards be laid at his door. Forget 
him, indeed I I thank Heaven I myself am not so much at my 
last prayers as to suffer any man to bid me forget him twice. 
If the best he that wears a head was for to go for to offer to 
say such an affronting word to me, I would never give him my 
company afterwards, if there was another young man in the 
kingdom. And as I was saying, to be sure, there is young 
Mr. Blifil." ''Name not his detested name," cries Sophia. 
*'Nay, ma'am," says Honour, ''if your la'ship doth not like 
him, thare be more jolly, handsome young men that would court 
your la'ship, if they had but the least encouragement. I don't 
believe there is arrow young gentleman in this county, or in the 
next to it, that if your la'ship was but to look as if you had a 
mind to him, would not come about to make his offer directly." 
"What a wretch dost thou imagine me," cries Sophia, "by 
affronting my ear^ with such stuff! I detest all mankind." 
"Nay, to be sure, ma'am," answered Honour, "your la'ship 
hath had enough to give you a surfeit of them. To be used 
ill by such a poor, beggarly, bastardly fellow." " Hold your 
blasphemous tongue," cries Sophia; "how dare you mention 
his name with disrespect before me ? He use me ill I No, his 
poor bleeding heart suffered more when he writ the cruel words 
than mine from reading them. 0,\i^\^^V^xQ\fcN[\stjao i^ 


angelic goodness. I am ashamed of the weakness of my own 
passion, for blaming what I ought to admire. 0, Honour ! it 
is my own good only which he consults. To my interest he 
sacrifices both himself and me. The apprehension of ruining 
me hath driven him to despair." ''I am very glad,' ' says 
Honour, "to hear your la 'ship takes that into your considera- 
tion ; for to be sure, it must be nothing less than ruin to give 
your mind to one that is turned out of doors, and is not worth 
a farthing in the world." '-Turned out of doors I" cries 
Sophia, hastily: "howl what dost thou mean?'' ''Why, to 
be sure, ma'am, my master no sooner told Squire AUworthy 
about Mr. Jones having offered to make love to your la'ship, 
than the squire stripped him stark naked, and turned him out 
of doors I" " Ha I" says Sophia, " I have been the cursed, 
wretched cause of his destruction I Turned naked out of doors 1 
Here, Honour, take all the money I have ; take the rings from 
my fingers. Here, my watch I carry him all. Go, find him 
immediately." '*For Heaven's sake, ma'am," answered Mrs. 
Honour, "do but consider, if my master should miss any of 
these things, I should be made to answer for them. Therefore 
let me beg your la'ship not to part with your watch and jewels. 
Besides, the money, I think, is enough of all conscience ; and 
as for that, master can never know anything of the matter." 
"Here, then," cries Sophia, "take every farthing I am worth, 
find him out immediately, and give it him. Go, go, lose not a 

Mrs. Honour departed according to orders, and, finding 

Black George below stairs, delivered him the purse, which 

contained sixteen guineas, being indeed the whole stock of 

Sophia; for though her father was very liberal to her, she 

. was much too generous to be rich. 

Black George having received the purse, set forward towards 
the alehouse; but in the way a thought occurred to him, 
whether he should not detain this money likewise. His conscience, 
however, immediately started at this suggestion, and began to 
upbraid him with ingratitude to his benefactor. To this his 
avarice answered, That his conscience should have considered 
the matter before, when he deprived poor Jon^a ot \i\^ ^^^\« 
That hBving quietly acqniesced in what vr«a oi ^o mwfia ^^'«^«t 


importance, it was absurd, if not downright hypocrisy, to affect 
any qualms at this trifle. In return to which, Conscience, like 
a good lawyer, attempted to distinguish between an absolute 
breach of trust, as here where the goods were delivered, and a 
bare concealment of what was found, as in the former case. 
Avarice presently treated this with ridicule, called it a distinc- 
tion without a diflference, and absolutely insisted, that when 
once all pretensions of honour and virtue were given up in any 
one instance, that there was no precedent for resorting to them 
upon a second occasion. In short, poor Conscience had cer- 
tainly been defeated in the argument, had not Fear stepped in 
to her assistance, and very strenuously urged, that the real 
distinction between the two actions did not lie in the different 
degrees of honour, but of safety; for that the secreting the 
500Z. was a matter of very little hazard ; whereas the detaining 
the sixteen guineas was liable to the utmost danger of discovery. 
By this friendly aid of Fear, Conscience obtained a complete 
victory in the mind of Black George, and, after making him a 
few compliments on his honesty, forced him to deliver the 
money to Jones. 



A ihort chapter, containing a short dialogue between Squire Western and his 


Mrs. Western had been engaged abroad all that day. 
The squire met her at her return home ; and when she inquired 
after Sophia, he acquainted her that he had secured her safe 
enough. *'She is locked up in chamber," cries he; "and 
Honour keeps the key. " As his looks were full of prodigious 
wisdom and sagacity when he gave his sister this information, 
it is probable he expected much applause from her for what he 
had done ; but how was he disappointed, when, with a most 
disdainful aspect, she cried, ' ' Sure, brother, you are the weak* 
est of all men. Why will you not confide in me for the man* 
agement of my niece ? Why will you interpose ? You have 
now undone all that I have been spending my breath in order 
to bring about. While I liaiv^ b^^n endeavouring to fill her 
mind with maxims of prudeiic^, ^ow.'VvK^^'Vi^ii^^^'^O&L^lMsc 


to reject them. English women, brother, I thank Heaven, are 
no slaves. We are not to be locked up like the Spanish and 
Italian wives. We have as good a right to liberty as your- 
selves. We are to be convinced by reason and persuasion only, 
and not governed by force. I have seen the world, brother, 
and know what arguments to make use of; and if your folly 
had not prevented me, should have prevailed with her to form 
her conduct by those rules of prudence and discretion which I 
formerly taught her."—** To be sure,'* said the squire, **I am 
always in the wrong." — ** Brother,'' answered the lady, **you 
are not in the wrong, unless when you meddle with matters 
beyond your knowledge. You must agree, that I have seen 
most of the world ; and happy had it been for my niece, if she 
had not been taken from under my care. It is by living at 
home with you that she hath learned romantic notions of love 
and nonsense.'' — **You don't imagine, I hope," cries the 
squire, **that I have taught her any such things.'' — **Your 
Ignorance, brother," returned she, *'as the great Milton says, 
almost subdues my patience. "* 

** D — ^n Milton," answered the squire : ^* if he had the impu- 
dence to say so to my face, I 'd lent him a douse, tho'f he was 
never so great a man. Patience I An' you come to that, 
dster, I have more occasion of patience, to be used like an 
overgrown school-boy, as I am by you. Do you think no one 
hath any understanding, unless he hath been about at court ? 
Pox I the world is come to a fine pass, indeed, if we are all 
fools, except a parcel of round-heads and Hanover rats. Pox I 
I hope the times are a coming that we shall make fools of 
them, and every man shall enjoy his own. That's all, sister ; 
and every man shall enjoy his own. I hope to zee it, sister, 
before the Hanover rats have eat up all our com, and left us 
nothing but turnips to feed upon." — **I protest, brother," 
cries she, *'you are now got beyond my understanding. Your 
jargon of turnips and Hanover rats is to me perfectly unintel- 
ligible. " — ** I believe, "cries he, "you don't care to hear o' 
'em ; but the country interest may succeed one day or other for 
all that." — "I wish," answered the lady, **you would think a 

♦ The resder may, perhaps, subdue his O'wn patiwiQ^,\i\3L%^^^xOaft»A<N^ 


little of youi daughter's interest; for, believe me, she is in 
greater danger than the nation." — ''Just now,'' said he, **you 
chid me for thinking on her, and would ha' her left to you."— 
"And if you will promise to interpose no more," answered 
she, *'I will, out of my regard to my niece, undertake the 
charge." — ''Well- do, then," said the squire, "for you know 
I always agreed, that women are the properest to manage 

Mrs. Western then departed, muttering something with sn 
air of disdain, concerning women and management of the na- 
tion. She immediately repaired to Sophia's apartment, who 
was now, after a day's confinement, released again from ber 




A comparison between the world and the stage. 

The world hath been often compared to the theatre ; and 
many grave writers, as well as the poets, have considered hu- 
man life as a great drama, resembling, in almost every particu- 
lar, those scenical representations which Thespis is first reported 
to have invented, and which have been since received with so 
much approbation and delight in all polite countries. 

This thought hath been carried so far, and is become so 
general, that some words proper to the theatre, and which were 
at first metaphorically applied to the world, are now indiscrimi- 
nately and literally spoken of both ; thus stage and scene are 
by common use grown as familiar to us, when we speak of life 
in general, as when we confine ourselves to dramatic perform- 
ances : and when transactions behind the curtain are men- 
tioned, St. James's is more likely to occur to our thoughts than 

It may seem easy enough to account for all this, by reflecting 

that the theatrical stage is nothing more than a representation, 

or, as Aristotle calls it, an \m\ta.t\otL of what really exists ; and 

bence, perhaps, we might iaVrl^ "^^ ^^^^Ts^x^^^Tss^^awfi^^i^ 


thoso who, by their writings or actions, have been so capable 
of imitating life, as to have their pictures in a manner con- 
foonded with, or mistaken for, the originals. 

But, in reality, we are not so fond of paying compliments to 
these people, whom we use as children frequently do the instru- 
ments of their amusement ; and have much more pleasure in 
hissing and buffeting them, than in admiring their excellence. 
There are many other reasons which have induced us to see 
this analogy between the world and the stage. 

Some have considered the larger part of mankind in the 
light of actors, as personating characters no more their own, 
and to which, in fact, they have no better title, than the player 
hath to be in earnest thought the king or emperor whom he 
represents. Thus the hypocrite may be said to be a player ; 
and, indeed, the Greeks call them both by one and the same 

The brevity of life hath likewise given occasion to this com- 
parison. So the immortal Shakspeare — 

-Life's a poor player, 

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more. 

For which hackneyed quotation I will make the reader amends 
by a very noble one, which few, I believe, have read. It is 
taken from a poem called the Deity, published about nine years 
ago, and long since buried in oblivion ; a proof that good 
books, no more than good men, do always survive the bad. 

From Thee''^ all human actions take their springs, 

The rise of empires and the fall of kings! 

See the vast Theatre of Time displayed, 

While o'er the scene succeeding heroes tread! 

With pomp the shining images succeed, 

What leaders triumph, and what monarchs bleed! 

Perform the parts thy providence assigned, 

Their pride, their passions, to thy ends inclin'd: 

Awhile they glitter in the face of day 

Then at Thy nod tho phantoms pass away ; 

No traces left of all the busy scene, 

But that remembrance says — The things have hem! 

* Tho Deity. 


In all these, however, and in every other similitade of life to 
the theatre, the resemblance hath been always taken from 
the stage only. None, as I remember, have at all considered 
the audience at this great drama. 

Bat as Natnre often exhibits some of her best performaneM 
to a very full house, so will the behaviour of her spectators no 
less admit the above-mentioned comparison than that of her 
actors. In this vast theatre of time are seated the friend and 
the critic ; here are claps and shouts, hisses and groans : in 
short, every thing which was ever seen or heard at the theatre 

Let us examine this as one example ; for instance, in the 
behaviour of the great audience on that scene which Nature 
was pleased to exhibit in the twelfth chapter of the preceding 
book, where she introduced Black George running away with 
the 500Z. from his friend and benefactor. 

Those who sat" in the world's upper gallery treated that 
incident, I am well convinced, with their usual vociferation; 
and every term of scurrilous reproach was most probably vented 
on that occasion. 

If we had descended to the next order of spectators, we 
should have found an equal degree of abhorrence, though less 
of noise and scurrility : yet here the good women gave Black 
George to the devil, and many of them expected every minute 
that the cloven-footed gentleman would fetch his own. 

The pit, as usual, was no doubt divided : those who delight 
in heroic virtue and perfect character, objected to the producing 
such instances of villany, without punishing them very severely 
for the sake of example. Some of the author's friends cried, 
'* Look'e, gentlemen, the man is a villain ; but it is nature for 
all that." And all the young critics of the a^e, the clerks, 
apprentices, &c. called it low, and fell a groaning. 

As for the boxes, they behaved with their accnstomed 
politeness. Most of them were attending to something else. 
Some of those few who regarded the scene at all, declared he 
was a bad kind of a man ; while others refused to give their 
opinion, till they had heard that of the best judges. 

Now we, who are admitted behind the scenes of this great 
theatre of nature, (and no aviL\)ciOT oxi^X, \ft ^wtWfc ^ss^ ^Kuni^ 


besides dictionaries and spelling-books wbo hath not this 
privilege,) can censure the action, without conceiving any 
absolute detestation of the person whom, perhaps, Nature 
may not have designed to act an ill part in all her dramas ; for 
in this instance life most exactly resembles the stage, since it 
is often the same person who represents the villain and tlie 
hero ; and he, who engages your admiration to-day, will, 
probably, attract your contempt to-morrow. As Garrick, 
whom I regard in tragedy to be the greatest genius the world 
hath ever produced, sometimes condescends to play the fool ; 
80 did Scipio the Great, and Laelius the Wise, according to 
Horace, many years ago ; nay, Cicero reports them to have 
been '* incredibly childish." These, it is true, played the fool, 
like my friend Garrick, in jest only; but several eminent 
characters have, in numberless instances of their lives, played 
the fool egregiously in earnest ; so far as to render it a matter 
of some doubt, whether their wisdom or folly was predominant ; 
or whether they were better entitled to the applause or 
censure, the admiration or contempt, the love or hatred of 

Those persons, indeed, who have passed any time behind the 
scenes of this great theatre, and are thoroughly acquainted 
not only with the several disguises which are there put on, but 
also with the fantastic and capricious behaviour of the Pas- 
sions, who are the managers and directors of this theatre, (for 
as to Reason, the patentee, he is known to be a very idle fellow, 
and seldom to exert himself,) may most probably have learned 
to understand the famous nil admirari of Horace, or, in the 
English phrase, to stare at nothing. 

A single bad act no more constitutes a villain in life, than a 
single bad part on the stage. The passions, like the managers 
of a playhouse, often force men upon parts, without consulting 
their judgment, and sometimes without any regard to their 
talents. Thus the man, as well as the player, may condemn 
what he himself acts ; nay, it is common to see vice sit as 
awkwardly on some men, as the character of lago would on 
the honest face of Mr. Wilham Mills. 

Upon the whole, then, the man of candour and of tx^<^ 
nndersta/id/ii^ is never hasty to condemn. "EL^ ^Wi ^^\3l^^^^ ^^j^ 


imperfection, or even a vice, without rage against the goilty 
party. In a word, they are the same folly, the same childish- 
ness, the same ill-breeding, and the same ill-nature, which raise 
all the clamours and uproars both in life and on the stage. The 
worst of men generally have the words rogue and villain most, 
in their mouths, as the lowest of all wretches arc the aptest to 
cry out low in the pit. 



Containing a conversation which Mr. Jones had with himself. 

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

•' I am commanded by my uncle to acquaint you, that as ho 
did not proceed to those measures he had taken with you with- 
out the greatest deliberation, and after the fullest evidence of 
your un worthiness, so will it be always out of your power to 
cause the least alteration in his resolution. He expresses great 
surprise at your presumption in saying you .have resigned all 
pretensions to a young lady, to whom it is impossible you 
should ever have had any, her birth and fortune having made 
her so infinitely your superior. Lastly, I am commanded to 
tell you, that the only instance of your compliance with my 
uncle's inclinations, which he requires, is, your immediately 
quitting this country. I cannot conclude this without offering 
you my advice, as a Christian, that you would seriously think 
of amending your life. That you may be assisted with grace 
BO to do, will be always the prayer of 

' Your humble servant, 

'W. Bmfil." 

Many contending passions were raised in our hero's mind 
by this letter ; but the tender prevailed at last over the indig- 
nant and irascible, and a flood of tears came seasonably to his 
assistance, and possibly prevented his misfortunes from either 
turning his head, or bursting his heart. 
He grew, however, soon ashamed of indulging this retnedy ; 
and Btarting up, he cned, ^^'WdX, V3tkfc\i,\'«^ ^^^ Mr. All- 


worthy the only instance he requires of my obedience. I wiD 
go this moment — ^bnt whither ? — why, let Fortune direct ; since 
there is no other who thinks it of any consequence what be- 
comes of this wretched person, it shall be a matter of equal 
indifference to myself. Shall I alone regard what no other — 
Ha I have I not reason to think there is another ? — one whose 
value is above that of the whole world I — I may, I must 
imagine my Sophia is not indifferent of what becomes of me. 
Shall I then leave this only friend — and such a friend ? Shall 
I not stay with her? — Where — how can I stay with her? 
Have I any hopes of ever seeing her, though she was as de- 
sirous as myself, without exposing her to the wrath of her fa- 
ther ? and to what purpose ? Can I think of soliciting such a 
creature to consent to her own ruin ? Shall I indulge any pas- 
sion of mine at such a price ? Shall I lurk about this country 
like a thief, with such intentions ? — No, I disdain, I detest the 
thought. Farewell, Sophia ; farewell, most lovely, most be- 
loved — ." Here passion stopt his mouth, and found a vent at 
his eyes. 

And now having taken a resolution to leave the country, he 
began to debate with himself whither he should go. The 
world, as Milton phrases it, lay all before him ; and Jones, no 
more than Adam, had any man to whom he might resort for 
comfort or assistance. All his acquaintance were the acquaint- 
ance of Mr. AUworthy ; and he had no reason to expect any 
countenance from them, as that gentlenian had withdrawn his 
favour from him. Men of great and good characters should 
indeed be very cautious how they discard their dependants ; 
for the consequence to the unhappy sufferer is being discarded 
by all others. 

What course of life to pursue, or to what business to apply 
himself, was a second consideration : and here the prospect 
was all a melancholy void. Every profession, and every trade, 
required length of time, and what was worse, money; for 
matters are so constituted, that "nothing out of nothing" is 
not a truer maxim in physics than in politics ; and every man 
who is greatly destitute of money, is on that account entirely 
excluded from all means of acquiring it. 

At last the Ocean, that hospitable tocti^ Vo >(X\a ^^«i^.^^^'l 

sis THE HlfiTORT OF 

opened her capacions arms to receive him ; and he instantly 
resolved to accept her kind invitation. To express myself less 
figuratively, he determined to go to sea. 

This thought indeed no sooner suggested itself, than he 
eagerly embraced it ; and having presently hired horses, he set 
out for Bristol to put it in execution. 

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


Containing jseveral dialoguef. 

The morning in which Mr. Jones departed, Mrs. Western 
summoned Sophia into her apartment; and having first ae 
quainted her that she had obtained her liberty of her father, 
she proceeded to read her a long lecture on the subject of 
matrimony ; which she treated not as a romantic scheme of 
happiness arising from love, as it hath been described by the 
poets ; nor did she mention any of those purposes for which 
we are taught by divines to regard it as instituted by sacred 
authority \ she considered it rather as a fund in which prudent 
women deposit their fortunes to the best advantage, in order 
to receive a larger interest for them than they could have else- 

When Mrs. Western had finished, Sophia answered, " That 
she was very incapable of arguing with a lady of her aunt's 
superior knowledge and experience, especially on a subject 
which she had so very little considered, as this of matrimony. " 

'* Argue with me, child 1^' replied the other; **I do not in- 
deed expect it. I should have seen the world to very little 
purpose truly, if I am to argue with one of your years. I 
have taken this trouble, in order to instruct you. The ancient 
philosophers, such as Socrates, Alcibiades, and others, did not 
use to argue with their scholars. You are to consider me, 
child, as Socrates, not asking your opinion, but only informing 
you of mine." From which last words the reader may pos- 
si'blf imagine, that this lady had read no more of the philosophy 
of Socrates, than she had oi S}qsX ol Mc^Saaft^\ ^TA\&^^Ad 
cannot resolve his curloBitj as to \Xi\^^om\.. 


"Madam," cries Sophia, "I have never presumed to eon- 
troTert any opinion of yonrs ; and this subject, as I said, I 
have never yet thought of, and, perhaps, never may. ' ' 

** Indeed, Sophy," replied the aunt, "this dissimulation with 
me is very foolish. The French shall as soon persuade me 
that they take foreign towns in defence only of their own coun- 
try, as you can impose on me to believe you have never yet 
thought seriously of matrimony. How can you, child, affect 
to deny that you have considered of contracting an alliance, 
when you so well know I am acquainted with the party with 
whom you desire to contract it ? — an alliance as unnatural and 
contrary to your interest, as a separate league with the French 
would be to the interest of the Dutch I But, however, if you 
have not hitherto considered of this matter, I promise you it is 
now high time ; for my brother is resolved immediately to con- 
clude the treaty with Mr. Blifil ; and, indeed, I am a sort of 
guarantee in the affair, and have promised your concurrence. " 

'* Indeed, madam," cries Sophia, "this is the only instance 
in which I must disobey both yourself and my father. For 
this is a match which requires very little consideration in me 
to refuse." 

" If I was not as great a philosopher as Socrates himself," 
returned Itfrs. Western, **you would overcome my patience. 
What objection can you have to the young gentleman ?" 

" A very solid objection, in my opinion," says Sophia, — **I 
hate him." 

" Will you never learn a proper use of words ?" answered 
the annt. "Indeed, child, you should consult Bailey ^s Dic- 
tionary. It is impossible you should hate a man from whom 
you have received no injury. By hatred, therefore, you mean 
no more than dislike, which is no sufficient objection against 
your marrying of him. I have known many couples, who have 
entirely disliked each other, lead very comfortable genteel lives. 
Believe me, child, I know these things better than you. You 
will allow me, I think, to have seen the world, in which I have 
not an acquaintance who would not rather be thought to dislike 
her husband than to like him. The contrary is such out of 
fashion romantic nonsense, that the very imaginatloiv <i^ \^ >^ 
thockiz?^. '* 


"Indeed, madam," replied Sophia, " I shall never marry a 
man I dislike. If I promise my father never to consent to any 
marriage contrary to his inclinations, I think I may hope he 
will never force me into that state contrary to my own.'' 

*' Inclinations I" cries the aunt, with some warmth. "In- 
clinations 1 I am astonished at your assurance. A young 
woman of your age, and unmarried, to talk of inclinations I 
But whatever your inclinations may be, my brother is resolved ; 
nay, since you talk of inclinations, I shall advise him to hasten 
the treaty. Inclinations I" 

Sophia then flung herself upon her knees, and tears began 
to trickle from her shining eyes. She entreated her aunt **to 
have mercy upon her, and not to resent so cruelly her unwil- 
lingness to make herself miserable;" often urging, "that she 
alone was concerned, and that her happiness only was at stake. ' ' 

As a bailiff, when well authorised by his writ, having pos- 
sessed himself of the person of some unhappy debtor, views all 
his tears without concern; in vain the wretched captive at- 
tempts to raise compassion ; in vain the tender wife bereft of 
her companion, the little prattling boy, or frighted girl, are 
mentioned as inducements to reluctance. The noble bumtrap, 
blind and deaf to every circumstance of distress, greatly rises 
above all the motives to humanity, and into the hands of the 
jailer resolves to deliver his miserable prey. 

Not less blind to the tears, or less deaf to every entreaty of 
Sophia, was the politic aunt ; nor less determined was she to 
deliver over the trembling maid into the arms of the jailer 
Blifil. She answered with great impetuosity, " So far, madam, 
from your being concerned alone, your concern is the least, or 
surely the least important. It is the honour of your family 
which is concerned in this alliance;, you are only the instru- 
ment. Do you conceive, mistress, that in an intermarriage 
between kingdoms, as when a daughter of France is married 
into Spain, the princess herself is alone considered in the 
match? No, it is a match between two kingdoms, rather 
than between two persons. The same happens in great fami- 
lies, such as ours. The alliance between the famUies is the 
principal matter. You ought to have a greater regard for the 
honour ofyonv family, than iot -jout o^\i ^^x^(i\\.\ and if the 


example of a princess cannot inspire you with these noble 
thoughts, you cannot surely complain at being used no worse 
than all princesses are used. ' ' 

"I hope, madam," cries Sophia, with a little elevation of 
voice, " I shall never do any thing to dishonour my family ; but 
as for Mr. Blifil, whatever may be the consequence, I am 
resolved against him, and no force shall prevail in his favour." 

Western, who had been within hearing during the greater 
part of the preceding dialogue, had now exhausted all his 
patience ; he therefore entered the room in a violent passion, 
crying, " D— * me then if shatunt ha'un, d — n me if shatunt, 
that's all — ^that's all ; d — n me if shatunt. " 

Mrs. Western had collected a sufficient quantity of wrath for 
the use of Sophia ; but she now transferred it all to the squire. 
''Brother," said she, "it is astonishing that you will interfere 
in a matter which you had totally left to my negotiation. — 
Regard to my family hath made me take upon myself to be the 
mediating power, in order to rectify those mistakes in policy 
which you have committed in your daughter's education. For, 
brother, it is you — it is your preposterous conduct which hath 
eradicated all the seeds that I had formerly sown in her tender 
mind. It is you yourself who have taught her disobedience." 
— "Blood !" cries the squire, foaming at the mouth, "you are 
enough to conquer the patience of the devil I Plave I ever 
taught my daughter disobedience ? — Here she stands ; speak 
honestly, girl, did ever I bid you be disobedient to me ? Have 
not I done every thing to humour and to gratify you, and to 
make you obedient to me ? And very obedient to me she was 
when a little child, before you took her in hand and spoiled her, 
by filling her head with a pack of court notions. Why, — why, 
— why, — did I not overhear you telling her she must behave 
like a princess ? You have made a Whig of the girl ; and how 
should her father, or any body else, expect any obedience from 
her?" "Brother," answered Mrs. Western, with an air of 
great disdain, " I cannot express the contempt I have for your 
politics of all kinds ; but I will appeal likewise to the young 
lady herself, whether I have ever taught her any principles of 
disobedience. On the contrary, niece, have I not endeavoiite.'^^ 
to inspire jon with a true idea of the aftVftT«L\T^^^AQ^\^\\s.^^^\s^^ 



a human creature stands in society ? Have I not taken Infinite 
pains to show you, that the law of nature hath enjoined a duty 
on children to their parents ? Have I not told you what Plato 
says on that subject ? — a subject on which you was so 
notoriously ignorant when you came first under my care, that 
I verily believe you did not know the relation between a 
daughter and a father." — ''Tis a lie," answered Western. 
'* The girl is no such fool, as to live to eleven years old without 
knowing that sh^ was her father's relation." — " I more than 
Gothic ignorance," answered the lady. "And as for your 
manners, brother, I must tell you, they deserve a cane." — 
''Why then you may gi' it me, if you think you are able," 
cries the squire ; " nay, I suppose your niece there will be ready 
enough to help you." — "Brother," said Mrs. Western, 
''though I despise you beyond expression, yet T shall endure 
your insolence no longer ; so I desire my coach may be got 
ready immediately, for I am resolved to leave your house this 
very morning. " — " And a good riddance too," answered he ; 
" I can bear your insolence no longer, an you come to that 
Blood I it is almost enough of itself to make my daughter 
undervalue my sense, when she hears you telling me every 
minute you despise me." — " It is impossible, it is impossible," 
cries the aunt; "no one can undervalue such a boor." — 
"Boar," answered the squire, " I am no boar; no, nor ass; 
no, nor rat neither, madam. Remember that — I am no rat. 
I am a true Englishman, and not of your Hanover breed, that 
have eat up the nation." — " Thou art one of those wise. men," 
cries she, "whose nonsensical principles have undone the 
nation ; by weakening the hands of our government at home, 
and by discouraging our friends and encouraging our enemies 
abroad. " — " Ho ! are you come back to your politics ?" cries 
the squire : " as for those I despise them as much as I do a 
f — ^t." Which last words he accompanied and graced with the 
very action, which, of all others, was the most proper to it. 
And whether it was this word or the contempt expressed for 
her politics, which most affected Mrs. Western, I will not 
determine; but she flew into the most violent rage, uttered 
phrases improper to be Taexe xeV^iiftd, ^wd mstantly burst out of 
the bouse, Not did ^er YjTO^XiW ot \!«t xaw^ SSko^ -^^w^ 


either to stop or to follow her; for the one was so mach 
possessed by concern, and the other by anger, that they were 
rendered almost motionless. 

The squire, however, sent after his sister the same halloa 
which attends the departure of a hare, when she is first started 
before the hounds. He was indeed a great master of this 
kind of vtwiferation, and had a halloa proper for most occasions 
in life. 

Women who, like Mrs. Western, know the world, and have 
applied themselves to philosophy and politics, would have 
immediately availed themselves of the present disposition of 
Mr. Western's mind, by throwing in a few artful compliments 
to his understanding at the expense of his absent adversary ; 
but poo:* Sophia was all simplicity. By which word we do not 
intend to insinuate to the reader, that she was silly, which is 
t;cnerally understood as a synonymous term with simple ; for 
she was indeed a most sensible girl, and her understanding 
was of the first rate ; but she wanted all that useful art which 
females convert to so many good purposes in life, and which, 
as it rather arises from the heart than from the head, is often 
the property of the silliest of women. 


A picture of a country genilewomanj taken from the life. 
Mb. Western, having finished his halloa and taken a little 
1)reath, began to lament, in very pathetic terms, the unfortu- 
nate condition of men, **who are,^' says he, "always whipt in 
Ijy the humours of some d — d b — or other. I think I was 
liard run enough by your mother for one man ; but after giving, 
ler a dodge, here *s another b — follows me upon the foil ; 
laut curse my jacket if I will be run down in this manner by any 
o' um." 

Sophia never had a single dispute with her father, till this 
unlucky affair of Blifil, on any account, except in defence of her 
mother, whom she had loved most tenderly, though she lost her 
in the eleventh year of her age. The squix^, tci ^\i^\£LN}cw\3^ ^^^\. 
wonum bad been a faithful uppcr-BexvaxvX, tfiV \5ck& \»vai^ 'i'^ '^^ixt 


marriage, had returned that behaviour, by making what tiie 
world calls a good husband. He very seldom swore at her 
(perhaps not above once a week), and never beat her : she had 
*.ot the least occasion for jealousy, and was perfect mistress of 
her time ; for she was never interrupted by her husband, who 
was engaged all the morning in his field exercises, and all the 
evening with bottle companions. She scarce, indeed, ever saw 
him but at meals ; where she had the pleasure of carving those 
dishes which she had before attended at the dressing. From 
these meals she retired about five minutes after the other ser- 
vants, having only staid to drink, *'the king over the water.'' 
Such were, it seems, Mr. Western's orders : for it was a maxim 
with him, that women should come in with the first dish, and 
go out after the first glass. Obedience to these orders was, 
perhaps, no difficult task ; for the conversation (if it may be 
called so) was seldom such as could entertain a lady. It 
consisted chiefly of halloaing, singing, relations of sporting 
adventures, b ^y, and abuse of women and of the govern- 

These, however, were the only seasons when Mr. Western 
saw his wife ; for when he repaired to her bed, he was gsne- 
rally so drunk that he could not see ; and, in the sporting sea- 
son, he always rose from her before it was light. Thus was she 
perfect mistress of her time, and had, besides, a coach and four 
usually at her command ; though unhappily, indeed, the bad- 
ness of the neighbourhood, and of the roads, made this of 
little use ; for none who had set much value on their necks 
would have passed through the one, or who had set any value 
on their hours, would have visited the other. Now, to deal 
honestly with the reader, she did not make all the return ex- 
pected to so much indulgence ; for she had been married against 
her will by a fond father, the match having been rather advan- 
tageous on her side ; for the squire's estate was upwards of 
£3000 a year, and her fortune no more than a bare £8000. 
Hence, perhaps, she had contracted a little gloominess of tem- 
per ; for she was rather a good servant than a good wife ; nor 
had she always the gratitude to return the extraordinary de- 
cree of roaring mirth, wi\^ vi\Ae\v \\i^ ^o^vc^ received her, even 
with a good-humouTed smW^. ^\v^ ^qx:^^, \s^Qt%.w^^, i^nM^ 


times interfere with matters that did not concern her, as the 
violent drinking of her husband, which, in the gentlest terms, 
she would take some of the few opportunities he gave her of 
remonstrating against. And once in her life she very earnestly 
entreated him lo carry her for two months to London, which he 
peremptorily denied ; nay, was angry with his wife for the re- 
quest ever after, being well assured that all the husbands in 
London are cuckolds. 

Por this last, and many other good reasons, Western at 
length heartily hated his wife ; and, as he never concealed this 
hatred J)efore her death, so he never forgot it afterwards ; but 
when anything in the least soured him, as a bad scenting day, 
or a distemper among his hounds, or any other such misfortune, 
he constantly vented his spleen by invectives against the de- 
ceased, saying, *' If my wife was alive now, she would be glad 
of this." 

These invectives he was especially desirous of throwing forth 
before Sophia ; for as he loved her more than he did any other, 
so he was really jealous that she had loved her mother better 
than him. And this jealousy Sophia seldom failed of heighten- 
ing on these occasions : for he was not contented with violating 
her ears with the abuse of her mother, but endeavoured to force 
an explicit approbation of all this abuse ; with which desire 
he never could prevail upon her by any promise or threats to 

Hence some of my readers will, perhaps, wonder that the 
squire had not hated Sophia as much as he had hated her 
mother ; but I must inform them, that hatred is not the effect 
of love, even through the medium of jealousy. It is, indeed, 
very possible for jealous persons to kill the objects of their 
jealoucy, but not to hate them. Which sentiment being a pretty 
hard morsel, and bearing something of the air of a paradox, 
we shall leave the reader to chew the cud upon it to the end of 
the chapter. 

I. — 28 



The generous behaviour of Sophia towarda her aunt, 

SovHiA kept silence during the foregoing speech of her father, 
nor did she once answer otherwise than with a sigh ; but as 
he understood none of the language, or, as he called it, 
lingo of the eyes, so he was not satisfied without some further 
approbation of his sentiments, which he now demanded of hie 
daughter ; telling her, in the usual way, "he expected slie was 
ready to take the part of everybody against him, as she had 
always done that of the b — her mother." Sophia remaining 
still silent, he cried out, **What, art dumb? why dost unt 
speak ? Was not thy mother a d — d b — to me ? answer me 
that. What, I suppose you despise your father too, and don't 
think him good enough to speak to f 

"For heaven's sake, sir," answered Sophia, "do not give 
so cruel a turn to my silence. I am sure I would sooner die 
than be guilty of any disrespect towards you ; but how can I 
venture to speak, when every word mu^t either offend my dear 
papa, or convict me of the blackest ingratitude as well as im- 
piety to the memory of the best of mothers ; for such I am cer- 
tain, ray mamma was always to me ?" 

'' And your aunt, I suppose, is the best of sisters too ?" re- 
plied the squire. ** Will you be so kind as to allow that she 
is a b — ? I may fairly insist upon that, I think ?" 

''Indeed, sir, "says Sophia, ''I have great obligations to 
my aunt. She hath been a second mother to me. " 

" And a second wife to me too," returned Western ; *' so you 
will take her part too ! You won't confess that she hath acted 
the part of the vilest sister in the world ?" 

'' Upon my word, sir," cries Sophia, '' I must belie my heart 
wickedly if I did. I know my aunt and you differ, very much 
in your ways of thinking ; but I have heard her a thousand 
times express the greatest affection for you ; and I am con- 
vinced, so far from her being the worst sister in the world, there 
are very few who love a brother better." 

''The English of aWvfMeliiV' aiiswcred the squire, **d:at 
J am in the \\Tong. Ay, ceT\,^\\A^. K^,\.^\i^«QX'^'^'ik^^\a5h3\ 
ia in the right, and the mau vo. Wi^ nrot^^V^^i^:'^ 


" Pardon me, sir," cries Sophia. " I did not say so." 

''What don't you say ?" answered the father: ''you have 
the impudence to say she's in the right ; doth it not follow then 
of course that I am in the wrong ? And perhaps I am in the 
wrong to suffer such a presbyterian Hanoverian b — to come 
into my house. She may 'dite me of a plot for anything I 
know, and give m} estate to the government." 

" So far, sir, from injuring you or your estate," says Sophia, 
"if my aunt had died yesterday, I am convinced she would 
have left you her whole fortune." 

Whether Sophia intended it or no, I shall not presume to 
assert ; but certain it is, these last words penetrated very deep 
into the ears of her father, and produced a much more sensible 
effect than all she had said before. He received the sound 
^ith much the same action as a man receives a bullet in his 
.lead. He started, staggered, and turned pale. After which 
ne remained silent above a minute, and then began in the 
foiiowing hesitating manner : "Yesterday I she would have left 
me her esteate yesterday I would she ? Why yesterday, of all 
the days in the year ? I suppose if she dies to-morrow, she will 
leave it to somebody else, and perhaps out of the vamily." — 
**My aunt, Sir," cries Sophia, "hath very violent passions, 
and I can't answer what she may do under their influence." 

"You can't I" returned the father; "and pray who hath 
been the occasion of putting her into those violent passions ? 
J^ay, who hath actually put her into them ? Was not you and 
she hard at it before I came into the room ? Besides, was not 
all our quarrel about you ? I have not quarrelled with sister 
this many years but upon your account ; and now you would 
throw the whole blame upon me, as tho'f I should be the occa- 
sion of her leaving the esteate out o' the vamily. I could have 
expected no better indeed ; this is like the return you make to 
all the rest of my fondness." 

" I beseech you then," cries Sophia, "upon my knees I be- 
seech you, if I have been the unhappy occasion of this diffe- 
rence, that you will endeavour to make it up with my aunt, and 
not suffer her to leave your house in this violent rage of anger : 
she is a very good-natured woman, and afe^ (»\VA\?Qit\%^^ 
i^tisfyber. Let me entreat you, sir.'' 


** So I must go and ask pardon for your fault, must T ?'* 
answered Western. " You aave lost the hare, and I must draw 
every way to find her again ? Indeed, if I was certain" — 
Here he stopped, and Sophia throwing in more entreaties, at 
bngth prevailed upon him j so that after venting two or three 
bitter sarcastical expressions against his daughter, he departed 
as fast as he could :o 'ecover his sister, before her equipage 
could be gotten ready. 

Sophia then returned co her chamber of mourning, where 
she indulged herself, (if the phrase may be-allowed me,) In all 
the luxury of tender grief. She read over more than once ♦he 
letter which she had received from Jones ; her mutf too was 
used on this occasion ; and she bathed both these, as well as 
herself, with tears. In this situation, the friendly Mrs. Honoor 
exerted her utmost abilities to comfort her afflicted mistress. 
She ran over the names of many young gentlemen ; and having 
greatly commended their parts and persons, assured Sophia 
that she might take her choice of any.. These methods must 
have certainly been used with some success in disorders of the 
like kind, or so skilful a practitioner as Mrs. Honour wouW 
never have ventured to apply them ; nay, I have heard that 
the college of chambermaids hold them as sovereign remedies 
as any in the female dispensary; but whether it was that 
Sophia's disease differed inwardly from those cases with which 
it agreed in external symptoms, I will not assert ; but, in far».t, 
the good waiting- woman did more harm than good, and p^ 
last so incensed her mistress, (which was no easy matter,) that 
with an angry voice she dismissed her from her presence. 


Containing great variety of matter. 

The squire overtook his sister just as she was stepping into 
the coach, and partly by force, and .partly by solicitations, 
prevailed upon her to order her horses back into their qnarterfi 
He succeeded in this attempt without much difficulty ; for the 
. lady was, as we have a\Tea.dy \v\Tv\fe^, ci^ ^ \s^q%\, Allocable -dis- 
position, and greatly loved \iftT \iTQ^««A^«^^ ^'^ ^'^Ksjeuft. 
bis parts, or rather Ma A\U\e \LiiON^\^d?.^ ol \Xv^ ^c<t\5w. 


Poor Sophia, who had first set on foot this reconciliation, 
was now made the sacrifice to it. They both concurred in 
their censures on her conduct; jointly declared war against 
her, and directly proceeded to counsel, how to carry it on in 
the most vigorous manner. For this purpose, Mrs. Western 
proposed not only an immediate conclusion of the treaty with 
Allworthy, but as immediately to carry it into execution; 
saying, **That there was no other way to succeed with her 
niece, but by violent methods, which she was convinced Sophia 
had not suflScient resolution to resist. By violent, ' ' says she, 
" I mean rather hasty measures ; for as to confinement or ab- 
solute force, no such things must or can be attempted. Our 
plan must now be concerted for a surprise, and not for a 

These matters were resolved on, when Mr. Blifil came to 
pay a visit to his mistress. The squire no sooner heard of 
his arrival, than he stepped aside, by his sister's advice, to 
jrive his daughter orders for the proper reception of her lover ; 
which he did with the most bitter execrations and denuncia- 
tions of judgment on her refusal. 

The impetuosity of the squire bore down all before him ; 
and Sophia, as her aunt very wisely foresaw, was not able to 
resist him. She agreed, therefore, to see Blifil, though she 
liad scarce spirits or strength sufficient to utter her assent. In- 
dead, to give a peremptory denial to a father whom she so 
tenderly loved, was no easy task. Had this circumstance been 
out of the case, much less resolution than what she was really 
mistress of, would, perhaps, have served her ; but it is no un- 
usual thing to ascribe those actions entirely to fear, which are 
in a great measure produced by love. 

In pursuance, therefore, of her father's peremptory com- 
mand, Sophia now admitted Mr. BlifiPs visit. Scenes like 
this, when painted at large, afford, as we have observed, very 
little entertainment to the reader. Here, therefore, we shall 
strictly adhere to a rule of Horace ; by which writers are 
directed to pass over all those matters which tiiey despair of 
placing in a shining light; — a rule, we conceive, of ex.e<s\l<^'«fv» 
nse, as well to the historian as to the po^t •, «Aia ^\i\05i, W VJ^- 
hwed, mast at least have this good effect, ^k^uX m-axc^ ^ ^%.v^ 


evil, (for so all great books are called,) would thus be reduced 
to a small one. 

It is possible, the great art used by Blifil at this interview 
would have prevailed on Sophia to have made another man in 
his circumstances her confidant, and to have revealed the 
whole secret of her heart to him ; but she had contracted eo 
ill an opinion of this young gentleman, that she was resolved 
to place no confidence in him ; for simplicity, when set on its 
guard, is often a match for cunning. Her behaviour to him, 
therefore, was entirely forced, and indeed such as is generally 
prescribed to virgins upon the second formal visit from one 
who is appointed for their husband. 

But though Blifil declared himself to the squire perfectly 
satisfied with his reception, yet that gentleman, who, in com- 
pany with his sister, had overheard all, was not so well pleased. 
He resolved, in pursuance of the advice of the sage lady, to 
push matters as forward as possible f and addressing himself 
to his intended son-in-law in the hunting phrase, he cried, 
after a loud halloa, ** Follow her, boy, follow her ; run in, run 
in ; that^s it, honeys. Dead, dead, dead. Never be bashful, 
nor stand shall I, shall I ? Allworthy and I can finish all mat- 
ters between us this afternoon, and let us ha' the wedding to- 

Blifil having conveyed the utmost satisfaction into his coun- 
tenance, answered, *'As there is nothing, sir, in this world 
which I so eagerly desire as an alliance with your family, ex- 
cept my union with the most amiable and deserving Sophia, 
you may easily imagine how impatient I must be to see myself 
in possession of my two highest wishes. If I have not there- 
fore importuned you on this head, you vnll impute it only to 
my fear of offending the lady, by endeavouring to hurry on so 
blessed an event faster than a strict compliance with all the 
rules of decency and decorum will permit. But if by your 
interest, sir, she i>ught be induced to dispense with any for- 
malities " 

"Formalities ! with a pox I" answered the squire, "Pooh, 
all stuff and nonsense ! I tell thee, she shall ha* thee to- 
morrow^; you will kiiowt\\e ^oxWVi^Wfcx Xxst^'^^T, vhen you 
come to my age. Women u^ivec ^ VJtifistt ^QTfiffi(&^ xsvas^M^^i^ 


i-Vj Lelp it, 'tis not the feshion. If I had stayed for her 
mother's consent, I might have been a bachelor to this day.— 
To her, to her, co to her, that 's it, you jolly dog. I tell thee 
shat ha her to-morrow morning. " 

Blifil suflFered himself to be overpowered by the forcible 
rhetoric of the squire ; and it being agreed that Western should 
close with All worthy that very afternoon, the lover departed 
home, having first earnestly begged that no violence might be 
oflfered to the lady by his haste, in the same manner as a popish 
inquisitor begs the lay power to do no violence to the heretic 
delivered over to it, and against whom the church hath passed 

And, to say the truth, Blifil had passed sentence against 
Sophia; for, however pleased he had declared himself to 
Western with his reception, he was by no means satisfied, 
inless it was that he was convinced of the hatred and scorn of 
his mistress ; and this had produced no less reciprocal hatred 
and scorn in him. It may, perhaps, be asked. Why then did 
he not put an immediate end to all further courtship ? I answer 
for that very reason, as well as for several others equally good, 
which we shall now proceed to open to the reader. 

Though Mr. Blifil was not of the complexion of Jones, nor 
ready to eat every woman he saw ; yet he was far from being 
destitute of that appetite which is said to be the common 
Droperty of all animals. With this, he had likewise that dis- 
tinguishing taste, which serves to direct men in their choice of 
the object or food of their several appetites ; and this taught 
him to consider Sophia as a most delicious morsel, indeed to 
regard her with the same desires which an ortolan inspires into 
the soul of an epicure. Now the agonies which affected the 
mind of Sophia, rather augmented than impaired her beauty ; 
for her tears added brightness to her eyes, and her breasts rose 
higher with her sighs. Indeed, no one hath seen beauty in its 
highest lustre, who hath never seen it in distress. Blifil there- 
fore looked on this human ortolan with greater desire than when 
he viewed her last ; nor ^as his desire at all lessened by the 
aversion which he discovered in her to himself. On the cq\^- 
trary, this served rather to heighten t\ie tj^Y^^jswc^ \i"fe ^^o^^^'sfc^ 
4i riding bar cbarws, as it added triumpVi to \x]a\» \ tvwj ^ V^V^ 


some further views, from obtaining the absolute possession of 
her person, which we detest too much even to mentioD. ; and 
revenge itself was not without its share in the Ratifications 
which he promised himself. The rivalling poor Jones, and 
supplanting him in her aflFections, added another spur to his 
pursuit, and promised another additional rapture to his enjoy- 

Besides all these views, which to some scrupulous persons 
may seem to savour too much of malevolence, he had one 
prospect, which few readers will regard with any great abhor- 
rence. And this was the estate of Mr. Western ; which was all 
to be settled on his daughter and her issue ; for so extravagant 
was the a£fection of that fond parent, that, provided his child 
would but consent to be miserable with the husband he chose, 
he cared not at what price he purchased him. 

For these reasons Mr. Blifil was so desirous of the match 
that he intended to deceive Sophia, by pretending love to her ; 
and to deceive her father and his own uncle, by pretending he 
was beloved by her. In doing this he availed himself of the 
piety of Thwackum, who held, that if the end proposed was 
religious (as surely matrimony is), it mattered not how wicked 
were the means. As to other occasions, he used to apply the 
philosophy of Square, which taught, that the end was imma- 
terial, so that the means were fair and consistent with moral 
rectitude. To say truth, there were few occurrences in life on 
which he could not draw advantage from the precepts of one 
or other of those great masters. 

Little deceit was indeed necessary to be practised on Mr. 
Western ; who thought the inclinations of his daughter of as 
little consequence as Blifil himself conceived them to be ; but 
as the sentiments of Mr. Allworthy were of a very different 
kind, so it was absolutely necessary to impose on him. Id this, 
however, Blifil was so well assisted by Western, that he suc- 
ceeded without difficulty ; for as Mr. Allworthy had been 
assured by her father, that Sophia had a proper affection for 
Blifil, and that all which he had suspected concerning Jones 
was entirely false, Blifil had nothing more to do than to confirm 
these assertions ; which \ie d\^ m^ wi^V ^oj^vrocations, that 
ite preserved a salvo for la\s coTimcvi^^\ wA\ia^SisiA^ttS&a&bfc- 


fSoti Df conveying a lie to his uncle, without the guilt of telling 
one. When he was examined touching the inclinations of 
Sophia by Allworthy, who said, '*He would on no account be 
docessary to forcing a young lady into a marriage contrary 
to her own will ;" he answered, " That the real sentiments of 
young ladies were very difficult to be understood; that her 
behaviour to him. was full as forward as he wished it ; and that, 
if he could believe her father, she had all the affection for him 
•vhich any lover could desire. As for Jones, ' ' said he, * * whom 
I am loath to call villain, though his behaviour to you, sir, 
sufficiently justifies the appellation, his own vanity, or perhaps 
some wicked views, might make him boast of a falsehood ; for 
if there had been any reality in Miss Western's love for him, 
the greatness of her fortune would never have suffered him to 
desert her, as you are well informed he hath. Lastly, sir, I 
promise you I would not myself, for any consideration, no, not 
for the whole world, consent to marry this young lady, if I was 
not persuaded she had all the passion fo^ me which I desire 
she should have." 

This excellent method of conveying a falsehood with the 
heart only, without making the tongue guilty of an untruth, by 
the means of equivocation and imposture, hath quieted the 
conscience of many a notable deceiver; and yet, when we 
consider that it is Omniscience on which these endeavour to 
impose, it may possibly seem capable of affording only a very 
superficial comfort ; and that this artful and refined distinction 
between communicating a lie, and telling one, is hardly wort,h 
the pains it costs them. 

Allworthy was pretty well satisfied with what Mr. Western 
and Mr. Blifil told him ; and the treaty was now, at the end of 
two days, concluded. Nothing then remained previous to the 
office of the priest, but the office of the lawyers, which threat- 
ened to take up so much time that Western offered to bind 
himself by all manner of covenants, rather than defer the 
nappiness of the young couple. Indeed, he was so very earnest 
and pressing, that an indifferent person might have concluded 
i»e was more a principal in this match than he really was : but 
this eagerness was natural to him ou aV\ ocie.^^\wv's»\ ^\vSsc\a 
eondacted every scheme he undertook in svx^ «b ^^xso^et ^ ^a ^ 


the Eaccess of that alone was sufficient to oonstitnte the whole 
happiness of his life. 

The joint importunities of both father and son-in-law would 
probably have prevailed on Mr. Allworthy, who brooked but 
ill any delay of giving happiness to others, had not Sophia 
herself prevented it, and taken measures to put a final end to 
the whole treaty, and to rob both church and law of those 
taxes, which these wise bodies have thought proper to receive 
from the propagation of the human species in a lawful manner. 
Of which in the next chapter. 


A strange resolution of Sophia^ and a more strange stratagem of Mrs, ffotiour. 

Though Mrs. Honour was principally attached to her own 
interest, she was not without some little attachment to Sopaia. 
To say truth, it was very difficult for any one to know that 
young lady without loving her. She no sooner, therefore, 
heard a piece of news, which she imagined to be of great 
importance to her mistress, than, quite forgetting the anger 
which she had conceived two days before, at her unpleasant 
dismission from Sophia's presence, she ran hastily to inform 
her of the news. 

The beginning of her discourse was as abrupt as her entrance 
into the room. *' 0, dear lua'ara *'' says she, *' what doth your 
la'ship think ? To be sure, I am frightened out of my wits; 
and yet I thought it my duty to tell your la'ship, though per- 
haps it may make you angry ; for we servants don't always know 
what will make our ladies angry ; for, to be sure, every thing 
is always laid to the charge of a servant. When our ladies 
are out of humour, to be sure we must be scolded ; and to be 
sure I should not WDnder if your la'ship should be out of 
humour ; nay, it must surprise you certainly, ay, and shock 
you too.'' 

" Good Honour, let me know it without any longer preface," 
says Sophia ; '' there are few things, I promise you, which will 
sarprise, and fewer which m\\ ^\iocVl taa." — '' Dear ma'am," 
sjjtfiwered Honour, ** to \)e sviie, 1 o^^iV^^^x^ ^i \ft»aXfc\ \sS^smi, 


to Parson Supple about getting a license this very afternoon ; 
and to b3 sure I heard him say, your la 'ship should be married 
to^raorro^ morning.*' Sophia tunned pale at these words, 
and repeated eagerly, '* To-morrow morning I" — '*Yes, 
ma^am," replied the trusty waiting- woman, ** I will take my 
oath I heard my master say so." — "Honour," says Sophia, 
'' yon have both surprised and shocked me to such a degree, 
that I have scarce any breath or spirits left. What is to be 
done in my dreadful situation?" — "I wish I was able to 
advise your la'ship," says she. " Do advise me," cries Sophia, 
'* pray, dear Honour, advise me. Think what you would 
attempt if it was y mr own case." — ''Indeed, ma'am," cries 
Honour, *' I wish your la'ship and I could change situations ; 
that is, I mean, without hurting your la'ship ; for to be sure 
I don't wish you so bad as to be a servant ; but because, that 
ij so be it was my case, I should find no manner of difficulty 
in it ; for, in my poor opinion, young Squire Blifil is a charm- 
ing, sweet, handsome man." — *' Don't mention such stuff," 
cries Sophia. " Such stuff," repeated Honour ; " why there. 
Well, to be sure, what's one man's meat is another man's 
poison, and the same is altogether as true of women." — *' Hon- 
our," says Sophia, " rather than submit to be the wife of that 
contemptible wretch, I would plunge a dagger into my heart." 
--"O, lud, ma'am I" answered the other, ''I am sure you 
frighten me out* of my wits now. Let me beseech your la'ship 
.lut to suffer such wicked thoughts to come into your head. O, 
lud^to be sure I tremble every inch of me. Dear ma'am, con- 
sider, that to be denied Christian burial, and to have your 
corpse buried in the highway, and a stake drove through you, 
as Farmer Halfpenny was served at Ox Cross ; and, to be sure, 
his ghost hath walked there ever since, for several people have 
seen him. To be sure it can be nothing but the devil which 
can put such wicked thoughts into the head of any body ; for 
certainly it is less wicked to hurt all the world than one's own 
dear self, and so I have heard suid by more parsons than one. 
If your la'ship hath such a violent aversion, and hates the young 
gentleman so very bad, that you can't bear to think of going 
into bed to him ; foi to be sure there miiy \i^ ^\5iO^\ ^\\N\\('«>50«ns!«^ 
ki nature, and one 'j«.d jfe"^ ^rer touc\i a loa^ >[)aa.w ^^ ^^'^ ^ 
goff*e people, ' ' 


Sophia had been too much wrapt in contamplation to paj 
any great attention to the foregoing excellent disconise of her 
maid ; inlermpting, therefore, without making any aunyrcr 
to it, she said, ** Honour, I an come to a resolution. I am 
determined to leave my father's house this very night ; an A if 
you have the friendship for me which you have often professed, 
•you will keep me company." — ** That I will, ma'am, to the 
world's end," answered Honour; "but I beg your la'ship to 
consider the consequence, before you undertake any rash action 
Where can your la'ship possibly go ?" — ''There is," replied 
Sophia, ** a lady of quality in London, a relation of mine,, 
who spent several months with ray aunt in the country ; during 
all which time she treated me with great kindness, and expres- 
sed so much pleasure in my company, that she earnestly de- 
sired my aunt to surfer me to go with her to London. As she 
is a woman of very great note, I shall easily find her out, and 
I make no doubt of being very well and kindly received by 
her." — **I would not have your la'ship too confident of that," 
cries Honour; **for the first lady I lived with used to invite 
people very earnestly to her house ; but if she heard afterwards 
they were coming, she used to get out of the way. Besides, 
though this lady would be very glad to see your la'ship, as to 
be sure any body would be glad to see your la'ship ; yet when 
she hears your la'ship is run away from my master — " ** You 
are mistaken. Honour," says Sophia: **she looks upon the 
authority of a father in a much lower light than I do ; for she 
pressed me violently to go to London with her, and when I 
refused to go without my father's consent, she laughed me to 
scorn, called me silly country girl, and said, I should make a 
pure loving wife, since I could be so dutiful a daughter. So 
I have no doubt but she will both receive me, and protect me 
too, till my father, finding me out of his power, can be brought 
to some reason." 

"Well, but, ma'am," answered Honour, "how doth your 
la'ship think of making your escape ? Where will you get any 
horses or conveyance f For as for your own horse, as all the 
servants know a little how matters stand between my master 
and your la'ship, Robin will be hanged before he will sufifer it 
to go out of the stable mlYvoTit isii m^\«0^ ^TL^t^Ra orders " 


— *' I intend to escape," said Sophia, ** by walking out of the 
doQrs when they are open. I thank Heaven my legs are very 
able to carry me. They have supported me many a long 
evening after a fiddle, with no very agreeable partner ; and 
sorely they will assist me in running from so detestable a 
partner for life." — ** O Heaven, ma'am I doth your la'ship 
know what you are saying?" cries Honour, ** would you think 
of walky;ig about the country by night, and alone?" — ''Not 
alone," answered the lady : "you have promised to bear me 
company." — ** Yes, to be sure," cries Honour, "I will follow 
your la 'ship through the world ; but your la 'ship had almost 
as good be alone : for I shall not be able to defend you, if any 
robbers, or other villains, should meet with you. Nay, I should 
be in as horrible a fright as your la'ship ; for to be certain, 
they would ravish us both. Besides, ma'am, consider how 
cold the nights are now : we shall be frozen to death. " — "A 
good brisk pace," answered Sophia, "will preserve us from 
the cold ; and if you cannot defend me from a villain, Honour, 
I will defend you ; for I will take a pistol with me. There 
are two always charged in the hall." — "Dear ma'am, you 
frighten me more and more," cries Honour : " sure your la 'ship 
would not venture to fire it off I I had rather run any chance, 
than your la'ship should do that." — *' Why so ?" says Sophia, 
amiling: ** would not you. Honour, fire a pistol at anyone 
who should attack your virtue?" — "To be sure, ma'am," 
cries Honour, " one's virtue is a dear thing, especially to us 
poor servants ; for it is our livelihood, as a body may say : yet 
I mortally hate fire-arms ; for so many accidents happen by 
them." — "Well, well," says Sophia, "I believe I may insure 
your virtue at a cheap rate, without carrying any arms with us ; 
for I intend to take horses at the very first town we come to, 
and we shall hardly be attacked in our way thither. Look'e, 
Honour, I am resolved to go ; and if you will attend me, I 
promise you I will reward you to the very utmost of my 

This last argument had a stronger effect on Honour than all 
the preceding. And since she saw her mistress so determined, 
she desisted from any further dissuasions They th^xi «^\s:«ftA. 

I 29 w 


into a debate on ways and means of executing their project. 
Here a very stubborn difficulty occurred, and this was the 
removal of their effects, which was much more easily got over 
by the mistress than by the maid : for when a lady hath once 
taken a resolution to run to a lover, or to run from him, all 
obstacles are considered as trifles. But Honour was inspired 
by no such motive : she had no raptures to expect, nor any 
terrors to shun ; and besides the real value of her olothes, in 
which consisted a great part of her fortune, she had a capricious 
fondness for several gowns, and other things ; either because 
they became her, or because they were given her by such a 
particular person ; because she had bought them lately, or 
because she had had them long; or for some other reason 
equally good ; so that she could not endure the thoughts of 
leaving the poor things behind her, exposed to the mercy of 
Western, who, she doubted not, would in his rage make them 
suffer martyrdom. 

The ingenious Mrs. Honour having applied all her oratory 
to dissuade her mistress from her purpose, when she found her 
positively determined, at last started the following expedient 
to remove her clothes, viz. to get herself turned out of doora 
that very evening. Sophia highly approved this method, but 
doubted how it might be brought about. " Oh I ma'am,'' cries 
Honour, ** your la'ship may trust that to me : we servants very 
well know how to obtain this favour of our masters and 
mistresses ; though sometimes, indeed, where they owe us more 
wages than they can readily pay, they will put up with all our 
affronts, and wiH hardly take any warning we can give them : 
but the squire is none of those ; and since your la'ship is 
resolved upon setting out to-night, I warrant I get discharged 
this afternoon. " It was then resolved that she should pack up 
some linen and a night-gown for Sophia, with her own things ; 
and as for all her other clothes, the young lady abandoned 
them with no more remorse than the sailor feels when he throws 
over the goods of others in order to save his own life. 

A Foundling. 839 


Contaminff icenes of altercation^ of no very uncommon kind, 

Mrs. Honour had scarce sooner parted from her young lady, 
than something, (for I would not, like the old woman in 
Quevedo, injure the devil by any false accusation, and possibly 
he might have no hand in it,) but something, I say, suggested 
itself to her, that by sacrificing Sophia and all her secrets to 
Mr. Western, she might probably make her fortune. Many 
considerations urged this discovery. The fair prospect of a 
handsome reward for so great and acceptable a service to the 
squire, tempted her avarice ; and again, the danger of the 
enterprise she had undertaken ; the uncertainty of its success ; 
flight, cold, robbers, ravishers, all alarmed her fears. So 
forcibly did all these operate upon her, that she was almost 
determined to go directly to the squire, and to lay open the 
whole affair. She was, however, too upright a judge to decree 
on one side, before she had heard the other. And here, first 
a journey to London appeared very strongly in support of 
Sophia. She eagerly longed to see a place in which she 
fancied charms short only of those which a raptured saint 
imagines in" Heaven. In the next place, as she knew Sophia 
to have much more generosity than her master, so her fidelity 
promised her a greater reward than she could gain by treachery. 
She then cross-examined all the articles which had raised her 
fears, on the other side, and found, on fairly sifting the matter, 
that there was very little in them. 

And now, both scales being reduced to a pretty even balance, 
her love to her mistress being thrown into the scale of her in- 
tegrity, made that preponderate, when a circumstance struck 
upon her imagination, which might have had a dangerous eff*ect, 
had its whole weight been fSairly put into the other scale. This 
was the length of time which must intervene before Sophia 
would be able to fulfil her promises ; for .though she was enti- 
tled to her mother's fortune at the death of her father, and to 
the sum of £3000 left her by an uncle when she came of a^e \ 
yet these were distant days, and many acc\i^\i\,^ m^\» ^^^'^'5^ 
the §o tended generoBitj of the young \ad^ \ \Ai'et^%si» "^^^ "^^ 


wards she might expect from Mr. Western were immediate. 
But while she was pursuing this thought, the good genius of 
Sophia, or that which presided over the integrity of Mrs. 
Honour, or perhaps mere chance, sent an accident in her way, 
which at once preserved her fidelity, and even facilitated the 
intended business. 

Mr.s. Western's maid claimed great superiority over Mrs. 
Honour on several accounts. First, her birth was higher: 
for her great-grandmother by the mother's side was a cousin, 
not far removed, to an Irish peer. Secondly, her wages were 
greater. And lastly, she had been at London, and had, of 
consequence, seen more of the world. She had always be- 
haved, therefore, to Mrs. Honour with that reserve, and had 
always exacted of her those marks of distinction which every 
order of females preserves and requires in conversation with 
those of an inferior order. Now as Honour did not at all 
agree with this doctrine, but would frequently break in upon 
the respect which the other demanded, Mrs. Western's maid 
was not at all pleased with her company ; indeed, she earnestly 
longed to return home to the house of her mistress, where she 
domineered at will over all the other servants. She had been 
greatly, therefore, disappointed in the morning, when Mrs. 
Western had changed her mind on the very point of departure ; 
and had been in what is vulgarly called a glouting humour ever 

In this humour, which was none of the sweetest, she came 
into the room where Honour was debating with herself in the 
manner we have above related. Honour no sooner saw her, 
than she addressed her in the following obliging phrase : 
" Soh 1 madam, I find we are to have the pleasure of your 
company longer, which I was afraid the quarrel between my 
master and your lady would have robbed us of." *'I don't 
know, madam," answered the other, "what you mean by we 
and us. I assure you I do not look on any of the servants in 
this house to be proper company for me. I am company, I 
hope, for their betters every day in the week. I do not speak 
on your account, Mrs. Honour ; for you are a civilized young 
woman ; and when you lua^^ s^^n. a little more of the world, I 
should not be ashamed to ^a\\V\\)a.^wv\xv'S>\..^«si^^"P«k,^ 


" Hoity toity I'' cries Honour ; ** madam is in her airs, I pro- 
test Mrs. Honour, forsooth I sure, madam, you might call me 
by my simame ; for though my lady calls me Honour, I have 
a sirname as well as other folks. Ashamed to walk with me, 
quotha! marry, as good as yourself, I hope/' ** Since you 
make such a return to my civility," said the other, **I must 
acquaint you, Mrs. Honour, that you are not so good as me. 
In the country, indeed, one is obliged to take up with all kind 
of trumpery ; but in town I visit none but the women of womec 
of quality. Indeed, Mrs. Honour, there is some difference, I 
hope, between you and me." **I hope so, too," answered 
Honour : '* there is some difference in our ages, and, I think, 
in our persons." Upon speaking which last words, she strutted 
by Mrs. Western's maid with the most provoking air of con- 
tempt; turning up her nose, tossing her head, and violently 
brushing the hoop of her competitor with her own. The other 
lady put on one of her most malicious sneers, and said, '^ Crea- 
ture I you are below my anger ; and it is beneath me to give 
ill words to such an audacious saucy trollop ; but, hussy, I 
must tell you, your breeding shows the meanness of your birth, 
as well as of your education ; and both very properly qualify 
you to be the mean serving-woman of a country girl." " Don't 
abuse my lady," cries Honour; '*I won't take that of you: 
she 's as much better than yours as she is younger, and ten 
thousand times more handsomer. " 

Here ill luck, or rather good luck, sent Mrs. Western to see 
her maid in tears, which began to flow plentifully at her ap- 
proach ; and of which being asked the reason by her mistress, 
she presently acquainted her that her tears were occasioned by 
the rude treatment of that creature there — meaning Honour. 
" And, madam," continued she, " I could have despised all she 
said to me ; but she hath had the audacity to affront your lady- 
ship, and to call you ugly — Yes, madam, she called you ugly 
old cat, to my face. I could not bear to hear your ladyship 
called ugly." "Why do you repeat her impudence so often ?" 
said Mrs. Western. And then turning to Mrs. Honour, she 
asked her, '* How she had the assurance to mention her name 
with disrespect?" "Disrespect, madam," answered Hqiiq^^\ 
*'I neyer mentioned your name at aW: 1 mfti ^Q.\Si€^<^^ '^^^ 


not as handsome as my mistress, and to be sore yoa know that 
as well as I." "Hussy,'' replied the lady, ** I will make such 
a saucy trollop as yourself know that I am not a proper subject 
of your discourse. And if my brother doth not discharge you 
this moment, I will never sleep in his house again. I will find 
him out, and have you discharged this moment." **Dis-.^ 
charged !" cries Honour ; " and suppose I am : there are more 
places in the world than one. Thank Heaven, good servants 
need not want places ; and if you turn away all who do not 
think you handsome, you will want servants very soon ; let me 
tell you that." 

Mrs. Western spoke, or rather thundered, in answer ; but 
as she was hardly articulate, we cannot be very certain of the 
identical words ; we shall, therefore, omit inserting a speech 
which at best would not greatly redound to her honour. She 
then departed in search of her brother, with a countenance so 
full of rage, that she resembled one of the furies, rather than 
a human creature. 

The two chambermaids being again left alone, began a 
second bout at altercation, which soon produced a combat of 
a more active kind. In this the victory belonged to the lady 
of inferior rank, but not without some loss of blood, of hair, 
and of lawn and muslin. 



The wise demeanour of Mr. Western in the character of a magiOratt, A 
hint to justices of peace, concerning the necessary qualification* of a eUrk; 
with extraordinary instances of paternal madness and filial affection. 

Logicians sometimes prove too much by an argument, and 
politicians often overreach themselves in a scheme. Thus had 
it like to have happened to Mrs. Honour, who, instead of re- 
covering the rest of her clothes, had like to have stopped 
even those she had on her back from escaping ; for the squire 
no sooner heard of her having abused his sister, than he swore 
twenty oaths he would send her to Bridewell. 

Mrs. Western was a very good-natured woman, and ordina« 

vily of a. forgiving temper. She had lately remitted the tares- 

p338 of a stage-coachman, vrYio \\a.^ 0N«c^Mxx\ft^\«t -^^sSrcbaise 


into a ditch ; nay, she had even broken the law, in refusing to 
prosecute a highwayman who had robbed her, not only of a 
sum of money, but of her car-rings ; at the same time d — ning 
her and saying, **Such handsome b — s as you don't want 
jewels to set them off, and be d — ned to you. " But now, so 
uncertain are our tempers, and so much do we at different 
times differ from ourselves, she would hear of no mitigation ; 
nor could all the affected penitence of Honour, nor all the 
entreaties of Sophia for her own servant, prevail with her to 
desist from earnestly desiring her brother to execute justiceship, 
(for it was, indeed^ a syllable more than justice,) on the wench. 

But luckily the clerk had a qualification, which no clerk to 
a justice of peace ought ever to be without, namely, some 
understanding in the law of this realm. He, therefore, whis- 
pered in the ear of the justice, that he would exceed his 
authority by committing the girl to Bridewell, as there had 
been no attempt to break the peace; "for I am afraid, sir," 
says he, *'you cannot legally commit any one to Bridewell 
only for ill-breeding." 

In matters of high importance, particularly in cases relating 
to the game, the justice was not always attentive to these 
admonitions of his clerk ; for, indeed, in executing the laws 
under that head, many justices of peace suppose they have a 
large discretionary power, by virtue of which, under the notion 
of searching for and taking away engines for the destruction 
of the game, they often commit trespasses, and sometimes 
felony, at their pleasure. 

But this offence was not of quite so high a nature, nor so 
dangerous to society. Here, therefore, the justice behaved 
with some attention to the advice of his clerk ; for, in fact, he 
had already had two informations exhibited against him in the 
King's Bench, and had no curiosity to try a third. 

The squire, therefore, putting on a most wise and significant 
countenance, after a preface of several hums and hahs, told his 
sister, that, upon more mature deliberation, he was of opinion, 
that '*as there was no breaking up of the peace, such as the 
law," says he, "calls breaking open a door, or breaking a 
hedge, or breaking a head, or any such sort of breaking ; the 
matter did not amount to a felonious kind o^ ^ ^v^^, ^"^^ ^-^^^* 


passes, Qor damages ; and, therefore, there was no punishment 
in the law for it." 

Mrs. Western said, * * she knew the law mnch better ; that 
she had known servants very severely punished for afl&onting 
their masters ;" and then named a certain justice of the peace 
in London, "who," she said, ** would commit a servant to 
Bridewell at any time when a master or mistress desired it." 

" Like enough," cries the squire ; " it may be so in London ; 
but the law is different in the country." Here followed a yery 
learned dispute between the brother and sister concerning the 
law, which we would insert, if we imagined many of our 
readers could understand it. This was, however, at length 
referred by both parties to the clerk, who decided it in favour 
of the magistrate ; and Mrs. Western was, in the end, obliged 
to content herself with the satisfaction of having Honour 
turned away : to which Sophia herself very readily and cheer- 
fully consented. 

Thus Fortune, after having diverted herself, according to cus- 
tom, with two or three frolics, at last disposed all matters to 
the advantage of our heroine ; who succeeded admirably well 
in her deceit, considering it was the first she had ever practised. 
And, to say the truth, I have often concluded, that the honest 
part of mankind would be much too hard for the knavish, if 
they could bring themselves to incur the guilt, or thought it 
worth their while to take the trouble. 

Honour acted her part to the utmost perfection. She no 
sooner saw herself secure from all danger of Bridewell, a word 
which had raised most horrible ideas in her mind, than she re- 
sumed those airs which her terrors before had a little abated , 
and laid down her place, with as much affectation of content, 
and indeed of contempt, as was ever practised at the resignation 
of places of much greater importance. If the reader pleases, 
therefore, we choose rather to say she resigned — which hath, 
indeed, been always held a synonymous expression with being 
turned out, or turned away. 

Mr. Western ordered her to be very expeditious in packing ; 

for his sister declared she would not sleep another night under 

the same roof with so impud^wt a. ^\Mt. To work therefore she 

went, and that so earnestly, lAiaX. ^^ct^ ^vc^^^t^^s* ^^s^^^^^V^ 


in the evening ; when having received her wages, away packed 
she, bag and baggage, to the great satisfaction of every one, 
but of none more than Sophia ; who having appointed her maid 
to meet her at a certain place not far from the house, exactly 
at the dreadful and ghostly hour of twelve, began to prepare 
for her own departure. 

But first she was obliged to give two painful audiences, the 
one to her aunt, and the other to her father. In these Mrs. 
Western herself began to talk to her in a more peremptory style 
than before ; but her father treated her in so violent and out- 
rageous a manner, that he frightened her into an affected com- 
pliance with his will ; which so highly pleased the good squire, 
that he changed his frowns into smiles, and his menaces into 
promises : he vowed his whole soul was wrapped in hers ; that 
her consent, (for so he construed the words — ** You know, sir, 
I must not, nor can, refuse to obey any absolute command of 
yours,") had made him the happiest of mankind. He then 
gave her a large bank-bill to dispose of in any trinkets she 
pleased, and kissed and embraced her in the fondest manner, 
while tears of joy trickled from those eyes, which a few mo- 
ments before had darted fire and rage against the dear object 
of all his affection. 

Instances of this behaviour in parents are so common, that 
the reader, I doubt not, will be very little astonished at the 
whole conduct of Mr. Western. If he should, I own, I am 
not able to account for it ; since, that he loved his daughter 
most tenderly, is, I think, beyond dispute. So indeed have 
many others, who have rendered their children most completely 
miserable by the same conduct; which though it is almost 
universal in parents, hath always appeared to me to be the 
most unaccountable of all the absurdities which ever entered 
into the brain of that strange prodigious creature man. 

The latter part of Mr. Western's behaviour had so strong 
an effect on the tender heart of Sophia, that it suggested a 
thought to her, which not all the sophistry of her politic aunt, 
nor all the menaces of her father, had ever once brought into 
her head. She reverenced her father. so piously, and loved him 
so passionately, that she had scarce ever felt more pleasing sen- 
sations, then what arose from the skatci ^^^^ofL^^jJOviV^^^A 


contribating to his amusement, and sometimes, perhaps, to 
higher gratifications ; for he never could contain the delight of 
hearing her commended, which he had the satisfaction of hear- 
ing almost every day of her life. The idea, therefore, of the 
immense happiness she could convey to her father by her con- 
sent to this match, made a strong impression on her mind 
Again, the extreme piety of such an act of obedience worked 
very forcibly, as she had a very deep sense of religion. Lastly, 
when she reflected how much she herself was to suflfer, being 
indeed to become little less than a sacrifice, or a martyr, to 
filial love and duty, she felt an agreeable tickling in a certain 
little passion, which though it bears no immediate affinity either 
to religion or virtue, is often so kind as to lend great assistance 
in executing the purposes of both. 

Sophia was charmed with the contemplation of so heroic sai 
action, and began to compliment herself with much premature 
flattery, when Cupid, who lay hid in her muff, suddenly crept 
out and, like Punchinello in a puppet-show, kicked all out be- 
fore him. In truth, (for we scorn to deceive our reader, or to 
vindicate the character of our heroine by ascribing her actions 
to supernatural impulse,) the thoughts of her beloved Jones, 
and some hopes, (however distant,) in which he was very pai'- 
ticularly concerned, immediately destroyed all which filial love, 
piety, and pride, had, with their joint endeavours, been labour- 
ing to bring about. 

But before we proceed any farther with Sophia, we must now 
look back to Mr. Jones. 



Containing several matters^ natural enough, perhaps, but low. 

The reader will be pleased to remember, that we left Mr. 
Jones, in the beginning of this book, on his road to Bristol ; 
being determined to seek his fortune at sea, or rather, indeed, 
to fly away from his fortune on shore. 

It happened, (a thing not very unusual,) that the guide who 

undertook to conduct him on his way, was unluckily unac- 

qaainted with the road ; so that having missed his right track, 

0nd being ashamed to a8kiiviotm^\a\QTi,\v&'£^m\A^daJboatback« 


wards and forwards till night came on, and it began to grow 
dark. Jones, snspecting what had happened, acquainted the 
guide with his apprehensions ; but he insisted on it, that they 
were in the right road, and added, it would be very strange if 
he should not know the road to Bristol ; though, in reality, it 
would have been much stranger if he had known it, having 
never passed through it in his life before. 

Jones had not such implicit faith in his guide, but that, on 
their arrival at a village, he inquired of the first fellow he saw, 
whether they were in the road to Bristol. ** Whence did you 
come?" cries the fellow. **No matter," says Jones a little 
hastily; *'I want to know if this be the road to Bristol." — . 
"The road to Bristol I" cries the fellow, scratching his head : 
** Why, measter, I believe you will hardly get to Bristol this 
way to-night." — "Prithee, friend, then," answered Jones, 
"do tell us which is the way." — "Why, measter," cries the 
fellow, " you must be come out of your road the Lord knows 
whither; for thic way goeth to Glocester." — "Well, and 
which way goes to Bristol?" said Jones. **Why, you be 
going away from Bristol," answered the fellow. "Then," 
said Jones, "we must go back again." — "Ay, you must," 
said the fellow." — "Well, and when we come back to the top 
of the hill, which way must we take?" — "Why, you must 
keep the straight road. " — " But I remember there are two 
roads, one to the right and the other to the left." — "Why, ' 
you must keep the right-hand road, and then gu straight 
vorwards ; only remember to turn vurst to your right, and then 
to your left again, and then to your right, and that brings you 
to the squire's ; and then you must keep straight vorwards, and 
turn to the left. " 

Another fellow now came up, and asked which way the gentler 
men were going ; of which being informed by Jones, he first 
scratched his head, and then, leaning upon a pole he had in his 
hand, began to tell him, " That he must keep the right-hand 
road for about a mile, or a mile and a half, or such a matter, 
and! then he must turn short to the left, which would l)ring him 
round by Measter Jin Bearnes's. " — " But which is Mi . John 
Bearnes's ?" says Jones. " Lord I" cries the fellow, '* wIiy% 
don't you know Measter Jin Beames? "WYi^iie^ ^Xi'^xn. ^iNJi^^^ 
eowe ?" 


These two fellows bad almost conquered the patience of 
Jones, when a plain, well-looking man, (who was, indeed, a 
quaker,) accosted him thus: '* Friend, I perceive thou hast 
lost thy way ; and, if thou wilt take my advice, thou wilt not 
attempt to find it to-night. It is almost dark, and the road is 
difficult to hit ; besides, there have been several robberies com- 
mitted lately between this and Bristol. Here is a very credit- 
able good house just by, where thou mayest find good enter- 
tainment for thyself and thy cattle till morning. " Jones, after 
. a little persuasion, agreed to stay in this place till morning, 
and was conducted by his friend to the public-house. 

The landlord, who was a very civil fellow, told Jones, ** he 
hoped he would excuse the badness of his accommodation ; for 
that his wife was gone from home, and had locked up almost 
everything, and carried the keys along with her." Indeed, 
the fact was, that a favourite daughter of hers was just married, 
and had gone that morning home with her husband ; and that 
she and her mother together had almost stripped the poor man 
of all his goods, as well as money ; for though he had several 
children, this daughter only, who was the mother's favourite, 
was the object of her consideration ; and to the humour of this 
one child she would with pleasure have sacrificed all the rest, 
and her husband into the bargain. 

Though Jones was very unfit for any kind of company, and 
would have preferred being alone, yet he could not resist the 
importunities of the honest quaker, who was the more desirous 
of sitting with him, from having remarl^ed the melancholy 
which appeared both in his countenance and behavicu*; and 
which the poor quak r thought his conversation might in some 
measure relieve, 

A.fter they had passed some time together, in such a manner 
that my honest friend might have thought himself at one of 
his silent meetings, the quaker began to be moved by some 
spirit or other, probably that of curiosity, and said, " Friend, 
I perceive some sad disaster hath befallen thee ; but pray be of 
comfort. Perhaps thou hast lost a friend. If so, thou must- 
consider we are all mortal. And why shouldst thou grieve, 
when thou knowest thy gne^ vfiW do t\vY friend no good ? We 
*r© all bom to affiiction. 1 m^s^Xt W^^ m^ %w?c«^^^ ^^^V^ 


thee, and most probably greater sorrows. Though I have a 
dear estate of lOOZ. a year, which is as much as I want, and I 
have a conscience, I thank the Lord, void of offence ; my con- 
stitution is sound and strong, and there is no man can demand 
a debt of me, nor accuse me of an injury ; yet, friend, I should 
be concerned to think thee as miserable as myself " 

Here the quaker ended with a deep sigh ; and Jones pre- 
sently answered, " i am very sorry, sir, for your unhappiness, 
whatever is the occasion of if — *' Ah I friend," replied the 
quaker, " one only daughter is the occasion. One who was my 
greatest delight upon earth, and who within this week is run 
away from me. and is married against my consent. I had pro- 
vided her a proper match, a sober man, and one of substance ; 
but she, forsooth, would choose for herself, and away she is 
gone with a young fellow not worth a groat. If she had been 
dead, as I suppose thy friend is, I should have been happy." — 
" That is very strange, sir, " said Jones. " Why, would it not * 
be better for her to be dead, than to be a beggar ?" replied the 
quaker : '* for, as I told you, the fellow is not worth a groat ; 
and surely she cannot expect that I shall ever give her a shil- 
ling. No, as she hath married for love, let her live on love if 
she can ; let her carry her love to market, and see whether any 
one will change it into silver, or even into halfpence.'' — ** Yon 
know your own concerns best, sir," said Jones. '*It must 
have been," continued the quaker, **a long premeditated 
scheme to cheat me : for they have known one another from 
their infancy ; and I always preached to her against love, and 
told her a thousand times over it was all folly and wickedness. 
Nay, the cunning slut pretended to hearken to me, and to 
despise all wantonness of the flesh ; and yet at last broke out 
at a window two pair of stairs : for I began, indeed, a little to 
suspect her, and had locked her up carefully, intending the 
very next morning to have married her up to my liking. But 
she disappointed me within a few hours, and escaped away to 
the lover of her own choosing; who lost no time, for they were 
married and bedded and all within an hour. 

** But it shall be the worst hour's work for them both that 
they ever did ; for they may starve, or b^^, ox ^V^^'VRk^^'^^^^^ 
tor me. I will never give either of t\i^m «ii fexVJcM^^.'^'' "^^t^ 



Jones starting up, cried, **I really must be excused; ImA 
you would leave me." — *'Come, come, friend," said the 
quaker, ** don't give way to concern. You see there are other 
people miserable besides yourself." — *' I see there are madmen, 
and fools, and villains in the world," cries Jones. "But let 
me give you a piece of advice : send for your daughter and 
son-in-law home, and don't be yourself the only cause of 
misery to one you pretend to love. " — * * Send for her and her 
husband home I" cries the quaker loudly ; "I would sooner 
send for the two greatest enemies T have in the world I"— 
'* Well, go home yourself, or where you please," said Jones, 
'* for I will sit no longer in such company." — " Nay, friend," 
answered the quaker, " I scorn to impose my company on any 
one." He then offered to pull money from his pocket, but 
Jones pushed him with some violence out of the room. 

The subject of the quaker's discourse had so deeply affected 
Jones, that he stared very wildly all the time he was speaking. 
This the quaker had observed, and this, added to the rest of 
his behaviour, inspired honest Broadbrim with a conceit, that 
his companion was in reality out of his senses. Instead of 
resenting the affront, therefore, the quaker was moved with 
compassion for his unhappy circumstances ; and having com- 
municated his opinion to the landlord, he desired him to take 
great care of his guest, and to treat him with the highest 

"Indeed," says the landlord, "I shall use no such civility 
towards him ; for it seems, for all his laced waistcoat there, he 
is no more a gentleman than myself, but a poor parish bastard, 
bred up at a great squire's about thirty miles off, and now 
turned out of doors, (not for any good to be sure.) I shall 
get him out of my house as soon as possible. If I do lose my 
reckoning, the first loss is always the best. It is not above a 
year ago that I lost a silver spoon." 

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

"Not at all," replied Robin; ''the guide, who know^ him 

very well, told it me." For, indeed, the guide had no soonef 

taken his place at the kitchen fire, than he acquainted the whole 

company with all he knew ox '\ia^^N«t\v<b^^tQk\v<i^x?BML^ Jones. 


The qaaker was no sooner assured by this fellow of the birth 
and low fortane of Jones, than all compassion for him van- 
ished ; and the honest plain man went home fired with no less 
indignation than a duke would have felt at receiving an affront 
from such a person. 

The landlord himself conceived an equal disdain for his 
guest ; 80 that when Jones rung the bell in order to retire to 
bed, he was acquainted that he could have no bed there. 
Besides disdain of the mean condition of his guest, Robin en- 
tertained violent suspicions of his intentions, which were, he 
suppose^, to watch some favourable opportunity of robbing the 
house. In reality he might have been very well eased of these 
Apprehensions, by the prudent precautions of his wife and 
daughter, who had already removed every thing which was not 
fixed to the freehold ; but he was by nature suspicious, and had 
been more particularly so since the loss of his spoon. In 
short, the dread of being robbed totally absorbed the comfort- 
able consideration that he had nothing to lose. 

Jones being assured that he could have no bed, very con- 
tentedly betook himself to a great chair made with rushes ; 
when sleep, which had lately shunned his company in much 
better apartments, generously paid him a visit in his humble 

As for the landlord, he was prevented by his fears from re- 
tiring to rest. He returned, therefore, to the kitchen fire, 
whence he could survey the only door which opened into the 
parlour, or rather hole, where Jones was seated ; and as for 
the window to that room, it was impossible for any creature 
larger than a cat to have made his escape through it. 


The adventure of a company of soldiers. 

The landlord having taken his seat directly opposite to the 
door of the parlour, determined to keep guard there the whole 
night. The guide and another fellow remained long on duty 
with him, though they neither knew his suspicions, nor ha.<i vsjx^ 
of their own. The true cause of their waXxiVim^ ^\^, \\A5i&^ 


at length put an end to it ; for this was no other than the 
strength and goodness of the beer, of which having tippled a 
very large quantity, they grew at first very noisy and vociferous, 
and afterwards fell both asleep. 

But it was not in the power of the liquor to compose the 
fears of Robin. He continued still waking in his chair, with 
his eyes fixed steadfastly on the door which led into the apart- 
ment of Mr. Jones, till a violent thundering at his outward 
gate called him from his seat, and obliged him to open it ; 
which he had no sooner done, than his kitchen was immediately 
full of gentlemen in red coats, who all rushed upon hina in as 
tumultuous a manner, as if they intended to take his little castle 
by storm. 

The landlord was now forced from his post to furnish his 
numerous gue§ts with beer, which they called for with great 
eagerness ; and upon his second or third return from the cellar, 
he saw Mr. Jones standing before the fire in the midst of the 
soldiers ; for it may easily be believed, that the arrival of so 
much good company should put an end to any sleep, unless 
that from which we are to be awakened only by the last trumpet. 

Tho company having now pretty well satisfied their thirst, 
nothing remained but to pay the reckoning, a circumstance 
often productive of much mischief and discontent among the 
inferior rank of gentry, who are apt to find great diflSculty in 
assessing the sum, with exact regard to distributive justice, 
which directs that every man shall pay according to the quan- 
tity which he drinks. This difficulty occurred upon the present 
occasion ; and it was the greater, as some gentlemen bad, in 
their extreme hurry, marched off after their first draught, and 
had entirely forgot to contribute any thing towards the said 

A violent dispute now arose, in which every word may be 
said to have been deposed upon oath ; for the oaths were at 
least equal to all the other words spoken. In this controversy, 
the whole company spoke together, and every man seemed 
wholly bent to extenuate the sum which fell to his share ; so 
that the most probable conclusion which could be foreseen 
was, that a large portioii o^ t\\e reckoning would fall to the 
landlord^a share to pay, ot, ^^w\\a.\. Na \cwlOcl *Osv^^"^xs^^l\skixn^,) 
oaJd remain unpaid. 


All this "while Mr. Jones was engaged in conversation with 
the seijeant ; for that officer was entirely unconcerned in the 
present dispute, being privileged by immemorial custom from 
all contribution. 

The dispute now grew so very warm, that it seemed to draw 
towards a military decision, when Jones stepping forward, 
silenced all their clamours at once, by declaring that he would 
pay the whole reckoning, which indeed amounted to no more 
than three shillings and four pence. 

This declaration procured Jones the thanks and applause of 
the whole company. The terms honourable, noble, and 
worthy gentleman, resounded through the room ; nay, my land- 
lord himself began to have a better opinion of him, and almost 
to disbelieve the account which the guide had given. 

The sergeant had informed Mr. Jones, that they were 
marching against the rebels, and expected to be commanded 
by the glorious duke of Cumberland. By which the reader 
may perceive, (a circumstance which we have not thought 
necessary to communicate before,) that this was the very time 
when the late rebellion was at the highest ; and indeed the 
banditti were now marched into England, intending, as it was 
thought, to fight the king^s forces, and to attempt pushing for- 
ward to the metropolis. 

Jones had some heroic ingredients in his composition, and 
was a hearty well-wisher to the glorious cause of liberty, and 
of the protestant religion. It is no wonder, therefore, that in 
circumstances which would have warranted a much more ro- 
mantic and wild undertaking, it should occur to him to serve 
as a volunteer in this expedition. 

Our commanding officer had said all in his power to encour- 
age and promote this good disposition from the first moment 
he had been acquainted with it. He now proclaimed the noble 
resolution^ aloud, which was received with great pleasure by 
the whole company, who all cried out '' God bless King George, 
and your honour;" and then added with many oaths, ''We 
will stand by you both to the last drops of our blood. " 

The gentleman who had been all night tippling at the ale- 
house, was prevailed on by some argume^iX,^ tAjaOsv ^ ^^T^^'t'JiS. 
isd pat into Mb hand, to undertake \);\e ^^bOi"^ ^3:^^^^^^ 
30* X 


Aud now the portmanteau belonging to Mr. Jones being put 
up in the baggage-cart, the forces were about to move for- 
wards ; when the guide, stepping up to Jones, said, " Sir, I 
hope you will consider that the horses have been kept out all 
night, and we have travelled a great ways out of our way." 
Jones was surprised at the impudence of this demand, and ac- 
quainted the soldiers with the merits of his cause, who were all 
unanimous in condemning the guide for his endeavours to put 
upon a gentleman. Some said, he ought to be tied neck and 
heels ; others, that he deserved to run the gantelope ; and the 
sergeant shook his cane at him, and wished he had him under 
his command, swearing heartily he would make an example of 
him. Jones contented himself, however, with a negative pun- 
ishment, and walked off with his new comrades, leaving the 
guide to the poor revenge of cursing and reviling him ; in 
which latter the landlord joined, saying, ''Ay, ay, he is a pure 
one, I warrant you. A pretty gentleman, indeed, to go for a 
soldier. He shall wear a laced waistcoat, truly. It is an old 
proverb and a true one. All is not gold that glisters. I am 
glad my house is well rid of him." 

All that day the sergeant and the young soldier marched 
together ; and the former, who was an arch fellow, told the 
latter many entertaining stories of his campaigns, though in 
reality he had never made any : for he was but lately come into 
the service, and had by his own dexterity, so well ingratiated 
himself with his officers, that he had promoted himself to a 
halberd ; chiefly indeed by his merit in recruiting, in which he 
was most excellently well skilled. 

Much mirth and festivity passed among the soldiers during 
their march. In which the many occurrences that passed at 
their last quarters were remembered, and every one, with great 
freedom, made what jokes he pleased on his officers, some of 
which were of the coarser kind, and very near bordering on 
scandal. This brought to our hero's mind the custom which 
he had read of among the Greeks and Romans, of indulging, 
on certain festivals and solemn occasions, the liberty to slaves, 
of using an uncontrolled freedom of speech towards their 
Our little army, wliic\i consv&XfcOi ol \.^ck ^ws£^^\C\^ ^1 ^<;wit^ 


were now arrived at the place where they were to halt that 
evening. The sergeant then acquainted his lientenant, who 
was the commanding ofBcer, that they had picked up two fel- 
lows in that day's march ; one of which, he said, was as fine a 
man as ever he saw, (meaning the tippler,) for that he was 
near six feet, well proportioned, and strongly limbed ; and the 
other, (meaning Jones,) would do well enough for the rear 

The new soldiers were now produced before the officer, who 
having examined the six-feet man, he being first produced, 
came next to survey Jones : at the first sight of whom, the 
lieutenant could not help showing some surprise ; for, besides 
that he was very well dressed, and was naturally genteel, he 
had a remarkable air of dignity in his look, which is rarely 
seen among the vulgar, and is indeed not inseparably annexed 
to the features of their superiors. 

"Sir,'' said the lieutenant, *'my sergeant informs me that 
yoa are desirous of enlisting in the company I have at present 
under my command ; if so, sir, we shall very gladly receive a 
gentleman who promises to do much honour to the company, 
by bearing arms in it." 

Jones answered : " That he had not mentioned anything of 
enlisting himself; that he was most zealously attached to the 
glorious cause for which they were going to fight, and was 
very desirous of serving as a volunteer;" concluding with 
some compliments to the lieutenant, and expressing the great 
satisfaction he should have in being under his command. 

The lieutenant returned his civility, commended his resolu- 
tion, shook him by the hand, and invited him to dine with him- 
self and the rest of the officers. 


The adventure of a company of officers. 

The lieutenant, whom we mentioned in the preceding chapter, 
and who commanded this party, was now near sixty years of 
age. He had entered very young into the ^.tm^ , ^:cA \fiA 
wuTied. in the capacity of an ensign at ttie W\XX^ o^ ^^\v\ivsc^^ 


here ho had received two wounds, and had so well distin- 
guished himself, that he was by the Duke of Marlborough 
advanced to be a lieutenant immediately after that battle. 

In this commission he had continued ever since, viz. neaf 
forty years ; during which time he had seen vast numbers pre- 
ferred over his head, and had now the mortification to be com- 
manded by boys, whose fathers were at nurse when he firsJ 
entered into the service. 

Nor was this ill success in his profession solely owing to his 
having no friends among the men in power. He had the mis- 
fortune to incur the displeasure of his colonel, who for many 
years continued in the command of this regiment'. Nor did 
he owe the implacable ill-will which this man bore him to any 
neglect or deficiency as an officer, nor indeed to any fault in 
himself; but solely to the indiscretion of his wife, who was a 
very beautiful woman, and who, though she was remarkably 
fond of her husband, would not purchase his preferment at the 
expense of certain favours which the colonel required of her. 

The poor lieutenant was more peculiarly unhappy in this, 
that while he felt the effects of the enmity of his colonel, he 
neither knew, nor suspected that he really bore him any ; for 
he could not suspect an ill-will for which he was not conscious 
of giving any cause ; and his wife, fearing what her husband's 
nice regard to his honour might have occasioned, contented 
herself with preserving her virtue, without enjoying the triumphs 
of her conquest. 

This unfortunate officer (for so I think he may be called) 
had many good qualities, besides his merit in his profession ; 
for he was a religious, honest, good-natured man; -and had 
behaved so well in his command, that be was highly esteemed 
and beloved, not only by the soldiers of his own company, but 
by the whole regiment. 

The other officers who marched with him were a French 

lieutenant, who had been long enough out of France to forget 

his own language, but not long enough in England to learn 

ours, so that he really spoke no language at all, and could 

barely make himself understood on the most ordinary occa- 

sioBS, There were \\kema^ t^o ensigns, both very young 

fellows; one of whom ^ad \iewi \yc^d\ai^«t «si ^X^TORs^^uid 

the other was son to t\ie w\S€> oi «b uc^A«ai^Ti^^\i\iStfst, 


As BOOD as dinner was ended, Jones informed the company 
of the merriment which had passed among the soldiers npon 
their march; "and yet," says he, "notwithstanding all their 
vociferation, I dare swear they will behave more like Grecians 
than Trojans when they come to the enemy.'' — ''Grecians and 
Trojans !'' says one of the ensigns, "who the devil are they f 
I have heard of all the troops in Europe, bat never of any 
such as these." 

" Don't pretend to more ignorance than yon have, Mr. 
Northemton," said the worthy lieutenant. "I suppose you 
have heard of the Greeks and Trojans, though perhaps you 
never read Pope's Homer, who, I remember, now the gentle- 
man mentions it, compares the march of the Trojans to the 
cackling of geese, and greatly commends the silence of the 
Grecians. And upon my honour there is great justice in the 
cadet's observation." 

" Begar, me remember dem ver well," said the French lieu- 
tenant : " me ave read them at school in dans Madam Daciere, 
des Greek, des Trojan, dey fight for von woman, — ouy, ouy, 
me ave read all dat. " 

",D — n Homo, with all my heart," says Northernton : "I 
have the marks of him in my a — yet. There's Thomas of our 
regiment, always carries a Homo in his pocket ; d — ^n me, if 
ever I come at it, if I don't bum it. And there's Corderius, 
another d — d son of a whore, that hath got me many a flogging. " 

"Then you have been at school, Mr. Northernton?" said 
the lieutenant. 

"Ay, d — ^n me, have I," answered he; "the devil take my 
father for sending me thither. The old put wanted to make a 
parson of me, but d — n me, thinks I to myself, I'll nick you 
there, old cull ; the devil a smack of your nonsense shall you 
ever get into me. There's Jemmy Oliver, of our regiment, 
he narrowly escaped being a pimp too, and that would have 
been a thousand pities ; for d — ^n me if he is not one of the 
prettiest fellows in the whole world ; but he went farther than 
I with the old cull, for Jemmy can neither write nor read. ' ' 

"You give your friend a very good character," said the 
Uentenant, "and a very deserved OT\e, 1 ^"ax^ ^vj, ^^^ 
prithee, Northemton, leave off that tooWda, w^ ^^ ^s^ ^^t^ 


custom of swearing ; for you are deceived, I promise yon, if 
you think there is wit or politeness in it. I wish, too, you 
would take my advice, and desist from abusing the clergy. 
Scandalous names, and reflections cost on any body of men, 
must be always unjustifiable ; but especially so, when thrown 
on so sacred a function : for to abuse the body is to abuse the 
function itself; and I leave you to judge how inconsistent such 
behaviour is in men who are going to fight in defence of the 
protestant religion." 

Mr. Adderly, which was the name of the other ensign, had 
sat hitherto kicking his heels and humming a tune, without 
seeming to listen to the discourse : he now answered, " 
monsieur J on ne parte pas de la religion dans la guerre.^ ^ — 
*' Well said, Jack,'' cries Northerton : ''if la religion was the 
only matter, the parsons should fight their own battles for me." 

"I don't know, gentlemen," says Jones, "what may be yout 
opinion ; but I think no man can engage in a nobler cause than 
that of his religion ; and I have observed, in the little I have 
read of history, that no soldiers have fought so bravely, as 
those who have been inspired with a religious zeal : for my own 
part, though I love my king and country, I hope, as well as 
any man in it, yet the protestant interest is no small motive 
to my becoming a volunteer in the cause. ' ' 

Northerton now winked on Adderly, and whispered to him 
slily, " Smoke the prig, Adderly, smoke him." Then turning 
to Jones, said to him, " I am very glad, sir, you have chosen 
our regiment to be a volunteer in ; for if our parson should at 
any time take a cup too much, I find you can supply his place. 
I presume, sir, you have been at the university ; may I crave 
the favour to know what college ?" 

"Sir," answered Jones, "so far from having been at tiio 
university, I have even had the advantage of yourself ; for I 
was never at school." 

" I presume," cries the ensign, ** only upon the intormation 
of your great learning." — "Oh 1 sir," answered Jones, " it is 
as possible for a man to know something without having been 
at school, as it is to have been at school and to know nothing.'' 

'' Well said, young volvmi^et," <txks tbe lieutenant. " UpoK 
my word, Nortberton,you\ia^\>^XXfcx\^\.\sffl!L^^\i^\\qit\a 
be too iard for you." 


Northerton did not very well relish the sarcasm of Jones ; 
but he thought the provocation was scarce sufficient to justify 
a blow, or a rascal, or scoundrel, which were the only repartees 
that suggested themselves. He was, therefore, silent at present ; 
but resolved to take the first opportunity of returning the jest 
by abuse. 

It now came to the turn of Mr. Jones to give a toast, as it 
is called; who could not refrain from mentioning his dear 
Sophia. This he did the more readily, as he imagined it 
utterly impossible that any one present should guess the person 
he meant. 

But the lieutenant, who was the toast-master, was not con- 
tent with Sophia only. He said, he must have her sirname ; 
upon which Jones hesitated a little, and presently after named 
Miss Sophia Western. Ensign Northerton declared he would 
not drink her health in the same round with his own toast, un- 
less someboby would vouch for her. *' I knew one Sophy 
Western," says he, "that was lain with by half the young fel- 
lows at Bath ; and perhaps this is the same woman. ^^ Jones 
very solemnly assured him of the contrary ; asserting that the 
young lady he named was one of gi-eat fashion and fortune. 
" Ay, ay,'' says the ensign, '' and so she is ; d — n me, it is the 
same woman ; and I'll hold half a dozen of Burgundy, Tom 
French of our regiment brings her into company with us at any 
tavern in Bridges-street.'' He then proceeded to describe her 
person exactly, (for he had seen her with her aunt,) and con- 
cluded with saying, "that her father had a great estate in 

The tenderness of lovers can ill brook the least jesting with 
the names of their mistresses. However, Jones, though he had 
enough of the lover and of the hero too in his disposition, did 
not resent these slanders as hastily as, perhaps, he ought to have 
done. To say the truth, having seen but little of this kind of 
wit, he did not readily understand it, and for a long time ima- 
gined Mr. Northerton had really mistaken his charmer for some 
other. But now turning to the ensign with a stem aspect, he 
«aid, "Pray, sir, choose some other subject for your wit; for 
I promise you I will bear no jesting w\t\v t\i\^ \^^'^''^ O^ssct^R.- 
ter." — '" Jesting V cries the other-, *'4— tlxbl^*^ «s^x^^^a^ 


more in earnest in my life. Tom French of onr regiment had 
both her and her aunt at Bath." — " Then I must tell you in 
earnest," cries Jones, *' that you are one of the most impudent 
rascals upon earth." 

He had no sooner spoken these words, than the ensign, to- 
gether with a volley of curses, discharged a bottle full at the 
head of Jones, which hitting him a little above the right tem- 
ple, brought him instantly to the ground. 

The conqueror perceiving the enemy to lie motionless before 
him, and blood beginning to flow pretty plentifully from his 
wound, began now to think of quitting the field of battle, where 
no more honour was to be gotten ; but the lieutenant interposed, 
by stepping before the door, and thus cut off his retreat. 

Northerton was very importunate with the lieutenant for his 
liberty ; urging the ill consequences of his stay ; asking him, 
what he could have done less: ''Zounds I" says he, *'I was 
but in jest with the fellow. I never heard any harm of Ttfiss 
Western in my life." — " Have not you ?" said the lieutenant; 
" then you richly deserve to be hanged, as well for making such 
jest, as for using such a weapon. You are my prisoner, sir ; 
nor shall you stir from hence, till a proper guard comes to 
secure you." 

Such an ascendant had our lieutenant over this ensign, that 
all that fervency of courage which had levelled our poor hero 
with the floor, would scarce have animated the said ensign to 
have drawn his sword against the lieutenant, had he then had 
one dangling at his side ; but all the swords being hung up in 
the room, were, at the very beginning of the fray, secured by 
the French officer. So that Mr. Northerton was obliged to 
attend the final issue of this affair. 

The French gentleman and Mr. Adderly, at the desire of 
their commanding officer, had raised up the body of Jones; 
but as they could perceive but little, (if any,) sign of life in 
him, they again let him fall. Adderly damning him for having 
blooded his waistcoat; and the Frenchman declaring, "Begar 
me no tush de Engliseman de mort : me ave heard the English 
lay, law, what you call, hang up de man dat tush him last. " 

When the good \\e\ileiiaiit applied himself to the door, he 
applied himself likewise to Wi^ \i^\ «cA HJaa ^xvr^ voamedi-' 


atelj attending, he despatched him for a file of masqueteers and 
a surgeon. These commands, together with the drawer's 
report of what he had himself seen, not only produced the 
soldiers, bnt presently drew np the landlord of the house, his 
wife, and servants, and, indeed, every one else, who happened 
at that time to be in the inn. 

To describe every particular, and to relate the whole conver- 
sation of the ensuing scene, is not within my power, unless I 
had forty pens, and could at once write with them altogether, 
as the company now spoke. The reader must, therefore, con- 
tent himself with the most remarkable incidents, and perhaps 
he may very well excuse the rest. 

The first thing done was securing the body of Northerton, 
who being delivered into the custody of six men, with a cor- 
poral at their head, was by them conducted from a place which 
he i^jas very willing to leave, but it was unluckily to a place 
whither he was very unwilling to go. To say the truth, so 
whimsical are the desires of ambition, the very moment this 
youth had attained the above-mentioned honour, he would have 
been well contented to have retired to some corner of the 
world where the fame of it should never have reached his ears. 

It surprises us, and so, perhaps, it may the reader, that the 
tientenant, a worthy and good man, should have applied his 
chief care, rather to secure the offender, than to preserve the 
life of the wounded person. We mention this observation, not 
with any view of pretending to account for so odd a behaviour, 
but lest some critic should hereafter plume himself on discover- 
ing it. We would have these gentlemen know we can see what 
is odd in characters &s well as themselves, but it is our busi- 
ness to relate facts as they are ; which, when we have done, it 
is the part of the learned and sagacious reader to consult that 
original book of nature, whence* every passage in our work is 
transcribed, though we quote not always the particular page 
for its authority. 

The company which now arrived were of a different disposi- 
tion. They suspended their curiosity concerning the person 
of the ensign, till they should see him hereafter in a more en- 
ga^g attitude. At present, their w\io\ft eoTL^etw ^\i^ ^\-\&\^- 
ttnr were employed about the bloody o\ije(i\. oxi \V^ ^^<st.r 


which, being placed upright in a chair, soon began to discover 
some symptoms of life and motion. These were no sooner 
perceived by the company, (for Jones was at first generally 
concluded to be dead,) than they all fell at once to prescribing 
for him : for as none of the physical order was present, every 
one there took that office upon him. 

Bleeding was the unanimous voice of the whole room ; but 
unluckily there was no operator at hand ; every one then cried, 
** Call, the barber ;" but none stirred a step. Several cordials 
were likewise prescribed in the same ineffective manner ; till 
the landlord ordered up a tankard of strong beer, with a toast, 
which he said was the best cordial in England. 

The person principally assistant on this occasion, indeed the 
only one who did any service, or seemed likely to do any, was 
the landlady ; she cut off some of her hair, and applied it to 
the wound to stop the blood ; she fell to chafing the youth's 
temples with her hand ; and having expressed great contempt 
for her husband's prescription of beer, she despatched one of 
her maids to her own closet for a bottle of brandy, of which, 
as soon as it was brought, she prevailed on Jones, who was 
just returned to his senses, to drink a very large and plentiful 

Soon afterwards arrived the surgeon, who having viewed the 
wound, having shaken his head, and blamed every thing which 
was done, ordered his patient instantly to bed ; in which place 
we think proper to leave him some time to his repose, and shall 
here, therefore, put an end ta this chapter. 


Containing the great address of the landlady ^ the great learning of a sitrgeon, 
and the solid skill in casuistry of the worthy lieutenant. 

When the wounded man was carried to his bed, and the 
house began again to clear up from the hurry which this 
accident had occasioned, the landlady thus addressed the com- 
manding officer: ''I am afraid, sir,'' said she, ''this young 
man did not behave Mmsdi «^^ N«f^ll oa he should do to your 
Jbonoars; and if he lia4 \)^ea\aS!L'fc^,\ ^a^^^^V^V^'Ws.l'* 


desarts : to be sure, when gentlemen admit inferior parsons into 
their company, they oft to keep their distance ; but, as my first 
husband used to say, few of 'em know how to do it. For my 
own part, I am sure I should not have suffered any fellows to 
include themselyes into gentlemen's company; but I thoft he 
had been an officer himself, till the seargeant told me was but 
a recruit." 

"Landlady," answered the lieutenant, '*you mistake the 
whole matter. The young man behaved himself extremely 
well, and is, I believe, a much better gentleman than the ensign 
who abused him. If the young fellow dies, the man who 
struck him will have most reason to be sorry for it ; for the 
regiment will get rid of a very troublesome fellow, who is a 
scandal to the army : and if he escapes from the hands of 
justice, blame me, madam, that's all." 

** j^jf ayl good lack-a-dayl" said the landlady; *'who 
could have thoft it ? Ay, ay, ay, I am. satisfied your honour 
will see justice done ; and to be sure it oft to be to every one. 
Gkntlemen oft not to kill poor folks without answering for it. 
A poor man hath a soul to be saved, as well as his betters." 

"Indeed, madam," said the lieutenant, ''you do the 
volunteer wrong ; I dare swear he is more of a gentleman than 
the officer." 

" Ay I" cried the landlady ; '* why look you there, now : well, 
my first husband was a wise man ; he used to say, you can't 
always know the inside by the outside. Nay, that might have 
been well enough too ; for I never saw^d him till he was all 
over blood. Who would have thoft it ; mayhap, some young 
p^entleman crossed in love. Good lack-a-day, if he should die, 
what a concern it will be to his parents ; why, sure the devil 
must possess the wicked wretch to do such an act. To be sure, 
he is a scandal to the army, as yoiir honour says ; for most of 
the gentlemen of the army that ever I saw, are quite a different 
sort of people, and look as if they would scorn to spill any 
christian blood as much as any men ; I mean, that is, in a civil 
way, as. my first husband used to say. To be sure, when you 
come into the wars, there must be bloodshed ; but that they 
are not to be blamed for. The more of owt ^xi«V!KVfe^*Cwe^^^K^ 
i^e, the better; and I wish, with att my \i^«bT\»,^^'^ ^'cs^^ 
JdlJ every mother's son of them.'' 


"O fie, madam," said the lieutenant) smiling; '*dU iB 
rather too bloody-minded a wish." 

'* N^ot at all, sir," answered she ; "I am not at all bloody- 
minded, only to our enemies ; and there is no harm in that. To 
be sure it is natural for us to wish our enemies dead, that the 
wars may be at an end, and our taxes be lowered ; for it is a 
dreadful thing to pay as we do. Why, now, there is above 
forty shillings for window-lights, and yet we have stopped up 
all we could ; we have almost blinded the house, I am sure. 
Says I to the exciseman, says I, I think you oft to favour us ; 
I am sure we are very good friends to the government ; and so 
we are for sartain, for we pay a mint of money to 'um. And 
yet I often think to myself the government doth not imagine 
itself more obliged to us, than to those that don't pay 'um a 
farthing. Ay, ay, it is the way of the world." 

She was proceeding in this manner, when the surgeon entered 
the room. The lieutenant immediately asked how his patient 
did. But he resolved him only by saying, " Better, I believe, 
than he would have been by this time, if I had not been called ; 
and even as it is, perhaps, it would have been lucky if I could 
have been called sooner." — " I hope, sir," said the lieutenant, 
''the skull is not fractured." — "Hum," cries the surgeon: 
''fractures are not always the most dangerous symptoms. 
ContusioDS and lacerations are often attended with worse 
phenomena, and with more fatal consequences, than fractures. 
People, who know nothing of the matter, conclude, if the skull 
is not fractured, all is well ; whereas, I had rather see a man's 
skull all broke to pieces, than some contusions I have met 
with." — "I hope," says the lieutenant, "there are no such 
symptoms here." — " Symptoms," answered the surgeon, "are 
not always regular nor constant. I have known very unfavour- 
able symptoms in the morning change to favourable ones at 
noon, and return to unfavourable again at night. Of wounds, 
indeed, it is rightly and truly said, Nemo repentefuit turpissi- 
mus. I was once, I remember, called to a patient who had 
received a violent contusion in his tibia, by which the exterior 
cutis was lacerated, so that there was a profuse sanguinary 
discharge ; and the interior membranes were so divellicated, 
that the os or bone very p\aim\^ a^^^T^^^\w:|gEv\5aft v^^^rtore 


of the ▼alnus 6t wound. Some febrile symptoms intervening 
at the same' time, (for the pulse was exuberant, and indicated 
much phlebotomy,) I apprehended an immediate mortification. 
To preyent which, I presently made a large orifice in the vein 
of the left arm, whence I drew twenty ounces of blood ; which 
I expected to have found extremely sizy and glutinous, or indeed 
coagulated, as it is in pleuritic complaints ; but, to my surprise, 
it appeared rosy and florid, and its consistency differed little 
from the blood of those in perfect health. I then applied a 
fomentation to the part, which highly answered the intention ; 
fmd, after three or four times dressing, the wound began to 
discharge a thick pus or matter, by which means the cohesion 
• But perhaps I do not make myself perfectly well under- 
stood ?" — *'No, really," answered the lieutenant, "I cannot 
say I understand a syllable.'^ — "Well, sir,'' said the surgeon, 
" then I shall not tire your patience ; in short, within six 
weeks my patient was able to walk upon his legs as perfectly 
as he could have done before he received the contusion." — " I 
wish, sir," said the lieutenant, '* you would be so kind only to 
inform me, whether the wound this young gentleman hath had 
the misfortune to receive, is likely to prove mortal. " — " Sir," 
answered the surgeon, ''to say whether a wound will prove 
mortal or no, at first dressing, would be very weak and foolish 
presumption : we are all mortal, and symptoms often occur in 
a cure which the greatest of our profession could never fore- 


" But do you think him in danger ?" says the other. *' In 
danger I ay, surely," cries the doctor: ''who is there among 
us, who, in the most perfect health, can be said not to be in 
danger ? Can a man, therefore, with so bad a wound as this 
be Baid to be out of danger ? All I can say at present is, that 
it is well I was called as I was, and perhaps it would have been 
better if I had been called sooner. I will see him again early 
in the morning ; and in the meantime, let him be kept extremely 
quiet, and drink liberally of water-gruel. ' ' " Won't you allow 
him sack- whey?" said the landlady. "Ay, ay, sack- whey," 
cries the doctor, "if you will, provided it be very small.'' 
"And a little chicken-broth, too?" added she. "Yes, ye^^ 
chicken-broth/' said the doctor, " is vex^ ^qq^.'^'' '''^v^\s:?W 


make him some jellies, too f said the landlady. •* Ay, ay,** 
answered the doctor, ** jellies are very good for woands, for 
they promote cohesion.'' And, indeed, it was lucky she had 
not named soup or high sauces, for the doctor would have com- 
plied, rather than have lost the custom of the house. 

The doctor was no sooner gone, than the landlady began to 
trumpet forth his fame to the lieutenant, who had not, from 
iheiT short acquaintance, conceived quite so favourable an 
opinion of his physical abifities as the good woman, and all the 
neighbourhood, entertained (and perhaps very rightly) ; for 
though I am afraid the doctor was a little of a coxcomb, he 
might be, nevertheless, very much of a surgeon. 

The lieutenant, having collected from the learned discourse 
of the surgeon that Mr. Jones was in great danger, gave orders 
for keeping Mr. Northerton under a very strict guard, design- 
ing in the moniing to attend him to a justice of peace, and to 
commit the conducting the troops to Gloucester to the French 
lieutenant, who, though he could neither read, write, nor speak 
any language, was, however, a good officer. 

In the evening, our commander sent a message to Mr. Jones, 
that if a visit would not be troublesome, he would wait on him. 
This civility was very kindly and thankfully received by Jones, 
and the lieutenant accordingly went up to his room, where he 
found the wounded man much better than he expected ; nay, 
Jones assured his friend, that if he had not received express 
orders to the contrary from the surgeon, he should have got up 
long ago ; for he appeared to himself to be as well as ever, and 
felt no other inconvenience from his wound but an extreme sore- 
ness on that side of his head. 

" I should be very glad," quoth the lieutenant, '*if you was 
as well as you fancy yourself ; for then you could be able to do 
yourself justice immediately ; for when a matter can't be made 
up, as in a case of a blow, the sooner you take him out the 
better ; but I am afraid you think yourself better than you are, 
and he would have too much advantage over you." 

**I '11 try, however," answered Jones, ''if you please, and 
will be so kind to lend me a sword, for I have none here of 
my own." 

'^My sword is heartily at yovvt ^etTi't^, \tt5 ^^wwl^i^^" cries 


the lieutenant, kissing him ; ^'yon are a brave lad, and I lovo 
jour spirit ; but I fear your strength ; for such a blow, and so 
much loss of blood, must have very much weakened you ; and 
though you feel no want of strength in your bed, yet you most 
probably would after a thrust or two. I can't consent to your 
taking him oat to-night ; but I hope you will be able to come 
up with us before we get many days* march advance ; and I 
give you my honour you shall have satisfaction, or the man who 
hath injured you shan't stay in our regiment." 

"I wish,'' said Jones, " it was possible to decide this matter 
to- night : now you have mentioned it to me, I shall not be able 
to rest. '* 

"Oh, never think of it," returned the other : '*a few days 
will make no difference. The wounds of honour are not like 
those in your body : they suffer nothing by the delay of cure. 
It will be altogether as well for you to receive satisfaction a 
week hence as now." 

**But suppose," says Jones, '*I should grow worse, and 
die of the consequences of my present wound. ' ' 

''Then your honour," answered the lieutenant, ''will re- 
quire no. reparation at all. I myself will do justice to your 
character, and testify to the world your intention to have acted 
properly, if you had recovered. ' ' 

" Still, " replied Jones, "I am concerned at the delay. I 
am almost afraid to mention it to you who are a soldier ; but, 
though I have been a very wild young fellow, still, in my 
most serious moments, and at the bottom, I am really a Chris- 

^* So am I too, I assure you," said the officer; "and so 
zealous a one, that I was pleased with you at dinner for laicmg 
up the cause of your religion ; and I am a little offended with 
you now, young gentleman, that you should express a fear of 
declaring your faith before any one." 

"But how terrible must it be," cries Jones, "to anyone, 
who is really a Christian, to cherish malice in his breast, in 
opposition to the command of him who hath expressly forbid 
it.? How can I bear to do this on a sick-bed ? Or how shall I 
make up my account, with such an article as this in my bosom 
against me ?" 


" Why, I believe there is such a command," cries the liea- 
tenant ; '* bat a man of honour can't keep it. And 70a most 
be a man of honour, if yon will be in the army. I remember 
I once put the case to our chaplain, over a bowl of punch, 
and he confessed there was much difficulty in it ; but he said, 
he hoped there might be a latitude granted to the soldiers in 
this one instance ; and to be sure it is our duty to hope so : 
for who would bear to live without his honour ? No, no, my 
dear boy, be a good Christian as long as you live ; but be a 
man of honour too, and never put up with an affront ; not all 
the books, nor all the parsons in the world, shall ever persuade 
me to that. I love my religion very well, but I love my honour 
more. There must be some mistake in the wordmg of the 
text, or in the translation, or in the understanding it^ or some- 
where or other. But however that be, a man must run the 
risk, for he must preserve his honour. So compose yourself 
to-night, and, I promise you, you shall have an opportunity 
of doing yourself justice." Here he gave Jones a hearty buss, 
shook him by the hand, and took his leave. 

But though the lieutenant's reasoning was very satisfactory 
to himself, it was not entirely so to his friend. Jones, there- 
fore, having resolved this matter much in his thoughts, at last 
came to a resolution, which the reader will find in the next 



A most dreadful chapter indeed; and which few readers otight to venture upon 
in an evening, espedaUy when alone, 

Jones swallowed a large mess of chicken, or rather cock- 
broth, with a very good appetite, as indeed he would have 
done the cock it was made of, with a pound of bacon into the 
bargain ; and now, finding in himself no deficiency of either 
health or spirit, he resolved to get up and seek his enemy. 

But first he sent for the sergeant, who was his first acquaint- 
ance among these military gentlemen. Unluckily, that worthy 
officer having, :n a literal sense, taken his fill of liquor, had 
been some time retired to his bolster, where he was snoring so 
load, that it was not easy \,o eo\iN«^ «. wQ\efc Vcl %^ \da ears 

able of drowning that ^\i\c\i\&s\Ji^^^twxi\!M^xiQ'SQc\^ 


However, as Jones persisted in his desire of seeing him, a 
tocifdrous drawer at length found means to disturb his slumbers, 
lind to acquaint him with the message. Of which the sergeant 
was no sooner made sensible, than he arose from his bed, and 
having his clothes already on, iitimediately attended. Jones 
did not think fit to acquaint the sergeant with his design ; 
though he might have done it with great safety, for the hal- 
berdier was himself a man of honour, and had killed his man. 
He would, therefore, have faithfully kept this secret, or indeed 
any other which no reward was published for discovering. 
But as Jones knew not those virtues in so short an acquaint- 
ance, his caution was perhaps prudent and commendable 

He began, therefore, by acquainting the sergeant, that, as 
he was now entered into the army, he was ashamed of being 
without what was perhaps the most necessary implement of a 
Boldrer, namely, a sword ; adding, that he should be infinitely 
obliged to him, if he could procure one. " For which,'' says 
he, **I will give you any reasonable price: nor do I insist 
upon its being silver-hilted ; only a good blade, and such as 
may become a soldier's thigh. " 

The sergeant, who well knew what had happened, and had 
heard that Jones was in a very dangerous condition, immedi- 
ately concluded, from such a message, at such a time of night, 
and from a man in such a situation, that he was light-headed. 
Now, as he had his wit, (to use that word in its common sig- 
nification,) always ready, he bethought himself of making his 
advantage of this humour in the sick man. ''Sir," says he, 
**I believe I can fit you. I have a most excellent piece of 
stuflf by me. It is not indeed silver-hilted, which, as you say, 
doth not become a soldier ; but the handle is decent enough, 
and the blade one of the best in Europe. It is a blade that — 
a blade that — In short, I will fetch it to you this instant, and 
you shall see it and handle it. I am glad to see your honour 
BO well, with all my heart.'' 

Being instantly returned with the sword, he delivered it to 
Jones, who took it and drew it ; and then told the sergeant 
ft would do very well, and bid him name his price. 

The sergeant now began to harangue m ^TWie.^ o.^ V\^ %<^<^^«»* 



He said, (nay he swore very heartily,) "that the blade wag 
caken from a French officer, of very high rank, at the battle of 
Dettingen. I took it myself, '' says he, " from his side, after I 
had knocked him o' the head. The hilt was a golden one. 
That I sold to one of our fine gentlemen ; for there are some 
of them, an*t please your honour, who value the hilt of a sword 
more than the blade. ' ' 

Here the other stopped him, and begged him to name a 
price. The sergeant, who thought Jones absolutely out of his 
senses, and very near his end, was afraid, lest he should injure 
his family by asking too little. However, after a moment's 
hesitation, he contented himself with naming twenty guineas, 
and swore he would not sell it for less to his own brother. 

"Twenty guineas!'' says Jones, in the utmost surprise; 
** sure you think I am mad, or that I never saw a sword in my 
life. Twenty guineas, indeed I I did not imagine you would 
endeavour to impose upon me. Here, take the sword — No, 
now I think on't, I will keep it myself, and show it your officer 
in the morning, acquainting him, at the same time, what a 
price you asked me for it." 

The sergeant, as we have said, his wits (in sensu pracedicto) 
about him, and now plainly saw that Jones was not in the con- 
dition he had apprehended him to be ; he now, therefore, 
counterfeited as great surprise as the other had shown, 
and said, " I am certain, sir, I have not asked you so much 
out of the way. Besides, you are to consider, it is the only 
sword I have, and I must run the risk of my officer's displea- 
sure, by going without one myself. And truly, putting all this 
together, I don't think twenty shillings was so much out of the 
way. ' ' 

" Twenty shillings I" cries Jones ; '* why you just now asked 

me twenty guineas." — **HowI" cries the sergeant; "sure 

your honour must have mistaken me ; or else I mistook myself 

— and indeed I am but half awake. Twenty guineas,, indeed I 

no wonder your honour flew into such a passion. I say twenty 

guineas too. No, no, I mean twenty shillings, I assure you. 

And when your honour comes to consider every thing, I hope 

fou will not think that so extravagant a price. It is indeed 

true, yon may buy a weapon 'w\i\c^i\oo\Ls ^^^lQ>\\»e&mQney. 

But — " 


Here Jones interrapted him, saying, ** I will be so far from 
making any words with you, that I will give you a shilling 
more than you demand." He then gave him a guinea, bid 
him return to his bed, and wished him a good march ; adding, 
he hoped to overtake them before the division reached Wor- 

The sergeant very civilly took his leave, fully satisfied with 
his merchandise, and not a little pleased with his dexterous 
recovery from that false step into which his opinion of the sick 
man's light-headedness had betrayed him. 

As soon as the sergeant was departed, Jones rose from his 
bed, and dressed himself entirely, putting on even his coat, 
which, as its colour was white, showed very visibly the streams 
of blood which had flowed down it ; and now, having grasped 
his new-purchased sword in his hand, he was going to issue 
forth, when the thought of what he was about to undertake 
laid suddenly hold of him, and he began to reflect that in a few 
minutes he might possibly deprive a human being of life, or 
might lose his own. **Very well," said he; ''and in what 
cause do I venture my life? Why, in that of my honour. 
And who is this human being ? A rascal, who hath injured 
and insulted me without provocation. But is not revenge for- 
bidden by Heaven? Yes, but it is enjoined by the world. 
Well, but shall I obey the world in opposition to the express 
commands of Heaven ? Shall I incur the divine displeasure 
rather than be called — ha — coward — scoundrel ? — I'll think 
no more; I am resolved, and must fight him." 

The clock had now struck twelve, and every one in the house . 
were in their beds, except the sentinel who stood to guard 
Northerton, when Jones softly opening his door, issued forth 
in pursuit of his enemy, of whose place of confinement he had 
received a perfect description from the drawer. It is not easy 
to conceive a much more tremendous figure than he now 
exhibited. He had on, as we have said, a light-coloured coat, 
covered with streams of blood. His face, which missed that 
very blood, as well as twenty ounces more drawn from him by 
the surgeon, was pallid. Round his head was a quantity of 
bandage, not unlike a turban. In the right hand he carried^ 
gword, and in the left a candle. So \jM^\,\)cv^\\<^ci^i^^!^^^ 


was not worthy to be compared to him. In fkct, I beliere a 
more dreadful apparition was never raised in a cbnrch-yard, 
nor in the imagination of any good people met in & winter 
evening over a Christmas fire in Somersetshire. 

When the s^^ntinel first saw our hero approach, his hair 
began gently lO lift up his grenadier cap ; and in the same 
instant his knees fell to blows with each other. Presently his 
whole body was seized with worse than an ague fit. He then 
fired his piece, and fell flat on his face. 

Whether fear or courage was the occasion of his firing, or 
whether he took aim at the object of his terror, I cannot say. 
If he did, however, he had the good fortune to miss his man. 

Jones seeing the fellow fall, guessed the cause of his fright, 
at which he could not forbear smiling, not in the least reflecting 
on the danger from which he had just escaped. He then 
passed by the fellow, who still continued iii the posture in which 
he fell, and entered the room where Northerton, as he had 
heard, was confined. — Here, in a solitary situation, he foubd 
— an empty quart pot, standing on the table, on which some 
beer being spilt, it looked as if the room had lately been 
inhabited ; but at present it was entirely vacant. 

Jones then apprehended it might lead to some other apart- 
ment; but, upoii searching all round it, he could perceive no 
other door than that at which he entered, and where the 
sentinel had been posted. He then proceeded to call Norther- 
ton several times by his name ; but no one answered : nor did 
this serve to any other purpose than to confirm the sentinel in 
his terrors, who was now convinced that the volunteer was 
dead of his wounds, and that his ghost was come in search of 
the murderer. He now lay in all the agonies of horror ; and 
I wish, with all my heart, some of those actors, who are here- 
after to represent a man frighted out of his wits, had seen him, 
that they might be taught to copy nature, instead of perform- 
ing several antic tricks and gestures, for the entertainment and 
applause of the galleries. 

Perceiving the bird was flown, at least despairing to find 

him, and rightly apprehending that the report of the firelock 

would alarm the whole lio\xa^, o\«\iftTo\iow blew out his candle, 

And gently stole back aga.m \.o \5\^ Oa».x^^^^ «sA\a\s^\ 

jl FOUNDLING. 875 

whither he would not have been able to have gotten undis- 
covered, had any other person been on the same staircase, save 
only one gentleman, who was confined to his bed by the gout ; 
for before he could reach the door to his chamber, the hiiJl 
where the wntinel had been posted was half full of people, 
some in their shirts, and others not half dressed, all very 
earnestly inquiring of each other what was the matter. 

The soldier was now found lying in the same place and 
posture in which we just now left him. Several immediately 
applied themselves to raise him, and some concluded him dead ; 
but they presently saw their mistake ; for he not only struggled 
with those who laid their hands on him, but fell a roaring like 
a bull. In reality, he imagined so many spirits or devils were 
handling him ; for his imagination being possessed with the 
horror of an apparition, converted every object he saw or felt 
into nothing but ghosts and spectres. 

At length he was overpowered by numbers, and got upon 
his legs ; when candles being brought, and seeing two or three 
of his comrades present, he came a little to himself : but when 
they asked him what was the matter ? he answered, *' I am a 
dead man, that's all ; I am a dead man, I can't recover it, I have 
seen him." — '* What hast thou seen, Jack?'' says one of the 
soldiers. **Why, I have seen the young volunteer that was 
killed yesterday. " He then imprecated the heaviest curses on 
himself, if he had not seen the volunteer, all over blood, 
vomiting fire out of his mouth and nostrils, pass by him into 
the chamber where Ensign Northerton was, and then seizing 
the ensign by the throat, fly away with him in a clap of thunder. 

This relation met with a gracious reception from the audience. 
All the women present believed it firmly, and prayed Heaven 
to defend them from murder. Amongst the men, too, many 
had faith in the story ; but others turned it into derision and 
ridicule; and a sergeant, who was present, answered very 
coolly: ''Young man, you will hear more of this, for going 
to sleep and dreaming on your post." 

The soldier replied, ''You may punish me if you please; 
but I was as broad awake as I am now ; and the devil carry 
me away, as he hath the ensign, if I did not see the dead mwa , 


as I tell you, with eyes as big and as fiery as imo large flam* 

The commander of the forces, and the commander of the 
^^oase, were now both arrived ; for the former being awake at 
the time, and hearing the sentinel fire his piece, thought it his 
duty to rise immediately, though he had no great apprehen- 
sions of any mischief ; whereas the apprehensions of the/ latter 
were much greater, lest her spoons and tankards should be 
upon the march, without having received any such orders from 

Our poor sentinel, to whom the sight of this officer was not 
much more welcome than the apparition, as he thought it, which 
he liad seen before, again related the dreadful story, and with 
many additions of blood and fire : but he had the misfortune 
to gain no credit with either of the last-mentioned persons ; 
for the officer, though a very religious man, was free from all 
terrors of this kind ; besides, having so lately left Jones in the 
condition we have seen, he had no suspicion of his being dead. 
As for the landlady, though not over-religious, she had no kind 
of aversion to the doctrine of spirits ; but there was a circum- 
stance in the tale which she well knew to be false, as we shall 
inform the reader presently. 

But whether Northerton was carried away in thunder or fire, 
or in whatever other manner he was gone, it was now certain 
that his body was no longer in custody. Upon this occasiQn, 
the lieutenant formed a conclusion not very different from what 
the sergeant is just mentioned to have made before, and imme- 
diately ordered the sentinel to be taken prisoner. So that, by 
a strange reverse of. fortune (though not very uncommon in a 
military life), the guard became the guarded. 


The conclusion of the foregoing aduenture. 

Besides the suspicion of sleep, the lieutenant harboured an- 
other and worse doubt against the poor sentinel, and this was 
that of treachery ; for as he believed not one syllable of the 
apparition, so he imagined l\ie ^\io\^ \.o \i^ wvSxi^^xilvQii formed 


only to impose npon him, and that the fellow had in reality 
been bribed by Northerton to let him escape. And this he 
imagined the rather, as the fright appeared to him the more 
unnatural in one who had the character of as brave and bold a 
man as any one in the regiment, having been in several actions, 
.Jiving received several wounds, and, in a word, having be- 
haved himself always like a good and valiant soldier. 

That the reader, therefore, may not conceive the least ill 
opinion of such a person, we shall not delay a moment in res- 
ening his character from the imputation of this guilt. 

Mr. Northerton, then, as we have before observed, was fully 
satisfied with the glory which he had obtained from this action. 
He had perhaps, seen, or heard, or guessed, that envy is' apt 
to attend fame. Not that I would here insinuate that he was 
heathenishly inclined to believe in or to worship the goddess 
Nemesis ; for, in fact, I am convinced he never heard of her 
name. He was, besides, of an active disposition, and had a 
great antipathy to those close winter-quarters in the castle of 
Gloucester, for which a justice of peace might possibly give him 
a billet. Nor was he, moreover, free from some uneasy medita- 
tions on a certain wooden edifice, which I forbear to name, in 
conformity to the opinion of mankind, who, I think, rather 
ought to honour than to be ashamed of this building, as it is, 
or, at least, might be made, of more benefit to society than 
almost any other public erection. In a word, to hint at no 
more reasons for his conduct, Mr. Northerton was desirous of 
departing that evening, and nothing remained for him but to 
contrive the quo modo, which appeared to be a matter of some 

Now this young gentleman, though somewhat crooked in his 
morals, was perfectly straight in his person, which was ex- 
tremely strong and well made. His face, too, was accounted 
handsome by the generality of women ; for it was broad and 
ruddy, with tolerably good teeth. Such charms did not fail 
making an impression on my landlady, who had no little relish 
for this kind of beauty. She had, indeed, a real compassion 
for the young man ; and hearing from the surgeon that aifaira 
' were like to go ill with the volunteer, she suspected they mi^ht 
hereafter wear no benign aspect with, ttie eiiv«v^. ^vvv:^% ^- 


tained, therefore, leave to make him a visit, and finding iiim iii 
a very melancholy mood, which she considerably heightened by 
telling him there were scarce any hopes of the volunteer's life, 
she proceeded to throw forth some hints, which the other readily 
and eagerly taking up, they soon came to a right understand- 
ing ; and it was at length agreed that the ensign should, at a 
certain signal, ascend the chimney, which communicating very 
soon with that of the kitchen, he might there again let himself 
down ; for which she would give him an opportunity, by keep- 
ing the coast clear. 

But lest our readers, of a different complexion, should take 
this occasion of too hastily condemning all compassion aa a 
folly, and pernicious to society, we think proper to mention 
another particular, which might possibly have some share in 
this action. The ensign happened to be at this time possessed 
of the sum of fifty pounds, which did indeed belong to the 
whole company ; for the captain having quarrelled with his 
lieutenant, had entrusted the payment of his company to his 
ensign. This money, however, he thought proper to deposit 
in my landlady's hand, possibly by way of bail or security that 
he would hereafter appear and answer to the charge against 
him ; but whatever were the conditions, certain it is, that she 
had the money, and the ensign his liberty. 

The reader may perhaps expect, from the compassionate 
temper of this good woman, that when she saw the poor senti- 
nel taken prisoner for a fact of which she knew him innocent, 
she should have immediately interposed in his behalf; but 
whether it was that she had already exhausted all her compas- 
sion in the above-mentioned instance, or that the features of 
this fellow, though not very different from those of the ensign, 
could not raise it, I will not determine ; but far from being an 
advocate for the present prisoner, she urged his guilt to his 
oflBcer, declaring, with uplifted eyes and hands, that she would 
not have any concern in the escape of a murderer for all the 

Every thing was now once more quiet, and most of the com- 
pany returned again to their beds ; but the landlady, either 
from the natural activity of Viet disposition, or from her fear 
for her plate, having no pTopeusvl^ ^^ ^^^^, Y^«^^^^^f«5^^<i 


officers, as they were to march within little moTb ?han an hour, 
to spend that time with her over a bowl of punch. 

Jones had lain awake all this while, and had heard a great 
part of the hurry and bustle that had passed, of which he had 
now some curiosity to know the particulars. He therefore 
applied to his bell, which he rung at least twenty times without 
any effect : for my landlady was in such high mirth with her 
company, that no clapper could be heard there but her own ; 
and the drawer and chambermaid, who were sitting together 
in the kitchen, (for neither durst he sit up, nor she lie in bed 
alone,) the more they heard the bell ring, the more they were 
frightened, and, as it were, nailed down to their places. 

At last, at a lucky interval of chat, the sound reached the 
ears of our good landlady, who presently sent forth her sum- 
mons, which both her servants instantly obeyed. 

"Joe," says the mistress, ** don't you hear the gentleman's 
bell ring ? Why don't you go up ?" — *' It is not my business,'* 
answered the drawer, ''to wait upon the chambers, — it is 
Betty Chambermaid's." — "If you come to that," answered 
the maid, " it is not my business to wait upon the gentlemen. 
I have done it, indeed, sometimes ; but the devil fetch me if 
ever I do again, since you make your preambles about it." 
The bell still ringing violently, their mistress fell into a passion, 
and swore, if the drawer did not go up immediately, she would 
turn him away that very morning. *' If you do, madam," says 
he, " I can't help it. I won't do another servant's business." 
She then applied herself to the maid, and endeavoured to. 
prevail by gentle means ; but all in vain : Betty was as inflexi- 
ble as Joe. Both insisted it was not their business, and they 
would not do it. 

The lieutenant then fell a laughing, and said, *' Come, I vnll 
put an end to this contention ;" and then turning to the ser- 
vants, commended them for their resolution in not giving up 
the point ; but added, he was sure, if one would consent to go, 
the other would. To which proposal they both agreed in an 
instant, and accordingly went up very lovingly and close 
together. When they were gone, the lieutenant appeased the 
wrath of the landlady, by satisfying her why they were botb. 
so unwilling* to go alone. 


They returned soon after, and acquainted their mistress, that 
the sick gentleman was so far from being dead, that he spoke 
as heartily as if he was well ; and that he gave his service to 
the captain, and should be very glad of the favour of seeing 
him before he marched. 

The good lieutenant immediately complied with his desires, 
and sitting down by his bed-side, acquainted him with the 
scene which had happened below, concluding with his inten- 
tions to make an example of the sentinel. 

Upon this, Jones related to him the whole truth, and ear- 
nestly begged him not to punish the poor soldier, " who, I am 
confident,'' says he, *'is as innocent of the ensign's escape, as 
he is of forging any lie, or of endeavouring to impose on you." 

The lieutenant hesitated a few moments, and then answered : 
"Why, as you have cleared the fellow of one part of the 
charge, so it will be impossible to prove the other ; because he 
was the only sentinel. But I have a good mind to punish the 
rascal for being a coward. Yet who knows what effect the 
terror of such an apprehension may have ? And, to say the 
truth, he hath always behaved well against an enemy. Come, 
it is a good thing to see any sign of religion in these fellows ; 
so I promise you he shall be set at liberty when we march. 
But hark, the general beats. My dear boy, give me another 
buss. Don't discompose nor hurry yourself; but remember 
the christian doctrine of patience, and, I warrant, you will soon 
be able to do yourself justice, and to take an honourable 
revenge on the fellow who hath injured you. " The lieutenant 
then departed, and Jones endeavoured to compose himself to 




A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous ; being much the longest 
of all our introductory chapters. 

As we are now entering upon a book, in which the course 

of our history will oblige us to relate some matters of a more 

Btr&nge and surprising kmd Wi«ba «i.xv5 ^VviV \vw^ hitherto oc- 


ciirred, it maj not be amiss, in the prolegomenons, or intro« 
ductory chapter, to say something of that species of writing 
which is called the marvellous. To this we shall, as well for 
the sake of onrselyes as of others, endeavonr to set some 
certain bounds ; "and, indeed, nothing can be more necessary, 
as critics* of different complexions are here apt to run into 
very different extremes ; for while some are, with M. Dacier, 
ready to allow, that the same thing which is impossible, may 
yet be probable, f others have so little historic or poetic faith, 
that they believe nothing to be either possible or probable, the 
like to which hath not occurred to their own observation. 

First, then, I think it may very reasonably be required of 
every writer, that he keeps within the bounds of possibility ; 
and still remembers that what it is not possible for man to 
perform, it is scarce possible for man to believe he did perform. 
This conviction, perhaps, gave birth to many stories of the 
ancient Heathen deities, (for most of them are of poetical 
original.) The poet being desirous to indulge a wanton and 
extravagant imagination, took refuge in that power, of the 
extent of which his readers were no judges, or rather which 
they imagined to be infinite, and consequently they could not 
be shocked at any prodigies related of it. This hath been 
strongly urged in defence of Homer's miracles ; and it is per- 
haps a defence ; not, as Mr. Pope would have it, because 
Ulysses told a set of foolish lies to the Phaeacians, who were 
a very dull nation; but because the poet himself wrote to 
heathens, to whom poetical fables were articles of faith. For 
my own part, I must confess, so compassionate is my temper, 
I wish Polypheme had confined himself to his milk diet, and 
preserved his eye ; nor could Ulysses be much more concerned 
than myself, when his companions were turned into swine by 
Circe, who showed, I think, afterwards, too much regard for 
man's flesh, to be supposed capable of converting it into bacon. 
I wish, likewise, with all my heart, that Homer could have 
known the rule prescribed by Horace, to introduce supernatural 
agents as seldom as possible. We should not then have seen 

♦ By this word here, and in mo8t other parts of our work, we mean 
every reader in the world. 
f It is happj for M. Dacier that he was not MilT^VrnvMi. 


his gods coming en trivial errands, and often l>ehayihg them* 
selves so as not only to forfeit all title to respect; but to become 
the objects of scorn and derision. A conduct which must 
have shocked the credulity of a pious and sagacious heathen ; 
and which could never have been defended, unless by agreeing 
with a supposition to which I have been sometimes almost in- 
clined, that this most glorious poet, as he certainly was, had 
an intent to burlesque the superstitious faith of his own age 
and country. 

But I have rested too long on a doctrine which can be of no 
use to a christian writer ; for as he cannot introduce into his 
works any of that heavenly host which make a part of his 
creed, so is it horrid puerility to search the heathen theology 
for any of those deities who have been long since dethroned 
from their immortality. Lord Shaftesbury observes, that 
nothing is more cold than the invocation of a muse by a 
modern: he might have added, that nothing can be more 
absurd. A modern may, with much more elegance, invoke a 
barrel, as some have thought Homer did, or a mug of .ale, with 
the author of Hudibras ; which latter may, perhaps, have in- 
spired much more poetry, as well as prose, than all the liquors 
of Hippocrene or Helicon. 

The only supernatural agents which can in any manner be 
allowed to us moderns, are ghosts ; but of these I would advise 
an author to be extremely sparing. These are, indeed, like 
arsenic and other dangerous drugs in physic, to be used with 
the utmost caution ; nor would I advise the introduction of 
them at all in those works, or by those authors, to which, or 
to whom, a horse-laugh in the reader would be any great 
prejudice or mortification. 

As for elves and fairies, and other such mummery, I purposely 
omit the mention of them, as I should be very unwilling to 
confine within any bounds those surprising imaginations, for 
whose vast capacity the limits of human nature are too narrow ; 
whose works are to be considered as a new creation ; and who 
have consequently just right to do what they will with their own. 

Man, therefore, is the highest subject, (unless on very ex 

traordiuary occasions indeed,) which presents itself to the pen 

of OUT historian, or of out poet-, wi^/mx^Xksi^Yvia actipns, 


great eare k to be taken, that we do not exceed the eapacil^ 
of the agent we describe. 

Nor is possibility alone sufficient to jastify us ; we mast keep 
likewise within the rales of probability. It is, I think, the 
opinion of Aristotle ; or, if not, it is the opinion of some wise 
man, whose authority will be as weighty when it is as old, 
" That it is no excuse for a poet who relates what is incredible. 
that the thing related is matter of fact." This may, perhaps, 
be allowed true with regard to poetry, but it may be thought 
impracticable to extend it to the historian ; for he is obliged 
to record matters as he finds them, though they may be of so 
extraordinary a nature as will require no small degree of his- 
torical faith to swallow them. Such was the successless arma- 
ment of Xerxes, described by Herodotus, or the successful ex- 
pedition of Alexander, related by Arrian. Such of later years 
was the victory of Agincourt, obtained by Harry the Fifth ; or 
that of Narva, won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. All 
which instances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the 
more astonishing. 

Such facts, however, as they occur in the thread of the story, 
nay, indeed, as they constitute the essential part of it, the his- 
torian is not only justifiable in recording as they really hap- 
pened, but indeed would be unpardonable should he omit or 
alter them. But there are other facts not of such consequence 
nor so necessary, which, though ever so well attested, may 
nevertheless be sacrificed to oblivion, in complaisance to the 
skepticism of a reader. Such is that memorable story of the 
ghost of George Yilliers, which might with more propriety 
have been made a present of to Dr. Drelincourt, to have kept 
the ghost of Mrs. Yeale company, at the head of his Discourse 
upon Death, than have been introduced into so solemn a work 
as the History of the Rebellion. 

To say the truth, if the historian will confine himself to 
what really happened, and utterly reject any circumstance, 
which, though never so well attested, he must be well assured 
is false, he will sometimes fall into the marvellous, but never 
into the incredible. He will often raise the wonder and sur- 
prise of his reader, but never that incredulous hatred mentioned 
by Horace. It is by falling into ficWo^i, \!ti«t^tet^^ "^^^ ^^ 


generally offend against this mle, of deserting probability, 
which the historian seldom, if ever, qnits, till he forsakes his 
character, and commences a writer of romance. In this, how- 
ever, those historians, who relate public transactions, have the 
advantage of ns who confine ourselves to scenes of private life. 
The credit of the former is by common notoriety supported for 
a long time ; and public records, with the concurrent testimony 
of many authors, bear evidence to their truth in future ages. 
Thus a Trajan and an Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have 
all met with the belief of posterity ; and no one doubts but 
that men so very good, and so very bad, were once the masters 
of mankind. 

But we, who deal in private character, who search into the 
most retired recesses, and draw forth examples of virtue and 
vice from holes and corners of the world, are in a more dan- 
gerous situation. As we have no public notoriety, no concur- 
rent testimony, no records to support and corroborate what 
we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the limits not only of 
possibility, but of probability too ; and this more especially in 
painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and 
folly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet with 
assent ; for ill-nature adds great support and strength to faith. 

Thus we may, perhaps with little danger, relate the history 
of Fisher ; who having long owed his bread to the generosity 
of Mr. Derby, and having one morning received a considerable 
bounty from his hands, yet, in order to possess himself of what 
remained in his friend's scrutoire, concealed himself in a public 
ofl&ce of the Temple, through which there was a passage into 
Mr. Derby's chambers. Here he overheard Mr. Derby for 
many hours solacing himself at an entertainment which he that 
evening gave his friends, and to which Fisher had been invited. 
During all this time, no tender," no grateful reflections arose to 
restrain his purpose ; but when the poor gentleman had let his 
company out through the ofl&ce, Fisher came suddenly from 
his lurking-place, and walking softly behind his friend into his 
chamber, discharged a pistol-ball into his head. This may be 
believed when the bones of Fisher are as rotten as his heart 
Nay, perhapSy it will be credited, that the villain went two 
dajrs afterwards with 8omeyouii^\«t^'^%\.Ck\hv<b^«^^l'53Mnlet; 


and with an unaltered conntenance heard one of the ladies, 
who little suspected how near she was to the person, cry out, 
" Good God 1 if the man that murdered Mr. Derby was now 
present." Manifesting in this a more seared and callous con- 
science than even Nero himself ; of whom we are told by Sue- 
tonius, ''that the consciousness of his guilt after the death of 
his mother, became immediately intolerable, and so continued ; 
nor could all the congratulations of the soldiers, of the senate, 
and the people, allay the horrors of his conscience." 

But now, on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I 
had known a man whose penetrating genius had enabled him 
to raise a large fortune in a way where no beginning was chalked 
out to him; that he had done this with the most perfect 
preservation of his integrity, and not only without the least 
injustice or injury to any one individual person, but with the 
highest advantage to trade, and a vast increase of the public 
revenue ; that he had expended one part of the income of this 
fortune in discovering a taste superior to most, by works where 
the highest dignity was united with the purest simplicity, and 
another part in displaying a degree of goodness superior to all 
men, by acts of charity to objects whose only recommendations 
were their merits, or their wants ; that he was most industrious 
in searching after merit in distress, most eager to relieve it, 
and then as careful, (perhaps too careful,) to conceal what he 
had done ; that his honse, his furniture, his gardens, his table, 
his private hospitality, and his public beneficence, all denoted 
the mind from which they flowed, and were all intrinsically rich 
and noble, without tinsel, or external ostentation; that he 
filled every relation in life with the most adequate virtue ; that 
he was most piously religious to his Creator, most zealously 
loyal to his sovereign ; a most tender husband to his wife, a 
kind relation, a munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a 
knowing and a cheerful companion, indulgent to his servants, 
hospitable to his neighbours, charitable to the poor, and 
benevolent to all mankind. Should I add to these the epithets 
of wise, brave, elegant, and indeed every other amiable epithet 
in our language, I might say, 

— Qois credet? nemo Heroule! nemo I 

Vol duo, vel nomo. 


And yet I know a man who is all I have here described. Bui 
a single instance, (and I really know not sach another,) is not 
sufficient to justify us, while we are writing to thousands who 
never heard of the person, nor of any thing like him. Such 
raroB aves should be remitted to the epitaph- writer, or to some 
poet, who may condescend to hitch him in a distich, or to slide 
him into a rhyme with an air of carelessness and neglect, with- 
out giving any offence to the reader. 

In the last place, the actions should be such as may not only 
be within the compass of human agency, and which human 
agents may probably be supposed to do ; but they should be 
likely for the very actors and characters themselves to have 
performed ; for what may be only wonderful and surprisint; in 
one man, may become improbable, or indeed impossible, when 
related of another. 

This last requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversa- 
tion of character ; and it requires a very extraordinary degree 
of judgment, smd a most exact knowledge of human nature. 

It is admirably remarked by a most excellent writer, that zeal 
can no more hurry a man to act in direct opposition to himself, 
than a rapid stream can carry a boat against its own current, 
I will venture to say, that for a man to act in direct contra- 
diction to the dictates of his nature, is, if not impossible, as 
improbable and as miraculous as any thing which can well be 
conceived. Should the best parts of the story of M. Antoninus 
be ascribed to Nero, or should the worst incidents of Nero's 
life be imputed to Antoninus, what would be more shocking tc 
belief than either instance ? whereas both these, being related 
of their proper agent, constitute the truly marvellous. 

Our modem authors of comedy have fallen almost universally 
into the error here hinted at : their heroes generally are noto- 
rious rogues, and their heroines abandoned jades, during the 
first four acts ; but in the fifth, the former become very worthy 
gentlemen, and the latter women of virtue and discretion ; nor 
is the writer often so kind as to give himself the least trouble 
to reconcile or account for this monstroiis change and incon- 
gruity. There is, indeed, no other reason to be assigned for 
it, than because the play is drawing to a conclusion ; as if it 
wtus DO le88 natural in a rogae \^ xev^TL\i\fiL\2Gk^\uX>%ft^Qf a play, 


than in the last of his life : which we perceive to be generally 
the case at Tjburn, a place which might ijidecd close the scene 
of some comedies with much propriety, as the heroes in these 
are most commonly eminent for those very talents which not 
only bring men to the gallows, bat enable them to make an 
heroic figure when they are there. 

Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be 
permitted to deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases ; nay, 
if he thus keeps within ^;he rules of credibility, the more he 
can surprise the reader, the more he will engage his attention, 
and the more he will charm him. As a genius of the highest 
rank observes in his fifth chapter of the Bathos, " The great art 
of all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, in order to join the 
credible with the surprising." 

For though every good author will confine himself within the 
jounds of probability, it is by no means necessary that his 
characters, or his incidents, should be trite, common, or vulgar ; 
such as happen in every street, or in every house, or which 
may be met with in the home articles of a newspaper. Nor 
must he be inhibited from showing many persons and things, 
which may possibly have never fallen within the knowledge of 
great part of his readers. If the writer strictly observes the 
mles above mentioned, he hath discharged his part ; and is 
then entitled to some faith from his reader, who is indeed 
guilty of critical infidelity if he disbelieves him. For want of 
a portion of such faith, I remember the character of a young 
lady of quality, which was condemned on the stage for being 
onnatural, by the unanimous voice of a very large assembly of 
cleAis and apprentices ; though it had the previous suffrages of 
many ladies of the fii'st rank ; one of whom, very eminent for 
\ier understanding, declared it was the picture of half the young 
>eople of her acquaintance. 


In which the landladi/ pays a visit to Mr, Jones, 

Wbxs Jones had taken leave of Lis friend the lieuienaTxt^ lift 
eaAearored to close his eyes, but aU \ik v«.v\\ \&^ ^y^^'^^^ 
L — 33 z 


too lively and wakeful to be lulled to sleep. So having 
amused, or rather tormented himself with the thoughts of his 
Sophia till it was open daylight, he called for some tea ; upon 
which occasion my landlady herself vouchsafed to pay him a 

This was indeed the first time she had seen him, or at least 
. had taken any notice of him ; but as the lieutenant had assured 
her that he was certainly some young gentleman of fashioT\, 
she now determined to show him all the respect in her power ; 
for, to speak truly, this was one of those houses where gentle- 
men, to use tlie language of advertisements, meet with civi! 
treatment for their money. 

She had no sooner begun to make his tea, than she likewise 
began to discourse ; *' La ! sir,'' said she, '* I think it is great 
pity that such a pretty young gentleman should undervalue 
himself so, as to go about with these soldier fellows. They 
call themselves gentlemen, I warrant you; but, as my first 
husband used to say, they should remember it is we that pay 
them. And to be sure it is very hard upon us to be obliged 
to pay 'urn, and to keep 'um too, as we publicans are. I had 
twenty of 'urn last night, besides ofl&cers, nay, for matter o' 
that, I had rather have the soldiers than ofl&cers : for nothing is 
ever good enough for those sparks ; and, I am sure, if you was to 
see the bills ; la ! sir, it is nothing. I have had less ti'ouble, I 
warrant you, with a good squire's family, where we take forty 
or fifty shillings of a night, besides horses. And yet I 
warrants me, there is narrow a one of all those ofiBicer fellows, 
but looks upon himself to be as good as narrow a squire of 
600?. a year. To be sure it doth me good to hear their men 
run about after 'um, crying your honour, and your honour. 
Marry come up with such honour, and an ordinary at a shilling 
a head. Then ther's such swearing anjoug 'um, to be sure it 
frightens me out o' my wits : I thinks nothing can ever prosper 
with such wicked people. And here one of 'um has used you 
in so barbarous a manner. I thought indeed how well the rest 
would secure him ; they all hang together ; for if you had been 
in danger of death, which I am glad to see you are not, it 
would have been all as one to such wicked people. They 
would have let the murdeTct go. \ja.\A\i!wi^\aKt<iY ^^on 'ma. 


1 would not have such a sin to answer for, for the whole 
world. But though you are likely, witli the blessing of God, 
to 'recover, there is laa for him yet ; and if you will employ 
lawyer Small, I darest be sworn he'll make the fellow fly the 
country for him ; though perhaps he '11 have fled the country 
before ; for it is here to-day and gone td-morrow, with such 
chaps. I hope, however, you will learn more wit for the 
future, and return back to your friends : I warrant they are all 
miserable for your loss ; and if they was but to know what had 
bappeued — La, my seeming I I would not for the world they 
should. Come, come, we know very well what all the matter 
is ; but if one won't, another will ; so pretty a gentleman need 
never want a lady. I am sure, if I was as you, I would see 
the finest she that ever wore a head hanged, before I would go 
for a soldier for her. — Nay, don't blush so I" (for indeed he 
did to a violent degree.) ''Why, you thought, sir, I knew 
nothing of the matter, I warrant you, about Madam Sophia." 
"How," says Jones, starting up, ''do you know my 
Sophia ?" — " Do I ! ay, marry," cries the landlady : " many's 
the time hath she lain in this house." — " With her auut, I 
suppose," says Jones. — "Why, there it is, now," cries the 
landlady. "Ay, ay, ay, I know the old lady very well. And 
a sweet young creature is Madam Sophia, that 's the truth 
on't." — "A sweet creature 1" cries Jones ; '• Heavens I 

Angels are painted fair to look like her, 
There's in her all that we believe of Heav'n, 
Amazing brightness, purity, and tmth, 
Eternal joy, and everlasting love. 

And could I ever have imagined that you had known my 
Sophia?" "I wish," says the landlady, "you knew half so 
much of her. What would you have given to have sat by her 
bed-side ? What a delicious neck she hath I Her lovely limbs 
have stretched themselves in that very bed you now lie in." — 
" Here I" cries Jones : " hath Sophia ever lain here ?" " Ay, 
ay, here ; there, in that very bed," says the landlady : " where 
I wish you had her this moment ; and she may wish so too, for 
any thing I know to the contrary ; for she hath mentioned your 
name tome." "Ha I" cries he; "did she ever mention her 
poor Jones ? You flatter me now : I cau uftxet b^Vw^^ ^^c^ 


much." '* Why, then," answered she, " as I hope to be s&T^d, 
and the devil may fetch me if I speak a syllable more than the 
truth, I have heard her mention Mr. Jones ; but in a civil ana 
modest way, I confess ; yet 1 could perceive she thought « 
great deal more than she said. " '*0, my dear woman !" crie« 
Jones, " her thoughts of me I shall never be worthy of. Oh, 
she is all gentleness, kindness, goodness 1 Why was such a 
rascal as I born, even to give her soft bosom a moment's un- 
easiness ? Why am I cursed ? I, who would undergo all the 
plagues and miseries which any demon ever invented for man- 
kind to procure her any good ; nay, torture itself could not be 
misery to me, did I but know that she was happy." '* Why, 
look you there, now," says the landlady ; " I told her you was 
a constant lover." "But pray, madam, tell me when or where 
you knew any thing of me ; for I never was here before, nor 
do I remember ever to have seen you." "Nor is it possible 
you should," answered she ; " for you was a little thing when I 
had you in my lap at the squire's ?" "How, the squire's ?" 
says Jones : '* what, do you know the great and good Mr. All- 
worthy, then ?" . *' Yes, marry do I," says she : *' who in the 
country doth not ?" " The fame of his goodness, indeed," an- 
swered Jones, *^must have extended farther than this; but 
Heaven only can. know him, can know that benevolence which 
is copied from itself, and sent upon earth as its own pattern. 
Mankind are as ignorant of such divine goodness, as they are 
unworthy of it ; but none so unworthy of it as myself. I, who 
was raised by him to such a height, taken in, as you must 
well know, a poor base-boril child, adopted by him, and treated 
as his own son, to dare by my follies to disoblige him, to draw 
his vengeance upon me. Yes, I deserve it all ; for I will never 
be so ungrateful as ever to think he hath done an act of injus- 
tice by me. No, I deserve to be turned out of doors, as I am. 
And now, madam," says he, "I believe you will not blame me 
for turning soldier, especially, with such a fortune as this in my 
pocket." At which words he shook a purse, which had but 
very little in it, and which still appeared to the landlady to 
have less. 

My good landlady was, (according to vulga* phrase,) struck 
all of & heap by this relation. ^\ift answered coldly, "That 


to be sate people were the best judges what was most proper 
fop their circumstances. But hark," says she, *' I think 1 hear 
somebody call. Coming I coming I the devil's in all our volk ; 
nobody hath any ears. I must go down stairs ; if you want 
any more breakfast, the maid will come up. Coming I" At 
which words, without taking any leave, she flung out of the 
room ; for the lower sort of people are very tenacious of re- 
spect ; and though they are contented to give this gratis to 
persons of quality, yet they never confer it on those of their 
own order without taking care to be well paid for their pains. 


In which the surgeon makes his second appearance. 

BsFORE we proceed any further, that 'the reader may not be 
mistaken in imagining the landlady knew more than she did, 
nor surprised that she knew so much, it may be necessary to in- 
form him, that the lieutenant had acquainted her that the name 
of Sophia had been the occasion of the quarrel ; and, as for 
the rest of her knowledge, the sagacious reader will observe 
how she came by it in the preceding scene. Great curiosity 
was indeed mixed with her virtues ; and she never willingly 
suffered any one to depart from her house, without inquiring as 
much as possible into their names, families, and fortunes. 

She was no sooner gone than Jones, instead of animadvert- 
ing on her behaviour, reflected that he was in the same bed 
which he was informed had held his dear Sophia. This occa- 
sioned a thousand fond and tender thoughts, which we would 
dwell longer upon, did we not consider that such kind of lovers 
will make a very inconsiderable part of our readers. In this 
situation the surgeon found him, when he came to dress his 
wound. The doctor perceiving, upon examination, that his 
pulse was disordered, and hearing that he had not slept, de- 
clared that he was in great danger ; for he apprehended a fever 
was coming on, which he would have prevented by bleeding, 
but Jones would not submit, declaring lie would lose no more 
blood ; " and doctor, " says he, '* if you will be so kind q\v\m ^<;^ 
dre^ mjr bead, I have no doubt oi bem^ \j^^ \\i ^ ^^ ^'^ 
two. '' 


" I wish," answered the surgeon, " I could assure your being 
well in a month or two. Well, indeed I No, no, people are 
not so soon well of such contusions ; but, sir, I am not at this 
time of day to be instructed in my operations by a patient, and 
I insist on making a revulsion before I dress you." 

Jones persisted obstinately in his refusal, and the doctor at 
Jast yielded ; telling him at the same time that he would not be 
answerable for the ill consequence, and hoped he would do him 
the justice to acknowledge that he had given him a contrary 
advice ; which the patient promised he would. 

The doctor retired into the kitchen, where, addressing him- 
self to the landlady, he complained bitterly of the undutiful 
behaviour of his patient, who would not be- blooded, though 
he was in a fever. 

''It is an eating fever, then," says the landlady; "for he 
hatn devoured two gwfngeing buttered toasts this morning for 
breakfast. ' ' 

'• Yery likely," says the doctor : '* I have known people eat 
in a fever ; and it is very easily accounted for ; because the 
acidity occasioned by* the febrile matter may stimulate the 
herves of the diaphragm, and thereby occasion a craving which 
will not be easily distinguishable from a natural appetite ; but 
the aliment will not be concreted, nor assimilated into chyle, 
and so will corrode the vascular orifices, and thus will aggra- 
vate the febrific symptoms. Indeed, I think the gentleman in 
a very dangerous way, and if he is not blooded, I am afraid 
be will die." 

'* Every man must die some time or other," answered the 
good woman; '*it is no business of mine. I hope, doctor, 
you would not have me hold him while you bleed him. " But, 
harkee, a word in your ear ; I would advise you, before you 
proceed too far, to take care who is to be your paymaster." 

'* Paymaster," said the doctor staring ; ''Why, I 've a gen- 
tleman under my hands, have I not ?" 

"I imagined so, as well as you," said the landlady ; " but. 

as my first husband used to say, everything is not what it looks 

to be. He is- an arrant scrub, I assure you. However, take 

no notice that I mentioned axi^\itim^ to you of the matter; but 

I think ]V3ople in business o^t a\^^^^\o^sfcWi'^«x!i^S5Ma \E2Wi^ 

sncji things^' 


** And have I suffered such a fellow as this," cries the doc- 
tor, in a passion, " to instruct me ? Shall I hear my practice 
insulted by one who will not pay me ? I am glad I have made 
this discovery in time. I will see now whether he will be 
blooded or no.'' He then immediately went up stairs, and 
flinging open the door of the chamber with much violence, 
awakened poor Jones from a very sound nap, into which he was 
ftilleu, and, what was still worse, from a delicious dream con- 
cerning Sophia. 

" Will you be blooded or no ?'* cries the doctor, in a rage 
"I have told you my resolution already,'' answered Jones, 
*• and I wish with all my heart you had taken my answer ; for 
you have awakened me out of the sweetest sleep which I ever 
had in my life." 

'* Ay, ay," cries the doctor ; "many a man hath dozed away 
his life. Sleep is not always good, no more than food ; but 
remember, I demand of you, for the last time, will you be 
blooded ?" "I answer you, for the last time," said Jones, " I 
will not." '* Then I wash my hands of you," cries the doc- 
tor ; ** and I desire you to pay me for^the trouble I have had 
already. Two journeys at 5s. each, two dressings at 5s. more, 
and half a crown for phlebotomy." *^ I hope," said Jones, 
"you don't intend to leave me in this condition." " Indeed, 
but I shall," said the other. "Then," said Jones, ''you have 
used me most rascally, and I will not pay you a farthing." 
"Very well," cries the doctor; ''the first loss is the best. 
What a pox did my landlady mean by sending for me to such 
vagabonds ?" At which words he flung out of the room, and 
his patient, turning himself about, soon recovered his sleep ; 
but his dream was unfortunately gone. 


In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers that was ever recorded 
in hiaiory, the barber of Bagdad, or he in Don Quixote, not excepted. 

The clock had now struck five, when Jones awaked from a 
nap of seven hours, so much refreshed, and in such perfect 
health and spirits, that he resolved to get \\\) wcv^^x^'5.'^\\\\j\^'^\ 


for which purpose he unlocked his portmanteau, and took out 
clean linen and a suit of clothes ; but first he slipt on a frock, 
and went down into the kitchen to bespeak something that 
might pacify certain tumults he found rising within his sto- 

Meeting the landlady, he accosted her with great civility, 
and asked, "What he could have for dinner?'' "For din- 
ner I'' says she ; " it is an odd time of day to think about din- 
ner. There is nothing drest in the house, and the fire is almost 
out." "Well, but,'' says he, "I must have something to eat 
and it is indififerent to me what ; for, to tell you the truth, f 
was never more hungry in my life." *^Then," says she, **I 
believe there is a piece of cold buttock and carrot, which will 
fit you. " " Nothing better," answered Jones ; ** but I should 
be obliged to you, if you would let it be fried." To which 
the landlady consented, and said, smiling, *' She was glad to 
see him so well recovered;" for the sweetness of our hero's 
temper was almost irresistible ; besides, she was really no ill- 
humoured woman at the bottom; but she loved money so 
much, that she hated eveiything which had the semblance of 

Jones now returned, in order to dress himself, while his 
dinner was preparing, and was, according to his orders, attended 
by the barber. 

This barber, who went by the name of Little Benjamin, was 
a fellow of great oddity and humour, which had frequently led 
him into small inconveniences, such as slaps in the face, kicks 
in the breech, broken bones, &c. For every one doth not 
understand a jest ; and those who do are often displeased with 
being themselves the subject of it. This vice was, however, 
incurable in him ; and though he had often smarted for it, yet 
if ever he conceived a joke, he was certain to be delivered of 
it, without the least respect of persons, time, )v place. 

11^ had a great many other particularities in his character. 
which I shall not mention, as the reader will himself very easily 
perceive them, on his farther acquaintance with this extraordi- 
nary person. 

Jones being impatient to be dressed, for a reason which may 
easiJf be imagined, thoug\\t l\v^ ^\i^\ct ^«.% ^er^ tediou* in 


preparing his bxl&s, and begged hira to make baste ; to whici) 
the other answered with much gravity, foF he never discom- 
posed his muscles on any account, * 'festina leiite is a proverb 
which I learned long before I ever touched a razor/' — *'I 
find, friend, you are a scholar,'' replied Jones. "A poor 
one," said the barber, ^^non omnia possuvius omnes.'*^ 
** Again I" said Jones; *'I fancy yon are good at capping 
verses." — "Excuse me, sir," said the barber, *^non tanto me 
dignor honore.^^ And then proceeding to his operation, 
*' Sir," said he, *' since I have dealt in suds, 1 could never dis- 
cover more than two reasons for shaving ; the one is to get a 
beard, and the other to get rid of one. I conjecture, sir, it 
may not be long since you shaved, from the former of these 
motives. Upon my word, you have had good success ; for one 
may say of your beard, that it is tondenti gravior,^^ — ** I con- 
jecture," says Jones, "that thou art a very comical fellow." — 
**yoii mistake me widely, sir," said the barber; "I am too 
much addicted to the study of philosophy ; hinc illce lachrymos, 
sir ; that's my misfortune. Too much learning hath been my 
ruin." — '* Indeed," says Jones, **I confess, friend, you have 
more learning than generally belongs to your trade ; but I 
can't see how it can have injured you." — "Alas! sir," 
answered the shaver, " my father disinherited me for it. He 
was £ dancing-master ; and because I could read before I could 
dance, he took an aversion to me, and left every farthing 
among his other children. — Will you please to have your 
temples — O la 1 I ask your pardon, I fancy there is hiatus in 
manuscriptis. I heard you was going to the wars ; but I find 
it was a mistake. " — ** Why do you conclude so ?" says Jones. 
** Sure, sir," answered the barber, " you are too wise a man to 
carry a broken head thither ; for that would be carrying coals 
to Newcastle." 

" Upon my word," cries Jones, "thou art a very odd fellow, 
and I like thy humour extremely; I shall be very glad if thou 
wilt come to me after dinner, and drink a glass with me ; I 
long to bo betfer acquainted with thee." 

" O dear sir I" said the barber, " I can do you twenty times 
as great a favour, if you will accept of it." — "What is that, 
my friend ?" cries Jones. ** Why, I m\\ &tvD^ ^^c^Xi^^-sR^Sj^ 


you, if you please ; for I dearly love good-nature ; and as you 
have found me out to be a comical fellow, so I have no skill in 
physiognomy, if you are not one of the best-natured gentlemen 
in the universe.'* Jones now walked down stairs neatly 
dressed, and perhaps the fair Adonis was not of a lovelier 
figure ; and yet he had no charms for my landlady ; for as that 
good woman did not tesemble Venus at all in her person, so 
neither did she in her taste. Happy had (t been for Nani^y, 
the chambermaid, if she had seen with the eyes of her mistress ; 
for that poor girl fell so violently in love with poor Jones in 
five minutes, that her passion afterwards cost her many a sigh. 
This Nancy was extremely pretty, and altogether as coy ; for 
she had refused a drawer, and one or two young farmers in the 
neighbourhood, but the bright eyes of our hero thawed all her 
ice in a moment. 

When Jones returned to the kitchen, his cloth was not yet 
laid ; nor indeed was there any occasion it should, his dinner 
remaining in statu quOj as did the fire which was to dress it. 
This disappointment might have put many a philosophical 
temper into a passion ; but it had no such eflPect on Jones. He 
only gave the landlady a gentle rebuke, saying, ** Since it was 
so difficult to get it heated, he would eat the beef cold.*' But 
now the good woman, whether moved by compassion, or by 
shame, or by whatever other motive, I cannot tell, first gave 
her servants a round scold for disobeying the orders which she 
had nevier given ; and then bidding the drawer lay a napkin in 
the Sun, she set about the matter in good earnest, and soon 
accomplished it. 

This Sun, into which Jones was now conducted, was truly 
named, as lucus a non lucendo ; for it was an apartment into 
which the sun had scarce ever looked. It was indeed the 
worst room in the house ; and happy was it for Jones that it 
was so. However, he was now too hungry to find any fault ; 
but having once satisfied his appetite, he ordered the drawer 
to carry a bottle of wine into a better room, and expressed 
some resentment at having been shown into a dungeon. 

The drawer having obeyed his commands, he was, after 
some timej attended by the barber; who would not indeed 
baye suffered him to wait so \oii§ ^ot \i\^ <.wxiXi%K^ ,\sadlie not 


been listening in the kitchen to the landlady, who was enter- 
taining a circle that she had gathered round her with the 
history of poor Jones, part of which she had extracted from 
his own lips, and the other part was her own ingenious compo 
sition: for she said, *'he was a poor parish boy, taken into 
the house of Squire AUworthy, where he was bred up as an 
apprentice, and now turned out of doors for his misdeeds, 
particularly for making love to his young mistress, and prob- 
ably for robbing the house ; for how else should he come by 
the little money he hath ; and this,'' says she, *' is your gentle- 
man, forsooth/' — '*A servant of Squire AUworthy?" says" 
the barber ; " what's his name ?" — " Why he told me his name 
was Jones," says she : *' perhaps he goes by a wrong namo. 
Nay, and he told me, too, that the squire had maintained him 
as his own son, tho'f he had quarrelled with him now." — 
"And if his name be Jones, he told you the truth," says the 
barber ; *' for I have relations who live in that country ; nay, 
and some people say he is his son." — "Why doth he not go 
by the name of his father?" — "I can't tell that," said the 
barber; '*many people's sons don't go by the name of their 
father." — ''Nay," said the landlady, '' if I thought he was a 
gentleman's son, tho'f he was a bye-blow, I should behave to 
him in another-guess manner; for many of these bye-blows 
come to be great men ; and, as my poor first husband used- to 
say, never Affront any customer that's a gentleman." 


A dialogue between Mr. Jones and the barber. 

Tms conversation passed partly while Jones was at dinner 
in his dungeon, and partly while he was expecting the barber 
in the parlour. And, as soon as it was ended, Mr. Benjamin, 
as we have said, attended him, and was very kindly t^csircd to 
sit down. Jones then filling out a glass of wine, drank his 
health by the appellation of doctissime tonsorum. 

*'Ago tihi gratias, domine,^- said the barber; and then 
looking very steadfastly at Jones, he said, with great gravity, 
and with a seeming surprise, as if he \x«Ai^tQ\\^eX.^^^Wi.'?i\w^ 


had seen before, * ' Sir, may I crave the favour to know if your 
name is not Jones?" To which the other answered, that it , 
was. — *'Proh Deum atque Iwniinum fidem P^ says the barber; 
*' how strangely things come to pass ! Mr. Jones, I am your 
most obedient servant. I find you do' not know me, which 
indeed is no wonder, since you never saw me but once, and 
then you was very young. Pray, sir, how doth the good 
Squire AUworthy ? how doth ille optimus omnium patronusV^ 
— '*! find," said Jones, *'you do indeed know me; but I 
have not the like happiness of recollecting you." — ** I do not 
wonder at that," cries Benjamin; **but I am surprised I did 
not know you sooner, for you are not in the least altered. 
And pray, sir, may I without offence inquire whither you are 
travelling this way?" — ''Fill the glass, Mr. Barber," said 
Jones, *'and ask no more questions." — "Nay, sir," answered 
Benjamin, *' I would not be troublesome ; and I hope yoa 
don't think me a man of an impertinent curiosity, for that is a 
vice which nobody can lay to my charge ; but I ask pardon ; 
for when a gentleman of your figure travels without his servants, 
we may suppose him to be, as we say, in casu incognito, and 
perhaps I ought not to have mentioned your name." — '*I 
own," says Jones, ''I did not expect to have been so well 
known in this country as I find I am; yet, for particular 
reasons, I shall be obliged to you if you will not mention my 
name to any other person, till I am gone from hence." — 
*^Fauca verba, ^^ answered the barber; '*and I wish no other 
here knew you but myself; for some people have tongues ; but 
I promise you I can keep a secret. My enemies will allow me 
that virtue." — "And yet that is not the characteristic of your 
profession, Mr. Barber," answered' Jones. " Alas i sii;" replied 
Benjamin, **no7i si male nune et olim sic erit. I was not 
born ncr bred a barber, I assure you. I have spent most of 
my time among gentlemen, and though I say it, I understand 
something of gentility. And if you had thought me as worthy 
of your confidence as you have some other people, I should 
have shown you I could have kept a secret better. I should 
not have degraded your name in a public kitchen ; for indeed 
sir, some people have not used you well ; for besides making a 
jPoMc proclamation of what you xo\^Wi«icL^\ ^tj^'wtT^l between 


yourself and Squire Allworthy, they added lies of their own, 
tbings which I knew to be lies." — "You surprise me greatly,'' 
cries Jones. *' Upon my word, sir,'' answered Benjamin, " I 
tell the truth, and I need not tell you my landlady was the 
person. I am sure it moved me to hear the story, and I hope 
it is all fidse ; for 1 have a great respect for you. I do assure 
you I have, and have had, ever since the good -nature you 
showed to Black George, which was talked of all over the 
country, and I received more than one letter about it. Indeed, 
it made you beloved by every body. You will pardon me, 
therefore ; for it was real concern at what I heard, made me 
ask many questions ; for I have no impertinent curiosity aboul; 
me ; but I love good-nature, and thence became anxoris aburi' 
dantia erga te." 

Every profession of friendship easily gains credit with the 
miserable ; it is no wonder, therefore, if Jones, who, besides 
his being miserable, was extremely open-hearted, very readily 
believed all the professions of Benjamin, and received him into 
his bosom. The scraps of Latin, some of which Benjamin 
applied properly enough, though it did not savour of profound 
literature, seemed yet to indicate something superior to a com- 
mon barber; and so indeed his whole behaviour. Jones 
therefore believed the truth of what he had said, as to his 
original and education ; and at length, after much entreaty, he 
said, '* Since you have heard, my friend, so much of my affairs, 
and seem so desirous to know the truth, if you will have 
patience to hear it, I will inform you of the whole.'' — ''Pa- 
tience I" cries Benjamin, *' that I will, if the chapter was never 
so long, and I am very much obliged to you for the honour 
you do me." 

Jones now began and related the whole history, forgetting 
only a circumstance or two, namely, everything which passed 
on that day in which he had fought with Thwackum; and 
ended with his resolution to go to sea, till the rebellion in the 
' North had made him change his purpose, and had brought him 
to the place where he then was. 

Little Benjamin, who had been all attention, never once 
interrupted the narrative : but when it was ended, he could not 
help observing, that there must be auiA'j ^om'^'OcMi^ \svj^^a 

r .Qj 


invented by his enemies, and told Mr. AUworthy against hlm^ 
or so good a man wonld never have dismissed one he loved so 
tenderly in such a manner. To which Jones answered, * * He 
doubted not but such villanous arts had been made use of to 
destroy him.'' 

And surely it was scarce possible for any one to have avoided 
making the same remark with the barber, who had not, indeed, 
heard ftom Jones one single circumstance upon which he was con- 
demned ; for his actions were not now placed in those injurious 
lights in which they had been misrepresented to AUworthy ; nor 
could he mention those many false accusations which had been 
from time to time preferred against him to AUworthy; for 
with none of these he was himself acquainted. He had like- 
wise, as we have observed, omitted many material facts in his 
present relation. Upon the whole, indeed, every thing now 
appeared in such favourable colours to Jones, that malice itself 
would have found it no easy matter to fix any blame upon him. 

Not that Jones desired to conceal or to disguise the -truth ; 
nay, he would have been more unwilling to have suffered any 
censure to fall on Mr. AUworthy for punishing him, than on 
his own actions for deserving it ; but, in reality, so it happened, 
and so it always will happen ; for let a man be never so honest, 
the account of his own conduct will, in spite of himself, be so 
very favourable, that his vices will come purified through his 
lips, and, like foul liquors well strained, will leave all their 
foulness behind. For though the facts themselves may appear, 
yet so different will be the motives, circumstances, and conse- 
quences, when a man tells his own story, and when his enemy 
tells it, that we scarce can recognise the facts to be one and 
the same. 

Though the barber had drank down this story with greedy 
ears, he was not yet satisfied. There was a circumstance 
behind, which his curiosity, cold as it was, most eagerly longea 
for. Jones had mentioned the fact of his amour, and of his 
being the rival of Blifil, but had cautiously concealed the nanH; 
of the young lady. The barber, therefore, after some hesita- 
tion, and many hums and hahs, at last begged leave to crave 
the name of the lady, who appeared to be the principal can^ . 


of an this mischief. Jones paused a moment, and then said, 
*' Since I have trusted yuu with so much, and since, I am afraid, 
her name is become too public already on this occasion, I will 
not conceal it from you. Her name is. Sophia Western." 

*'Froh Deum atgue hominum fidem! Squire Western 
hath a daughter grown a woman I" *' Ay, and such a woman," 
cries Jones, ** that the world cannot match. No eye ever saw 
any thing so beautiful ; but that is her least excellence. Such 
8ense I such goodness I Oh, I could praise her for ever, and 
yet should omit half her virtues !" — ** Mr. Western a daughter 
grown up I"- cries the harber : '* I remember the father a boy ; 
well, iempus edax rerum,-^ 

The wine being now at an end, the barber pressed very 
eagerly to be his bottle ; but Jones absolutely refused, saying : 
'* He had already drank more than he ought, and that he now 
chose to retire to his room, where he wished he could procure 
himself a book.'' — '* A book I" cries Benjamin ; *' what book 
would you have ? Latin or English ? I have some curious 
books in both languages : such as Erasmi Colloquia, Ovid de 
Tridihus, Oradus ad Parnassum; and in English I have 
several of the best books, though some of them are a little 
torn ; but I have a great part of Stowe's Chronicle ; the sixth 
volume of Pope's Homer • the third volume of the Spectator ; 
the second volume of Echard's Roman History ; the Crafts- 
man ; Robinson Crusoe ; Thomas a Kempis : and two volumes 
of Tom Brown's Works. " 

** Those last," cries Jones, *' are books I never saw, so if 
you please lend me one of those volumes." The barber 
assured him he would be highly entertained; for he looked 
upon the author to have been one of the greatest wits that ever 
the nation produced. He then stepped to. his house, which 
was hard by, and immediately returned ; after which, the barber 
having received very strict injunctions of secrecy from Jones, 
and having sworn inviolably to maintain it, they separated ; the 
barber went home, and Jones retired to his chamber. 



In which more of the talents of Mr. Benjamin wiU Jppeor, tu wtU xn ^Aa ihii 
extraordinary person was. 

In the morning Jones grew a littlft i^easy at the deserriou 
of his surgeon, as he apprehended some Inconvenience, or even 
danger, might attend the not dressing his woand ; he inquired 
therefore of the drawer, what other surgeons were to be mot 
with in that neighbourhood. The drawer told him, there wafe 
one not far off ; but he had known him often to refuse to bn 
concerned after another had been sent for before him ; "but, 
sir," says he, " if you will take my advice, there is not a mnr 
in the kingdom can do your business better than the barBibr 
who was with you last night.. We look upon him to be one of 
the ablest men at a cut in all this neighbourhood. For 
though he hath not been here above three months, he hath 
done several great cures.'' 

The drawer was presently despatched for little Benjamin, 
who, being acquainted in what capacity he was wanted, pre- 
pared himself accordingly, and attended ; but with so different 
an air and aspect from that which he wore when his basin was 
under his arm, that he could scarce be known to be the same 

*'So, tonsor," says Jones, **I find you have more trades 
than one : how came you not to inform me of this last night ?" — 

'*A surgeon,'' answered Benjamin, with great gravity, ** is a 
profession, not a trade. The reason why I did not acquaint 
you last night that I professed this art, was that I then con- 
cluded you was under the hands of another gentlei^an, and J 
never love to interfere with my brethren in their business. Ars 
omnibus communis. But now, sir, if you please, I will in- 
spect your head, and when I see into your skull, I will give 
my opinion of your case." 

Jones had no great faith in this new professor ; however, he 
suffered him to open the bandage, and to look at his wound ; 
which, as soon as he had done, Benjamin began to groan and 
shake his head violently. Upon which Jones, in a peevish 
manner, bid him not play the fool, but tell him in what condi- 
tion he found him. ** ^YiaW 1 oas^^T ^qw ^^ ^ ^xi^^^'^wvs.^ ^^ ^ 


friend ?" said Bci\jamin. "As a friend, and seriously," said 
Jones. ''Why then, upon my soul," cries Benjamin, *Mt 
i¥0uld require a great deal of art to keep you from being well 
after a very few dressings ; and if you will suffer me to apply 
some salve of mine, I will answer for the success " Jones 
gave his consent, and the plaster was applied accordingly. 

"There, sir," cries Benjamin: "now I will, if you please, 
resume my former self; but a n^n is obliged to keep up some 
dignity in his countenance whilst he is performing these opera- 
tions, or the world will not submit to be handled by him. You 
can't imagine, sir, of how much consequence a grave aspect is 
to a grave character. A barber may make you laugh, but a 
surgeon ought rather to make you cry." 

"Mr. Barber, or Mr. Surgeon, or Mr. Barber-surgeon," 
said Jones — " O dear sir I" answered Benjamin, interrupting 
Wm, " Infmdum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem. You recal 
to my mitid that cruel separation of the united fraternities, so 
much to the prejudice of both bodies, as all separations must 
be, according to the old adage. Vis unita fortior ; which to 
be sure there are not wanting some of one or of the other 
fraternity who are able to construe. What a blow was this to 
me, who unite both in my own person." — " Well, by whatever 
name you please to be called,'* continued Jones, "you cer- 
tainly arc one of the oddest, most comical fellows I ever met 
with, and must have something very surprising in your story, 
which you must confess I have a right to hear. " — " I do con- 
fess it," answered Benjamin, "and will very readily acquaint 
you with it, when you have sufficient leisure, for I promise you 
It will require a good deal of time." Jones told him, he could 
never be more at leisure than at present. "Well, then," said 
Benjamin, " I will obey you ; but first I will fasten the door, 
that none may interrupt us." He did so, and then advancing 
with a solemn air to Jones, said, " I must begin by telling you, 
sir, that you yourself have been the greatest enemy I ever had." 
Jones was a little startled at this sudden declaration. "I 
your enemy, sir 1" says he, with much amazement, and some 
sternness in his look. " Nay, be not angry," said Benjamin, 
" for I promise you I am not. You are perfectly innocent o( 
having intended me any wrong •, fox 'jow ^«c& >SftRAi ^x^ \\5&s5v\»* 
84* 2a 


bat I shall, I believe, unriddle all this the moment I mention 
my name. Did you never hear, sir, of one Partridge, who had 
the honour of being reputed your father, and the misfortune 
of being ruined by that honour ?'' — " I have, indeed, heard of 
that Partridge, '* says Jones, '*and have always believed 
myself to be his son." — *' Well, sir," answered Benjamin, *' I 
am that Partridge ; but I here absolve you from all filial duty, 
for I do assure you, you son of mine." — "How!" 
replied Jones, '* and is it possible that a false suspicion should 
have drawn all the ill consequences upon you, with which I am 
too well acquainted ?" — "It is possible," cries Benjamin, "for 
it is so : but though it is Natural enough for men to hate even 
the innocent causes of their sufferings, yet I am of a different 
temper. I have loved you ever since I heard of your be- 
haviour to Black George, as I told you ; and I am convinced, 
from this extraordinary meeting, that you are born to make 
me amends for all I have suffered on that account. Besides, I 
dreamed, the night before I saw you, that I stumbled over a 
stool without hurting myself ; which plainly showed me some- 
thing good was towards me ; and last night I dreamed again, 
that I rode behind you on a milk-white mare, which is a very 
excellent dream, and betokens much good fortune, which I am 
resolved to pursue, unless you have the cruelty to deny me." 

"1 should be very glad, Mr. Partridge, " answered Jones, 
" to have it in my power to make you amends for your suffer- 
ings on my account, though at present I see no likelihood of 
it ; however, I assure you I will deny you nothing which is in 
my power to grant." 

" It is in your power, sure enough, " replied Benjamin ; " for 
I desire nothing more than leave to attend you in this expedi- 
tion. Nay, I have so entirely set my heart upon it, that if 
you should refuse me, you will kill both a barber and a surgeon 
in one breath." 

Jones answered, smiling, that he should be very sorry to be 
the occasion of so much mischief to the public. He then ad- 
vanced many prudential reasons, in order to dissuade Benjamin, 
(whom we shall hereafter call Partridge,) from his purpose; 
bat all were in vain. Partridge relied strongly on his dream 
of the milk-white mare. " 'Besv^^^., «\x,^'' ^^-^^V^, '" \^'t<imi8e 


you I have as good an inclination to the cause as any man can 
possibly have ; and go I will, whether you admit me to go in 
your company or not." 

Jones, who was as much pleased with Partridge, as Partridge 
could be with him, and who had not consulted his own incli- 
nation, but the good of the other, in desiring him to stay be- 
hind, when he found his friend so resolute, at last gave his con- 
sent; but then recollecting himself, he said, ** Perhaps, Mr. 
Partridge, you think I shall be able to support you, but I 
really am not;" and then taking out his purse, he told out 
nine guineas, which he declared were his whole fortune. 

Partridge answered, *' That his dependence was only on his 
future favour; for he was thoroughly convinced he would 
shortly have enough in his power. At present, sir," said he, 
'* I believe I am rather the richer man of the two ; but all I 
have is at your service, and at your disposal. I insist upon 
your taking the whole, and I beg only to attend you in the 
quality of your servant ; Nil desperandum est Teucro duce 
et auspice Teucro :^^ but to this generous proposal concern- 
ing the money, Jones would by no means submit. 

It was resolved to set out the next morning ; when a dif- 
ficulty arose concerning the baggage ; for the portmanteau of 
Mr. Jones was too large to be carried without a horse. 

"If I may presume to give my advice, '' says Partridge, 
''this portmanteau, with everything in it, except a few shirts, 
should be left behind. Those I shall be easily able to carry 
for you, and the rest of your clothes will remain very safe 
locked up in my house." 

This method was no sooner proposed than agreed to ; and 
then the barber departed, in order to prepare everything for 
his intended expedition. 


Containing belter reasons than any which have yet appeared for the conduct 
of Partridge ; an apology for the weakness of Jones ; and some further 
anecdotes concerning my landlady. 

Tbovoh Partridge was one of ttve mos\. «w\v^x^\I\M\o\\& ^V 
aer, be would hardly perhaps have desvt^^ \*o «jc^o\si\a2K^ 


Jones on his expedition merely from the omens of the jpiot- 
stool and white mare, if his prospect had been no better than 
to have shared the plunder gained in the field of battle. In 
fact, when Partridge came to ruminate on the relation he had 
heard from Jones, he could not reconcile to himself that Mr. 
Allworthy should turn his son, (for so he most firmly believed 
him to be,) out of doors, for any reason which he had heard 
assigned. He concluded, therefore, that the whole was a 
fiction, and that Jones, of whom he had often, from his cor- 
respondents, heard the wildest character, had in reality run 
away from his father. It came into his head, therefore, that 
if he could prevail with the young gentleman to return back 
to his father, he should by that means render a service to All- 
worthy which would obliterate all his former anger ; nay, in- 
deed, he conceived that very anger was counterfeited, and that 
Allworthy had sacrificed him to his own reputation. And 
this suspicion, indeed, he well accounted for, from the tender 
behaviour of that excellent man to the foundling child ; from 
his great severity to Partridge, who, knowing himself to be 
innocent, could not conceive that any other should think him 
guilty ; lastly, from the allowance which he had privately re- 
ceived long after the annuity had been publicly taken from 
him, and which he looked upon as a kind of smart-money, or 
rather by way of atonement for injustice ; for it is very un- 
common, I believe, for men to ascribe the benefactions they 
receive, to pure charity, when they can possibly impute them 
to any other motive. If he could by any means, therefore, 
persuade the young gentleman to return home, he doubted not 
but that he should again be received into the favour of All- 
worthy, and well rewarded for his pains ; nay, and should be 
again restored to his native country ; a restoration which 
Ulysses himself never ^vished more heartily than poor Par- 

As for Jones, he was well satisfied with the truth of what the 
other had asserted, and believed that Partridge had no other 
inducements but love to him and zeal for the cause ; — a blame- 
able want of caution and diffidence in the veracity of others, 
in which he was highly woiWvy of cexvsxire. To say the truth, 
there are but two ways by w\i\c\iTcv^ti.\i^c.Qm^'^Q%^^'5.^^^>&^ 


excellent quality. The one is from long experience, and the 
other is from nature ; which last, I presume, is often meant by 
genius, or great natural parts ; and it is infinitely the better of 
the two, not only as we are masters of it much earlier in life, 
but as it is much more infallible and conclusive ; for a man who 
hath been imposed on by ever so many, may still hope to find 
others more honest ; whereas he who receives certain necessary 
admonitions from within, that this is impossible, must have very 
little understanding indeed, if he ever renders himself liable to 
be once deceived. As Jones had not this gift from nature, he 
was too young to have gained it by experience ; for at the diffi- 
dent wisdom which is to be acquired this way, we seldom arrive 
till very late in life ; which is perhaps the reason why some old 
men are apt to despise the understandings of all those who are 
a little younger than themselves. 

Jones spent most part of the day in the company of a new 
acquaintance. This was no other than the landlord of the 
house, or rather the husband of the landlady. He had but 
lately made his descent down stfeirs, after a long fit of the gout, 
in which distemper he was generally confined to his room during 
one-half of the year ; and during the rest, he walked about the 
house, smoked his pipe, and drank his bottle with his friends, 
without concerning himself in the least with any kind of busi- 
ness. He had been bred, as they call it, a gentleman ; that is, 
bred up to do nothing ; and had spent a very small fortune, 
which he inherited from an industrious farmer, his uncle, in 
hunting, horse-racing, and cock-fighting; and had been mar- 
ried by my landlady for certain purposes, which he had long 
since desisted from answering ; for which she hated him heartily. 
But as he was a surly kind of fellow, so she contented herself 
with frequently upbraiding him by disadvantageous compari- 
sons with her first husband, whose praise she had eternally in 
her mouth ; and as she was, for the most part, mistress of the 
profit, so she was satisfied to take upon herself the care and 
government of the family, and, after a long and successful 
struggle, to suffer her husband to be master of himself. 

In the evening, when Jones retired to his room, a small dis- 
pute arose between this fond couple concerning him : " What," 
aayg the wife, ''you liave tippling witti \kt g^iL\\«aiWi>\ ^^Rft^'^'* 


"Yes," answered the husband, *'we have cracked. a bottle 
together, and a very gentlemanlike man he is, and hath a very 
pretty notion of horse-flesh. Indeed, he is young, and hath 
not seen much of the world ; for I believe he hath been at very 
few horse-races." "O ho I he is one of your order, is he?" 
replies the landlady : '* he must be a gentleman, to be sure, if 
he is a horse-racer. The devil fetch such gentry : I am sure I 
wish I had never seen ahy of them. I have reason to love 
horse-racers, truly I" **That you have," says the husband; 
**for I was one, you know." "Yes," answered she, "you are 
a pure one, indeed. As my first husband used to say, I may 
put all the good I have ever got by you in my eyes, and see 
never the worse." ''D — n your first husband," cries he. 
' ' Don't d — n a better man than yourself, " answered the wife : 
"if he had been alive, you durst not have done it." "Then 
you think," says he, " I have not so much courage as yourself; 
for you have d — n'd him often in my hearing." " If 1 did,'? 
said she, "I have repented of it many 's the good time and 
oft : and if he was so good to forgive me a word spoken in 
haste or so, it doth not become such a one as you to twitter me. 
He was a husband to me, he was ; and if ever 1 did make use 
of an ill word or so in a passion, I never called him rascal ; I 
should have told a lie, if I nad called him rascal." Much 
more she said, but not in his hearing ; for, having lighted his 
pipe, he staggered off as fast as he could. We shall therefore 
transcribe no more of her speech, as it approached still nearer 
and nearer to a subject too indelicate to find any place in this 

Early in the morning Partridge appeared at the bedside of 
Jones, ready equipped for the journey, with his knapsack at 
his back. This was his own workmanship; for, besides his 
other trades, he was no indifferent tailor. He had already put 
up his whole stock of linen in it, consisting of four shirts, to 
which he now added eight for Mr. Jones ; and then packing 
up the portmanteau, he was departing with it towards his own 
house, but was stopped in his way by the landlady, who refused 
to suffer any removals till after the payment of the reckoning. 

The landlady was, as we have said, absolute governess m 
these regions ; it was ttieT^tot^ u^^^^^wj \ft ^^m^ly with her 


rules ; so the bill was presently writ out, which amounted to a 
much larger sum than might have been expected from 'the 
entertainment which Jones had met with. But here we are 
obliged to disclose some maxims, which publicans hold to be 
the grand mysteries of their trade. The first is, if they have 
any thing good in their house, (which indeed very seldom 
happens,) to produce it only to persons who travel with great 
equipages. Secondly, to charge the same for the very worst 
provisions, as if they were the best. And lastly, if any of 
their guests call but for little, to make them pay a double price 
for every thing they have; so that the amount by the head 
may be much the same. 

The bill being made and discharged, Jones set forward with 
Partridge, carrying his knapsack ; nor did the landlady con- 
descend to wish him a good journey ; for this was, it seems, 
an inn frequented by people of fashion ; and I know not 
whence it is, but all those who get their livelihood by people 
of fashion, contract as much insolence to the rest of mankind, 
as if they really belonged to that rank themselves. 


Jones arrives at Gloucester^ and goes to the Bell; the character of that house, 
and of a pettifogger which hs there meets with. 

Mr. Jones and Partridge, or Little Benjamin, (which 
epithet of Little was perhaps given him ironically, he being in 
reality near six feet high,) having left their last quarters in the 
manner before described, travelled on to Gloucester, without 
meeting any adventure worth relating. 

Being arrived here, they chose for their !iouse of entertain- 
ment the sign of the Bell, an excellent house indeed, and which 
I do most seriously recommend to every reader who shall visit 
this ancient city. The master of it is brother to the great 
preacher Whitefield ; but is absolutely untainted with the per- 
nicious principles of methodism, or of any other heretical sect. 
He is indeed a very honest plain man, and, in my opinion, not 
likely to create any disturbance either in church or state. His 
wife bath, I believe, had much pretemoiL lo \i^^itoj,^X!k.^ *^^ ^^^ 


a very fine woman. Her person and deportmeni; might ha7e 
made a shining figare in the politest assemblies ; but though 
she must be conscious of this and many other perfections, she 
seems perfectly contented with, and resigned to, that state of 
life to which she is called; and that resignation is entirely 
owing to the prudence and wisdom of her temper ; for r;ho :s 
at present as free from any methodistical notions as her .^as- 
band: I say at present; for she freely confesses that her 
brother's documents made at first some impression upon her, 
and that she had put herself ♦o the expense of a long hood, in 
order to attend the extraordinary emotions of the Spirit ; but 
having found, during an experiment of three weeks, no emotion, 
she says, worth a farthing, she very wisely laid by her hood, 
and abandoned the sect. To be concise, she is a very friendly, 
good-natured woman ; and so industrious to oblige, that the 
guests must be of a very morose disposition who are not 
extremely well satisfied in her house. 

Mrs. Whitefield happened to be in the yard when Jones 
and his attendant marched in. 3er sagaolty sooi. discovered 
in the air of our hero something which distinguished him from 
the vulgar. She ordered her servants, therefore, immediately 
to show him into a room, and presently afterwards invited him 
to dinner with hersel^^; .^tiich invitation he very thankfully 
accepted ; for indeed much less agreeable company than that of 
Mrs. Whitefield, and a much worse entertainment than she had 
provided, would have been welcome, after so long fasting, and 
so long a walk. Besides Mr. Jones and the good governess 
of the mansion, there sat down at table an attorney of Salis- 
bury, indeed the. very same who had brought the news of Mrs. 
Blifil's death to Mr. All worthy, and whose name, which I 
think we did not before mention, was Dowling : there was 
likewise present another person, who styled himself a lawyer, 
and who lived somewhere near Linlinch, in Somersetshire, 
This fellow, I say, styled himself a lawyer, but was, indeed, a 
most vile pettifogger, without sense orlmowledge of any kind; 
one of those who may be termed trainbearers to the law ; a 
sort of supernumeraries in the profession, who are the hack- 
neya of attorneys, and w\\\ tide more miles for half a crown 
than A postboy. 


During the time of dinner, the Somersetshire lawyer recol- 
lected the face of Jones, which he had seen at Mr. AUworthy's ; 
for he had often visited in that gentleman's kitchen. He 
therefore took occasion to inquire after the good family 
there with that familiarity which would have become an intimate 
friend or acquaintance of Mr. -A llworthy ; and indeed he did 
all in his power to insinuate himself to be such, though he had 
neve* had the honour of speaking to any person in that family 
higher than the butler. Jones answered all his questions with 
much civility, though he never remencbered to have seen the 
rettifoggei before ; and though he concluded, from the outward 
apf earancfc and behaviour of- the man, that he usurped a free- 
dom with his betters, to which he was by no means entitled. 

As the conversation of fellows of this kind is of all others 
i^e most detestable to men of any sense, the cloth was no 
sooner removed than Mr. Jones withdrew, and a little barbar- 
ously left poor Mrs. Whitefield to do a penance, which I have 
ofien heard Mr. Timothy Harris, and other publicans of good 
taste, lament, as the severest lot annexed to their calling, 
namely, that of being obliged to keep company with their 

Jones had no sooner quitted the room, than the pettifogger, 
in a whispering tone, asked Mrs. Whitefield, *'If she knew 
wh'. that fine spark wag-?'' She answered, *' She had never 
secL the gentleman before. '^ — "The gentleman, indeed I" 
replied the pettifogger; **a pretty gentleman, truly I Why, 
he's the bastard of a fellow who was hanged for horse-stealing. 
He was dropped at Squire AUworthy's door, where one of the 
servants found him in a box so full of rain-water that he would 
certainly have been drowned, had he not been reserved for 
another fate." — '* Ay, ay, you need not mention it, I protest ; 
we understand what that fate is very well," cries Dowling, with 
a most facetious grin. — ''Well," continued the other, ''the 
squire ordered him to be taken in ; for he is a timbersome man 
every body knows, and was afraid of drawing himself into a 
scrape; and there the bastard was bred up, and fed, and 
clothified to all the world like any gentleman ; and there he 
got one of the servant-maids with child, aTid ^^t^wa.^^^V'Kt \si 
Bw^jr it to the aqnire himself ; and aftei^aTds \i^ \stc}«.^ ""^^ 

L — ^5 


arm of one Mr. Thwackum, a clergyman, only becanse be 
reprimanded him for following whores ; and afterwards he 
suapt a ])istol at Mr. Blifil behind his back ; and once, when 
Squire Allworthy was sick, he got a drum, and beat it all over 
the house, to prevent him from sleeping; and twenty other 
pranks he hath played, for all which, about four or five days 
ago, just before I left the country, the squire stripped him stark 
naked, and turned him out of doors.'' 

"And very justly, too, I protest," cnes Dowling ; ''I 
would turn my own son out of doors, if he was guilty of half 
as much. And pray what is the name of this pretty gentle- 
man ?'' 

"The name o' um ?" answered Pettifogger; ''why, he is 
called Thomas Jones.'' 

" Jones !" answered Dowling, a little eagerly ; ** what, Mr. 
Jones that lived at Mr. All worthy's I was that the gentleman 
that dined with us?" — "The very same," said the other. 
*' I have heard of the gentleman," cries Dowling, *' often; but 
I never heard any ill character of him." — "And I am sure," 
says Mrs. Whitcfield, * ' if half what this gentleman hath said 
be true, Mr. Jones hath the most deceitful countenance I ever 
saw ; for sure his looks promise something very different ; and 
I must say, for the little I have seen of him, he is as civil a 
WTll-bred man as you would wish' to converse with." 

Pettifogger calling to mind that he had not been sworn, as 
he usually was, before he gave his evidence, now bound what 
he had declared with so many oaths and imprecations, that the 
landlady's ears were shocked, and she put a stop to his swear- 
ing, by assuring him of her belief. Upon which he said, " I 
hope, madam, you imagine I would scorn to tell such things 
of any man, unless I knew them to be true. What interest 
have I in taking away the reputation of a man who never 
injured me ? I promise you every syllable of what I have said 
is a fact, and the whole country knows it." 

As Mrs. Whitefield had no reason to suspect that the petti- 
fogger had any motive or temptation to abuse Jones, the reader 
cannot blame her for believing what he so confidently affirmed 
with many oaths. She acicot^\w^\^ ^ up her skill in 
obyaiognomj, and beuceforvfot^ ^o\iCi€\^^^ %^7S\.«xv^^\B^iSs^^ 

guest, that 8lieheaTU\y m^\i^^\iVmwi\.^\V«tV^»Q«fe. 


This dislike was now farther increased by a report which Mr. 
Whitefield made from the kitchen, where Partridge had 
informed the company, ** That though he carried the knapsack, 
and contented himself with staying among servants, while 
Tom Jones, (as he called him,) was regaling himself in the 
parlour, he was not his servant, but only a friend and com- 
panion, and as good a gentleman as Mr. Jones himself. ' ' 

Bowling sat all this while silent, biting his fingers, making 
faces, grinning, and looking wonderfully arch ; at last he opened 
his lips, and protested that the gentleman looked like another 
sort of man. He then called for his bill with the utmost haste, 
declared he must be at Hereford that evening, lamented his 
great hurry of business, and wished he could divide himself into 
twenty pieces, in order to be at once in twenty places. 

The pettifogger now likewise departed, and then Jones de- 
sired the favour of Mrs. Whitefield's company to drink tea 
with him ; but she refused, and with a manner so different from 
that with which she had received him at dinner, that it a little 
surprised him. And now he soon perceived her behaviour 
totally changed ; for instead of that natural affability which 
we have before celebrated, she wore a constrained severity or 
her countenance, which was so disagreeable to Mr. Jones, 
that he resolved, however late, to quit the house that evening. 

He did, indeed, account somewhat unfairly for this sudden 
change ; for, besides some hard and unjust surmises concerning 
female fickleness and mutability, he began to suspect that he 
owed this want of civility to his want of horses ; a sort of 
animals which, as they dirty no sheets, are thought in inns to 
pay better for their beds than their riders, and are therefore 
considered as the more desirable company ; but Mrs. Whitefield, 
to do her justice, had a much more liberal way of thinking. 
She was perfectly well-bred, and could be very civil to a gentle- 
man, though he walked on foot. In reality, she looked on our 
hero as a sorry scoundrel, and therefore treated him as such ; 
for which not even Jones himself, had he known as much as the 
reader, could have blamed her ; nay, on the contrary, he must 
have approved her conduct, and have esteemed her the more 
for the disrespect shown towards himself. T Vv\^ \^ ydAr,^^ ^\sift'^ 
aggraraUng circumstance which attends dei^t\V\iL\^\!(i<^^i'Qc^^^^ 


of their reputation ; for a man who is conscious of having an 
ill character, cannot justly be angry with those who neglect and 
slight him ; but ought rather to despise such as affect his con- 
versation, unless where a perfect intimacy must have convinced 
them that their friend's character hath been falsely and inju- 
riously aspersed. 

This was not, however, the case of Jones ; for as he was a 
perfect stranger to the truth, so he was, with good reason, of- 
fended at the treatment he received. He therefore paid his 
reckoning and departed, highly against the will of Mr. Part- 
ridge, who, having remonstrated much against it to no purpose, 
at last condescended to take up his knapsack, and to attend his 


Containing several dialogues between Jones and Partridge, eoneemtng love, 
cold, hunger, and other matters ; with the lucky and narrow escape of 
Partridge, as he was on the very brink of making a fatal discovery to hit ■ 

The shadows began now to descend larger from the high 
mountains ; the feathered creation Bad betaken themselves to 
their rest. Now the highest order of mortals were sitting down 
to their dinners, and the lowest order to their suppers. In a 
word, the clock struck five just as Mr. Jones took his leave of 
Gloucester ; an hour at which (as it was now mid-winter) the 
dirty fingers of night would have drawn her sable curtain over 
the universe, had not the moon forbid her, who now, with a 
face as broad and as red as those of some jolly mortals, who, 
like her, turn night into day, began to rise from her bed, where 
she had slumbered away the day, in order to sit up all night. 
Jones had not travelled far before he paid his compliments to 
that beautiful planet, and, turning to his companion, asked him 
if he had ever beheld so delicious an evening? Partridge 
making no ready answer to his question, he proceeded to com- 
ment on the beauty of the moon, and repeated some passages 
from Milton, who hath certainly excelled all other poets in his 
description of the heavenly luminaries. He then told Part- 
ridge the story from lAiG &^^c\aX.0T, qI \w^ \w^^w. "vIlo haJ 


agreed to entertain themselves when they were at a great dis- 
tance from each other, by repairing, at a certain fixed hour, 
to look at the moon ; thus pleasing themselves with the thought 
that they were both employed in contemplating the same object 
at the same time. *' Those lovers," added he, " must have had 
Bouls truly capable of feeling all the tenderness of the sublimest 
of. all human passions. " 

*' Very probably," cries Partridge ; " but I envy them more, 
if they had bodies incapable of feeling cold : for I am almost 
frozen to death, and I am very much afraid I shall lose a piece 
of my nose before we get to another house of entertainment. 
Nay, truly, we may well expect some judgment should happen 
to us for our folly in running away so by night from one of the 
most excellent inns I ever set my foot into. I am sure I never 
saw more good things in my life, and the greatest lord in the 
land cannot live better in his own house than he may there. 
And to forsake such a house, and go a rambling about the 
country, the Lord knows whither, per devia rura viarum, I 
say nothing, for my part ; but some people might not have 
charity enough to conclude we were in our sober senses.'^ 
"Fie upon it, Mr. Partridge,'' says Jones, *'have a better 
heart ; consider you are going to face an enemy ; and are you 
afraid of facing a little cold ? I wish, indeed, we had a guide 
to advise which of these roads we should take." '* May I be 
so bold," says Partridge, "to offer ray advice? Interdum 
stuliuB opportuna loquitur.^' *• Why, which of them," cried 
Jones, "would you recommend ?" " Truly, neither of them," 
answered Partiidge. "The only road we can be certain of 
finding is the road we came. A good hearty pace will bring 
us back to Gloucester in an hour ; but if we go forward, tbo 
Lord Harry knows when we shall arrive at any place ; for I 
see at least fifty miles before me, and no house in all the way." 
"You see, indeed, a very fair prospect," says Jones, "which 
receives great additional beauty from the extreme lustre of the 
moon. However, I will keep the left-hand track, as that seems- 
to lead directly to those hills, which we were informed lie not 
far from Worcester. And here, if you are inclined to quit me, 
you may, and return back again ; but, for my part, I am re* 
bOlyed to go forward. '' 


" It is unkind in you, sir," says Partridge, '*to suspect me 
of any sach intention. What I have advised hath been' as 
much on your account as my own : but since you are deter- 
mined to go on, I am as much determined to follow. / pros 
sequar <e." 

They now travelled some miles without speaking co each 
other, during which suspense of discourse Jones often sighed, 
and Benjamin groaned as bitterly, though from a very diflferent 
reason. At length Jones made a full stop, and turning about, 
cries, ''Who knows, Partridge, but the loveliest creature in 
the universe may have her eyes now fixed on that very moon 
which I behold at this instant I" — **Very likely, sir," an- 
swered Partridge ; *' and if my eyes were fixed on a good sir- 
loin of roast beef, the devil might take the moon and her 
horns into the bargain.'' — "Did ever Tramontane make such 
an answer?" cries Jones. "Prithee, Partridge, wast thou 
ever susceptible of love in thy life, or hath time worn away ill 
traces of it from thy memory ?" — "Alack-a-day," cries Part- 
ridge, "well would it have been for me if I had never known 
what love was. Infandum, reginay jubes renovare dolorem. 
I am sure I have tasted all the tenderness, and sublimities, and 
bitterness of the passion.'' — "Was your mistress unkind, 
then?" said Jones. "Very unkind, indeed, sir," answered 
Partridge ; " for she married me, and made one of the most 
confounded wives in the world. However, Heaven be 
praised, she's gone; and if I believed she was in the moon, ac- 
cording to a book I once read, which teaches that to be the 
receptacle of departed spirits. I would never look at it for fear 
of seeing her ; but I wish, sir, that the moon was a looking- 
glass for your sake, and that Miss Sophia Western was now 
placed before it." — "My dear Partridge," cries Jones, "what 
a thought was there I A thought which I am certain coula 
never have entered into any mind but that of a lover. O Part- 
ridge I could I hope once again to see that face I but, alas i 
all those golden dreams are vanished for ever, and my only 
refuge from future misery is to forget the object of all my 
former happiness. ' ' — "And do you really despair of ever seeing 
Miss Western again?-' answered Partridge; *'if you will 
follow my advice, I wiW enga.^^ ^o\3L^'8iJ^\i<>\. ov^'^ ^^r^^qc^ but 
"e her in your arms." 


''Ha! do not awaken a thought of that nature," cries 
Jones: **I have struggled sufficiently to conquer all such 
wishes already.'* — "Nay," answered Partridge, **if you do 
not wish to have your mistress in your arms, you are a most 
extraordinary lover indeed." — "Well, well," says Jones, 'Met 
ns avoid this subject ; but pray what is your advice ?" — ** To 
give it you in the military phrase, then," says Partridge, *' as 
we are soldiers, ' To the right about I' Let us return the 
way we came : we may yet reach Gloucester to-night though 
late ; whereas, if we proceed, we are likely, for aught I see, 
to ramble about for ever without coming either to house or 
home." — '' I have already told you my resolution is to go on," 
answered Jones; ''but I would have you go back. I am 
obliged to you for your company hither ; and I beg you to 
accept a guinea as a small instance of my gratitude. Nay, it 
would be cruel in me to suffer you to go any farther ; for, to 
deal plainly with you, my chief end and desire is a glorious 
death in the service of my king and country." — " As for your 
money," replied Partridge, '* I beg, sir, you will put it up ; I 
will receive none of you at this time ; for at present I am, I 
believe, the richer man of the two. And as your resolution is 
to go on, so mine is to follow if you do. Nay, now my pre- 
sence appears absolutely necessary to take care of you, since 
your intentions are so desperate ; for I promise you my views 
are much more prudent ; as you are resolved to fall in battle 
if you can, so I am resolved as firmly to come to no hurt if I 
can help it. And, indeed, I have the comfort to think there 
wiL be but little danger ; for a popish priest told me the other 
day, the business would soon be over, and he believed without 
a battle." — "A popish priest," cries Jones, " I have heard is 
not always to be believed when he speaks in behalf of his re- 
ligion." — "Yes, but so far," answered the other, "from 
speaking in behalf of his religion, he assured me the catholics 
did not expect to be any gainers by the change ; for that Prince 
Cbarleb was as good a protcstant as any iu England ; and that 
jctVing but regard to right made him and the rest of the 
pop?.sh party to be Jacobites." — " I believe him to be as much 
a protestant as I believe he hath any right," says Jones ; " and 
'i make no doubt of our success, but uol m\i\iOM\. Vi.\i^\.^^* ^^ 


that I am not so sanguine as your friend the popish priest. " — 
'* Nay, to be sure, sir,*' answered Partridge, ** all the prophecies 
I have ever read, speak of a great deal of blood to be spilt in 
the quarrel ; and the miller with three thumbs, who is now 
alive, is to hold the horses of three kings, up to his knees in 
blood. Lord have mercy upon us all, and send better times I" 
— *' With what stuff and nonsense hast thou filled thy head I'' 
answered Jones. "This too, I suppose, comes from the 
popish priest. Monsters and prodigies are the proper argu- 
ments to support monstrous and absurd doctrines. The cause 
of King George is the cause of liberty end true religion. In 
other words, it is the cause of common sense, my boy, and I 
warrant you will succeed, though Briareus himself was to rise 
again with his hundred thumbs, and to turn miller. " Partridge 
made no reply to this. He-was indeed cast into the utmost 
confusion by this declaration of Jones. For to inform the 
reader of a secret, which we had no proper opportunity of re- 
vealing before. Partridge was in truth a Jacobite, and had 
concluded that Jones was of the same party, and was now pro- 
ceeding to join the rebels. An opinion which was not without 
foundation. For the tall long-sided dame, mentioned by Hu- 
dibras ; that many-eyed, many-tongued, many-mouthed, many- 
eared monster of Yirgil, had related the story of the quaiTel 
between Jones and the ofl&cer, with her usual regard to truth. 
She had indeed changed the name of Sophia into that of the 
Pretender, and had reported, that drinking his health was the 
cause for which Jones was knocked down. This Partridge 
had heard, and most firmly believed. 'Tis no wonder, there- 
fore, that he had thence entertained the above-mentioned 
opinion of Jones ; and which he had almost iiscovered to him 
before he found out his own mistake. And at this the reader 
will be the less inclined to wonder, if he pleases to recollect 
the doubtful phrase in which Jones first communicated his re- 
sohition to Mr. Partridge ; and, indeed, haa the words been 
less ambiguous. Partridge might very well have construed thera 
as he did ; being persuaded, as he was, that the whole nation 
were of the same inclination in their hearts : nor did it stagger 
him that Jones had travelled in the company of soldiers ; foi 


he had the same opinion of the army which he had of the rest 
of the people. 

But however well affected be might be to James or Charles, 
he was still much more attached to Little Benjamin than either ; 
for which reason he no sooner discovered the principles of his 
fellow-traveller, than he thought proper to conceal, and out 
wardly to give up, his own to the man on whom he depended 
for the making of his fortune, since he by no means believed 
the affairs of Jones to be so desperate as they really were with 
Mr. Allworthy ; for as he had kept a constant correspondence 
with some of his neighbours since he had left that country, he 
had heard much, indeed more than was true, of the great affec- 
tion Mr. Allworthy bore this young man, who, as Partridge 
had been instructed, was to be that gentleman's heir, and 
whom, as we have said, he did not in the least doubt to be his 

He imagined, therefore, that whatever quarrel was between 
them, it would be certainly made up at the return of Mr. Jones ; 
an event from which he promised great advantages, if he could 
take this opportunity of ingratiating himself with that young 
gentleman ; and if he could by any means be instrumental iu 
procuring his return, he doubted not, as we have before said, 
but it would as highly advance him in the favour of Mr. 

We have already observed, that he was a very good-natnred 
fellow, and he hath himself declared the violent attachment he 
had to the person and character of Jones ; but possibly the 
views which I have Just before mentioned, might likewise have 
some little share in prompting him to undertake this expedi- 
tion, at least in urging him to continue it, after he had dis- 
covered that his master and himself, like some prudent fathers 
and sons, though they travelled together in great friendship, 
had embraced opposite parties. I am led into this conjecture, 
by having remarked, that though love, friendship, esteem, and 
such like, have very powerful operations in the human mind ; 
interest however is an ingredient seldom omitted by wise men, 
when they would work others to their own purposes. This is 
indeed a most excellent medicine, and, like Ward's pill, fliea 



at once to the particular part of the body on which you desir? 
to operate, whether it be the tongue, the hand, or any other 
member, where it scarce ever fails of immediately producing 
the desired effect. 


In whten our travelUra met udfh a very extraordinary adventure. 

Just as Jones and hja^ friend came to the end of their dia^ 
logue in the preceding chapter, they arrived at the bottom of 
a very steep hill. Here Jones stopped short, and directing hia 
eyes upwards, stood for a while silent. At length he called to 
his companion, and said '* Partridge, I wish I was at the top 
of this hill ; it must certainly afford a most charming prospect 
especially by this light ; for the solemn gloom which the moon 
casts on all objects, is beyond expression beautiful, especially 
to an imagination which is desirous of cultivating melancholy 
ideas." ** Very probably," answered Partridge ; '* but if the 
top of the hill be properest to produce melancholy thoughts, I 
suppose the bottom is the likeliest to produce merry ones, and 
these I take to be much the better of the two. I protest you 
have made my blood run cold with the very mentioning the top 
of that mountain ; which seems to me to be one of the highest 
in the world. No, no, if we look for any thing, let it be for a 
place under ground, to screen ourselves from the frost.** ** Do 
so," said Jones ; *' let it be within hearing of this place, and I 
will halloo to you at my return back.'' *' Surely, sir, you ere 
not mad ?" said Partridge. ** Indeed, I am," answered Jones, 
* ' if ascending this hill be madness ; but as you complain so 
much of the cold already, I would have you stay below. I will 
certainly return to you within an hour." ** Pardon me, sir," 
cries Partridge ; ' * I have determined to follow you wherever 
you go. " Indeed he was now afraid to stay behind ; for though 
he was coward enough in all respects, yet his chief fear was 
that of ghosts, with which the present time of ^ight. and tht 
wildness of the place, extremely well suited. 

At this instant Partridge espied a glimmering light through 
Bome trees, which seemed very near to them. He immediately 
criod out in a rapture, **0\i\ «k,1afc^^<£ViV^^ii^t liaat heard 


my prayers, and hath brought us to a house ; perhaps it may 
be an inn. Let me beseech you, sir, if you have any compas- 
sion either for me or yourself, do not despise the goodness of 
Providence, but let us go directly to yon light. Whether it be 
a public house or no, I am sure, if they be Christians that 
dwell there, they will not refuse a little house-room to persons 
in our miserable condition." Jones at length yielded to the 
earnest supplications of Partridge, and both together made di- 
rectly towards the place whence the light issued. 

They soon arrived at the door of this house, or cottage, foi 
it might be called either, without much impropriety. Here 
Jones knocked several times, without receiving any answer from 
within ; at which Partridge, whose head was full of nothing 
but of ghosts, devils, witches, and such like, began to tremble, 
crying, " Lord have mercy upon us I sure the people must be 
all dead. I can see no light neither now, and yet I am certain 
I saw a candle burning but a moment before. Well, I have 
heard of such things." **What hast thou heard of?" said 
Jones. "The people are either fast asleep, or probably, as 
this is a lonely place, are afraid to open their door." He then 
began to vociferate pretty loudly, and at last an old woman, 
opening an upper casement, asked. Who they were, and wliax 
they wanted ? Jones answered, They were travellers who had 
lost their way, and, having seen a light in the window, had 
been led thither in hopes of finding some fire to warm them- 
selves. "Whoever you are," cries the woman, '*you have no 
business here ; nor shall I open the door to any body at this 
time of night." Partridge, whom the sound of a human voice 
had recovered from his fright, fell to the most earnest supplica- 
tions to be admitted for a few minutes to the fire, * ' He was 
almost dead with the cold ; " to which fear had contributed 
equally with the frost. He assured her, that the gentleman 
who spoke to her, was one of the greatest squires in the 
country : and made use of every argument, save one, which 
Jones afterwards effectually added ; and this was, the promise 
of half a crown ; — a bribe too great to be resided by sucli a 
person, especially as the genteel appearance oi Jones, which 
the light of the moon plainly discovered to her, together with 
his affable behaviour, had entirely «ub4\xfed \XiO^^ ^^"^\^\\k^^\^^^ 


of thieves which she had at first conceived. She agreed, there* 
fore, at last, to let them in ; where Paiiridge, to his infinite joy, 
found a good fire ready for his reception. 

The poor fellow, however, had no sooner wanned himself, 
than those thoughts which were always uppermost in his mind, 
began a little to disturb his brain. There was no article of 
his creed in which he had a stronger faith than ioe bad in witch- 
craft ; nor can the reader conceive a figure more adapted to in- 
spire this idea, than the old woman who now stood befwe him. 
She answered exactly to that picture drawn by Otway in his 
Orphan. Indeed, if this woman had lived in the reign of 
James the First, her appearance alone would have hanged her, 
almost without any evidence. 

Many circumstances likewise conspired to cojifirm Partridge 
in his opinion. Her living, as he then imagined, by herself m 
so lonely a place ; and in a house, the outside of which seemed 
much too good for her; but its inside was furnished in the 
most neat and elegant manner. To say the truth, Jones him- 
self was not a little surprised at what he saw ; for, besides the 
extraordinary neatness of the room, it was adorned with a great 
number of nicknacks and curiosities, which might have en- 
gaged the attention of a virtuoso. 

While Jones was admiring these things, and Partridge sat 
trembling with the firm belief that he was in the house of a 
witch, the old woman said, *' I hope, gentlemen, you will make 
what haste you can ; for I expect my master presently, and I 
would not for double the money he should find you here. ' ' — 
"Then you have a master, *' cries Jones. ''Indeed, you will 
excuse me, good woman, but I was surprised to see all those 
fine things in your house.'' *'Ah, sir," said she, '* if the 
twentieth part of these things were mine, I should think myself 
a rich woman. But pray, sir, do not stay much longer, for I 
look for him in every minute. " — ** Why sure he would not be 
angry with you," said Jones, *'for doing a common act of 
charity?'' — **Alack-a-day, sir," said she, *'he is a strange 
man, not at alklike other people. He keeps no company with 
any body, and seldom \^alks out but by night, for he doth not 
care to he seen ; and all the country people are as much afraid 
of meeting him : for bis dxesa \a ex^oxsi^X.^ \Yv^\fe\i 'vkssssfc^^Q 


are not used to it. They call bim, The Man of the Hill, (for 
there he walks by night,) and the country people are not, I 
believe, more afraid of the devil himself. He would be ter- 
ribly angry if he found you here." — "Pray, sir,'' says Par- 
tridge, "don't let us oflfend the gentleman; I am ready to 
walk, and was never warmer in my life. Do, pray, sir, let us 
go. Here are pistols over the chimney ; who knows whether 
they be charged or no, or what he may do with them.'' — 
"Fear nothing, Partridge," cries Jones; "I will secure thje 
from danger." — ''Nay, for matter o' that, he never doth any 
mischief," said the woman ; '' but to be sure it is necessary he 
shoold keep some arms for his own safety ; for his house hath 
been beset more than once ; and it is not many nights ago that 
we thought we heard thieves about it : for my own part, I 
have often wondered that he is not murdered by some villain 
or other, as he walks out by himself at such hours ; but then, 
as I said, the people are afraid of him ; and besides they 
think, I suppose, he hath nothing about him worth taking. " — 
"I should imagine, by this collection of rarities," cries Jones, 
"that your master had been a traveller." — ''Yes, sir," an- 
swered she, " he hath been a very great one : there be few 
gentlemen that know more of all matters than he. I fancy he 
hath been crossed in love, or whatever it is I know not ; but I 
have lived with him above these thirty years, and in all that 
time he hath hardly spoke to six living people. " She then 
again solicited their departure, in which she was backed by 
Partridge ; but Jones purposely protracted the time, for his 
curiosity was greatly raised to see this extraordinary person. 
Though the old woman, therefore, concluded every one of her 
answers with desiring him to be gone, and Partridge proceeded 
so far as to pull him by the sleeve, he still continued to invent 
new questions, till the old woman, with an affrighted counte- 
nance, declared she heard her master's signal ; and, at the 
same instant, more than one voice was heard, without the door, 
'crying, "D — ^n your blood, show us your money this instant. 
Your money, you villain, or we will blow your brains about 
your ears 1" 

"Oh, good Heaven 1" cries the old woman, "some villains^ 



to be sure, have attacked mv master. la I what shall I do f 
what shall I do ?" 

*' How I'' cries Jones, *' how ! — Are these pistols loaded ?" 
— '* Oh, good sir, there is nothing in them, indeed. O pray, 
don't murder us, gentlemen 1'' (for, in reality, she now had thf. 
same opinion of those within as she had of those without. 
Jones made her no answer; but, snatching an old broads ivord 
which hung in the room, he instantly sallied out, where he I'ound 
the old gentleman struggling with two ruflBans, and begging 
for mercy. Jones asked no questions, but fell so briskly to 
work with his broadsword, that the fellows immediately quitted 
their hold ; and, without ofifering to attack our hero, betook 
themselves to their heels, and made their escape ; foi he did 
not attempt to pursue them ; being contented with having de- 
livered the old gentleman ; and, indeed, he concluded he had 
pretty well done their business, for both of them, as they ran 
off, cried cut, with bitter oaths, that they were dead men. 

Jones presently ran to lift up the old gentleman, who had 
been thrown down in the scuflie, expressing, at the same time, 
great concern, lest he should have received any harm from the 
villains. The old man stared a moment at Jones, and theL 
cried, ''No, sir, no, I have very little harm, I thank you. 
Lord have mercy upon me !" — '* I see, sir,'' said Jones, *' you 
are not free from apprehensions even of those who have had 
the happiness to be your deliverers ; nor can I blame any sus- 
picion which you may have ; but indeed you have no real oc* 
casion for any ; here are none but your friends present. Hav- 
ing missed our way, this cold night, we took the liberty of 
warming ourselves at your fire, whence we were just departing, 
when we heard you call for assistance, which, I must say. 
Providence alone seems to have sent you.'' — ''Providence, 
indeed," cries the old gentleman, "if it be so." — *'So it is, I 
assure you," cries Jones. "Here is your own sword, sir; I 
have used it in your defence, and I now return it into your own 
hand." The old man having received the sword, which was 
stained with the blood of his enemies, looked steadfastly at 
Jones during some moments, and then, with a sigh, cried out, 
'' You will pardon me, young gentleman : I was not always of 
a suspicious temper, nor ami aM«\i^\*^\xv^^^\\\jAO^ — ^"B« 


thankfdi, then," cries Jones, "to that Providence to which 
yon owe your deliyerance : as to my paiii, I have only dis- 
charged the common duties of humanity, and what I would 
have done for any fellow-creature in your situation. '' — *' Let 
me look at you a little longer,'' cries the old gentleman. " You 
are a human creature, then ? Well, perhaps you are. Come, 
pray walk into my little hut. You have been my deliverer 

The old woman was distracted between the fears which she 
had of her master, and for him ; and Partridge was, if possible, 
in a greater fright. The former of these, however, when she 
heard her master speak kindly to Jones, and perceived what 
had happened, came again to herself; but Partridge no sooner 
saw the gentleman, than the strangeness of his dress infused 
greater terrors into that poor fellow, than he had before felt, 
either from the strange description which he had heard, or from 
the uproar which had happened at the door. 

To say the truth, it was an appearance which might have 
affected a more constant mind than that of Mr. Partridge. 
This person was of the tallest size, with a long beard as white 
as snow. His body was clothed with the skin of an ass, made 
something into the form of a coat. He wore, likewise, bootsi 
on his legs, and a cap on his head, both composed of the skin 
of some other animals. 

As soon as the old gentleman came into his house, the old 
woman began her congratulations on his happy escape from 
the ruffians. *' Yes,'' cried he, ** I have escaped indeed, thanks 
to my preserver." — " O, the blessing on him I" answered she : 
'* he is a good gentleman, I warrant him. I was afraid your 
worship would have been angry with me for letting him in ; 
and to be certain I should not have done it, had not I seen by 
the moonlight, that he was a gentleman, and almost frozen to 
death. And to be certain it must have been some good angel 
that sent him hither and tempted me to do it. " 

** I am afraid, sir," said the old gentleman to Jones, '* that 
I have nothing in this house which you can either eat or drink, 
unless you will accept a dram of brandy ; of which I can give 
you some most excellent, and which 1 have hadb^ \asi, ^}«s^^«%!^ 
Hiirtf fears, '' Jones declined thia oSet \\\ t\. ^«rj ^\Nr^ ^kS^ 


proper speech, and then the other asked him, *' AThither he was 
travelling when he missed his way ?" saying, " I must own 
myself surprised to see such a person as you appear to be, 
journeying on foot at this time of night. I suppose, sir, you 
are a gentleman of these parts ; for you do not look like one 
who is used to travel without horses." 

*' Appearances,'' cried Jones, "are often deceitful; men 
sometimes look what they are not. I assure you I am not of 
this country ; and whither I am travelling, in reality, I scarce 
know myself." 

'* Whoever you are, or whithersoever you are going,'' 
ans\iQred the old man; "I have obligations to you which I 
can never return." 

"I once more," replied Jones, *' affirm that you have none; 
for there can be no merit in having hazarded that in your ser- 
vice on which I set no value. And nothing is so contemptible 
in my eyes as life." 

''I am sorry, young gentleman," answered the stranger, 
"that you have any reason to be so unhappy at your years." - 

"Indeed I am, sir," answered Jones, "the most unhappy 
of mankind." — " Perhaps you have had a friend or a mistress," 
replied the other. '* How could you," cries Jones, "mention 
two words sufficient to drive me to distraction 1" — "Either of 
them is euough to drive any man to distraction," answered the 
old man: **I inquire no farther, sir; perhaps my curiosity 
hath led me too far already. " 

** Indeed, sir," cries Jones, "I cannot censure a passion 
which I feel at this instant in the highest degree. You will 
pardon me when I assure you, that every thing which I have 
seen or heard since I first entered this house hath conspired to 
raise the greatest curiosity in me. Something very extraordi- 
nary must have determiLed you to this course of life, and I 
have reason to fear your own history is not without misfor- 
tunes. " 

Here the old gentleman again sighed, and remained silen* 

for some minutes : at last, looking earnestly on Jones, he said : 

'* I have read, that a good countenance is a letter of recom* 

mendation ; if so, none ever eaxv \i% more recommended than 

yourself. If I did not feel som^ ^^wciivci^ \«^^^^^ ^^^ ^xssskv 


another consideration, I muCt be the most ungratefnl monster 
upon earth ; and I am really uoneemed it is no otherwise in 
my power than by words, to convince you of my gratitude. " 

Jones, after a moment's hesitation, answered, '* That it was 
in his power by words to gratify him extremely. I hare con- 
fessed a curiosity," said he, "sir; need I say how much 
obliged T should be to you, if you will condescend, to gratify 
it ? Will you suffer me therefore to beg, unless any considera- 
tion restrains you, that you would be pleased to acquaint me 
what motives have induced you thus to withdraw from the 
society of mankind, and to betake yourself to a course of life 
to which it sufficiently appears you were not bom ?'' 

' ' I scarce think myself at liberty to refuse you any thing, 
after what hath happened," replied the old man. "If you 
desire therefore to hear the story of an unhappy man, I will 
relate it to you. Indeed you judge rightly, in thinking there 
is commonly something extraordinary in the fortunes of those 
who fly from society ; for however it may seem a paradox, or 
even a contradiction, certain it is, that great philanthropy 
chiefly inclines us to avoid and detest mankind ; not on account 
so much of their private and selfish vices, but for those of a 
relative kind; such as envy, malice, treachery, cruelty, with 
every other species of malevolence. These are the vices which 
true philanthropy abhors, and which, rather than see and con- 
verse with, she avoids society itself. However, without a 
compliment to you, yo^ do not appear to me one of those 
whom I should shun or detest ; nay, I must say, in what little 
hath dropped fronr you, there appears some parity in our 
fortunes : I hope, however, yours will conclude more success- 

.»Here some compliments passed between our hero and his 
host, and then the latter was going to begin his history, when 
Partridge interrupted him. His apprehensions had now pretty 
well left him, but some efi'ects of his terrors remained ; he 
therefore reminded the gentleman of that excellent brandy 
which he had mentioned. This was presently brought, and 
Partridge swallowed a large bumper. 

The gentleman then, without any farther preface, be^an 8A 
jou may read in the next chapter. 



In which (he Man of the Bill begins to relate hit history. 

*' I WAS born in a village of Somersetshire, called Mark, in 
the year 1657. My father was one of those whom they call 
gentlemen fanners. He had a little esta-te of about 300Z. i 
year of his own, and rented another estate of near the sara*> 
value. He was prudent and industrious, and so good a hus- 
bandman, that he might have !ed a very easy and comfortable 
life, had not an arrant vixen of a wife soured his domestic 
quiet. But though this circumstance, perhaps, made him 
miserable, it did not make him poor; for he confined hei 
almost entirely at home, and rather chose to bear eternal up- 
braidings in his own house, than to injure his fortune by 
indulging her in the extravagances she desired abroad. 

" By this Xantippe," (so was the wife of Socrates called, 
said Partridge.) *'By this Xantippe he had two sons, of 
which I was the younger. He designed to give us both good 
education ; but my elder brother, who, unhappily for him, was 
the favourite of jny mother, utterly neglected his learning ; 
insomuch that, after having been five or six years at school 
with little or no improvement, my father, being told by his 
master that it would be to no purpose to keep him longer 
there, at last complied with my mother in taking him home 
from the hands of that tyrant, as she called his master ; though 
indeed he gave the lad much less correction than his idleness 
deserved ; but much more, it seems, than the young gentleman 
liked, who constantly complained to his mother of his severe 
treatment, and she as constantly gave him a hearing. ' ' 

''Yes, yes,*' cries Partridge, ''I have seen such mothers; 
I have been abused myself by them, and very unjustly j such 
parents deserve correction as much as their children.'' 

Jones chid the pedagogue for his interruption, and then the 
stranger proceeded. 

'* My brother now, at the age of fifteen, bade adieu to all 

learning, and to every thing else but to his dog and gun ; with 

which latter he became so expert, that, though perhaps you 

wajr think it incredible, lie coxA^ uo\. 0TiNL^\».\»^%\a.^^\\v'^\!asu:k 


witk great coTtaitit^, bat hath actually shot a crow as it was 
Ajmg in the air. He was likewise excellent at finding a hare 
sitting, and was soon reputed one of the best sportsmen in the 
country. A reputation which both he and his mother enjoyed 
as much as if he had been thought the finest scholar. 

** The situation of my brother made me at first think my lot 
the harder, in being continued at school ; but I soon changed 
my opinion; for, as I advanced pretty fast in learning, my 
labours became easy, and my exercise so delightful, that holi- 
days were my most unpleasant time : for my mother, who never 
loved me, new apprehending that I had the greatest share of 
my father's affection, and finding, or at least thinking, that I 
was taken more notice of by some gentlemen of learning, and 
particularly by the parson of the parish, than my brother, she 
now }iated my sight, and made home so disagreeable to me, 
that what is called by school-boys Black Monday, was to me 
the whitest in the whole year. 

*' Having at length gone through the school at Taunton, I 
was thence removed to Exeter college in Oxford, where I 
remained four years ; at the end of which an accident took me 
off entirely from my studies ; and hence I may truly date the 
rise of all which happened to me afterwards in life. 

" There was at the same college with myself one Sir George 
Gresham, a young fellow who was entitled to a very consider- 
able fortune, which he was not, by the will of his father, to 
come into full possessioi* of till he arrived at the age of twenty- 
five. However, the liberality of his guardians gave him little 
cause to regret the abundant caution of his father ; for they 
allowed him five hundred pounds a-year, while he remained at 
the university, where he kept his horses and his whore, and 
lived as wicked and as profligate a life as he could have done 
had he been never so entirely master of his fortune ; for besides 
the five hundred a-year, which he received from his guardians, 
he found means to spend a thousand more. He was above the 
age of twenty-one, and had no difficulty in gaining what credit 
he pleased. 

''This young fellow, among many other tolerable bad 
qualities, had one very diabolical. He had a great delight h\ 
iestroyiDg and mining' the youth of infetiot fcT\,\3itv^,\y3 ^^^^^>stf|. 


them into expenses which they could not afford so well ac Aim 
self; but the better, and worthier, and soberer, any young ma£. 
was, the greater pleasure and triumph had he in his destruction. 
Thus acting the character which is recorded of the devil, and 
going about seeking whom he might devour. 

'* It was my misfortune to fall into an acquaintance and 
intimacy with this gentleman. My reputation of diligence in 
my studies made me a desirable object of his mischievous 
intention ; and my own inclination made it sufl&ciently easy for 
him to effect his purpose ; for though I had applied nyself 
with much industry to books, in which I took great ielight, 
there were other pleasures in which I was capable of :aking 
much greater ; for I was high-mettled, had a violent flow of 
animal spirits, was a little ambitious, and extremely amorous. 

**I had not long contracted an intimacy with Sir George, 
before I became a partaker of all his pleasures ; and when I 
was once entered on that scene, neither my inclinations nor my 
spirit would suffer me to play an under-part. I wa^ second to 
none of the company in any acts of debauchery ; nay, I soon 
distinguished myself so notably in all riots and disorders, that 
my name generally stood first on the roll of delinquents ; and, 
instead of being lamented as the unfortunate pupil of Sir 
George, I was accused as the person wbo had misled and 
debauched that hopeful young gentleman ; for though he was 
the ringleader and promoter of all the mischief, he was never 
so considered. I fell at last under the censure of the vice- 
chancellor, and very narrowly escaped expulsion. 

** You will easily believe, sir, that such a life as I am now 
describing must be incompatible with my further progress in 
learning ; and that in proportion as I addicted myself more 
and more to loose pleasures, I must grow more and more 
remiss in application to my studies. This was truly the conse- 
quence ; but this was not all. My expenses now greatly 
exceeded not only my former income, but those additions which 
I extorted from my poor generous father, on pretences of sums 
being necessary for preparing for my approaching degree of 
bachelor of arts. These demands, however, grew at last so 
frequent aud exorbitant, that my father by slow degrees opened 
his ears to the accounts \v\i\c\i\i^ t^c^^Sn^^ ttwsw\si3ajs^^ ^^oxt^^s 


ot my present behaviour, and which my mother failed not to 
echo Tery faithfully and loudly ; adding, " Ay, this is the fine 
gentleman, the scholar who doth so much honour to his family, 
and is to be the making of it. I thought what all this learning 
would come to. He is to be the ruin of us all, I find, after 
his elder brother hath been denied necessaries for his sake, to 
perfect his education forsooth, for which he was to pay us such 
interest; I thought what the interest would come to," with 
much more of the same kind ; but I have, I believe, satisfied 
you with this taste. 

*' My father, therefore, beg;p,n now to return remonstrances 
instead of money to my demands, which brought my affairs 
perhaps a little sooner to a crisis ; but had he remitted me his 
whole income, you will imagine it could have sufficed a very 
short time to support one wno kept pace with the expenses of 
Sir George Gresham. 

' * It is more than possible, that the distress I was now in for 
money, and the impracticability of going on in this manner, 
might have restored me at once to my senses and to my studies, 
had I opened my eyes before I became involved in debts from 
which I saw no hopes of ever extricating myself. This was 
indeed the great art of Sir George, and by which he accom- 
plished the ruin of many, whom he afterwards laughed at as 
fools and coxcombs, for vying, as he called it, with a man of 
his fortune. To bring this about, he would now and then . 
advance a little money himself, in order to support the credit 
of the unfortunate youth with other people ; till by means of 
that very credit, he was irretrievably undone. 

*' My mind being by these means grown as desperate as my 
fortune, there was scarce a wickedness which I did not meditate, 
in order for my relief. Self-murder itself became the subject 
of my serious deliberation ; and I had certainly resolved on it, 
had not a more shameful, though perhaps less sinful, thought 
expelled it from my head.'* — Here he hesitated a moment, and 
then cried out, "I protest, so many years have not washed 
away the shame of the act, and I shall blush while I relate it." 
Jones desired him to pass over any thing that might give him 
pain in the relation; but Partridge eagerly cried out, *'0h^ 
prsj, £ar, let as hear this ; I had loftier \i^«t >3tM^ "Os^asL^^*^^ 


rest : as I hope to be saved, I will never mention a word of 
it." Jones was going to rebuke him, but the stranger pre- 
vented it by proceeding thus : "I had a chum, a very prudent 
frugal, young lad, who, though he had no very large allowance, 
had by his parsimony heaped up upwards of forty guineas, 
which I knew he kept in his escrutoire. I took therefore an 
opportunity of purloining his key from his breeches pocket 
while he was asleep, and thus made myself master of ell his 
riches ; after which I again conveyed his key into his pocket, 
and counterfeiting sleep, though I never once closed my eyes, 
lay in bed till after he arose and went to prayers, an exercise 
to which I had long been unaccustomed. 

" Timorous thieves, by extreme cautiou, often subject them- 
selves to discoveries, which those of a bolaer kind escape. 
Thus it happened to me; for had I boldly broke open bifi 
escrutoire, I had, perhaps, escaped even his suspicion ; but as 
it was plain that the person who had robbed him had possessed 
himself of his key, he had no doubt, when he first missed his 
money, but that his chum was certainly the; thief. Now as he 
was of a fearful disposition, and much my infenor in strength, 
and I believe in courage, he did not dare to confront me with 
my guilt, for fear of worse bodily consequences which might 
happen to him. He repaired therefore immediately to the vice- 
chancellor, and upon swearing to the robbery, and to jhe 
circuift'i'^nces of it, very easily obtained a warrant against one 
who had now so bad a character through the whole university. 

' ' Luckily for me, I laid out of the college the next evening • 
for that day I attended a young lady in a chaise to Whitney, 
where we staid all night ; and in our return, the next morning, 
to Oxford, I met one of my cronies, who acquainted me wi h 
sufficient news, concerning myself, to make me turn my horse 
another way." 

'*Pray, sir, did he mention any thing of the warrant ?" said 
Partridge. But Jones begged the gentleman to proceed, 
without regarding any impertinent questions ; which he did as 
follows : — 

*' Having now abandoned all thoughts of returning to 

Oxford, the next thing which offered itself was a journey to 

London. I imparted t\ua m\ftTx\AG^\»o m-^ ^^ts^^^^ ^^^k^^qs&ssc^^ 


Waio at first remonstrated against it ; but upon producing my 
wealth, she immediately consented. We then struck across 
the country into the great Cirencester road, and made such 
haste, that we spent the next evening save one in London. 

" When you consider the place where I now was, and the 
company with whom I was, you will, I fancy, conceive that a 
yery short time brought me to an end of that sum of which I 
had so iniquitously possessed myself. 

* ' I was now reduced to a much higher degree of distress 
than before : the necessaries of life began to be numbered 
among my wants; and what made my case still the more 
grievous was, that my paramour, of whom I was now grown 
immoderately fond, shared the same distresses with myself. To 
see a woman you love in distress, to be unable to relieve her, 
and at the same time to reflect that you have brought her into 
this situation, is perhaps a curse of which no imagination can 
represent the horrors to vhose who have not felt if — "I 
believe it from my soul," cries Jones ; *' and I pity you from 
the bottom of my heart .*' he then took two or three disorderly 
turns about the room, and at last begged pardon, and flung 
himself into a chair, crying, ' ' I thank Heaven, I have escaped 

*' This circumstance/' continued the gentleman, *' so severely 
aggravated the horrors of my present situation, that they 
became absolutely intolerable. I could with less pain " ndure 
the raging of my own natural unsatisfied appetites, even 
hunger or thirst, than I could submit to leave ungratified the 
most whimsical desires of a woman, on whom I so extrava- 
gantly doted, that, though I knew she had been the mistress of 
Lalf my acquaintance, I firmly intended to marry her. But the 
good creature was unwilling to consent to an action which the 
world might think so much to my disadvantage. And as, 
possibly, she compassionated the daily anxieties which she 
must have perceived me to suffer on her account, she resolved 
to put an end to my distress. She soon, indeed, found means 
to relieve me from my troublesome and perplexed situation ; 
for while I was distracted with various inventions to supply 
her with pleasures, she very kindly — ^betrayed me to one of hai 
former lorera at Oxford, by whose care an^ dcKv^<ewifc'V^^38k 
Immediately apprehended and committed to i«SV. 


** Here I first began seriously to reflect on the miscarriagee 
of my former life; on the errors I had been guilty of; on the 
misfortunes which I had brought on myself ; and on the grief 
which I must have occasioned to one of the best of fathers. 
When I added to all these the perfidy of my mistress, such was 
the horror of my mind, that life, instead of oeing longer 
desirable, grew the object of my abhorrence ; and I 30uld have 
gladly embraced death as my dearest friend, if it had offered 
itself to my choice unattended by shame. 

" The time of the assizes soon came, and I was removed by 
Iiabeas corpus to Oxford, where I expected certain conviction 
and condemnation ; but, to my great surprise, no one appeared 
against me, and I was, at the end of the sessions, discharged 
for want of prosecution. In short, my chum had left Oxford, 
and whether from indolence, or from what other morive, I^am 
ignorant, declined concerning himself any further in the affair. " 

" Perhaps,*' cries Partridge, ''he did not care to have your 
blood upon his hcCTids ; and he was in the right on't. If any 
person was to be hanged upon my evidence, I should never be 
able to lie alone afterwards, for fear of seeing his ghost.'* 

*'I shall shortly doubt. Partridge,'* says Jones, ''whether 
thou art more brave or wise." — "You may laugh at me, sir, 
if you please," answered Partridge; "but if you will aear a 
very short story which I can tell, and which Is most certainly 
true, perhaps you may change your opinion. In che parish 

where I was born ." Here Jones would have silenced 

him ; but the stranger interceded that he might be permitted 
to tell his story, and in the mean time proposed to recodect the 
remainder of his own. 

Partridge then proceeded thus : " In the parish where I was 
born, there lived a farmer whose name was Bridle, and ho had a 
son named Francis, a good hopeful young fellow : I was at the 
grammar school with him, where I remember he was got into 
Ovid's Epistles, and he could construe you three lines together 
sometimes without looking into a dictionary. Besides all tnis, 
he was a very good lad, never missed church o' Sundays, and 
was reckoned one of the best psalm-singers in the whole parish. 
jBTe would indeed now aud t\i<en. take a cup too much, and that 
waa the only fault he \iad.^' _"^€^,\wX. ^i^\aA\ft '^^ vS^^^sr*^" 

▲ FeUNDLING. 488 

eries Jones. ''Nevor fear, gir; I shall come to him soon 
enongfa,'' answered Partridge. ''You mast know then, that 
Farmer Bridle lost a mare, a sorrel one, to the best of mj 
I'emembrance ; aiid so it fell ont, that this young Francis 
shortly afterward being at a fair at Hindon, and as I think it 

was on 1 can't remember the day; and being as he was, 

what should he happen to meet but a man upon his father's 
mare? Frank called out presently, Stop thief I and it being 
in the middle of the fair, it was impossible, you know, for the 
man to make his escape. So they apprehended him, and 
carried him before the justice : I remember it was justice 
Willoughby of Noyle, a very worthy good gentleman ; and he 
committed him to prison, and bound Frank in a recognizance, 
I think they call it — a hard word compounded of re and cog- 
no8CO ; but it differs in its meaning from the use of the simple, 
as many other compounds do. Well, at last, do\yn came my 
lord justice Page to hold the assizes ; and so the fellow was 
had up, and Frank was had up for a witness. To be sure, I 
shall never forget the face of the judge, when he began to ask 
him what he had to say against the prisoner. He made poor 
Frank tremble and shake in his shoes. Well, you fellow, says 
my lord, what have you to say ? Dont stand humming and 
hawing, but speak out. But, however, he soon turned alto- 
gether as civil to Frank, and began to thunder at the fellow ; 
and when he asked him, if he had any thing to say for himself? 
the fellow said. He had found the horse. Ay ! answered the 
judge ; thou art a lucky fellow : I have travelled the circuit 
these forty years, and never found a horse in my life : but I'll 
tell thee what, friend, thou wast more lucky than thou didst 
know of; for thou didst not only get a horse, but a halter too, 
I promise thee. To bo 8ure, I shall never forget the word. 
Upon which every liody fell a laughing, as ho ,v could theyAelp 
it ? Nay, and twenty other jests he made, which I can't 
remember now. Tliore wivx something about his skill in horse- 
flesh, which made aP tbv. folks laugh. To be certain, the judge 
must have been a very brave man, as well as a man of much 
learning. It is indeed charming sport to heai trials upon life 
and death. One thing, I own, I thought a little haid, that 
the prisoner's connsel was not suffered to ^^^«^L\w\^m,\iw^>x^ 
L—87 2o 


he desire'l only to be heard oue tc»^- short word ; but ray lord 
would not hearken to him, thoucjh he suffered a counsellor to 
talk against him for above half an hour. I thought it hard, 1 
own, that there should be so many of them ; my lord, and the 
court* and the jury, and the CDUusellors, and t^e witnesses, all 
upon one poor man, and he too iu chains. Well, the fellow 
was hanged, as to be sure, it .on Id bo no otherwise, and poor 
Frank could never be easy about it. Ho never was in the dark 
alone, but he fancied he saw th»5 feliow's fijiirit." — " Well, and 
is this thy story ?'^ cries Jones. ''.No no,*' answered Part- 
ridge. * O lord have mercy upon mc ! I am just now coming 
to the matter ; for one night, coming from the alehouse, in a 
long, narrow, dark lane, there lie ran directly up against him ; 
and the spirit was hiI in white, and fell upon Frank ; and 
Frank, who is a sturdy lad, foil upon the spirit again, and there 
they had a tussel together, and poor Frank was dreadfully 
beat : indeed he made a shift at last to crawl home ; but what 
with the beating, and what with the fright, he lay ill above a 
fortnight ; and all this is most certainly true, and the whole 
parish will bear witness to it.'' 

The stranger smiled at this story, and Jones burst into a 
loud fit of laughter; upon which Partridge cried, "Ay, you 
may laugh, sir ; and so did Home others, particularly a squire, 
who is thought to be no better than an atheist ; who, forsooth, 
because there was a calf with a white face found dead in the 
same lane the next morning, would fain have it that the battle 
was between Frank and that ; as if a calf would set upon a 
man. Besides, Frank told me he knew it to be a spirit, and 
could swear to him in any court in Christendom ; and he had 
not drank above a quart or two. or such a matter, of liquor at 
the time. Lud have mercy upon us, and keep us aU from 
dipping our hands m blood, 1 say I'' 

"Well, sir,*' said Jones to tno stianger, "Mr. Partridge 
hath finished his story, and I nope w..^ ^ ^e yon no future in- 
terruption, if you will be so kind to proceed." He then re- 
sumed his narration ; but as he hath taken breath for a while, 
we think proper to give it to our reader, and shall therefoif 
put an end to this chapter. 

A rotJNBLiNa. 485 


In whkh the Man of the Ilill continuee hie hietory, 

*' I BAD now regained my liberty," said the stranger ; "but 
I had lost my reputation ; for there is a wide difference "between 
the case of a man who is barely acquitted of a crime in a 
court of justice, and of him who is acquitted in his own heart, 
and in the opinion of the people. I was conscious of my 
guilt, and ashamed to look any one in the face ; so resolved to 
leave Oxford the next morning, before the daylight discovered 
me to the eyes of any beholders. 

" When I had got clear of the city, it first entered into my 
head to return homo to my father, and endeavour to obtain his 
forgiveness ; but as I had no reason to doubt his knowledge 
of all which had passed, and as I was well assured of his great 
aversion to all acts of dishonesty, I could entertain no hopes 
of being received by him, especially since I was too certain of 
all the good offices in the power of my mother ; nay, had my 
father's pardon been as sure as I conceived his resentment to 
be, I yet question whether I could have had the assurance to 
behold him, or whether I could, upon any terms, have sub- 
mitted to live and converse with those, who, I was convinced, 
knew me to have been guilty of so base an action. 

"I hastened therefore back to London, the best retirement 
of either grief or shame, unless for persons of a very public 
character ; for hero you have the advantage of solitude with- 
out its disadvantage, since you may be alone and in company at 
the same time ; and while you walk or sit unobserved, noise, 
hurry, and a constant succession of objects, entertain the 
mind, and prevent the spirits from preying on themselves, or 
rather on grief or shame, which are the most unwholesome diet 
in the world ; and on which, (though there are many who never 
taste either but in public,) there are some who can feed very 
plentifully and very fatally when alone. 

*'But as there is scarce any human good without its con- 
comitant evil, so there are people who find an inconvenience in 
this nnobserving temper of mankind. — I mean persons whi 
have no money; for as you are not put out of ^oxssiXfii^^^^^^^A 

i36 THS HI81'D&T OF 

neither are you clothed or fed by those who do' not know you 
A man may be aa easily starved in Leadenhall-market as in the 
deserts of Arabia. 

'' It was at present my fortnnc to be destitute of that great 
evil, as it is apprehended to be bj several writers, who I sisjy 
pose were overbarthened with it, namely, money." — "WiA 
submission, sir," said Partridge, "1 do not remember any 
writers who have called it mcUorum : liut irriiamerUa maUh 
rum, Effodiuntur opes, irriiamenla malorum, " — " Well, 
sir," continued the stranger, "whether it be an evil, or only 
the cause of evil, I was entirely void of it, and at the same 
time of friends, and, as I thought, of acquaintance ; when, one 
evening, as I was passing throug^i the Inner Temple, very 
hungry and very miserable, I heard a voice on a sudden 
hailing me with great familiarity by my christian name : and 
npon my turning about, I presently recollected the ^person 
who so saluted me to have been my fcllovr-ooUegiate ; one 
who had left the university above a year, and long before 
any of my misfortunes had befallen me. This gentleman, 
whose name was Watson, shook me heartily by the hand; 
and expressing great joy ai meeting me, proposed our im- 
mediately drinking a bottle together. I first declined the 
proposal, and pretended business ; but as he was very earnest 
and pressing, hunger at last overcame my pride, uid I fairly 
confessed to him I had no money in my pocket ; yet not with- 
out framing a lie for an excuse, and imputing it to my having 
changed my breeches that momiug. Mr. Watsou answered, 
' I thought. Jack, you and I had been too old acquaintance 
for you to mention such a matter. ' Ho thou took me by the 
arm, and was pulling me along : but I gave him very little 
trouble, for my own inclinations pulled mo much stronger than 
he could do. 

*' We then went into the Frws, which you know is the scene 
of all mirth and jollity. Here when we arrived at the tavern, 
Mr. Watson applied himself to the drawer only, without taking 
the least notice of the cook ; for he had no suspicion but that 
I had dined long since. However, as the case was really 
otherwise, I forged another falsehood, and told my companicm 
J bad been at the furtiiet eu^ oi \Xi^ ^\t^ qw business of 

A FOUNDLIlfO. 487 

qaeaee, tnd uid mapped np a mutton-chop in haste ; so that 
I was again hnngry, and wished he wonid add a beef-steak to 
his bottle. '* — "Some people," cries Partridge, "ought to 
have good memories ; or did yon find just money enough in 
your breeches to pay for the mutton-chop. " 

^ Your observation is right," answered the stranger, '^and 
I believe such blunders are inseparable from all dealing in un- 
truth. Bnt to proceed — I began now to feel myself extremely 
happy. The meat and wine soon reviyed my spirits to a high 
pitdi, and I enjoyed much pleasure in the conyersation of my 
old acquaintance, the rather as I thought him entirely ignorant 
of what had happened at the uniyersity since his leaving it. 

'' But he did not suffer me to remain long in this agreeable 
delusion ; for taking a bumper in one hand, and holding me 
by the other, 'Here, my boy,' cries he, "here's wishing you 
joy of your being so honourably acquitted of that affair laid 
to your charge." I was thunderstruck with confusion at those 
^ords, which Watson observing, proceeded thus : * Nay, never 
be ashamed, man ; thou hast been acquitted, and no one now 
dares call thee guilty; but prithee do toll me, who am thy 
friend — I hope thou didst rea