 XVI. A LITTLE CHAPTER IN WHICH IS CONTAINED A LITTLE INCIDENT Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the young gentleman in his confinement, Mrs. Honor was one. The reader, perhaps when he reflects on some expressions which have formally dropped from her, may conceive that she herself had a very particular affection for Mr. Jones, but in reality it was no such thing. Tom Jones was a handsome young fellow, and for that species of men Mrs. Honor had some regard. But this was perfectly indiscriminate for having been crossed in the love which she bore a certain nobleman's footman, 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 of any single fragment. She viewed all handsome men with that equal regard and benevolence which a sober and virtuous mind bears to all the good. She might indeed be called a lover of men as Socrates was a lover of mankind, preferring one to another for corporeal as he for mental qualifications, but never carrying this preference so far as to cause any perturbation in the philosophical serenity of her temper. The day after Mr. Jones had that conflict with himself, which we have seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs. Honor came into his room, and finding him alone began in the following manner. La, sir, where do you think I have been? I warrants you you would not guess in fifty years, but, if you did guess, to be sure I must not tell you neither. Nay, if it be something which you must not tell me, said Jones, I shall have the curiosity to inquire, and I know you will not be so barbarous to refuse me. I don't know, cries she, why I should refuse 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 be let into this secret, and faithfully promised not to divulge it. She then proceeded thus, why you must know, sir, my young lady sent me to inquire after Molly Seagram, and to see whether the winch wanted anything. To be sure I did not care to go, me thinks. My servants must do what they are ordered. How could you undervalue yourself so, Mr. Jones? So my lady bid me go and carry her some linens and other things. She is too good. If such forward sluts were sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I told my lady, says I, Madam, your layship is encouraging idleness, and was my Sophia so good, says Jones? My Sophia, I assure you, Mary come up, answered honor, and yet if you knew all, indeed, if I was as Mr. Jones, I should look a little higher than such trumpery as Molly Seagram. What do you mean by these words, replied Jones, if I knew all? I mean what I mean, says honor. Don't you remember putting your hands in my lady's muff once? High vow! I could almost find in my heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would never come to the hearing unt. Jones then made several solemn protestations, and honor proceeded, then, to be sure, my lady gave me that muff, and, afterwards, upon hearing what you had done, then you told her what I had done, interrupted Jones, if I did, sir, answered she, you need not be angry with me, many's the man who 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 with her new muff, and, to be sure, it is the prettiest that ever was seen. Honor, 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 it. 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 I warrants hath given it many a kiss when nobody hath seen her. Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr. Western himself, 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. Honor imputed it to a wrong cause, and having given Jones a hearty curse between Jest and Ernest, he bid him beat abroad and not 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 have on her right arm this very muff. She was playing one of her father's favorite tunes, and he was leaning on her chair when the muff fell over her fingers and put her out. It so disconcerted the squire that he snatched the muff from her, and with the 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 consequence 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 too 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 are originally set in motion by those which are very minute, and almost imperceptible 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 harmony of her voice and of her person. Not all her wit, good humor, greatness of mind or sweetness of disposition had been able so absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of poor Jones as this little incident of the muff. Thus the poet sweetly sings of Troy, Coptique doles, lacrimiste cuarti cuos neque tidides, Neck lariceus achilles, non anni do muere desen, non mille carinae. But Diamid, or Thetis's greater son, a thousand ships, nor ten years siege, had done false tears and fawning words the city won. The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprise. All those considerations of honor and prudence which our lady had lately with so much military wisdom placed as guards over the avenues of his heart, ran away from their posts, and the god of love marched in, in triumph. CHAPTER V A very long chapter containing a very great incident. But though this victorious deity easily expelled his avowed enemies from the heart of Jones, he found it more difficult to supplant the garrison which he himself had placed there. To lay aside all allegory, the concern for what must become of poor Molly 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 compassion instead of contempt succeeded to love. He was convinced that the girl had placed all her affections and all her prospect of future happiness in him only. For this he had, he knew, given sufficient occasion, by the utmost perfusion of tenderness towards her, a tenderness which he had taken every means to persuade her he would always maintain. She, on her side, had assured him of her firm belief in his promise, and had, with the most solemn vows declared, that on his fulfilling or breaking these promises it depended, whether she would be the happiest or most miserable of woman kind. 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 everything in her little power, as having been, at her own expense, the object of his pleasure, as sighing and languishing for him even at that very instant. Shall then, says he, my recovery, for which she has so ardently wished, shall my presence, which she has so eagerly expected, instead of giving her that joy with which she has flattered herself, cast her at once down into misery and despair. Can I be such a villain? Here, when the genius of poor Molly seemed triumphant, the love of Sophia towards him, which now appeared no longer dubious, rushed upon his mind, and bore away every obstacle before it, at length it occurred to him that he might possibly be able to make Molly a mens, another way, namely by giving her a sum of money. This, nevertheless, he almost despaired of her accepting, when he recollected the most frequent and vehement assurances he had received from her, that the world put in balance with him would make her no amends for his loss. However, her extreme poverty, and chiefly her egregious vanity, somewhat of which hath been already hinted to the reader, gave him some little hope that, notwithstanding all her avowed tenderness, she might in time be brought to content herself with the fortune superior to her expectation, and which might indulge her vanity, by setting her above all her equals. He resolved, therefore, to take the first opportunity of making a proposal of this kind. One day, accordingly, when his arm was so well recovered that he could walk easily with its slung in a sash, he stole forth 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 obtained 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 produce 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 deprived of the use of all our faculties. It cannot therefore be wondered at that at the unexpected 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 raptures with which the reader will suppose she was affected on this occasion. As for Jones, he was so entirely possessed and as were enchanted by the presence of his beloved object that he for a while forgot Sophia and consequently the principal purpose of his visit. This however soon recurred to his memory and after the first transports of their meeting were over he found means, by degrees, to introduce a discourse on the fatal consequences which must attend there a more, if Mr. Allworthy, 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 hardfates had determined that they must separate, he advised her to bear it with resolution and swore he would never omit any opportunity through the course of his life of showing her the sincerity of his affection by providing for her in a manner beyond her utmost expectation or even beyond her wishes if ever that should be in his power, concluding at last that she might soon find some man who would marry her and who would make her much happier than she 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 abrade him in the following words. And this is your love for me to forsake me in this manner. Now you have ruined me. How often when I have told you that all men are false and perjury alike, 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, 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 Molly 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 anywhere but in the middle. As this room wanted the convenience of a closet, Molly had, to supply that defect, nailed up an old rug against the rafters of the house, which enclosed a little hole where her best apparel, such as the remains of that sack, which we have formally mentioned, some caps and other things with which she had lately provided herself, were hung up and secured from the dust. This enclosed place exactly fronted the foot of the bed, to which indeed the rug hung so near that it served in a manner to supply 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 pen 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 everything 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 admit his standing upright as ridiculous as can possibly be conceived. The posture, indeed, in which he stood, was not greatly unlike 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 suffering 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 philosophy was added to the figure now discovered, it would have been very difficult for any spectator to have refrained from immoderate laughter. I question not, but the surprise of the reader will be here equal 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 everyone. But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary than real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other human creatures, and however sublimated and refined the theory of these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to other mortals. It is indeed, in theory only, and not in practice, as we have before hinted, that consists the difference. For though such great beings think much better and more wisely, they always act exactly like other men. They know very well how to subdue all appetites and passions and to despise both pain and pleasure, and this knowledge affords much delightful contemplation, and is easily acquired. But the practice would be vexatious and troublesome, and therefore the same wisdom which teaches them to know this teaches them to avoid carrying it into execution. Mr. Square happened to be a church on that Sunday when, as the reader may be pleased to remember, the appearance of Molly in her sack had caused all that disturbance. Here he first observed her and was so pleased with her beauty that he prevailed with the young gentleman 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 he 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 dissuatives that it is probable he at first intended to have contented 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 allowed 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 licorice part of natural philosophy is often the principal subject of their conversation. But when the philosopher heard, a day or two afterwards, that the fortress of virtue had already been subdued, he began to give a larger scope to his desires. His appetite was not of that squeamish kind, which cannot feed on a dainty because another hath tasted it. In short, he liked the girl better for the want of that chastity, which, if she had possessed it, must have been a bar to his pleasures. He pursued and obtained her. The reader will be mistaken if he thinks Molly gave Square the preference to her younger lover. On the contrary, had she been confined to the choice of one only, Tom Jones would have undoubtedly been of the two the victorious person. Nor was it solely the consideration that two are better than one, though this had its proper weight, to which Mr. Square owed his success. The absence of Jones during his confinement was an unlucky circumstance, and in that interval some well-chosen presence from the philosopher so softened and unguarded the girl's heart that a favorable opportunity became irresistible. And Square triumphed over the poor remains of virtue, which subsisted in the bosom of Molly. It was now about a fortnight since this conquest when Jones paid the above-mentioned visit to his mistress, at a time when she and Square were in bed together. This was the true reason why the mother denied her, as we have seen, for as the old woman shared in the prophets arising from the iniquity of her daughter, she encouraged and protected her in it to the utmost of her power. But such was the envy and hatred which the elder 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 hopes that he might have caught her in Square's arms. This, however, 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, then Molly flung herself back in her bed, cried out that she was undone and abandoned 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 townlady in any extremity, and either prompts her with an excuse or else inspires her to brazen out the matter with her husband, who from love of quiet or out of fear of his reputation, sometimes perhaps from fear of the gallant who, like Mr. Constant in the play, wears a sword, is glad to shut his eyes and content to put his horns in his pocket. Molly, on the contrary, was silenced by this evidence and very 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 eras, he was not in much less consternation. He stood for a while motionless and seemed equally at a loss what to say or wither to direct his eyes. Jones, though perhaps the most astonished of the three, first found his tongue and, being immediately recovered from those uneasy sensations which Molly by her upbringings 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, in which part only he could stand upright, looked at Mr. Jones with a very grave countenance and said to him, Well, sir, I see you enjoy this mighty discovery, and I dare swear take great delight in the thoughts of exposing me, but if you will consider 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 judges of matters by the rule of right, will condemn me. Fitness is governed by the nature of things and not by customs, 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 thee in my life, and unless thou hast a mind to discover it thyself, this affair may remain a profound secret for me. Nay, Mr. Jones, replied Square, I would not be thought to undervalue reputation. Good fame is a species of the Callan, and it is by no means fitting to neglect it. Besides, to 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 perfectly perfect, I promise you I will not betray myself. Things may be fitting to be done, which are not fitting to be boasted of, for by the perverse judgment of the world that often becomes the object of censure, which is, in truth, not only innocent, but laudable. Right, Christ Jones, what can be more innocent than the indulgence of a natural appetite, or what can be more laudable than the propagation of our species? To be serious with you, answered Square, I profess they always appeared so to me. And yet, said Jones, you was of a different opinion when my affair with this girl was first discovered. Why, I must confess, says Square, as the matter was represented to me by that parson, thwackam, I might condemn the corruption of innocence. It was that, sir, it was that, and that, for you must know, Mr. Jones, in the consideration of fitness, very minute circumstances, sir, very minute circumstances cause great alteration. Well, Christ 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 anyone. And, Molly, do you be faithful to your friend, and I will not only forgive your infidelity to me, but I will do all the service I can. So saying, he took a hasty leave, and, slipping down the ladder, retired with much expedition. 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 abrade 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 humors of the mind, and restoring it to a good temper. She then poured forth a vast perfusion 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. Chapter 6 By comparing which with the former, the reader may possibly correct some abuse which he had formerly been guilty of in the application of the word love. The infidelity of Molly, which Jones had now discovered, would, perhaps, have vindicated a much greater degree of resentment than he expressed on the occasion, and if he had abandoned her directly from that moment, very few, I believe, would have blamed him. Certainly, however, it is that he saw her in the light of compassion, 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, the elder sister, was so kind, some time afterwards, entirely to cure him by a hint that one will barns, 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 barns 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 barns 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 proflicacy, had broken the hearts of some, and had the honor of occasioning the violent death of one poor girl, who had either drowned herself, or, what was rather more probable, had been drowned by him. Among other of his conquests this fellow had triumphed over the heart of Betty Seagram. He had made love to her long before Molly was grown to be a fit object of that pastime, but had afterwards deserted her and applied to her sister, with whom he had had almost immediate success. Now Will had, in reality, the sole possession of Molly's affection, while Jones and Square were almost equally sacrifices to her interest and to her pride. Hence had grown that implacable hatred, which we have seen before, raging in the mind of Betty, though we did 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 the state of tranquility. Nay, indeed, he was under 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 saw the tender sentiments she had for him. Yet could not this assurance lessen his despair of obtaining the consent of her father, nor the horrors which attended his pursuit of her by any base or treacherous method? The injury which he must thus do to Mr. Western, and the concern which would accrue to Mr. Alworthy, were circumstances that tormented him all day, and haunted him on his pillow at night. His life was a constant struggle between honor and inclination, which alternately triumphed over each other in his mind. He often resolved, in the absence of Sophia, to leave her father's house and to see her no more, and, as often in her presence, forgot all those resolutions, and determined to pursue her at the hazard of his life, and at the forfeiture of what was much dearer to him. This conflict began soon to produce very strong and visible effects, for he lost all his usual sprightliness and gaiety of temper, and became not only Melancholy when alone, but dejected and absent in company. Nay, if ever he put on a forest mirth to comply with Mr. Western's humor, the constraint appeared so plain that he seemed to have been giving the strongest evidence of what he endeavored to conceal by such ostentation. It may perhaps be a question whether the art which he used 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 counter-plotting him. Hence, at the approach of the young lady, he grew pale, and if this was sudden, started. If his eyes accidentally met hers, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and his 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, and involuntary sighs seldom failed to steal from his bosom, most of which accidents nature was wonderfully industrious to throw daily in his way. All these symptoms escaped the notice of the squire, but not so of Sophia. She soon perceived these agitations of mind in Jones, and was at no loss to discover the cause. For indeed she recognized it in her own breast, and this recognition is, I suppose, that sympathy which hath been so often 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 nave is generally so quick-sighted to those symptoms in operations of navery, which often dup an honest man of a much better understanding? There surely is no general sympathy among naves, nor have they, like freemasons, any common sign of communication. In reality it is only because they have the same thing in their heads, and their thoughts are turned the same way. Thus that Sophia saw, and that Western did not see, the plain symptoms of love in Jones can be no wonder, when we consider that the idea of love never entered into the head of 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 herself was its object, she had not the least difficulty in discovering the true cause of his present behavior. 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 miserable on her own account. Nor can they blame her for esteeming one who visibly, from the most honorable motives, endeavored to smother a flame in his own bosom, which, 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 diligent, 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 allow. In a word, she was in love with him to distraction. 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 which Jones had formally wrist drowning to retrieve the little bird that Sophia had there lost. This place had been of late much frequented by Sophia. Here she used to ruminate with a mixture of pain and pleasure on an incident which, however trifling in itself, had possibly sown the first seeds of that affection which was now arrived to such maturity in her heart. Here, then, this young couple met. They were almost close together before either of them knew anything of the other's approach. A bystander would have discovered sufficient 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 conversation began as usual on the delicious beauty of the morning. Hence they passed to the beauty of the place on which Jones launched forth very high in comiums. When they came to the tree whence he had formally 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 honor to place him? His fate was a just punishment for his ingratitude. Upon my word, Mr. Jones, said she, your gallantry very narrowly escaped as severe a fate. Sure the remembrance must affect you. Indeed, madam, answered he, if I had 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 heartaches that fortune seems to have in store for me. Fine, Mr. Jones, replied Sophia, I am sure you cannot be an earnest now. This affected contempt of life is only in excess of your complacence to me. You would endeavor to lessen the obligation of having twice ventured 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, can you desire me to live? Can you wish me so ill? Sophia, looking down on the ground, answered with some hesitation. Indeed, Mr. Jones, I do not wish you ill. Oh, I know too well that heavenly temper, Christ Jones, that divine goodness which is beyond every other charm. Nay now, answered she, I understand you not. I can stay no longer. I would not be understood, cries he. Nay, I can't be understood. I do not what to 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. 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 endeavored 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 agu. Sophia, who was in a situation not very much 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 forgiveness 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 behavior. And thus this young pair tottered and trembled along. The lover not once daring to squeeze the hand of his mistress. Though it was locked in his. Sophia immediately returned to her chamber, where Mrs. Honor and the Hearts Horn were summoned to her assistance. As to poor Jones, the only relief to his distempered mind was an unwelcome piece of news, which, as it opens a scene of different nature from those in which the reader hath lately been conversant, will be communicated to him in the next chapter. End of Section 16. Read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Spring 2008. Section 17 of Tom Jones. Mr. Western had become so fond of Jones that he was unwilling to part with him, though his arm had been long since cured. And Jones, either from the love of sport, or for some other reason, was easily persuaded to continue at his house, which he did sometimes for a fortnight together without paying a single visit at Mr. Allworthy's, nay, without ever hearing from thence. Mr. Allworthy had been, for some days, indisposed with the cold, which had been attended with a little fever. Thus he had, however, neglected, as it was usual with him to do all manner of disorders, which did not confine him to his bed or prevent his several faculties from performing their ordinary functions. A conduct which we would by no means be thought to approve, or recommend to imitation, for surely the gentlemen of the Escalapian art are 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, old adage, venienti occurrit de morbo? Oppose a distemper at its first approach. Thus the doctor and the disease meet in fair and equal conflict, whereas, by giving time to the latter, we often suffer him to fortify and entrench himself, like a French army, so that the learned gentleman finds it very difficult, and sometimes impossible, to come at the enemy. Nay, sometimes, by gaining time the disease applies to the French military politics and corrupts nature over to his side, and then all the powers of physics must arrive too late. Agreeable to these observations was, I remember, the complaint of the great Dr. Massabon, who used very pathetically to lament the late applications which were made to his skill, saying, Bagar, believe my patient take me for the undertaker, for they never send for me till the physician have killed him. Mr. Allworthy's distemper, by means of this neglect, gained such ground that, when the increase of his fever obliged him to send for assistance, the doctor at his first arrival shook his head, wished he had been sent for sooner, and intimated that he thought him in very imminent danger. Mr. Allworthy, who had settled all his affairs in this world, and was as well prepared, as it is possible for human nature to be, for the other, received this information with the utmost calmness and unconcern. He could indeed, whenever he laid himself down to rest, 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 this with ten times more reason and confidence than Cato, or any other proud fellow among the ancient or modern heroes, for he was not only devoid of fear, but might be considered as a faithful laborer when, at the end of harvest, he has summoned to receive his reward at the hands of a bountiful master. The good man gave immediate orders for all his family to be summoned round him. None of these were then abroad, but Mrs. Blyphel, who had been some time in London, and Mr. Jones, whom the reader has just parted from at Mr. Westerns, and who received the summons just as Sophia had left him. The news of Mr. Allworthy's danger, for the servants told him he was dying, drove all thoughts of love out of his head. He hurried instantly into the chariot which was sent for him, and ordered the coachman to drive with all imaginable haste, nor did the idea of Sophia, I believe, once occur to him on the way. And now the whole family, namely Mr. Blyphel, Mr. Jones, Mr. Thwackam, Mr. Square, and some of the servants, for such were Mr. Allworthy's orders, being all assembled round his bed, the good man sat up in it, and was beginning to speak, when Blyphel felt a 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, at the most ordinary of all human occurrences. When misfortunes befall our friends we are justly grieved, for those are accidents which might often have been avoided, and which may seem to render the lot of one man more peculiarly unhappy than that of others. But death is certainly unavoidable, and is that common lot 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 be 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 an entertainment, and to enjoy the company of their friends a few moments longer. Alas, how short is the most protracted of such enjoyments, how immaterial the difference between him who retires the soonest, and him who stays the latest. This is seeing life in the best view, and this unwillingness to quit our friends is the most amiable motive from 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 nevertheless 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 are erased from their minds. But alas, he who escapes from death is not pardoned, he is only reprieved, and reprieved to a short day. Grieve therefore no more, my dear child, on this occasion, an event which may happen every hour, which every element, nay, almost every particle of matter that surrounds us, is capable of producing, and which must and will most unavoidably reach us all at last, ought neither to occasion our surprise nor our lamentation. My physician, having acquainted me, which I take very kindly of him, that I am in danger of leaving you all very 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. But I shall waste my strength too much. I intend to speak concerning my will, which, though I have settled long ago, 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 satisfied with the provision I have there made for you. Nephew Blyphel, I leave you the heir to my whole estate, except only five hundred pounds a year, which is to revert to you after the death of your mother, and except one other estate of five hundred pounds a year, and the sum of six thousand pounds, which I have bestowed in the following manner. The estate of five hundred pounds a year I have given to you, Mr. Jones, and as I know the inconvenience which attends the want of ready money, I have added one thousand pounds in specie. In this I know not whether I have exceeded or fallen short of your expectation. Perhaps you will think I have given you too little, and the world will be as ready to condemn me for giving you too much, 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, both now and all other times, had so infinitely exceeded not only his merit, but his hopes that no words could express his sense of it. And I assure you, sir, said he, your present generosity hath left me no other concern than for the present melancholy occasion. Oh, my friend, my father! Here his words choked him, and he turned away to hide a tear which was starting from his eye. All worthy then gently squeezed his hand and proceeded thus. I am convinced, my child, that you have much goodness, generosity, and honour in your temper. If you will add prudence and religion to these, you must be happy. For the three former qualities, I admit, make you worthy of happiness, but they are the latter only which will put you in possession of it. One thousand pounds I have given to you, Mr. Thweckham, a sum I am convinced which greatly exceeds your desires as well as your wants. However, you will receive it as a memorial of my friendship, and whatever superfluities may redown to you, that piety, which you so rigidly maintain, will instruct you how to dispose of them. Alike some, 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 commiseration, 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 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, that 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 Allworthy to Blyphil. See what the gentleman wants. I am not able to do business now, nor can he have any with me, in which you are not, at present, more concerned than myself. Besides, I really am. I am incapable of seeing anyone at present, or of any longer attention. He then saluted them all, saying perhaps he should be able to see them again, but he should be now glad to compose himself a little, finding that he had too much exhausted his spirits in discourse. Some of the company shed tears at their parting, and even the philosopher Square wiped his eyes, albeit unused to the melting mood. As to Mrs. Wilkins, she dropped her pearls 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 endeavored to compose himself to rest. Chapter 8 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 mountainous cheekbones 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 difference with things between me and the other servants. I suppose he hath left me mourning, but I, backens, 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 in 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 neither, because that will please some folks. No, all by the gayest gown I can get and dance over the old curmudgeon's grave in it. This is my reward for taking his part so often, when all the country have cried shame of him for breeding up his 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 deathbed, than to glory in them, and give away his estate out of his own family to a misbegotten child. Found in his bed, forsooth, a pretty story. I, I, those that hide know where to find. Lord forgive him. 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 going now. The servants will find some token to remember me by. Those were the very words. I shall never forget them, if I was to live a thousand years. I, I, 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 claws on his back when he come hither first. Mary come up with such gentleman. Though he hath lived here this many years, I don't believe there is arrow-servant in the house ever saw the color of his money. The devil shall wait upon such a gentleman for me. Much more of the like-kind she muttered to herself, but this taste shall suffice to the reader. Neither Thwackam nor Square were much better satisfied with their legacies, though they breathed not their resentment so loud, yet from the discontent which appeared in their countenances, as well as from the following dialogue, we collect that no great pleasure reigned in their minds. About an hour after they had left the sick-room, Square met Thwackam in the hall, and accosted him thus. Well, sir, have you heard any news of your friend since we parted from him? If you mean Mr. Allworthy, answered Thwackam, I think you might rather give him the appellation 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 poundings such as it is have been equal to both. I should not have mentioned it first, Christ Thwackam, but since you begin, I must inform you I am of a different opinion. There is a wide distinction between voluntary favors and rewards, the duty I have done in his family, and the care I have taken in the education of his two boys, are services for which some men might have expected a greater return. I would not have you imagine I am therefore dissatisfied, for Saint Paul has taught me to be content with the little I have. Had Thwackam been less, I should have known my duty, but though the scriptures 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 comparison. Since you provoke me, return 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 endeavoring to infuse into him, in contempt of everything which is great and noble. The beauty and loveliness of friendship is too strong for demise, nor can it be perceived by any other medium, than that unearing rule of right which you have so often endeavored to ridicule, that you have perverted your friend's understanding. I wish, Christ Thwackam, in a rage, I wish for the sake of his soul your damnable doctrines have not perverted his faith. It is to this I impute his present behaviour, so unbecoming a Christian, who but an atheist could think of leaving the world without having first made up his account, without confessing his sins and receiving that absolution which he knew he had won in the house duly authorized to give him. He will feel the want of these necessaries when it is too late, when he has 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 daists 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, Christ Thwackam, but to those who have sufficient grace to require it. But why do I talk thus to a heathen and an unbeliever? It is 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 be with me, I despise it, and nothing but the unfortunate situation of my circumstances should prevail on me to accept it. The physician now arrived, and began to inquire of the two disputents how we all did above stairs. In a miserable way, answered Thwackam, it is no more than I expected, Christ the doctor, but pray what symptoms have appeared since I left you? No good ones, I'm afraid, replied Thwackam. After would pass that our departure I think there were little hopes. The bodily physician perhaps misunderstood the cure of souls, and before they came to an explanation Mr. Blyphyl came to them with a most melancholy countenance, and acquainted them that he brought sad news 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 off in a few hours. Good lack a day, said 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 remarkably successful in it. Thwackam and Square both condoled with Mr. Blyphyl for the loss of his mother, which the one advised him to bear like a man, and the other like a Christian. The young gentleman said he knew very well we were all mortal, and he would endeavor to submit to his loss as well as he could. That he could not, however, help complaining a little against the peculiar severity of his fate, which brought the news of so great a calamity to him by surprise, and that at a time when he hourly expected the severest blow he was capable of feeling from the malice of fortune. He said the present occasion would put to the test those excellent rudiments which he had learned from Mr. Thwackam and Mr. Square, and it would be entirely owing to them if he was unable to survive such misfortunes. It was now debated whether Mr. Alworthy should be informed of the death of his sister. This the doctor violently opposed, in which I believe the whole college would agree with him. But Mr. Blyphyl 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 prayed he might, he knew he would never forgive an endeavour to keep a secret of this kind from him. The physician was forced to submit to these resolutions, which the two other learned gentlemen very highly commended. So together moved Mr. Blyphyl and the doctor toward the sick room, where the physician first entered and approached the bed in order to feel his patient's pulse, which he had no sooner done than he declared he was much better, that the last application had succeeded to a miracle and had brought the fever to intermittent, so that he said there appeared now to be as little danger as he had before apprehended there were hopes. To say the truth, Mr. Allworthy's situation had never been so 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 ever 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 the victory, and the less disgrace, if by any unlucky accident, they should happen to be conquered. Mr. Allworthy had no sooner lifted up his head, and thanked heaven for these hopes of his recovery, than Mr. Blyphyl drew near, with a very dejected aspect, and having applied his handkerchief to his eye, either to wipe away his tears, or to do as Ovid somewhere expresses himself on another occasion, si nulus erit damen exgud nulum, if there be none, then wipe away that none. He communicated to his uncle what the reader hath been just before acquainted with. Allworthy received the news with concern, with patience, and with resignation. He dropped a tender tear, then composed his countenance, and at last cried, the lords will be done in everything. He now inquired for the messenger, but Mr. Blyphyl 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 importance 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 Blyphyl 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. Chapter 9, which, among other things, may serve as a comment on that saying of Eskenes that drunkenness shows the mind of a man, as a mirror reflects his person. The reader may perhaps wonder, adhering nothing of Mr. Jones in the last chapter, in fact his behavior was so different 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 apartment, 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 Allworthy'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 immediately took the only method of silencing this thoroughbass, whose music he feared might disturb Mr. Allworthy, and then, sitting down by the nurse, he remained motionless till Blyphyl and the doctor came in together and waked the sick man in order that the doctor might feel his pulse, and that the other might communicate to him that piece of news, which, had Jones been apprised of it, would have had great difficulty of finding its way to Mr. Allworthy's ear at such a season. When he first heard Blyphyl tell his uncle this story, Jones could hardly contain the wrath which kindled in him at the other's indiscretion, especially as the doctor shook his head and declared his unwillingness to have the matter mentioned to his patient. But as his passion did not so far deprive him of all use of his understanding as to hide him from the consequences which any violent expression towards Blyphyl might have on the sick, this apprehension stilled his rage at the present, and he grew afterwards so satisfied with finding that this news had, in fact, produced no mischief that he suffered his anger to die in his own bosom without ever mentioning it to Blyphyl. The physician dined that day at Mr. Allworthy's, and having after dinner visited his patient, he returned to the company and told them that he had now the satisfaction to say, with assurance, that his patient was out of all danger, that he had brought his fever to a perfect intermission, and doubted not by throwing in the bark to prevent its return. This account so pleased Jones and threw him into such immoderate expesse of rapture that he might be truly said to be drunk with joy, an intoxication which greatly forwards the effects of wine, and as he was very free, too, with the bottle on this occasion, for he drank many bumpers to the doctors' health, as well as to other toasts. He became very soon literally drunk. Jones had naturally violent animal spirits. These being said on float and augmented by the spirit of wine produced most extravagant effects. He kissed the doctor and embraced him with the most passionate endearments, swearing that next to Mr. Allworthy himself, he loved him of all men living. Doctor, added he, you deserve a statue to be erected to you at the public expense, for having preserved a man who is not 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. Don me if I don't love him better than my own soul. More shame for you, Christ Thweckham, though I think you have a reason to love him, for he hath provided very well for you, and perhaps it might have been better for some folks that he had not lived to see just reason for revoking his gift. Jones now, looking on Thweckham with inconceivable disdain, answered, and doth thy mean soul imagine that any such considerations could weigh with 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 friend. What modesty or measure can set bounds to our desire of so dear a friend? The word desiderium here cannot be easily translated. It includes our desire of enjoying our friend again, and the grief which attends that desire. The doctor now interposed, and prevented the effects of a wrath which was kindling between Jones and Thweckham, after which the former gave a loose to mirth, sang two or three amorous songs, and fell into every frantic disorder which unbridled joy is apt to inspire. But so far was he from any disposition 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, does 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 produce 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-humoured, the avaricious, and all other dispositions of men are in their cups heightened and exposed. And yet, as no nation produces so many drunken quarrels, especially among the lower people, as England, for indeed with them to drink and to fight together are almost synonymous terms. I would not, methinks, have it thence concluded 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 conclusion seems to be that our countrymen have more of that love and more of bravery than any other plebeians, and this the rather as there is seldom anything ungenerous, unfair, or ill-natured exercised on these occasions. Nay, it is common for the combatants to express goodwill for each other, even at the time of 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. Blyphyl was highly offended at a behavior 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 the season, when, as he said, the house was a house of mourning, on the account of his dear mother, and if it had pleased heaven to give him some respect of Mr. Allworthy's recovery, it would become them better to express the exultations of their hearts in thanksgiving than in drunkenness and riots, which were properer methods to increase the divine wrath than to avert it. Thweckham, who had swallowed more liquor than Jones, but without any ill effect on his brain, seconded the pious harangue of Blyphyl, 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. Blyphyl's loss, the moment it was mentioned. As no person, therefore, was more ready to confess and condemn his own errors, he offered to shake Mr. Blyphyl by the hand, and begged his pardon, saying, his excessive joy for Mr. Allworthy's recovery had driven every other thought out of his mind. Blyphyl scornfully rejected his hand, and with much indignation answered, it was little to be wondered at if tragic spectacles made no impression on the blind, but for his part he had the misfortune to know who his parents were, and consequently must be affected with their loss. Jones, who, notwithstanding his good humor, had some mixture of the irascible in his constitution, leaped hastily from his chair and catching hold of Blyphyl's collar, cried out, Done you for a rascal, 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. Blyphyl's peaceful temper, and a scuffle immediately ensued which might have produced mischief had it not been prevented by the interposition of Thwackam 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 he apprehended some danger of having it broke in his mouth. The combatants being now prevented from executing present vengeance on each other, but took themselves to the common resources 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 favorable to his enemy. A truce, nevertheless, was at length agreed on by the mediation of the neutral parties, and the whole company again sat down at the table, where Jones being prevailed on to ask pardon and Blyphyl to give it, peace was restored, and everything seemed in statu quo. But though the quarrel was, in all appearance, perfectly reconciled, the good humor 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 us grave observations on 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 physician 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 Appalachian the philosopher, very sagaciously, shaking his head, agreed. End of Chapter 9