 section 8 of Tom Jones. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Renee Bell. Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. Book 15, Chapter 7. In which various misfortunes befell poor Jones. Affairs were in the aforesaid situation when Mrs. Honor arrived at Mrs. Miller's and called Jones out from the company, as we have before seen, with whom when she found herself alone, she began as follows. Oh, my dear sir, how shall I get spirits to tell you? You are undone, sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am undone. Have anything happened to Sophia, cries Jones, staring like a madman? All that is bad, cries Honor. Oh, I shall never get such another lady, other than I should ever live to see this day. At these words, Jones turned pale as ashes, trembled and stammered. But Honor went on. Oh, Mr. Jones, I have lost my lady forever. How? What? For heaven's sake, tell me. Oh, my dear Sophia. You may well call herself, said Honor. She was the dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another place. Damn your place, cries Jones. Where is what? What has become of my Sophia? I, to be sure, cry she. Servants may be damned. It signifies nothing what becomes of them, though they are turned away and ruined ever so much to be sure they are not flesh and blood like other people. No, to be sure. It signifies nothing what becomes of them. If you have any pity, any compassion, cries Jones, I beg you will instantly tell me what have happened to Sophia. To be sure I have more pity for you than you have for me, answered Honor. I don't damn you because you have lost the sweetest lady in the world. To be sure you are worthy to be pityed. And I am worthy to be pityed too, for to be sure, if ever there was a good mistress. What has happened, cries Jones, in almost a raging fit? What? What, said Honor? By the worst that could have happened, both for you and for me, her father has come to town and has carried her away from us both. Here Jones fell on his knees in thanksgiving that it was no worse. No worse, repeated Honor, but could be worse for either or less. He carried her off, swearing she should marry Mr. Blythol. That's for your comfort. And for poor me, I am turned out of doors. Indeed, Mrs. Honor, answered Jones, you frighten me out of my wits. I imagine some most dreadful sudden accident had happened to Sophia. Something compared to which even seeing her married to Blythol would be a trifle. But while there is life, there are hopes, my dear Honor. Women in this land of liberty cannot be married by actual brutal force. To be sure, sir, said she, that's true. There may be some hopes for you, but like a day, what hopes are there for poor me? And to be sure, sir, you must be sensible, I suffer all this upon your account. All the quarrel the squire hath to me is for taking your part, as I have been against Mr. Blythol. Indeed, Mrs. Honor, answered she, I am sensible of my obligations to you, and will leave nothing in my power undone to make you a mens. Alas, sir, said she, what can make a servant a mens for the loss of one place, but the getting another altogether is good? Do not despair, Mrs. Honor, said Jones, I hope to reinstate you again in the same. For like a day, sir, said she, how can I flatter myself with such hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? For the squire is so set against me, and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as to be sure, I now hopes heartily you will. For you are a generous good-natured gentleman, and I am sure you love her, and to be sure she loves you as dearly as her own soul, it is a matter in vain to deny it, because that is why everybody that is in the least acquainted with my lady must see it. For poor dear lady, she can't dissemble. And of two people who loves one another and happy, why, who should be so? Happiness don't always depend upon what people have. Besides, my lady has enough for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would be all the pity in the world to keep two such loggers asunder. Nay, I am convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last, for if it is to be, there is no preventing it. If the marriage is made in heaven, all the justice as a piece upon earth can't break it off. To be sure, I wish as that parson supple had but a little more spirit to tell the squire of his wickedness and endeavoring to force his daughter contrary to her liking, but then his whole dependence is on the squire, and so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious good sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings behind the squire's back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face. To be sure, I never saw him make so bold as just now. I was afraid the squire would have struck him. I would not have your honor be melancholy, sir, nor despair. Things may go better, as long as you are sure of my lady, and that I am certain you may be, for she never will be brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed, I am terribly afraid the squire will do her mischief in his passion, for he is a prodigious passionate gentleman, and I am afraid too the poor lady will be brought to break her heart, for she is as tenderhearted as a chicken. It is pity, me thinks, she had not a little of my courage. If I was in love with a young man and my father offered to lock me up, I'd tear his eyes out, but I'd come at it. But then there's a great fortune in the case, which it is in her father's power either to give her or not. That, to be sure, may make some difference. Whether Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue, or whether it was for want of any vacancy in the discourse, I cannot determine, but he never once attempted to answer, nor did she once stop till partridge came running into the room and informed him that the great lady was upon the stairs. Nothing could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced, honoring nothing of any acquaintance that's assisted between him and Lady Bellison, and she was almost the last person in the world to whom he would have communicated it. In this hurry and distress he took, as is common enough, the worst course, and instead of exposing her to the lady, which would have been of little consequence, he chose to expose the lady to her. He therefore resolved to hide honor whom he had but just hung to convey behind the bed and to draw the curtains. The hurry in which Jones had been all day engaged on account of his poor landlady and her family, the terrors occasioned by Mrs. Honor and the confusion into which he was thrown by the sudden arrival of Lady Bellison had altogether driven former thoughts out of his head, so that it never once occurred to his memory to act a part of a sick man, which, indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress nor the freshness of his countenance would have at all supported. He received her ladyship therefore rather agreeably to her desires than to her expectations, with all the good humor he could muster in his countenance and without any real or affected appearance of the least disorder. Lady Bellison no sooner entered the room than she squattered herself down on the bed. So, my dear Jones, said she, you find nothing can detain me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you that I have neither seen nor heard from you all day, for I perceived your distemper would have suffered you to come abroad. Nay, I suppose you have not sat in your chamber all day dressed up like a fine lady to see company after a lying in. But, however, don't think I intend to scold you, for I never will give you an excuse for the cold behavior of a husband by putting on the ill humor of a wife. Nay, Lady Bellison, said Jones, I am sure your ladyship will not abrade me with neglect of duty when I only waited for orders. Who, my dear creature, hath reason to complain? Who missed an appointment last night and left an unhappy man to expect, and wish, and sigh, and languish? Do not mention it, my dear Jones Crutchie. If you knew the occasion, you would pity me. In short, it is impossible to conceive what women of condition are obliged to suffer from the impertinence of fools in order to keep up the farce of the world. I am glad, however, all your languishing and wishing have done you no harm, for you never looked better in your life. Upon my faith, Jones, you might at this instant sit for the picture of Adonis. There are certain words of provocation which men of honor hold can be properly answered only by a blow. Among lovers, possibly, there may be some expressions which can be answered only by a kiss. Now, the compliment which Lady Belliston now made, Jones, seems to be of this kind, especially as it was attended with a look in which the lady conveyed more soft ideas than it was possible to express with her tongue. Jones was certainly at this instant in one of the most disagreeable and distressed situations imaginable, for to carry on the comparison we made you so before, though the provocation was given by the lady, Jones could not receive satisfaction, nor so much as offered to ask it in the presence of a third person, second in this kind of duals not being according to the law of arms. As this objection did not occur to Lady Belliston, who was ignorant of any other woman being there but herself, she waited some time in great astonishment for an answer from Jones, who, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made, stood at a distance and not daring to give the proper answer, gave none at all. Nothing can be imagined more comic nor yet more tragical than this scene would have been if it had lasted much longer. The lady had already changed color two or three times, had got up from the bed and sat down again, while Jones was wishing the ground to sing under him or the house to fall on his head. When an odd accident freed him from an embarrassment out of which neither the eloquence of a Cicero nor the politics of a Machiavelle could have delivered him without utter disgrace. This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk, or rather in that state of drunkenness which deprived man of the use of their reason without depriving them of the use of their lips. Mrs. Miller and her daughters were in bed and partridge was smoking his pipe out of the kitchen fire so that he arrived at Mr. Jones' chambered door without any interruption. This he burst open and was entering without any ceremony when Jones started from his seat and ran to oppose him, which he did so effectually that Nightingale never came far enough within the door to see who was sitting on the bed. Nightingale had in reality mistaken Jones' apartment for that in which himself had lodged. He therefore strongly insisted on coming in, often swearing that he would not be kept from his own bed. Jones, however, prevailed over him and delivered him into the hands of partridge, whom the noise on the stairs sent someone to his master's assistance. And now Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own apartment, where at the very instant of his entrance he heard Lady Belliston venting an exclamation, but not a very loud one, and at the same time start flinging herself into a chair in a vast agitation, which in a lady of a tinder constitution would have been a hysteric fit. In reality, the lady, frightened with struggle between the two men, of which she did not know what would be the issue, as she heard Nightingale swear many oaths he would come to his own bed, attempted to retire to her known place of hiding, which to her great confusion she found already occupied by another. Is this usage to be borne, Mr. Jones, cries the lady? Basist of men, what riches this to whom you have exposed me? Wretch, cries honor, bursting in a violent rage from her place of concealment. Mary come up, wretch forsooth, as poor a wretch as I am, I am honest. This is more than some folks who a wretcher can say. Jones, instead of applying himself directly to take out the edge of Mrs. Honors' resentment, as a more experienced gallant would have done, felt the cursing his stars and lamenting himself as the most unfortunate man in the world, and presently after addressing himself to Lady Belliston, he felt some very absurd protestations of innocence. By this time the lady had recovered the use of her reason, which she had as ready as any woman in the world, especially on such occasions, calmly replied, Sir, you need make no apologies. I see now who the person is. I did not at first know Mrs. Honors, but now I do. I can suspect nothing wrong between her and you, and I am sure she is a woman of too good sense to put any wrong constructions upon my visit to you. I have been always her friend, and it may be in my power to be much more hereafter. Mrs. Honors was altogether as placable as she was passionate, hearing therefore Lady Belliston assume the soft tone she likewise softened hers. I am sure, Madam, says she. I have been always ready to acknowledge your ladyship's friendships to me. Sure, I never had so good a friend to your ladyship, and to be sure, now I see it is your ladyship that I spoke to. I could almost bite my tongue off for very mad. I constructions upon your ladyship. To be sure, it doth not become a servant as I am to think about such a great lady. I mean, I was a servant, for indeed I am nobody's servant now. The more miserable wretches me. I have lost the best mistress. Here Honors thought fit to produce a shower of tears. Don't cry, child, says the good lady. Ways perhaps may be found to make you a man's. Come to me tomorrow morning. She then took up her fan which lay on the ground, and without even looking at Jones walked very majestically out of the room. There being a kind of dignity in the impudence of women of quality, which their inferior vainly aspire to attain to in circumstances of this nature. Jones followed her downstairs, often offering her his hand, which she absolutely refused to, and got into her chair without taking any notice of him as he stood bowing before her. At his return upstairs, a long dialogue passed between him and Mrs. Honor, while she was adjusting herself after the discomposure she had undergone. The subject of this was this infidelity to her young lady, on which she enlarged with great bitterness. But Jones at last found means to reconcile her, and not only so, but to obtain her promise the most inviolable secrecy, and that she would the next morning endeavor to find out Sophia and bring him a further account of the proceedings of the squire. Thus ended this unfortunate adventure to the satisfaction only of Mrs. Honor. For a secret, as some of my readers will perhaps acknowledge from experience, is often a very valuable possession. And that not only to those who faithfully keep it, but sometimes to suggest what's spread about till it come to the ears of everyone except the ignorant person who pays for the supposed concealment of what is publicly known. Chapter 8. Short and Sweet Notwithstanding all the obligations she had received from Jones, Mrs. Miller could not forebear in the morning some general monstrousness for the hurricane which had happened the preceding night in this chamber. These were, however, so gentle and so friendly, professing and indeed truly to aim at nothing more than the real good of Mr. Jones himself, that he, far from being offended, thankfully received the admonition of the good woman, expressed much concern for what had passed, excused as well as he could, and promised never more to bring the same disturbances into the house. But though Mrs. Miller did not refrain from a short expostulation and private their first meeting, yet the occasion of his being summoned downstairs that morning was of a much more agreeable kind, being indeed to perform the office of a father to Ms. Nancy, and to give her in wedlock to Mr. Nightingale, who was now ready dressed, and full of sober as many of my readers will think a man ought to be who receives a wife and so improved in a manner. And here perhaps it may be proper to account for the escape which this young gentleman had made from his uncle, and for his appearance in the condition in which we have seen him the night before. Now when the uncle had arrived at his lodgings with his nephew, partly to indulge his own inclinations, for he dearly loved his bottle, and partly to disqualify his nephew from the immediate execution of his purpose, he ordered wine to be set on the table, with which he so wistfully plowed the young gentleman, that this latter, who though not much used to drinking, did not detest it so as to be guilty of disobedience or want of complacence by refusing, was soon completely finished. Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed for his nephew, a messenger arrived with a piece of news which so entirely disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a moment lost all consideration for his nephew, and his whole mind became entirely taken up with his own concerns. This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter had taken the opportunity of almost the first moment of his absence, and had gone off with a neighboring young clergyman against him, though her father could have had but one objection, namely that he was worth nothing, yet she had never thought proper to communicate her amor even to that father, so artfully had she managed that it had never been once suspected by any till now that it was consummated. Old Mr. Nightingale no sooner received this account than in the utmost confusion he ordered a post chest to be instantly got ready, and having recommended his nephew to the care of a servant, he directly left the house, scarce knowing what he did nor whether he went. The uncle thus departed. When the servant came to attend the nephew to bed, had waked him for that purpose, and had at last made him sensible that his uncle was gone, he, instead of accepting the kind offices tendered him, insisted on a champion called. With this the servant, who had received no strict orders to the contrary, readily complied, and thus being conducted back to the house of Mrs. Miller, he staggered up to Mr. Jones' chamber, as had been before recounted. This part of the uncle being now removed, though young Nightingale knew not as yet in what manner, and all parties being quickly ready, the mother, Mr. Jones, Mr. Nightingale and his love, stepped into a hackney coach, which conveyed them to Drs. Commons, where Miss Nancy was, in vocal language, soon made an honest woman, and the poor mother became, in the purest sense of the word, one of the happiest of all human beings. And now Mr. Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman and her family brought to a happy conclusion, began to apply himself to his own concerns. But here, lest many of my readers should censure his folly for thus troubling himself with the affairs of others, unless some few should think he acted more disinterestedly than indeed he did, we think proper to assure our reader that he was so far from being unconcerned in this matter, that he had indeed a very considerable interest in bringing it to that final consummation. To explain this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could cruelly say with him, in Terrence, Homo-Sum, Imani-Nahil-Ami-Eli-Nakuta. He was never an indifferent spectator of the misery or happiness of anyone, and he felt either the one or the other in great proportion as he himself contributed to either. He could not therefore be the instrument of raising a whole family from the lowest state of richness to the highest pitch of joy without conveying great felicity to himself, or perhaps in worldly men often purchased to themselves by undergoing the most severe labor, and often by wading through the deepest iniquity. Those readers who are of the same confliction with him will perhaps think this short chapter contains abundance of matter, while others may probably wish, short as it is, that it had been totally spared as impertinent to the main design, which I suppose they conclude is to bring Mr. Jones to the gallows where possible to a more deplorable catastrophe. Chapter 9, Containing Love Letters of Several Swords Mr. Jones at his return home found the following letters lying on his table, which he luckily opened in the order they were sent. Surely I am under some strange infatuation. I cannot keep my resolutions a moment, however strongly made or justly founded. Last night I resolved never to see you more. This morning I am willing to hear if you can, as you say, clear up this affair. And yet I know that to be impossible. I have said everything to myself which you can invent. Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come to me, therefore, the moment you receive this. If you can forge an excuse, I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed, too. I will think no more. Come to me directly. This is the third letter I have read. The two former are burnt. I am almost inclined to burn this, too. I wish I may preserve my senses. Come to me, present. Letter two. If you ever expect to be forgiven or even suffered within my doors, come to me this instant. Letter three. I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your logics. The moment you receive this, let me see you. I shall not stir out, nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure, nothing can detain you long. Jones had just read over these three billets when Mr. Nightingale came into the room. Well, Tom said he. Any news from Lady Belliston after last night's adventure? For it was now no secret to anyone in that house who the lady was. The Lady Belliston answered Jones very gravely. Nay, dear Tom, cries Nightingale, don't be so reserved to your friends. Though I was too prompt to see her last night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant of who the queen of the fairies is? And did you really then know the lady at the masquerade, said Jones? Yes, upon my soul, did I, said Nightingale, and have given you twenty hints of incense, though you seem always so tender on that point that I would not speak plainly. I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter. You are not so well acquainted with the character of the lady as with her person. Don't be angry, Tom, but upon my honor, you are not the first young fellow she hath debouched. Her reputation is in no danger, believe me. Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the best alcant when his amor began, yet as she was thoroughly ignorant of the town and had very little acquaintance in it, he had no knowledge of that character which is vocally called a demirad. That is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man she likes under the name and appearance of virtue, and who, though some overnight ladies will not be seen with her, is visited as they term it by the whole town, in short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her. When he found therefore that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted with this entry and began to suspect that so scrupulous a delicacy as he had hitherto observed was not quite necessary on the occasion, he gave a latitude to his friend's tongue and desired him to speak plainly what he knew or had ever heard of the lady. Nightingale, whom in many other instances was rather too effeminate in his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to tittle-tattle. He had no sooner, therefore, deceived with full liberty of speaking from Jones than he entered upon a long-narrated concerning the lady, which as it contained many particulars highly to her dishonor, we have too great a tenderness for all women of condition to repeat. We would cautiously avoid giving an opportunity to the future commentators on our works of making any malicious application and enforcing us to be, against our will, the author of Scandal, which never entered into our head. Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say, bet you to deep sigh, which the other helps everybody cried, hey, day, why there art not in love, I hope, that I imagine my stories would have affected you. I promise you should never have heard them. Oh, my dear friend, Christ Jones, I am so entangled with this woman that I know not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed, no, my friend, but I am under obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you know so much, I will be very explicit with you. It is owing perhaps solely to her that I have not before this wanted a bit of bread, how can I possibly desert such a woman? And yet I must desert her, or be guilty of the blackest treachery to one who deserves infinitely better of me than she can, a woman is my Nightingale, for whom I have a passion which few can have an idea. I have to strike you for doubts how to act. In Dizda's other prey, an honorable mistress cries Nightingale. Honorable, answered Jones, no breath ever yet dirt sully her reputation. The sweetest air is not pure. The limpid stream not clearer than her honor. She is all over, both in mind and body, consummate perfection. She is the most beautiful creature in the universe, and yet she is mistress of such noble, elevated qualities that though she is never far from my thoughts, I scarce ever think of her beauty but when I see it. And can you, my good friend, Christ Nightingale, with such an engagement as this upon your hands, hesitate a moment about quitting such a hold, said Jones, no more abuse of her. I detest the thought of ingratitude. Who, answered the other, you are not the first upon whom she has conferred obligations this kind. She is remarkably liberal where she likes, though let me tell you, her favors are so prudently bestowed that they should rather raise a man's vanity than his gratitude. In short, Nightingale proceeded so far on this head, and told this friend so many stories of the lady, which he swore to the truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem for her from the breast of Jones, and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. Indeed, he began to look on all the favors he had received rather as wages than benefits, which depreciated not only her, but himself too in his own conceit, and put him quite out of humor with both. From this disgust, his mind, by a natural transition, turned toward Sophia. Her virtue, her purity, her love to him, her sufferings on his account, filled all his thoughts, and made his commerce with Lady Belliston appear still more odious. The result of all was that, though his turning himself out of her service, in which light he now saw his affair with her, would be the loss of his bread, yet he determined to quit her, if he could but find a handsome pretence, which, being communicated to his friend, Nightingale considered a little, and then said, I have it, my boy, I have found out a sure method, propose marriage to her, and I would venture hanging upon the success. Marriage, Christ Jones? I propose marriage, answered Nightingale, and she will declare off in a moment. I knew a young fellow whom she kept formerly, who made the offer to her in earnest, and was presently turned off for his pains. Jones declared he could not venture the experiment. Perhaps, said he, she may be less shocked at this proposal from one man than from another, and if she should take me at my word, where am I then? Caught in my own trap, and undone forever. No, answered Nightingale, not if I can give you an expedient by which you may at any time get out of the trap. But expedient can that be? replied Jones. This, answered Nightingale. The young fellow I mentioned, who is one of the most intimate acquaintances I have in the world, is so angry with her for some ill-office as she has since done him, that I am sure he would, without any difficulty, give you a sight of her letters, upon which she may decently break with her, and declare off before the night is tied, if she should really be willing to tie it, which I am convinced she will not. After some hesitation, Jones, upon the strength of this assurance, consented, but, as he swore he wanted the confidence to propose the matter to her face, he wrote the following letter, which Nightingale dictated. Madam, I am extremely concerned that, by an unfortunate engagement abroad, I should have missed receiving the honor of your ladyship's commands the moment they came, and the delay which I must now suffer of vindicating myself to your ladyship greatly adds to this misfortune. O Lady Belliston, what a terror have I been in for fear your reputation should be exposed by these perverse accidents. There is only one way to secure it. I need not name what that is. Only permit me to say that, as your honor is as dear to me as my own, so my sole ambition is to have the glory of laying my liberty at your feet, and believe me when I assure you, I can never be made completely happy without you generously bestowing me a legal right of calling you mine forever. I am, Madam, with most profound respect, your ladyship's most obliged, obedient, humble servant, Thomas Jones. To this she presently returned the following answer. Sir, when I read over your serious epistle, I could, from its coldness and formality, have sworn that you already had the legal right you mentioned. Nay, that we had for many years composed that monstrous animal a husband and wife. Do you really then imagine me a fool? Or do you fancy yourself capable of so entirely persuading me out of my senses that I should deliver my whole fortune to your power in order to enable you to support your pleasures at my expense? Are these the proofs of love which I expected? Is this the return first? I scorn to have break you, and am in great admiration of your profound respect. P.S., I am prevented from realizing. Perhaps I have said more than I meant. Come to me at eight this evening. Jones, by the advice of his privy counsel, replied, Madam, it is impossible to express how much I am shocked at the suspicion you entertained of me. Can Lady Belliston have conferred favors on a man and she could believe capable of so basic design? Or can she treat the most solemn tie of love with content? Can you imagine, Madam, that if the violence of my passion in an unguarded moment overcame the tenderness which I have for your honor, I would think of indulging myself in the continuance of an inner course which could not possibly escape along the notice of the world and which, when discovered, must prove so fatal to your reputation? To such be your opinion of me, I must pray for a sudden opportunity of returning those pecuniary obligations which I have been so unfortunate to receive at your hand. And for those of a more tender kind, I shall ever remain, etc. And so concluded in the very words with which he had concluded the former letter. The lady answered as follows, I see you are a villain, and I despise you from my soul. If you come here, I shall not be at home. Though Jones was well satisfied with his deliverance from a thralldom, which those who have ever experienced it will, I apprehend, allow to be none the lightest, he was not, however, perfectly easy in his mind. There was in this scheme too much a fallacy to satisfy one who utterly detested every species of falsehood or dishonesty, nor would he indeed have submitted to put it in practice, had he not been involved in a distressful situation where he was obliged to be guilty of some dishonor either to the one lady or the other, and surely the reader will allow that every good principle, as well as love, pleaded strongly in favor of Sophia. Nightingale highly exalted in the success of his strategy, upon which he received many thanks and much applause from his friend. He answered, Dear Tom, we have convert very different obligations on each other. To me you owe the regaining of your liberty. To you I owe the loss of mine. But if you are as happy in the one instance as I am in the other, I promise you we are the two happiest fellows in England. The two gentlemen were now summoned down to dinner for Mrs. Miller, who performed herself the Office of Cook, had exerted her best talents to celebrate the wedding of her daughter. This joyful circumstance she ascribed principally to the friendly behavior of Jones. Her whole soul was fired with gratitude towards him, and all her looks, words, and actions were so busy in expressing it that her daughter, and even her new son-in-law, were very little objects of her consideration. Dinner was just ended when Mrs. Miller received a letter, but as we have had letters now in this chapter, we shall communicate its contents in our next. CHAPTER X Consisting partly of facts and partly of observations upon them. The letter, then, which arrived at the end of the preceding chapter, was for Mr. Allworthy, and the purport of it was his intention to come immediately to town with his nephew Blyphyl, and a desire to be accommodated with his usual lodgings, which were the first floor for himself, and the second for his nephew. The cheerfulness which had before displayed itself in the countenance of the poor woman was a little clouded on this occasion. This news did indeed a good deal disconcert her. To require it so disinterested a match with her daughter, by presently turning her new son-in-law out of doors, appeared to her very unjustifiable on the one hand, and on the other, she could scarce bear the thoughts of making any excuse to Mr. Allworthy after all the obligations received from him for depriving him of lodgings which were indeed strictly his due. For that gentleman, in conferring all his numberless benefits on others, acted by a rule diametrically opposite to what is practiced by most generous people. He contrived, on all occasions, to hide his beneficions, not only from the world, but even from the object of it. He constantly used the words lend and pay instead of give, and by every other method he could invent always lessened with his tongue the favours he conferred, while he was heaping them with both his hands. When he settled the annuity of fifty pounds a year therefore on Mrs. Miller, he told her it was in consideration of always having her first floor when he was in town, which he scarce ever intended to be, but that she might let it at any other time, for that he would always send her a month's warning. He was now, however, hurried to town so suddenly that he had no opportunity of giving such notice, and this hurry probably prevented him when he wrote for his lodgings, adding, if they were then empty. For he would most certainly have been well satisfied to have relinquished them on a less efficient excuse than what Mrs. Miller could now have made. But there are sort of persons who, as prior excellently well remarks, direct their conduct by something beyond the fixed and settled rules of vice and virtue in the schools, beyond the letter of the law. To these it is so far from being sufficient that their defence would acquit them at any old Bailey that they are not even contented, though conscience, the severest of all judges, should discharge them. Nothing short of the fair and honourable will satisfy the delicacy of their minds, and if any of their actions fall short of this mark, they mope and pine are as uneasy and restless as a murderer who is afraid of a ghost or of the hangman. Mrs. Miller was one of these. She could not conceal her uneasiness at this letter, with the contents of which she had no sooner acquainted the company and given some hints of her distress, than Jones, her good angel, presently relieved her anxiety. As for myself, madam, said he, my lodging is at your service at a moment's warning, and Mr. Nightingale, I am sure, as he cannot yet prepare a house fit to receive his lady, will consent to return to his new lodging, whether Mrs. Nightingale will certainly consent to go, with which proposal both husband and wife instantly agreed. The reader will easily believe that the cheeks of Mrs. Miller began again to glow with additional gratitude to Jones, but perhaps it may be more difficult to persuade him that Mr. Jones, having in his last speech appealed her daughter, Mrs. Nightingale, it being the first time that agreeable sound had ever reached her ears, gave the fond mother more satisfaction and warmed her heart more towards Jones than his having dissipated her present anxiety. The next day was then appointed for the removal of the new married couple and of Mr. Jones, who was likewise to be provided for in the same house with his friend. And now the serenity of the company was again restored, and they passed the day in the utmost cheerfulness, all except Jones, who, though he outwardly accompanied the rest in their mirth, felt many a bitter pang on the account of his Sophia, which were not a little heightened by the noose of Mr. Blyfels coming to town, for he clearly saw the intention of his journey. And what greatly aggravated his concern was that Mrs. Honor, who had promised to inquire after Sophia and to make her report to him early the next evening, had disappointed him. In the situation that he and his mistress were in at this time, there were scarce any grounds for him to hope that he should hear any good news. Yet he was as impatient to see Mrs. Honor as if he had expected she would bring him a letter with an asignation in it from Sophia and bore the disappointment as ill. Whether this impatience arose from the natural weakness of the human mind, which makes it desirous to know the worst and renders uncertainty the most intolerable of pains, or whether he still flattered himself with some secret hopes, we will not determine. But that it might be the last, whoever has loved cannot but know. For of all the powers exercised by this passion over our minds, one of the most wonderful is that of supporting hope in the midst of despair. Difficulties, improbabilities, nay impossibilities are quite overlooked by it, so that to any man extremely in love may be applied what Addison says of Caesar, the Alps and Pyrenees sink before him. Yet it is equally true that the same passion will sometimes make mountains of mole-hills and produce despair in the midst of hope. But these cold fits last not long in good constitutions. Which temper Jones was now in we leave the reader to guess, having no exact information about it. But this is certain, that he had spent two hours in expectation when, being unable any longer to conceal his uneasiness, he retired to his room, where his anxiety had almost made him frantic, when the following letter was brought him, from Mrs. Honor, with which we shall present the reader verbatim et literatim. Sir, I should certainly have called on you according to me promise, hadn't it been that her layship prevent me? For to be sure, sir, you know very well that every person must look first at home, and certainly such another offer might not have ever happened, so as I should have been justly to blame, had I not accepted of it, when her layship was so very kind as to offer to make me her own human without me ever asking any such thing. To be sure, she is one of the best ladies in the world, and people who says to the contrary must be very wicked people in their hearts. To be sure, if ever I have said anything of that kind, it has been through ignorance, and I am heartily sorry for it. I know, your honor, to be a gentleman of more honor and honesty, if I ever said any such thing, to repeat it, to hurt a poor servant that has always had the greatest respect in the world for your honor. To be sure, one should keep one's tongue within one's teeth, for nobody knows what may happen. And to be sure, if anybody had told me yesterday, that I should have been in so good a place today, I should not have believed it. For to be sure, I never was a dreamt of any such thing, nor should I ever have sought after any other body's place, but as her layship was so kind of her own accord to give it to me without asking. To be sure, Mrs. Itoff herself, nor no other body can blame me for accepting such a thing when it falls in me way. I beg your honor not to mention anything of what I have said, for I wish your honor all the good luck in the world, and I don't question but that you will have, Madame Sophia, in the end. But as to me self, your honor knows I can't be of any farther service to you in that matter. Now, being under the command of another person, and not my own mistress, I beg your honor to say nothing of what past, and believe me to be, sir, your honor's humble servant to command till death. Honor Blackmore. Various were the conjectures which Jones entertained on the step of Lady Belliston, who in reality had little farther design than to secure within her own house the repository of a secret which she chose should make no farther progress than it had made already. But mostly she desired to keep it from the ears of Sophia, for although that young lady was almost the only one who would never have repeated it again, her ladyship could not persuade herself of this. Since, as she now hated poor Sophia with most implacable hatred, she conceived a reciprocal hatred to herself to be lodged in the tender breast of our heroine, where no such passion had ever yet found an entrance. While Jones was terrifying himself with the apprehension of a thousand dreadful machinations, and deep political designs, which he imagined to be at the bottom of the promotion of honor, Fortune, who hitherto seems to have been an utter enemy to his match with Sophia, tried a new method to put a final end to it by throwing a temptation in his way, which in his present desperate situation it seemed unlikely he should be able to resist. CHAPTER XI. CONTAINING CURIOUS BUT NOT UNPRESSEDENTED MATTER There was a lady, one Mrs. Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the house where he lodged, being intimately acquainted with the women there, and indeed a very great friend to Mrs. Miller. Her age was about thirty, for she owned six and twenty. Her face and person very good, only inclining a little too much to be fat. She had been married young by her relations to an old turkey merchant, who, having got a great fortune, had left off trade. With him she lived without reproach, but not without pain, in a state of great self-denial, for about twelve years. And her virtue was rewarded by his dying and leaving her very rich. The first year of her widowhood was just at an end, and she had passed it in a good deal of retirement, seeing only a few particular friends, and dividing her time between her devotions and novels, of which she was always extremely fond. Very good health, a very warm constitution, and a good deal of religion made it absolutely necessary for her to marry again. And she resolved to please herself and her second husband, as she had done her friends in the first. From her the following billet was brought to Jones. Sir, from the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too plainly that you were not indifferent to me, but neither my tongue nor my hand should have ever about it, had not the ladies of the family where you are lodged given me such a character of you, and told me such proofs of your virtue and goodness, as convince me you are not only the most agreeable, but the most worthy of men. I have also the satisfaction to hear from them that neither my person, understanding, or character are disagreeable to you. I have a fortune sufficient to make us both happy, but which cannot make me so without you. In thus disposing myself, I know I shall incur the censure of the world, but if I did not love you more than I fear the world, I should not be worthy of you. One only difficulty stops me. I am informed that you are engaged in a commerce of gallantry with a woman of fashion. If you think it worthwhile to sacrifice that to the possession of me, I am yours. If not, forget my weakness, and let this remain an eternal secret between you and Arabella Hunt. At the reading of this, Jones was put into a violent flutter. His fortune was then at a very low ebb, the source being stopped from which hitherto he had been supplied. Of all he had received from Lady Belliston, not above five guineas remained, and that very morning he had been done by a tradesman for twice that sum. His honorable mistress was in the hands of her father, and he had scarce any hopes ever to get her out of them again. To be subsisted at her expense, from that little fortune she had independent of her father, went much against the delicacy both of his pride and his love. This lady's fortune would have been exceeding convenient to him, and he could have no objection to her in any respect. On the contrary, he liked her as well as he did any woman except Sophia. But to abandon Sophia and marry another, that was impossible. He could not think of it upon any account. Yet why should he not, since it was plain she could not be his? Would it not be kinder to her, than to continue her longer engaged in a hopeless passion for him? Aught he not to do so in friendship to her? This notion prevailed some moments, and he had almost determined to be false to her from a high point of honour. But that refinement was not able to stand very long against the voice of nature, which cried in his heart that such friendship was treason to love. At last he called for a pen, ink, and paper, and writ as follows to Mrs. Hunt. Madam, it would be but a poor return to the favour you have done me to sacrifice any gallantry to the possession of you, and I would certainly do it, though I were not disengaged, as at present I am, from any affair of that kind. But I should not be the honest man you think me, if I did not tell you that my affections are engaged to another, who is a woman of virtue, and one that I never can leave, though it is probable I shall never possess her. God forbid that, in return of your kindness to me, I should do you such an injury as to give you my hand when I cannot give my heart. No, I had much rather starved than be guilty of that. Even though my mistress were married to another, I would not marry you unless my heart had entirely effaced all impressions of her. Be assured that your secret was not more safe in your own breast than in that of your most obliged and grateful humble servant T. Jones. When our hero had finished and sent this letter, he went to his scretory, took out Miss Western's muff, kissed it several times, and then strutted some turns about his room with more satisfaction of mind than ever any Irishman felt in carrying off a fortune of fifty thousand pounds. CHAPTER XII. A DISCOVERY MADE BY PARTRIGE While Jones was exalting in the consciousness of his integrity, Partridge came capering into the room as was his custom when he brought, or fancied he brought, any good tidings. He had been dispatched that morning by his master, with orders to endeavor by the servants of Lady Belliston, or by any other means, to discover whether Sophia had been conveyed. And he now returned, and with a joyful countenance, told our hero that he had found the lost bird. I have seen, sir," says he, Black George, the gamekeeper, who is one of the servants whom the squire hath brought with him to town. I knew him presently, though I have not seen him these several years. But you know, sir, he is a very remarkable man, or, to use a purer phrase, he hath a most remarkable beard, the largest and blackest I ever saw. It was some time, however, before Black George could recollect me. Well, but what is your good news? cried Jones. What do you know of my Sophia? You shall know presently, sir," answered Partridge. I am coming to it as fast as I can. You are so impatient, sir. You would come at the infinitive mood before you can get to the imperative. As I was saying, sir, it was some time before he recollected my face. God found your face! cried Jones. What of my Sophia? Nay, sir," answered Partridge. I know nothing more of Madame Sophia than what I am going to tell you. And I should have told you all before this if you had not interrupted me. But if you look so angry at me, you will frighten all of it out of my head, or to use a purer phrase, out of my memory. I never saw you look so angry since the day we left Upton, which I shall remember if I was to live a thousand years. Well, pray go on your own way," said Jones. You are resolved to make me mad, I find. Not for the world," answered Partridge. I have suffered enough for that already, which, as I said, I shall bear in my remembrance the longest day I have to live. Well, but Black George! cried Jones. Well, sir, as I was saying, it was a long time before he could recollect me, for, indeed, I am very much altered since I saw him. Non sum qualis erum. I have the troubles in the world, and nothing alters a man so much as grief. I have heard it will change the color of a man's hair in a night. However, at last know me he did, that sure enough, for we are both of an age, and we're at the same charity school. George was a great dunce, but no matter for that, all men do not thrive in the world according to their learning. I'm sure I have reason to say so, but it will be all one a thousand years hence. Well, sir, where was I? Oh, well, we no sooner knew each other, than after many hearty shakes by the hand, we agreed to go to an ale-house and take a pot, and by good luck the beer was some of the best I have met with since I have been in town. Now, sir, I am coming to the point. For no sooner did I name you, and told him that you and I came to town together and had lived together ever since, than he called for another pot, and swore he would drink to your health. And, indeed, he drank to your health so heartily, that I was overjoyed to see there was so much gratitude left in the world. And after we had emptied that pot, I said I would buy my pot, too. And so we drank another to your health, and then I made haste home to tell you the news. What news! cried Jones, you have not mentioned a word of my Sophia. Bless me, I had liked to have forgot that. Indeed, we mentioned a great deal about young Madame Western, and George told me all, that Mr. Blyphil is coming to town in order to be married to her. He had best make haste, then, says I, or somebody will have her before he comes. And, indeed, says I, Mr. Seagram, it is a thousand pity somebody should not have her. For he certainly loves her above all the women in the world. I would have both you and she know, that it is not for her fortune he follows her, for I can assure you, as to a matter of that, there is another lady, one of much greater quality and fortune than she can pretend to, who is so fond of somebody that she comes after him day and night. Here Jones fell into a passion with partridge, for having, as he said, betrayed him. But the poor fellow answered, he had mentioned no name. Besides, sir, said he, I can assure you, George, as sincerely your friend, and wished Mr. Blyphil at the devil more than once. Nay, he said he would do anything in his power upon earth to serve you, and so I am convinced he will. Betray you, indeed. Why, I question whether you have a better friend than George upon earth, except myself, or one that would go farther to serve you. Well, said Jones, a little pacified, you say this fellow, who, I believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my friend, lives in the same house with Sophia? In the same house, answered partridge, why, sir, he is one of the servants of the family, and very well dressed, I promise you, he is. If it was not for his black beard, you would hardly know him. One service, then, at least, he may do me, says Jones. Sure, he can certainly convey a letter to my Sophia. You have hit the nail, odd ungam, Christ partridge. How came I not to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon the very first mentioning. Well, then, said Jones, do you leave me at present, and I will write a letter, which you shall deliver to him to-morrow morning, for I suppose you know where to find him. Oh, yes, sir, answered partridge, I shall certainly find him again. There is no fear of that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away long. I make no doubt, but he will be there every day he stays in town. So you don't know the street, then, where my Sophia is lodged? Christ Jones. Indeed, sir, I do, said partridge. What is the name of the street, Christ Jones? The name, sir? Why here, sir, just by, answered partridge, not above a street or two off. I don't indeed know the very name, for, as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put some suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am too cunning for that, I promise you. Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed, replied Jones. However, I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will be cunning enough to find him to-morrow at the ale-house. And now, having dismissed the sagacious partridge, Mr. Jones sat himself down to write, in which employment we shall leave him for a time. And here we put an end to the fifteenth book. I have heard of a dramatic writer who used to say he would rather write a play than a prologue. In such manner, I think, I can with less pains write one of the books of this history than the prefatory chapter to each of them. To see the truth, I believe many a hearty curse has been bestowed on the head of that author who first instituted the method of prefixing to his play that portion of matter which is called a prologue, and which at first was part of the piece itself, but of latter years has had usually so little connection with the drama before which it stands that the prologue to one play might as well serve for any other. Those indeed of more modern date seem all to be written on the same three topics, these, an abuse of the taste of the town, a condemnation of all contemporary authors, and a eulogium of their performance just about to be represented. The sentiments in all these are very little varied, nor is it possible they should, and indeed I have often wondered at the great invention of authors who have been capable of finding such various phrases to express the same thing. In like manner, I apprehend some future historian, if anyone shall do me the honour of imitating my manner, will, after much scratching his paint, bestow some good wishes on my memory for having first established the several initial chapters, most of which, like modern prologues, may as properly be prefixed to any other book in this history as to that which they introduce, or indeed to any other history as to this. But, however, authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the reader will find sufficient emolument in the one, as the spectator has long found in the other. First, it is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an opportunity to try his faculty of hissing, and to tune his cat-call to the best advantage, by which means I have known these musical instruments so well prepared that they have been able to play in full concert at the first rising of the curtain. The same advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the critic will always be sure of meeting with something that may serve as a whetstone to his noble spirit, so that he may fall with a more hungry appetite for censure on the history itself. And here, his sagacity must make it needless to observe how artfully these chapters are calculated for that excellent purpose. For in these, we have always taken care to interspersed somewhat of the sour acid kind in order to sharpen and stimulate the said spirit of criticism. Again, the indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great advantage from both these, for as they are not so obliged either to see the one or read the others, and both the play and the book are thus protracted by the former they have a quarter of an hour longer allowed them to sit at dinner, and by the latter they have the advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth page instead of the first, a matter by no means of trivial consequence to persons who read books with no other view than to say they have read them, a more general motive for reading than is commonly imagined, and from which not only law books and good books, but the pages of Homer and Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes, have been often turned over. Many other are the emoluments which arrives from both these, but they are for the most part so obvious that we shall not at present stay to enumerate them, especially since it occurs to us that the principal merit of both the prologue and the preface is that they be short. Chapter 2, a whimsical adventure which befell the square with the distressed situation of Sophia. We must now convey the reader to Mr. Western's lodgings which were in Piccadilly, where he was placed by the recommendation of the landlord at the Hercules Pillars at Hyde Park Corner, for at the inn which was the first he saw on his arrival in town he placed his horses, and in those lodgings which were the first he heard of he deposited himself. Here, when Sophia alighted from the Hackney coach which brought her from the house of Lady Balustin, she desired to retire to the apartment provided for her, to which her father very readily agreed, and whither he attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very material nor pleasant to her like minutely, then passed between them, in which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to the marriage with Blithel, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town in a few days. But instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and resolute refusal than she had ever done before. This soon sensed her father that after many bitter vows that he would force her to have him whether she would or not, he departed from her with many hard words and curses, locked the door and put the key into his pocket. While Sophia was left with no other company than what attended the closest state prisoner, namely Fire and Candle, the squire sat down to regale himself over a bottle of wine with his portion in the landlord of the Hercules Pillars, who, as the squire said, would make it an excellent third man and would inform them of the news of the town and how affairs went, for, to be sure, says he, he knows a great deal since the horses of many of the quality stand at his house. In this agreeable society Mr. Western passed that evening, in great part of the succeeding day, during which period nothing happened of sufficient consequence to find a place in this history. All this time Sophia passed by herself, for her father swore she should never come out of her chamber alive, unless she first consented to marry Blithel, nor did he ever suffer the door to be unloaded, unless, to convey her food, on which occasions he always attended himself. The second morning after his arrival, when he and the person worked breakfast together on a toast and tankered, he was informed that a gentleman was below to wait on him. A gentle man, coothed the squire, what who the devil can he be? Do doctor, go down and see who it is? Mr. Blithel can hardly be come to town yet. Go down, though, and know what his business is. The doctor returned with an account that it was a very well-dressed man, and by the ribbon in his hat he took him for an officer of the army, that he said he had some particular business, which he could deliver to none but Mr. Western himself. An officer, cries the squire, what can any such fellow have to do with me? If he wants an order for baggage wagons, I am no justice of the piece here, nor can I grant a warrant. Let him come up, then, if he must speak to me. A very gentile man now entered the room, who, having made his compliments to the squire, and desired the favour of being alone with him, delivered himself as follows. Sir, I come to wait upon you from the command of my Lord Philemon, but with a very different message from what I suppose you expect, after what passed the other night. My Lord, oh, cries the squire, I never heard the name of him. His lordship, said the gentleman, is willing to impute everything to the effect of liquor, and the most trifling acknowledgement of that kind will set everything right, for as he hath the most violent attachment to your daughter, you, sir, are the last person upon earth from whom he would resent in a front. And happy is it for you both that he hath given such public demonstrations of his courage as to be able to put up an affair of this kind without danger of any imputation on his honour. All he desires, therefore, is that you will before me make some acknowledgement, the slightest in the world will be sufficient, and he intends this afternoon to pay his respects to you, in order to obtain your leave of visiting the young lady on the footing of a lover. I don't understand much of what you say, sir, says the squire, but I suppose, by what you talk about my daughter, that this is the Lord which my cousin Lady Belastin mentioned to me, and said something about his courting my daughter. If so be that, how that be the case, you may give my service to his lordship and tell him the girl has disposed of already. Perhaps, sir, said the gentleman, you are not sufficiently apprised of the greatness of this offer, I believe such a person, title and fortune would be nowhere refused. Lucky, sir, answered the squire, to be very plain my daughter has bespoke already, but if she was not, I would not marry her to a lord upon any account. I ate all lords, they are a parcel of courches and Hanoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them. Well, sir, said the gentleman, if that is your resolution, the message I am to deliver you is that my lord desires the favour of your company this morning in Hyde Park. You may tell my lord, answered the squire, that I am busy and cannot come, I have enough to look after at home and can't stir abroad on any account. I am sure, sir, quotes the other, you are too much a gentleman to send such a message, you will not, I am convinced, have it said of you that after having affronted noble peer, do you refuse him satisfaction? His lordship would have been willing, from his great regard to the young lady, to have made up matters in another way, but unless he is to look on you as a father, his honour will not suffer his putting up such an indignity as you must be sensible, you offered him. I offered him, Christ the Squire, it's a damned lie, I never offered him anything. Upon these words, the gentleman returned a very short verbal rebuke, and this he accompanied at the same time with some manual remonstrances, which no sooner reached the ear of Mr Western than that worthy squire began to keep her very briskly about the room, bellowing at the same time with all his might, as if desirous to summon a great a number of spectators to behold his agility. The parson, who had left great part of the tankhood unfinished, was not retired for, immediately attended therefore on the squires of separation, crying, Bless me, sir, what's the matter? Matter, quote the squire, Here's I, wayman, I believe, Who wants to rob and murder me? Brieth fallen upon me with that stick there in his hand, when I wish I may be damned if I get on the least provocation. How, sir, said the captain, Did you not tell me I lied? No, as I hoped to be saved, I believe I might say it was a lie that I had offered any affront to my lord, but I never said the word you lie. I understand myself better, and you might have understood yourself better than to fall upon an achid man. If I had a stick in my hands, you would not have dared strike me. I'd have knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears, come down an eard this minute, and I'll take about with thee a single stick for a broken head that I will, or I will go in a naked room and box thee for a bellyful, an aunt affa man an aunt, I'm sure. The captain with some indignation replied, I see, sir, you are below my notice, and I shall inform his lordship you're below his. I'm sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you. At which words he withdrew the parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping him, in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though he made some efforts for the purpose, did not seem very violently bent on success. However, when the captain was departed, the squire sent many curses and some menaces after him, but as these did not set out from his lips, till the officer was at the bottom of the stairs and grew louder and louder as he was more and more remote, he did not reach his ears, or at least did not retard his departure. Poor Sevilla, however, who, in her prison, heard all her father's outcries from first to last, began now first to thunder with her foot and afterwards to scream as loudly as the old gentleman himself had done before, though in a much sweeter voice. These screams soon silenced the squire and turned all his consideration towards his daughter, whom he loved so tenderly that the least apprehension of any harm happening to her threw him presently into agonies for, except in that single instance in which the whole future happiness of her life was concerned, she was sovereign mistress of his inclinations. Having ended his rage against the captain with swearing he would take the law of him, the squire now mounted upstairs to Sofia, whom as soon as he had unlocked and opened the door, he found all pale and breathless. The moment, however, that she saw her father, she collected all her spirits and, catching him whole by the hand, she cried passionately, Oh, my dear sir, I am almost frightened to death. I hope to heaven no harm has happened to you. No, no, cries the squire. No great arm. That rascal hath not hurt me much, but wracked me if I don't add a lot of him. Pray, dear sir. Says she. Tell me what's the matter? Who hath insulted you? I don't know the name on, answered Western. Some officer fellow, I suppose, that we are to pay for beaten us, but I'll make him pay for this bout, if the rascal hath got anything, which I suppose he hath not. For though he were dressed out so vine, I question whether he had a boot of land in the world. But, dear sir. Pray, she. What was the occasion of your quarrel? What should it be, Sophie? Answered the squire. But about you, Sophie. All my misfortunes are about you. You will be the death of your poor father at last. Here's a varlot of a lord. The lord knows who, forsooth. Who hath a tann a liking to you? And because I will not give him my consent, he sent me a callager. Come, do be a good girl, Sophie, and put an end to all your father's troubles. Come, do consent to Han. You'll be in town with him this day or two. Do but promise me to marry him as soon as he comes, and you will make me the happiest man in the world, and I'll make you the happiest woman. You shall have the finest clothes in London, and the finest jewels, and a coach in six at your command. I promised all worthy already to give up half my estate. I'll drab it it. I should hardly stick to giving up the whole. Well, my papa would be so kind. Says she. As to hear me speak? Why would ask, Sophie? Tries he, when dust. No, I'd rather hear thy voice than the music of the best pack of dogs in England. Hear thee, my dear little girl. I hope I shall hear thee as long as I live. For if I were ever to lose that pleasure, I would not give Brass Farton to live a moment longer. Indeed, Sophie, you do not know how I love you. Indeed, you don't. Or you never could have run away and left your poor father who hath no other joy, no other comfort on earth but his little Sophie. At these words, tears stood in his eyes, and Sophia, with the tears streaming from hers, answered, Indeed, my dear papa, I know you have loved me tenderly, and heaven is my witness how sincerely I have returned your affection. Nor could anything but an apprehension of being forced into the arms of this man have driven me to run from a father whom I love so passionately that I would with pleasure sacrifice my life to his happiness. Nay, I have endeavored to reason myself into doing more, and had almost worked up a resolution to endure the most miserable of all lives, to comply with your inclination. It was that resolution alone to which I could not force my mind, nor can I ever. Here the squire began to look wild, and the foam appeared at his lips, which Sophia, observing, begged to be heard out, and then proceeded. If my father's life, his health, or any real happiness of his was at stake, here stands your resolved daughter. May heaven blast me if there is a misery I would not suffer to preserve you. No, at most detested, most loathsome of all lots would I embrace. I would give my hand to bliffle for your sake. I tell thee it would preserve me, answers the father, it'll give me health, happiness, life, everything. Upon my soul I shall die if dust refuse me. I shall break my heart, I shall upon my soul. Is it possible? Says she. You can have a desire to make me miserable. I tell thee no, answered he loudly. Dan me if there is a thing upon earth, I would not do to see thee happy. And will none, my dear papa, allow me to have least knowledge of what will make me so? If it be true that happiness consists an opinion, what must be my condition when I shall think myself the most miserable of all the wretches upon earth? Better think yourself so, says he, then know it by being married to a poor bastardly vagabond. If it will content you, sir. Said Sophia. I will give you the most solemn promise never to marry him, nor any other while my papa lives without his consent. Let me dedicate my whole life to your service as may be again your poor Sophia and my whole business and pleasure be as it hath been to please and divert you. Look, eh, Sophie? answered the score. I am not to be chose in this manner. Your Aunt Western would then have reason to think me the fool she doth. No, no, Sophie. I'd have you to know I've got more wisdom and know more of the world than to take the word of a woman in a manner where a man is concerned. How, sir? Have I deserved this want of confidence? Said she. Have I ever broke a single promise to you? Or have I ever been found guilty of falsehood for my cradle? Look, eh, Sophie? That's neither ear nor the ear. I am determined upon this match to have him you shall. Dami of Shattant, dami of Shattant, though dost hang myself the next morning. At repeating which words he clenched his fist, knit his brows, bit his lips, and thundered so loud that the poor afflicted terrified Sophia sunk trembling into her chair and had not a flood of tears come immediately to her relief, perhaps worse had followed. Western beheld the deplorable condition of his daughter with no more contrition or remorse than the turnkey of Newgate feels at view in the agonies of the tender wife when saying her last farewell with her condemned husband. Or rather he looked down on her with the same emotions which arise in an honest fair tradesman who sees his debtor drag to prison for ten pounds, which, though just debt, the rich is wickedly unable to pay. Or to hit the case still more nearly, he felt that same compunction with a board and some poor innocent whom she hath ensnared into her hands falls into fits at the first proposal of what is called seeing company. Indeed, this resemblance would be exact was it not that the board hath an interest in what she does and the father, though perhaps he may blindly think otherwise, can in reality have none in urging his daughter to almost an equal prostitution. In this condition he left his poor Sophia and departing with a very vulgar observation on the effect of tears, he locked the room and returned to the person who said everything he durst in behalf of the young lady, which, though perhaps it was not quite so much as his duty required, yet was it sufficient to throw the squire into a violent rage and into many indecent reflections on the whole body of the clergy, which we have too great an honour for that sacred function to commit to paper. Chapter 3 What Happened to Sophia During Her Confinement The lad lady of the house where the squire lodged had begun very early to entertain a strange opinion of her guests. However, as she was informed that the squire was a man of vast fortune and as she had taken care to exact a very extraordinary price for her rooms she did not think proper to give any offence for, though she was without some concern for the confinement of poor Sophia of whose great sweetness of temper and affability the maid of the house had made so favourable a report which was confirmed by all the squire's servants, yet she had much more concern for her own interest than to provoke one whom, as she said, she perceived to be a very hastish kind of gentleman. Though Sophia eat but little, yet she was regularly served with her meals. Indeed, I believe, if she had liked any one rarity that the squire, however angry, would have spared neither pains nor cost to have procured for her. Since, however strange it may appear to some of my readers, he really doted on his daughter and to give her any kind of pleasure was the highest satisfaction of his life. The dinner hour being arrived, Black George carried her up a pallet. The squire himself, for he had swore not at part with the key attending the door. As George deposited the dish, some compliments passed between him and Sophia, for he had not seen her since she left the country and she treated every servant with more respect than some persons show to those who are in a very slight degree their inferiors. Sophia would have had him take the pallet back, saying she could not eat, but George begged her to try and particularly commended to her the eggs of which he said it was full. All this time the squire was weeding at the door, but George was a great favourite with his master as his employment was in concerns of the highest nature, namely about the game and was accustomed to take many liberties. He had officiously carried up the dinner being, as he said, very disservice to see his young lady. He made therefore no scruple of keeping his master standing above ten minutes, while civilities were passing between him and Sophia, for which he received only a good human rebuke at the door when he returned. The eggs of pullets, partridges, pheasants, etc. were, as George well knew, the most favourite dainties of Sophia. It was therefore no wonder that he, who was a very good-natured fellow, should take care to supply her with this kind of delicacy at a time when all the servants in the house were afraid she would be starved, for she had scarce swallowed a single morsel in the last forty hours. Though vexation has not the same effect on all persons as it usually has on a widow whose appetite it often renders sharper than it can be rendered by the air on Banstead Downs or Salisbury Plain, yet the sublimus grief, notwithstanding what some people may say to the contrary, will eat at last. And Sophia herself, after some little consideration, began to dissect the foal which she found to be as full of eggs as George had reported it. But if she was pleased with these, it contained something which would have delighted the Royal Society much more. For if a foul with three legs be so invaluable a curiosity, when perhaps time has produced a thousand such, at what price shall we esteem a bird which so totally contradicts all the laws of animal economy as to continue later in its belly? Ovid tells us of a flower into which Hyacinthus was more than more foes, with bears later on its leaves, which Virgil recommended as a miracle to the Royal Society of his day, but no age nor nation has ever recorded a bird with a letter in its moor. But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the Académie de Sion in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless inquiry, yet the reader by barely recollecting the last dialogue which passed between Messia's Jones and Partridge will be very easily satisfied from whence this letter came and Howard found its passage into the foal. Sophia, notwithstanding her long fast and notwithstanding her favourite dish was there before her, no sooner saw the letter than she immediately snatched it up, tore it open and read as follows. I inform her what her Jones must have suffered on this melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance in the world which can heighten my agonies when I hear of a misfortune with has befallen you? Surely there is one only, and with that I am accursed. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful consideration that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I hear do myself too much honour, but none will envy me an honour which cost me so extremely dear. Pardon me this presumption, and pardon me a greater still if I ask you whether my advice, my insistence, my presence, my absence, my death or my torches can bring you any relief. And the most perfect admiration, the most watchful observance, the most ardent love, the most melting tenderness, the most resigned submission to your will make you amends for what you are to sacrifice to my happiness, if they can fly my lovely angel to the arms which are ever open to receive and protect you, and to which, whether you bring yourself alone or the riches of the world with you, is, in my opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If, on the contrary, wisdom shall predominate and on the most mature reflection inform you that the sacrifice is too great and if there be no way left to reconcile your father and restore the peace of your dear mind but by abandoning me, I can enjoy you, drive me forever from your thoughts, exert your resolution, and let no compassion for my sufferings bear the least weight in that tender bosom. Believe me, madam, I so sincerely love you better than myself that my great and principle end is your happiness. My first wish, why would not fortune indulge me in it, was, pardon me if I say, still is, to see you every moment the happiest of women. My second wish is to hear you are so, but no misery on earth can equal mine while I think you owe an uneasy moment to him who is madam in every sense and to every purpose. You are devoted Thomas Jones. What Sophia said or did or thought upon this litter, how often she read it or whether more than once shall all be left to our reader's imagination. The answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter, but not at present. For this reason, among others, that she did not now write any and that for several good causes one of which was this. She had no paper, pen, no ink. In the evening, whilst Sophia was meditating on the letter she had received, or on something else, as violent noise from below disturbed her meditations. This noise was no other than a ram bout at altercation between two persons. One of the combatants, by his voice, she immediately distinguished to be her father, but she did not so soon discover the shrilla pipes to belong to the organ of her Aunt Western, who was just arrived in town, were having by means of one of her servants who stopped the Hercules Pillars, learned where her brother lodged, she drove directly to his lodgings. We shall therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and with our usual good reading, attend her ladyship. End of 1652, Book 15, Chapters 1 to 3. Recording by Andy from Inverahnen, Cardsland, Birmingham. Web address, www.malis, m-e-l-y-s, .-w-s.