and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby
squire, when he is first introduced into a polite assembly. He
began, however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the
behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who he saw did not intend to claim any
acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the
stranger on his part. He said, "Ever since he had the pocket-book in
his possession, he had used great diligence in inquiring out the
lady whose name was writ in it; but never till that day could be so
fortunate to discover her."
Sophia indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to Lady
Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or other, had never once
hinted to her that it was in his possession, she believed not one
syllable of what Sophia now said, and wonderfully admired the
extreme quickness of the young lady in inventing such an excuse. The
reason of Sophia's leaving the playhouse met with no better credit;
and though she could not account for the meeting. between these two
lovers, she was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.
With an affected smile, therefore, she said, "Indeed, Miss
Western, you have had very good luck in recovering your money. Not
only as it fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he
happened to discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not
consent to have it advertised.- It was great good fortune, sir, that
you found out to whom the note belonged."
"Oh, madam," cries Jones, "it was enclosed in a pocket-book, in
which the young lady's name was written."
"That was very fortunate indeed," cries the lady:- "And it was no
less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house; for she is
very little known."
Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he
conceived he had now an opportunity of satisfying Sophia, as to the
question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he
proceeded thus: "Why, madam," answered he, "it was by the luckiest
chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was mentioning what I had
found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a lady at the
masquerade, who told me she believed she knew where I might see Miss
Western; and if I would come to her house the next morning she would
inform me. I went according to her appointment, but she was not at
home; nor could I ever meet with her till this morning, when she
directed me to your ladyship's house. I came accordingly, and did
myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and upon my saying that
I had very particular business, a servant showed me into this room;
where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the
play."
Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady
Bellaston, without any fear of being remarked my Sophia; for she was
visibly too much confounded to make any observations. This hint a
little alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the
agitation of Sophia's mind, resolved to take the only method of
relieving her, which was by retiring; but, before he did this, he
said, believe, madam, it is customary to give some reward on these
occasions;- I must insist on a very high one for my honesty;- it is,
madam, no less than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit
here."
"Sir," replied the lady, "I make no doubt that you are a
gentleman, and my doors are never shut to people of fashion."
Jones, then after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own
satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly
alarmed lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already
but too well.
Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs. Honour, who,
notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well bred
to behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky
circumstance, is he communicated to her the house where he lodged,
with which Sophia was unacquainted.
Chapter 12
In which the thirteenth book is concluded
The elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling too much
truth: by which it may be fairly inferred, that, in some cases, to lie
is not only excusable, but commendable.
And surely there are no persons who may so properly challenge a
right to this commendable deviation from truth, as young women in
the affair of love; for which they may plead precept, education, and
above all, the sanction, nay, I may say the necessity of custom, by
which they are restrained, not from submitting to the honest
impulses of nature (for that would be a foolish prohibition), but from
owning them.
We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now
pursued the dictates of the above-mentioned right honourable
philosopher. As she was perfectly satisfied then, that Lady
Bellaston was ignorant of the person of Jones, so she determined to
keep her in that ignorance, though at the expense of a little fibbing.
Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cryed, "Upton my
word, a good pretty young fellow; I wonder who he is; for I don't
remember ever to have seen his face before."
"Nor I neither, madam," cries Sophia. "I must say he behaved very
handsomely in relation to my note."
"Yes; and he is a very handsome fellow," said the lady: "don't you
think so?"
"I did not take much notice of him," answered Sophia, "but I thought
he seemed rather awkward, and ungenteel than otherwise."
"You are extremely right," cries Lady Bellaston: "you may see, by
his manner, that he hath not kept good company. Nay, notwithstanding
his returning your note, and refusing the reward, I almost question
whether he is a gentleman.-- I have always observed there is a
something in persons well born, which others can never acquire.-- I
think I will give orders not to be at home to him."
"Nay, sure, madam," answered Sophia, "one can't suspect after what
he hath done;- besides, if your ladyship observed him, there was an
elegance in his discourse, a delicacy, a prettiness of expression
that, that--"
"I confess," said Lady Bellaston, "the fellow hath words-- And
indeed Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must."
"I forgive your ladyship!" said Sophia.
"Yes, indeed you must," answered she, laughing; "for I had a
horrible suspicion when I first came into the room-- I vow you must
forgive it; but I suspected it was Mr. Jones himself."
"Did your ladyship, indeed?" cries Sophia, blushing, and affecting a
laugh.
"Yes, I vow I did," answered she. "I can't imagine what put it
into my head: for, give the fellow his due, he was genteely drest;
which, I think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the case with your
friend."
"This raillery," cries Sophia, "is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston,
after my promise to your ladyship."
"Not at all, child," said the lady;-- "It would have been cruel
before; but after you have promised me never to marry your father's
consent, in which you know is implied your giving up Jones, sure you
can bear a little raillery on a passion which was pardonable enough in
a young girl in the country, and of which you tell me you have so
entirely got the better. What must I think, my dear Sophy, if you
cannot bear a little ridicule even on his dress? I shall begin to fear
you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether you have
dealt ingenuously with me."
"Indeed, madam," cries Sophia, "your ladyship mistakes me, if you
imagine I had any concern on his account."
"On his account!" answered the lady: "You must have mistaken me; I
went no farther than his dress;-- for I would not injure your taste by
any other comparison-- I don't imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr.
Jones had been such a fellow as this-"
"I thought," says Sophia, "your ladyship had allowed him to be
handsome"--
"Whom, pray?" cried the lady hastily.
"Mr. Jones," answered Sophia;- and immediately recollecting
herself, "Mr. Jones!- no, no; I ask your pardon;- I mean the gentleman
who was just now here."
"O Sophy! Sophy!" cries the lady; "this Mr. Jones, I am afraid,
still runs in your head."
"Then, upon my honour, madam," said Sophia, "Mr. Jones is as
entirely indifferent to me, as the gentleman who just now left us."
"Upon my honour," said Lady Bellaston, "I believe it. Forgive me,
therefore, a little innocent raillery; but I promise you I will
never mention his name any more."
And now the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the delight
of Sophia than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented
her rival a little longer, had not business of more importance
called her away. As for Sophia, her mind was not perfectly easy
under this first practice of deceit; upon which, when she retired to
her chamber, she reflected with the highest uneasiness and conscious
shame. Nor could the peculiar hardship of her situation, and the
necessity of the case, at all reconcile her mind to her conduct; for
the frame of her mind was too delicate to bear the thought of having
been guilty of a falsehood, however qualified by circumstances. Nor
did this thought once suffer her to close her eyes during the whole
succeeding night.
BOOK XIV
CONTAINING TWO DAYS
Chapter 1
An essay to prove that an author will write the better for having
some knowledge of the subject on which he writes
As several gentlemen in these times, by the wonderful force of
genius only, without the least assistance of learning, perhaps without
being well able to read, have made a considerable figure in the
republic of letters; the modern critics, I am told, have lately
begun to assert, that all kind of learning is entirely useless to a
writer; and, indeed, no other than a kind of fetters on the natural
sprightliness and activity of the imagination, which is thus weighed
down, and prevented from soaring to those high flights which otherwise
it would be able to reach.
This doctrine, I am afraid, is at present carried much too far:
for why should writing differ so much from all other arts? The
nimbleness of a dancing-master is not at all prejudiced by being
taught to move; nor doth any mechanic, I believe, exercise his tools
the worse by having learnt to use them. For my own part, I cannot
conceive that Homer or Virgil would have writ with more fire, if,
instead of being masters of all the learning their times, they had
been as ignorant as most of the authors of the present age. Nor do I
believe that all the imagination, fire, and judgment of Pitt, could
have produced those orations that have made the senate of England,
in these our times, a rival in eloquence to Greece and Rome, if he had
not been so well read in the writings of Demosthenes and Cicero, as to
have transferred their whole spirit into his speeches, and, with their
spirit, their knowledge too.
I would not here be understood to insist on the same fund of
learning in any of my brethren, as Cicero persuades us is necessary to
the composition of an orator. On the contrary, very little reading is,
I conceive, necessary to the poet, less to the critic, and the least
of all to the politician. For the first, perhaps, Byshe's Art of
Poetry, and a few of our modern poets, may suffice; for the second,
a moderate heap of plays; and, for the last, an indifferent collection
of political journals.
To say the truth, I require no more than that a man should have some
little knowledge of the subject on which he treats, according to the
old maxim of law, Quam quisque norit artem in ed se exerceat. With
this alone a writer may sometimes do tolerably well; and, indeed,
without this, all the other learning in the world will stand him in
little stead.
For instance, let us suppose that Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and
Cicero, Thucydides and Livy, could have met all together, and have
clubbed their several talents to have composed a treatise on the art
of dancing: I believe it will be readily agreed they could not have
equalled the excellent treatise which Mr. Essex hath given us on
that subject, entitled, The Rudiments of Genteel Education. And,
indeed, should the excellent Mr. Broughton be prevailed on to set fist
to paper, and to complete the above-said rudiments, by delivering down
the true principles of athletics, I question whether the world will
have any cause to lament, that none of the great writers, either
antient or modern, have ever treated about that noble and useful art.
To avoid a multiplicity of examples in so plain a case, and to
come at once to my point, I am apt to conceive, that one reason why
many English writers have totally failed in describing the manners
of upper life, may possibly be, that in reality they know nothing of
it.
This is a knowledge unhappily not in the power of many authors to
arrive at. Books will give us a very imperfect idea of it; nor will
the stage a much better: the fine gentleman formed upon reading the
former will almost always turn out a pedant, and he who forms
himself upon the latter, a coxcomb.
Nor are the characters drawn from these models better supported.
Vanbrugh and Congreve copied nature; but they who copy them draw as
unlike the present age as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a
rout, or a drum, in the dresses of Titian and of Vandyke. In short,
imitation here will not do the business. The picture must be after
Nature herself. A true knowledge of the world is gained only by
conversation, and the manners of every rank must be seen in order to
be known.
