please. Now you well know how trivial these breaches of contract are
thought; even the grossest make but the wonder and conversation of a
day. Is there a man who afterwards will be more backward in giving you
his sister, or daughter? or is there any sister or daughter who
would be more backward to receive you? Honour is not concerned in
these engagements." "Pardon me, dear sir," cries Nightingale, "I can
never think so; and not only honour, but conscience and humanity,
are concerned. I am well satisfied, that, was I now to disappoint
the young creature, her death would be the consequence, and I should
look upon myself as her murderer; nay, as her murderer by the
cruellest of all methods, by breaking her heart." "Break her heart,
indeed! no, no, Jack," cries the uncle, "the hearts of women are not
so soon broke; they are tough, boy, they are tough." "But, sir,"
answered Nightingale, "my own affections are engaged, and I never
could be happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say,
that children should be always suffered to chuse for themselves, and
that you would let my cousin Harriet do so?" "Why, ay," replied the
old gentleman, "so I would have them; but then I would have them chuse
wisely.- Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave the girl."-- "Indeed,
uncle," cries the other, "I must and will have her." "You will,
young gentleman!" said the uncle; "I did not expect such a word from
you. I should not wonder if you had used such language to your father,
who hath always treated you like a dog, and kept you at the distance
which a tyrant preserves over his subjects; but I, who have lived with
you upon an equal footing, might surely expect better usage: but I
know how to account for it all: it is all owing to your preposterous
education, in which I have had too little share. There is my daughter,
now, whom I have brought up as my friend, never doth anything
without my advice, nor ever refuses to take it when I give it her."
"You have never yet given her advice in an affair of this kind,"
said Nightingale; "for I am greatly mistaken in my cousin, if she
would be very ready to obey even your most positive commands in
abandoning her inclinations." "Don't abuse my girl," answered the
old gentleman with some emotion; "don't abuse my Harriet. I have
brought her up to have no inclinations contrary to my own. By
suffering her to do whatever she pleases, I have enured her to a habit
of being pleased to do whatever I like." Pardon me, sir," said
Nightingale, "I have not the least design to reflect on my cousin, for
whom I have the greatest esteem; and indeed I am convinced you will
never put her to so severe a tryal, or lay such hard commands on her
as you would do on me.- But, dear sir, let us return to the company;
for they will begin to be uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one
favour of my dear uncle, which is that he would not say anything to
shock the poor girl or her mother." "Oh! you need not fear me,"
answered he, "I understand myself too well to affront women; so I will
readily grant you that favour; and in return I must expect another
of you." "There are but few of your commands, sir," said
Nightingale, "which I shall not very chearfully obey." "Nay, sir, I
ask nothing," said the uncle, "but the honour of your company home
to my lodging, that I may reason the case a little more fully with
you; for I would, if possible, have the satisfaction of preserving
my family, notwithstanding the headstrong folly of my brother, who, in
his opinion, is the wisest man in the world."
Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his
father, submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back
into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carty himself
with the same decorum which he had before maintained.
Chapter 10
A short chapter, which concludes the book
The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some
disquiet in the minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the
more, as, during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than
once elevated his voice, so as to be heard downstairs; which, though
they could not distinguish what he said, had caused some evil
foreboding in Nancy and her mother, and, indeed, even in Jones
himself.
When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a
visible alteration in all their faces; and the good humour which, at
their last meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance,
was now changed into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change,
indeed, common enough to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to
clouds, from June to December.
This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present;
for as they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts,
and to act a part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene
to be spectators of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any
symptoms of suspicion in the mother or daughter; nor did the mother or
daughter remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the
counterfeit satisfaction which grinned in the features of the young
one.
Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the
whole attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is
to act, in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the
arts practised against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow
no improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes place.
From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be
overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater
loser; as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in
payment.
Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried
off his nephew; but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy, in a
whisper, that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all
his engagements.
Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He
did indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observing the great
alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and
his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom
from his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a
proceeding, that it could be accounted for only by imagining that
young Nightingale had revealed the whole truth, which the apparent
openness of his temper, and his being flustered with liquor, made too
probable.
While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint
these poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed
him that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him.-- He went
immediately out, and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his
visitant upstairs, who, in the person of Mrs. Honour, acquainted him
with such dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately
lost all consideration for every other person; and his whole stock
of compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own
misery, and on that of his unfortunate angel.
What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we
have first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and
those will be the subject of the following book.
BOOK XV
IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS
Chapter 1
Too short to need a preface
There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach
that virtue is the certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in
this world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we
have but one objection, namely, that it is not true.
Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those
cardinal virtues, which like good housewives stay at home, and mind
only the business of their own family, I shall very readily concede
the point; for so surely do all these contribute and lead to
happiness, that I could almost wish, in violation of all the antient
and modern sages, to call them rather by the name of wisdom, than by
that of virtue; for, with regard to this life, no system, I
conceive, was ever wiser than that of the antient Epicureans, who held
this wisdom to constitute the chief good; nor foolisher than that of
their opposites, those modern epicures, who place all felicity in
the abundant gratification of every sensual appetite.
But if by virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain
relative quality, which is always busying itself without-doors, and
seems as much interested in pursuing the good of others as its own;
I cannot so easily agree that this is the surest way to human
happiness; because I am afraid we must then include poverty and
contempt, with all the mischiefs which backbiting, envy, and
ingratitude, can bring on mankind, in our idea of happiness; nay,
sometimes perhaps we shall be obliged to wait upon the said
happiness to a jail; since many by the above virtue have brought
themselves thither.
I have not now leisure to enter upon so large a field of
speculation, as here seems opening upon me; my design was to wipe
off a doctrine that lay in my way; since, while Mr. Jones was acting
the most virtuous part imaginable, in labouring to preserve his
fellow-creatures from destruction, the devil, or some other evil
spirit, one perhaps cloathed in human flesh, was hard at work to
make him completely miserable in the ruin of his Sophia.
This, therefore, would seem an exception to the above rule, if
indeed it was a rule; but as we have in our voyage through life seen
so many other exceptions to it, we chuse to dispute the doctrine on
which it is founded, which we don't apprehend to be Christian, which
we are convinced is not true, and which is indeed destructive of one
of the noblest arguments that reason alone can furnish for the
belief of immortality.
But as the reader's curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake,
and hungry, we shall provide to feed it as fast as we can.
Chapter 2
In which is opened a very black design against Sophia
I remember a wise old gentleman who used to say, "When children
are doing nothing, they are doing mischief." I will not enlarge this
quaint saying to the most beautiful part of the creation in general;
but so far I may be allowed, that when the effects of female
jealousy do not appear openly in their proper colours of rage and
fury, we may suspect that mischievous passion to be at work privately,
and attempting to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.
This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under
all the smiles which she wore in her countenance, concealed much
indignation against Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young
lady stood between her and the full indulgence of her desires, she
resolved to get rid of her by some means other; nor was it long before
a very favourable opportunity of accomplishing this presented itself
to her.
The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown
into that consternation at the playhouse, by the wit and humour of a
set of young gentlemen who call themselves the town, we informed
him, that she had put herself under the protection of a young
nobleman, who had very safely conducted her to her chair.
This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more
than once seen Sophia there, since her arrival in town, and had
conceived a very great liking to her; which liking, as beauty never
looks more amiable than in distress, Sophia had in this fright so
encreased, that he might now, without any great impropriety, be said
to be actually in love with her.
It may easily be believed, that he would not suffer so handsome an
occasion of improving his acquaintance with the beloved object as
now offered itself to elapse, when even good breeding alone might have
prompted him to pay her a visit.
The next morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on
Sophia, with the usual compliments, and hopes that she had received no
harm from her last night's adventure.
As love, like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon blown into
a flame, Sophia in a very short time compleated her conquest. Time now
flew away unperceived, and the noble lord had been two hours in
company with the lady, before it entered into his head that he had
made too long a visit. Though this circumstance alone would have
alarmed Sophia, who was somewhat more a mistress of computation at
present; she had indeed much more pregnant evidence from the eyes of
her lover of what past within his bosom; nay, though he did not make
any open declaration of his passion, yet many of his expressions
were rather too warm, and too tender, to have been imputed to
complacence, even in the age when such complacence was in fashion; the
very reverse of which is well known to be the reigning mode at
present.
Lady Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship's visit at his
first arrival; and the length of it very well satisfied her, that
things went as she wished, and as indeed she had suspected the
second time she saw this young couple together. This business, she
rightly, I think, concluded, that she should by no means 'forward by
mixing in the company while they were together; she therefore
ordered her servants, that when my lord was going, they should tell
him she desired to speak with him; and employed the intermediate
time in meditating how best to accomplish a scheme, which she made
no doubt but his lordship would very readily embrace the execution of.
Lord Fellamar (for that was the title of this young nobleman) was no
sooner introduced to her ladyship, than she attacked him in the
following strain: "Bless me, my lord, are you here yet? I thought my
servants had made a mistake, and let you go away; and I wanted to
