occasioned a perturbation in his mind, which, in a constitution less
pure and firm than his, might have been, at such a season, attended
with very dangerous consequences. He was truly sensible of the great
worth of Sophia. He extremely liked her person, no less admired her
accomplishments, and tenderly loved her goodness. In reality, as he
had never once entertained any thought of possessing her, nor had ever
given the least voluntary indulgence to his inclinations, he had a
much stronger passion for her than he himself was acquainted with. His
heart now brought forth the full secret, at the same time that it
assured him the adorable object returned his affection.
Chapter 3
Which all who have no heart will think to contain much ado about
nothing
The reader will perhaps imagine the sensations which now arose in
Jones to have been so sweet and delicious, that they would rather tend
to produce a chearful serenity in the mind, than any of those
dangerous effects which we have mentioned; but in fact, sensations
of this kind, however delicious, are, at their first recognition, of a
very tumultuous nature, and have very little of the opiate in them.
They were, moreover, in the present case, embittered with certain
circumstances, which being mixed with sweeter ingredients, tended
altogether to compose a draught that might be termed bitter-sweet;
than which, as nothing can be more disagreeable to the palate, so
nothing, in the metaphorical sense, can be so injurious to the mind.
For first, though he had sufficient foundation to flatter himself in
what he had observed in Sophia, he was not yet free from doubt of
misconstruing compassion, or at best, esteem, into a warmer regard. He
was far from a sanguine assurance that Sophia had any such affection
towards him, as might promise his inclinations that harvest, which, if
they were encouraged and nursed, they would finally grow up to
require. Besides, if he could hope to find no bar to his happiness
from the daughter, he thought himself certain of meeting an
effectual bar in the father; who, though he was a country squire in
his diversions, was perfectly a man of the world in whatever
regarded his fortune; had the most violent affection for his only
daughter, and had often signified, in his cups, the pleasure he
proposed in seeing her married to one of the richest men in the
county. Jones was not so vain and senseless a coxcomb as to expect,
from any regard which Western had professed for him, that he would
ever be induced to lay aside these views of advancing his daughter. He
well knew that fortune is generally the principal, if not the sole,
consideration, which operates on the best of parents in these matters:
for friendship makes us warmly espouse the interest of others; but
it is very cold to the gratification of their passions. Indeed, to
feel the happiness which may result from this, it is necessary we
should possess the passion ourselves. As he had therefore no hopes
of obtaining her father's consent; so he thought to endeavour to
succeed without it, and by such means to frustrate the great point
of Mr. Western's life, was to make a very ill use of his
hospitality, and a very ungrateful return to the many little favours
received (however roughly) at his hands. If he saw such a
consequence with horror and disdain, how much more was he shocked with
what regarded Mr. Allworthy; to whom, as he had more than filial
obligations, so had he for him more than filial piety! He knew the
nature of that good man to be so averse to any baseness or
treachery, that the least attempt of such a kind would make the
sight of the guilty person for ever odious to his eyes, and his name a
detestable sound in his ears. The appearance of such unsurmountable
difficulties was sufficient to have inspired him with despair, however
ardent his wishes had been; but even these were controuled by
compassion for another woman. The idea of lovely Molly now intruded
itself before him. He had sworn eternal constancy in her arms, and she
bad as often vowed never to out-live his deserting her. He now saw her
in all the most shocking postures of death; nay, he considered all the
miseries of prostitution to which she would be liable, and of which he
would be doubly the occasion; first by seducing, and then by deserting
her; for he well knew the hatred which all her neighbours, and even
her own sisters, bore her, and how ready they would all be to tear her
to pieces. Indeed, he had exposed her to more envy than shame, or
rather to the latter by means of the former: for many women abused her
for being a whore, while they envied her her lover and her finery, and
would have been themselves glad to have purchased these at the same
rate. The ruin, therefore, of the poor girl must, he foresaw,
unavoidably attend his deserting her; and this thought stung him to
the soul. Poverty and distress seemed to him to give none a right of
aggravating those misfortunes. The meanness of her condition did not
represent her misery as of little consequence in his eyes, nor did
it appear to justify, or even to palliate, his guilt, in bringing that
misery upon her. But why do I mention justification? His own heart
would not suffer him to destroy a human creature who, he thought,
loved him, and had to that love sacrificed her innocence. His own good
heart pleaded her cause; not as a cold venal advocate, but as one
interested in the event, and which must itself deeply share in all the
agonies its owner brought on another.
When this powerful advocate had sufficiently raised the pity of
Jones, by painting poor Molly in all the circumstances of
wretchedness; it artfully called in the assistance of another passion,
and represented the girl in all the amiable colours of youth,
health, and beauty; as one greatly the object of desire, and much more
so, at least to a good mind, from being, at the same time, the
object of compassion.
Amidst these thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless night, and
in the morning the result of the whole was to abide by Molly, and to
think no more of Sophia.
In this virtuous resolution he continued all the next day till the
evening, cherishing the idea of Molly, and driving Sophia from his
thoughts; but in the fatal evening, a very trifling accident set all
his passions again on float, and worked so total a change in his mind,
that we think it decent to communicate it in a fresh chapter.
Chapter 4
A little chapter, in which is contained a little incident
Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the young
gentleman in his confinement, Mrs. Honour was one. The reader,
perhaps, when he reflects on some expressions which have formerly
dropt from her, may conceive that she herself had a very particular
affection for Mr. Jones; but, in reality, it was no such thing. Tom
was a handsome young fellow; and for that species of men Mrs. Honour
had some regard; but this was perfectly indiscriminate; for having
being crossed in the love which she bore a certain nobleman's footman,
who had basely deserted her after a promise of marriage, she had so
securely kept together the broken remains of her heart, that no man
had ever since been able to possess himself of any single fragment.
She viewed all handsome men with that equal regard and benevolence
which a sober and virtuous mind bears to all the good. She might
indeed be called a lover of men, as Socrates was a lover of mankind,
preferring one to another for corporeal, as he for mental
qualifications; but never carrying this preference so far as to
cause any perturbation in the philosophical serenity of her temper.
The day after Mr. Jones had that conflict with himself which we have
seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs. Honour came into his room, and
finding him alone, began in the following manner:- "La, sir, where do
you think I have been? I warrants you, you would not guess in fifty
years; but if you did guess, to be sure I must not tell you
neither."- "Nay, if it be something which you must not tell me," said
Jones, "I shall have the curiosity to enquire, and I know you will not
be so barbarous to refuse me."- "I don't know," cries she, "why I
should refuse you neither, for that matter; for to be sure you won't
mention it any more. And for that matter, if you knew where I have
been, unless you knew what I have been about, it would not signify
much. Nay, I don't see why it should be kept a secret for my part; for
to be sure she is the best lady in the world." Upon this, Jones
began to beg earnestly to be let into this secret, and faithfully
promised not to divulge it. She then proceeded thus:- "Why, you must
know, sir, my young lady sent me to enquire after Molly Seagrim, and
to see whether the wench wanted anything; to be sure, I did not care
to go, methinks; but servants must do what they are ordered.- How
could you undervalue yourself so, Mr. Jones?- So my lady bid me go and
carry her some linen, and other things. She is too good. If such
forward sluts were sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I
told my lady, says I, madam, your la'ship is encouraging idleness."-
"And was my Sophia so good?" says Jones. "My Sophia! I assure you,
marry come up," answered Honour. "And yet if you knew all- indeed, if
I was as Mr. Jones, I should look a little higher than such trumpery
as Molly Seagrim." "What do you mean by these words," replied Jones,
"if I knew all?" "I mean what I mean," says Honour. "Don't you
remember putting your hands in my lady's muff once? I vow I could
almost find in my heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would never
come to the hearing on't." Jones then made several solemn
protestations. And Honour proceeded- "Then to be sure, my lady gave me
that muff; and afterwards, upon hearing what you had done"-- "Then you
told her what I had done?" interrupted Jones. "If I did, sir,"
answered she, "you need not be angry with me. Many's the man would
have given his head to have had my lady told, if they had known,- for,
to be sure, the biggest lord in the land might be proud- but, I
protest, I have a great mind not to tell you." Jones fell to
entreaties, and soon prevailed on her to go on thus. "You must know
then, sir, that my lady had given this muff to me; but about a day or
two after I had told her the story, she quarrels with her new muff,
and to be sure it is the prettiest that ever was seen. Honour, says
she, this is an odious muff; it is too big for me, I can't wear it:
till I can get another, you must let me have my old one again, and you
may have this in the room on't- for she's a good lady, and scorns to
give a thing and take a thing, I promise you that. So to be sure I
fetched it her back again, and, I believe, she hath worn it upon her
arm almost ever since, and I warrants hath given it many a kiss when
nobody hath seen her."
Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr. Western himself, who
came to summon Jones to the harpsichord; whither the poor young fellow
went all pale and trembling. This Western observed, but, on seeing
Mrs. Honour, imputed it to a wrong cause; and having given Jones a
hearty curse between jest and earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and not
poach up the game in his warren.
Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty, and we may
believe it was no small addition to her charms, in the eye of Mr.
Jones, that she now happened to have on her right arm this very muff.
She was playing one of her father's favourite tunes, and he was
leaning on her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers, and put her
out. This so disconcerted the squire, that he snatched the muff from
her, and with a hearty curse threw it into the fire. Sophia
instantly started up, and with the utmost eagerness recovered it
from the flames.
Though this incident will probably appear of little consequence to
many of our readers; yet, trifling as it was, it had so violent an
effect on poor Jones, that we thought it our duty to relate it. In
reality, there are many little circumstances too often omitted by
injudicious historians, from which events of the utmost importance
arise. The world may indeed be considered as a vast machine, in
which the great wheels are originally set in motion by those which are
very minute, and almost imperceptible to any but the strongest eyes.
Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia; not all the
dazzling brightness, and languishing softness of her eyes; the harmony
of her voice, and of her person; not all her wit, good-humour,
greatness of mind, or sweetness of disposition, had been able so
absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of poor Jones, as this
little incident of the muff. Thus the poet sweetly sings of Troy-
--Captique dolis lachrymisque coacti
Quos neque Tydides, nec Larissaeus Achilles,
Non anni domuere decem, non mille Carinoe.
What Diomede or Thetis' greater son,
A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege had done,
False tears and fawning words the city won.
The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprise. All those
considerations of honour and prudence which our heroe had lately
with so much military wisdom placed as guards over the avenues of
his heart, ran away from their posts, and the god of love marched
in, in triumph.
Chapter 5
A very long chapter, containing a very great incident
But though this victorious deity easily expelled his avowed
enemies from the heart of Jones, he found it more difficult to
supplant the garrison which he himself had placed there. To lay
aside all allegory, the concern for what must become of poor Molly
greatly disturbed and perplexed the mind of the worthy youth. The
superior merit of Sophia totally eclipsed, or rather extinguished, all
