tongue," cries Sophia: "how dare you mention his name with
disrespect before me? He use me ill? No, his poor bleeding heart
suffered more when he writ the cruel words than mine from reading
them. O! he is all heroic virtue and angelic goodness. I am ashamed of
the weakness of my own passion, for blaming what I ought to admire.
O Honour! it is my good only which he consults. To my interest he
sacrifices both himself and me. The apprehension of ruining me hath
driven him to despair." "I am very glad," says Honour, to hear your
la'ship takes that into your consideration; for to be sure, it must be
nothing less than ruin to give your mind to one that is turned out
of doors, and is not worth a farthing in the world." "Turned out of
doors! " cries Sophia hastily: "how! what dost thou mean?" "Why, to be
sure, ma'am, my master no sooner told Squire Allworthy about Mr. Jones
having offered to make love to your la'ship than the squire stripped
him stark naked, and turned him out of doors!" "Ha!" says Sophia, "I
have been the cursed, wretched cause of his destruction! Turned
naked out of doors! Here, Honour, take all the money I have; take
the rings from my fingers. Here, my watch: carry him all. Go find
him immediately." "For Heaven's sake, ma'am," answered Mrs. Honour,
"do but consider, if my master should miss any of these things, I
should be made to answer for them. Therefore let me beg your la'ship
not to part with your watch and jewels. Besides, the money, I think,
is enough of all conscience; and as for that, my master can never know
anything of the matter." "Here, then," cries Sophia, "take every
farthing I am worth, find him out immediately, and give it him. Go,
go, lose not a moment."
Mrs. Honour departed according to orders, and finding Black George
below-stairs, delivered him the purse, which contained sixteen
guineas, being, indeed, the whole stock of Sophia; for though her
father was very liberal to her, she was much too generous to be rich.
Black George having received the purse, set forward towards the
alehouse; but in the way a thought occurred to him, whether he
should not detain this money likewise. His conscience, however,
immediately started at this suggestion, and began to upbraid him
with ingratitude to his benefactor. To this his avarice answered, That
his conscience should have considered the matter before, when he
deprived poor Jones of his L500. That having quietly acquiesced in
what was of so much greater importance, it was absurd, if not
downright hypocrisy, to affect any qualms at this trifle. In return to
which, Conscience, like a good lawyer, attempted to distinguish
between an absolute breach of trust, as here, where the goods were
delivered, and a bare concealment of what was found, as in the
former case. Avarice presently treated this with ridicule, called it a
distinction without a difference, and absolutely insisted that when
once all pretensions of honour and virtue were given up in any one
instance, that there was no precedent for resorting to them upon a
second occasion. In short, poor Conscience had certainly been defeated
in the argument, had not Fear stept in to her assistance, and very
strenuously urged that the real distinction between the two actions,
did not lie in the different degrees of honour but of safety: for that
the secreting the L500 was a matter of very little hazard; whereas the
detaining the sixteen guineas was liable to the utmost danger of
discovery.
By this friendly aid of Fear, Conscience obtained a compleat victory
in the mind of Black George, and, after making him a few compliments
on his honesty, forced him to deliver the money to Jones.
Chapter 14
A short chapter, containing a short dialogue between Squire
Western and his sister
Mrs. Western had been engaged abroad all that day. The squire met
her at her return home; and when she enquired after Sophia, he
acquainted her that he had secured her safe enough. "She is locked
up in chamber," cries he, "and Honour keeps the key." As his looks
were full of prodigious wisdom and sagacity when he gave his sister
this information, it is probable he expected much applause from her
for what he had done; but how was he disappointed when, with a most
disdainful aspect, she cried, "Sure, brother, you are the weakest of
all men. Why will you not confide in me for the management of my
niece? Why will you interpose? You have now undone all that I have
been spending my breath in order to bring about. While I have been
endeavouring to fill her mind with maxims of prudence, you have been
provoking her to reject them. English women, brother, I thank
heaven, are no slaves. We are not to be locked up like the Spanish and
Italian wives. We have as good a right to liberty as yourselves. We
are to be convinced by reason and persuasion only, and not governed by
force. I have seen the world, brother, and know what arguments to make
use of; and if your folly had not prevented me, should have
prevailed with her to form her conduct by those rules of prudence
and discretion which I formerly taught her." "To be sure," said the
squire, "I am always in the wrong." "Brother," answered the lady, "you
are not in the wrong, unless when you meddle with matters beyond
your knowledge. You must agree that I have seen most of the world; and
happy had it been for my niece if she had not been taken from under my
care. It is by living at home with you that she hath learnt romantic
notions of love and nonsense." "You don't imagine, I hope," cries
the squire, "that I have taught her any such things." "Your ignorance,
brother," returned she, "as the great Milton says, almost subdues my
patience."* "D--n Milton!" answered the squire: "if he had the
impudence to say so to my face, I'd lend him a douse, thof he was
never so great a man. Patience! An you come to that, sister, I have
more occasion of patience, to be used like an overgrown schoolboy,
as I am by you. Do you think no one hath any understanding, unless
he hath been about at court? Pox! the world is come to a fine pass
indeed, if we are all fools, except a parcel of roundheads and Hanover
rats. Pox! I hope the times are a coming when we shall make fools of
them, and every man shall enjoy his own. That's all, sister; and every
man shall enjoy his own. I hope to zee it, sister, before the
Hanover rats have eat up all our corn, and left us nothing but turneps
to feed upon."- "I protest, brother," cries she, "you are now got
beyond my understanding. Your jargon of turneps and Hanover rats is to
me perfectly unintelligible."- "I believe"' cries he, "you don't care
to hear o'em; but the country interest may succeed one day or other
for all that."- "I wish," answered the lady, "you would think a
little of your daughter's interest; for, believe me, she is in greater
danger than the nation."- "Just now," said he, "you chid me for
thinking on her, and would ha' her left to you."- "And if you will
promise to interpose no more," answered she, "I will, out of my regard
to my niece, undertake the charge."- "Well, do then," said the
squire, "for you know I always agreed, that women are the properest to
manage women."
*The reader may, perhaps, subdue his own patience, if he searches
for this in Milton.
Mrs. Western then departed, muttering something with an air of
disdain, concerning women and management of the nation. She
immediately repaired to Sophia's apartment, who was now, after a day's
confinement, released again from her captivity.
BOOK VII
CONTAINING THREE DAYS
Chapter 1
A comparison between the world and the stage
The world hath often compared to the theatre; and many grave
writers, as well as the poets, have considered human life as a great
drama, resembling, in almost every particular, those scenical
representations which Thespis is first reported to have invented,
and which have been since received with so much approbation and
delight in all polite countries.
This thought hath been carried so far, and is become so general,
that some words proper to the theatre, and which were at first
metaphorically applied to the world, are now indiscriminately and
literally spoken of both; thus stage and scene are by common use grown
as familiar to us, when we speak of life in general as, when we
confine ourselves to dramatic performances: and when transactions
behind the curtain are mentioned, St. James's is more likely to
occur to our thoughts than Drurylane.
It may seem easy enough to account for all this, by reflecting
that the theatrical stage is nothing more than a representation, or,
as Aristotle calls it, an imitation of what really exists; and
hence, perhaps, we might fairly pay a very high compliment to those
who by their writings or actions have been so capable of imitating
life, as to have their pictures in a manner confounded with, or
mistaken for, the originals.
But, in reality, we are not so fond of paying compliments to these
people, whom we use as children frequently do the instruments of their
amusement; and have much more pleasure in hissing and buffeting
them, than in admiring their excellence. There are many other
reasons which have induced us to see this analogy between the world
and the stage.
Some have considered the larger part of mankind in the light of
actors, as personating characters no more their own, and to which in
fact they have no better title, than the player hath to be in
earnest thought the king or emperor whom he represents. Thus the
hypocrite may be said to be a player; and indeed the Greeks called
them both by one and the same name.
The brevity of life hath likewise given occasion to this comparison.
So the immortal Shakespear-
----Life's a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
For which hackneyed quotation I will make the reader amends by a
very noble one, which few, I believe, have read. It is taken from a
poem called the Deity, published about nine years ago, and long
since buried in oblivion; a proof that good books, no more than good
men, do always survive the bad.
From Thee* all human actions take their springs,
The rise of empires and the fall of kings!
See the vast Theatre of Time display'd,
While o'er the scene succeeding heroes tread!
With pomp the shining images succeed,
What leaders triumph, and what monarchs bleed!
Perform the party thy providence assign'd,
Their pride, their passions, to thy ends inclin'd:
Awhile they glitter in the face of day,
Then at thy nod the phantoms pass away;
No traces left of all the busy scene,
But that remembrance says- The things have been!
*The Deity.
In all these, however, and in every other similitude of life to
the theatre, the resemblance hath been always taken from the stage
only. None, as I remember, Have at all considered the audience at this
great drama.
But as Nature often exhibits some of her best performances to a very
full house, so will the behaviour of her spectators no less admit
the above-mentioned comparison than that of her actors. In this vast
theatre of time are seated the friend and the critic; here are claps
and shouts, hisses and groans; in short, everything which was ever
seen or heard at the Theatre-Royal.
Let us examine this in one example; for instance, in the behaviour
of the great audience on that scene which Nature was pleased to
exhibit in the twelfth chapter of the preceding book, where she
introduced Black George running away with the L500 from his friend and
benefactor.
Those who sat in the world's upper gallery treated that incident,
I am well convinced, with their usual vociferation; and every term
of scurrilous reproach was most probably vented on that occasion.
If we had descended to the next order of spectators, we should
have found an equal degree of abhorrence, though less of noise and
scurrility; yet here the good women gave Black George to the devil,
and many of them expected every minute that the cloven-footed
gentleman would fetch his own.
The pit, as usual, was no doubt divided; those who delight in heroic
virtue and perfect character objected to the producing such
instances of villany, without punishing them very severely for the
sake of example. Some of the author's friends cryed, "Look'e,
gentlemen, the man is a villain, but it is nature for all that." And
all the young critics of the age, the clerks, apprentices, &c., called
it low, and fell a groaning.
As for the boxes, they behaved with their accustomed politeness.
Most of them were attending to something else. Some of those few who
regarded the scene at all, declared he was a bad kind of man; while
others refused to give their opinion, till they had heard that of
the best judges.
Now we, who are admitted behind the scenes of this great theatre
of Nature (and no author ought to write anything besides
dictionaries and spelling-books who hath not this privilege), can
censure the action, without conceiving any absolute detestation of the
person, whom perhaps Nature may not have designed to act an ill part
in all her dramas; for in this instance life most exactly resembles
the stage, since it is often the same person who represents the
villain and the heroe; and he who engages your admiration to-day
will probably attract your contempt tomorrow. As Garrick, whom I
regard in tragedy to be the greatest genius the world hath ever
