his mother, became immediately intolerable, and so continued; nor
could all the congratulations of the soldiers, of the senate, and
the people, allay the horrors of his conscience."
But now, on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I had
known a man whose penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a
large fortune in a way where no beginning was chaulked out to him;
that he had done this with the most perfect preservation of his
integrity, and not only without the least injustice or injury to any
one individual person, but with the highest advantage to trade, and
a vast increase of the public revenue; that he had expended one part
of the income of this fortune in discovering a taste superior to most,
by works where the highest dignity was united with the purest
simplicity, and another part in displaying a degree of goodness
superior to all men, by acts of charity to objects whose only
recommendations were their merits, or their wants; that he was most
industrious in searching after merit in distress, most eager to
relieve it, and then as careful (perhaps too careful) to conceal
what he had done; that his house, his furniture, his gardens, his
table, his private hospitality, and his public beneficence, all
denoted the mind from which they flowed, and were all intrinsically
rich and noble, without tinsel, or external ostentation; that he
filled every relation in life with the most adequate virtue; that he
was most piously religious to his Creator, most zealously loyal to his
sovereign; a most tender husband to his wife, a kind relation, a
munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a knowing and a chearful
companion, indulgent to his servants, hospitable to his neighbours,
charitable to the poor, and benevolent to all mankind. Should I add to
these the epithets of wise, brave, elegant, and indeed every other
amiable epithet in our language, I might surely say,
-Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo;
Vel duo, vel nemo;
and yet I know a man who is all I have here described. But a single
instance (and I really know not such another) is not sufficient to
justify us, while we are writing to thousands who never heard of the
person, nor of anything like him. Such rarae aves should be remitted
to the epitaph writer, or to some poet who may condescend to hitch him
in a distich, or to slide him into a rhime with an air of carelessness
and neglect, without giving any offence to the reader.
In the last place, the actions should be such as may not only be
within the compass of human agency, and which human agents may
probably be supposed to do; but they should be likely for the very
actors and characters themselves to have performed; for what may be
only wonderful and surprizing in one man, may become improbable, or
indeed impossible, when related of another.
This last requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversation
of character; and it requires a very extraordinary degree of judgment,
and a most exact knowledge of human nature.
It is admirably remarked by a most excellent writer, that zeal can
no more hurry a man to act in direct opposition to itself, than a
rapid stream can carry a boat against its own current. I will
venture to say, that for a man to act in direct contradiction to the
dictates of his nature, is, if not impossible, as improbable and as
miraculous as anything which can well be conceived. Should the best
parts of the story of M. Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should
the worst incidents of Nero's life be imputed to Antoninus, what would
be more shocking to belief than either instance? whereas both these
being related of their proper agent, constitute the truly marvellous.
Our modern authors of comedy have fallen almost universally into the
error here hinted at; their heroes generally are notorious rogues, and
their heroines abandoned jades, during the first four acts; but in the
fifth, the former become very worthy gentlemen, and the latter women
of virtue and discretion: nor is the writer often so kind as to give
himself least trouble to reconcile or account for this monstrous
change and incongruity. There is, indeed, no other reason to be
assigned for it, than because the play is drawing to a conclusion;
as if it was no less natural in a rogue to repent in the last act of a
play, than in the last of his life; which we perceive to be
generally the case at Tyburn, a place which might indeed close the
scene of some comedies with much propriety, as the heroes in these are
most commonly eminent for those very talents which not only bring
men to the gallows, but enable them to make an heroic figure when they
are there.
Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be
permitted to deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he
thus keeps within the rules of credibility, the more he can surprize
the reader the more he will engage his attention, and the more he will
charm him. As a genius of the highest rank observes in his fifth
chapter of the Bathos, "The great art of all poetry is to mix truth
with fiction, in order to join the credible with the surprizing."
For though every good author will confine himself within the
bounds of probability, it is by no means necessary that his
characters, or his incidents, should be trite, common, or vulgar; such
as happen in every street, or in every house, or which may be met with
in the home articles of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from
showing many persons and things, which may possibly have never
fallen within the knowledge of great part of his readers. If the
writer strictly observes the rules above mentioned, he hath discharged
his part; and is then intitled to some faith from his reader, who is
indeed guilty of critical infidelity if he disbelieves him.
For want of a portion of such faith, I remember the character of a
young lady of quality, which was condemned on the stage for being
unnatural, by the unanimous voice of a very large assembly of clerks
and apprentices; though it had the previous suffrages of many ladies
of the first rank; one of whom, very eminent for her understanding,
declared it was the picture of half the young people of her
acquaintance.
Chapter 2
In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr. Jones
When Jones had taken leave of his friend the lieutenant, he
endeavoured to close his eyes, but all in vain; his spirits were too
lively and wakeful to be lulled to sleep. So having amused, or
rather tormented, himself with the thoughts of his Sophia till it
was open daylight, he called for some tea; upon which occasion my
landlady herself vouchsafed to pay him a visit.
This was indeed the first time she had seen him, or at least had
taken any notice of him; but as the lieutenant had assured her that he
was certainly some young gentleman of fashion, she now determined to
show him all the respect in her power; for, to speak truly, this was
one of those houses where gentlemen, to use the language of
advertisements, meet with civil treatment for their money.
She had no sooner begun to make his tea, than she likewise began
to discourse:- "La! sir," said she, "I think it is great pity that
such a pretty young gentleman should under-value himself so, as to go
about with these soldier fellows. They call themselves gentlemen, I
warrant you; but, as my first husband used to say, they should
remember it is we that pay them. And to be sure it is very hard upon
us to be obliged to pay them, and to keep 'um too, as we publicans
are. I had twenty of 'um last night, besides officers: nay, for matter
o' that, I had rather have the soldiers than officers: for nothing
is ever good enough for those sparks; and I am sure, if you was to see
the bills; la! sir, it is nothing. I have had less trouble, I
warrant you, with a good squire's family, where we take forty or fifty
shillings of a night, besides horses. And yet I warrants me, there
is narrow a one of those officer fellows but looks upon himself to
be as good as arrow a squire of L500 a year. To be sure it doth me
good to hear their men run about after 'um, crying your honour, and
your honour. Marry come up with such honour, and an ordinary at a
shilling a head. Then there's such swearing among 'um, to be sure it
frightens me out o' my wits: I thinks nothing can ever prosper with
such wicked people. And here one of 'um has used you in so barbarous a
manner. I thought indeed how well the rest would secure him; they
all hang together; for if you had been in danger of death, which I
am glad to see you are not, it would have been all as one to such
wicked people. They would have let the murderer go. Laud have mercy
upon 'um; I would not have such a sin to answer for, for the whole
world. But though you are likely, with the blessing, to recover, there
is laa for him yet; and if you will employ lawyer Small, I darest be
sworn he'll make the fellow fly the country for him; though perhaps
he'll have fled the country before; for it is here to-day and gone
to-morrow with such chaps. I hope, however, you will learn more wit
for the future, and return back to your friends; I warrant they are
all miserable for your loss; and if they was but to know what had
happened- La, my seeming! I would not for the world they should.
Come, come, we know very well what all the matter is; but if one
won't, another will; so pretty a gentleman need never want a lady. I
am sure, if I was you, I would see the finest she that ever wore a
head hanged, before I would go for a soldier for her.- Nay, don't
blush so" (for indeed he did to a violent degree). "Why, you thought,
sir, I knew nothing of the matter, I warrant you, about Madam
Sophia."- "How," says Jones, starting up, "do you know my Sophia?"-
"Do I! ay marry," cries the landlady; "many's the time hath she lain
in this house."- "with her aunt, I suppose," says Jones. "Why, there
it is now," cries the landlady, "Ay, ay, ay, I know the old lady very
well. And a sweet young creature is Madam Sophia, that's the truth
on't."- "A sweet creature," cries Jones; "O heavens!"
Angels are painted fair to look like her.
There's in her all that we believe of heav'n,
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,
Eternal joy and everlasting love.
"And could I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia!"- "I
wish," says the landlady, "you knew half so much of her. What would
you have given to have sat by her bed-side? What a delicious neck
she hath! Her lovely limbs have stretched themselves in that very
bed you now lie in."- "Here!" cries Jones: "hath Sophia ever laid
here?"- "Ay, ay, here; there, in that very bed," says the landlady;
"where I wish you had her this moment; and she may wish so too for
anything I know to the contrary, for she hath mentioned your name to
me."- "Ha!" cries he; "did she ever mention her poor Jones? You
flatter me now: I can never believe so much."- "Why, then," answered
she, "as I hope to be saved, and may the devil fetch me if I speak a
syllable more than the truth, I have heard her mention Mr. Jones; but
in a civil and modest way, I confess; yet I could perceive she thought
a great deal more than she said."- "O my dear woman!" cries Jones,
"her thoughts of me I shall never be worthy of. Oh, she is all
gentleness, kindness, goodness! Why was such a rascal as I born,
ever to give her soft bosom a moment's uneasiness? Why am I cursed?
I who would undergo all the plagues and miseries which any daemon ever
invented for mankind, to procure her any good; nay, torture itself
could not be misery to me, did I but know that she was happy."- "Why,
look you there now," says the landlady; "I told her you was a constant
lovier."- "But pray, madam, tell me when or where you knew anything
of me; for I never was here before, nor do I remember ever to have
seen you."- "Nor is it possible you should," answered she; "for you
was a little thing when I had you in my lap at the squire's."- "How,
the squire's?" says Jones: "what, do you know that great and good Mr.
Allworthy then?"- "Yes, marry, do says she: "who in the country doth
not?"- "The fame of his goodness indeed," answered Jones, "must have
extended farther than this; but heaven only can know him- can know
that benevolence which it copied from itself, and sent upon earth as
its own pattern. Mankind are as ignorant of such divine goodness, as
they are unworthy of it; but none so unworthy of it as myself. I,
who was raised by him to such a height; taken in, as you must well
know, a poor base-born child, adopted by him, and treated as his own
son, to dare by my follies to disoblige him, to draw his vengeance
upon me. Yes, I deserve it all; for I will never be so ungrateful as
ever to think he hath done an act of injustice by me. No, I deserve to
be turned out of doors, as I am. And now, madam," says he, "I
believe you will not blame me for turning soldier, especially with
such a fortune as this in my pocket." At which words he shook a purse,
which had but very little in it, and which still appeared to the
landlady to have less.
My good landlady was (according to vulgar phrase) struck all of a
heap by this relation. She answered coldly, "That to be sure people
were the best judges what was most proper for their circumstances. But
hark," says she, "I think I hear somebody call. Coming! coming! the
devil's in all our volk; nobody hath any ears. I must go
down-stairs; if you want any more breakfast the maid will come up.
Coming!" At which words, without taking any leave, she flung out of
the room; for the lower sort of people are very tenacious of
respect; and though they are contented to give this gratis to
