‘Well,’ says Jones, a little pacified, ‘you say this Fellow, who I believe indeed is enough inclined to be my Friend, lives in the same House with Sophia?’
‘In the same House!’ answered Partridge; ‘why, Sir, he is one of the Servants of the Family, and very well drest I promise you he is; if it was not for his black Beard, you would hardly know him.’
‘One Service then at least he may do me,’ says Jones; ‘sure he can certainly convey a Letter to my Sophia.’
‘You have hit the Nail ad unguem,’3 cries Partridge; ‘How came I not to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon the very first mentioning.’
‘Well then,’ said Jones, ‘do you leave me at present, and I will write a Letter which you shall deliver to him To-morrow Morning; for I suppose you know where to find him.’
‘O yes, Sir,’ answered Partridge, ‘I shall certainly find him again; there is no Fear of that. The Liquor is too good for him to stay away long. I make no Doubt but he will be there every Day he stays in Town.’
‘So you don’t know the Street then where my Sophia is lodged?’ cries Jones.
‘Indeed, Sir, I do,’ says Partridge.
‘What is the Name of the Street?’ cries Jones.
‘The Name, Sir, why here, Sir, just by,’ answered Partridge, ‘not above a Street or two off. I don’t indeed know the very Name; for as he never told me, if I had asked, you know it might have put some Suspicion into his Head. No, no, Sir, let me alone for that. I am too cunning for that, I promise you.’
‘Thou art most wonderfully cunning indeed,’ replied Jones; ‘however I will write to my Charmer, since I believe you will be cunning enough to find him To-morrow at the Alehouse.’
And now having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr. Jones sat himself down to write, in which Employment we shall leave him for a Time. And here we put an End to the fifteenth Book.
BOOK XVI.
Containing the Space of Five Days
CHAPTER I.
Of Prologues.
I have heard of a Dramatic Writer who used to say, he would rather write a Play than a Prologue; 1 in like manner, I think, I can with less Pains write one of the Books of this History, than the Prefatory Chapter to each of them.
To say the Truth, I believe many a hearty Curse hath been devoted on the Head of that Author, who first instituted the Method of prefixing to his Play that Portion of Matter which is called the Prologue;2 and which at first was Part of the Piece itself, but of latter Years hath had usually so little Connexion with the Drama before which it stands, that the Prologue to one Play might as well serve for any other. Those indeed of more modern Date, seem all to be written on the same three Topics, viz. an Abuse of the Taste of the Town, a Condemnation of all contemporary Authors, and, an Elogium on the Performance just about to be represented. The Sentiments in all these are very little varied, nor is it possible they should; and indeed I have often wondered at the great Invention of Authors, who have been capable of finding such various Phrases to express the same thing.
In like manner I apprehend, some future Historian (if any one shall do me the Honour of imitating my Manner) will, after much scratching his Pate, bestow some good Wishes on my Memory, for having first established these several initial Chapters; most of which, like Modern Prologues, may as properly be prefixed to any other Book in this History as to that which they introduce, or indeed to any other History as to this.
But however Authors may suffer by either of these Inventions, the Reader will find sufficient Emolument in the one, as the Spectator hath long found in the other.
First, it is well known, that the Prologue serves the Critic for an Opportunity to try his Faculty of Hissing, and to tune his Cat-call to the best Advantage; by which means, I have known those Musical Instruments so well prepared, that they have been able to play in full Concert at the first rising of the Curtain.
The same Advantages may be drawn from these Chapters, in which the Critic will be always sure of meeting with something that may serve as a Whetstone to his noble Spirit; so that he may fall with a more hungry Appetite for Censure on the History itself. And here his Sagacity must make it needless to observe how artfully these Chapters are calculated for that excellent Purpose; for in these we have always taken Care to intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid Kind, in order to sharpen and stimulate the said Spirit of Criticism.
Again, the indolent Reader, as well as Spectator, finds great Advantage from both these; for as they are not obliged either to see the one or read the others, and both the Play and the Book are thus protracted, by the former they have a Quarter of an Hour longer allowed them to sit at Dinner, and by the latter they have the Advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth Page instead of the first; a Matter by no means of trivial Consequence to Persons who read Books with no other View than to say they have read them, a more general Motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from which not only Law Books, and Good Books, but the Pages of Homer and Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes have been often turned over.
Many other are the Emoluments which arise from both these, but they are for the most part so obvious that we shall not at present stay to enumerate them; especially since it occurs to us that the principal Merit of both the Prologue and the Preface is that they be short.
CHAPTER II.
A whimsical Adventure which befel the Squire, with the distressed Situation of Sophia.
We must now convey the Reader to Mr. Western’s Lodgings which were in Piccadilly, where he was placed by the Recommendation of the Landlord at the Hercules Pillars at Hide-Park Corner; for at that Inn, which was the first he saw on his Arrival in Town, he placed his Horses, and in those Lodgings, which were the first he heard of, he deposited himself.
Here when Sophia alighted from the Hackney-Coach, which brought her from the House of Lady Bellaston, she desired to retire to the Apartment provided for her, to which her Father very readily agreed, and whither he attended her himself. A short Dialogue, neither very material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then passed between them, in which he pressed her vehemently to give her Consent to the Marriage with Blifil, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in Town in a few Days; but instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and resolute Refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed her Father, that after many bitter Vows that he would force her to have him whether she would or no, he departed from her with many hard Words and Curses, locked the Door and put the Key into his Pocket.
While Sophia was left with no other Company than what attend the closest State Prisoner, namely, Fire and Candle, the Squire sat down to regale himself over a Bottle of Wine, with his Parson and the Landlord of the Hercules Pillars, who, as the Squire said, would make an excellent third Man, and could inform them of the News of the Town, and how Affairs went; for to be sure, says he, he knows a great deal since the Horses of many of the Quality stand at his House.
In this agreeable Society, Mr. Western past that Evening and great part of the succeeding Day, during which Period nothing happened of sufficient Consequence to find a Place in this History. All this Time Sophia past by herself; for her Father swore she should never come out of her Chamber alive, unless she first consented to marry Blifil; nor did he ever suffer the Door to be unlocked unless to convey her Food, on which Occasions he always attended himself.
The second Morning after his Arrival, while he and the Parson were at Breakfast together on a Toast and Tankard, he was informed that a Gentleman was below to wait on him.
‘A Gentleman!’ quoth the Squire, ‘who the Devil can he be? Do, Doctor, go down and see who ’tis. Mr. Blifil can hardly be come to Town yet.——Go down, do, and know what his Business is.’
The Doctor returned with an Account that it was a very well drest Man, and by the Ribbon in his Hat, he took him for an Officer of the Army; that he said he had some particular Business, which he could deliver to none but Mr. Western himself.
‘An Officer!’ cries the Squi
re, ‘what can any such Fellow have to do with me? If he wants an Order for Baggage-Waggons, I am no Justice of Peace here, nor can I grant a Warrant1——Let un come up then, if he must speak to me.’
A very genteel Man now entered the Room; who having made his Compliments to the Squire, and desired the Favour of being alone with him, delivered himself as follows.
‘Sir, I come to wait upon you by the Command of my Lord Fellamar; but with a very different Message from what I suppose you expect, after what past the other Night.’
‘My Lord who?’ cries the Squire, ‘I never heard the Name o’un.’
‘His Lordship,’ said the Gentleman, ‘is willing to impute every thing to the Effect of Liquor, and the most trifling Acknowledgement of that Kind will set every thing right; for as he hath the most violent Attachment to your Daughter, you, Sir, are the last Person upon Earth, from whom he would resent an Affront; and happy is it for you both that he hath given such publick Demonstrations of his Courage, as to be able to put up an Affair of this Kind, without Danger of any Imputation on his Honour. All he desires therefore, is, that you will before me make some Acknowledgment; the slightest in the World will be sufficient; and he intends this Afternoon to pay his Respects to you, in order to obtain your Leave of visiting the young Lady on the Footing of a Lover.’
‘I don’t understand much of what you say, Sir,’ said the Squire; ‘but I suppose, by what you talk about my Daughter, that this is the Lord which my Cousin Lady Bellaston mentioned to me, and said something about his courting my Daughter. If so be, that how, that be the Case—you may give my Service to his Lordship, and tell un the Girl is disposed of already.’
‘Perhaps, Sir,’ said the Gentleman, ‘you are not sufficiently apprized of the Greatness of this Offer. I believe such a Person, Title, and Fortune would be no where refused.’
‘Lookee, Sir,’ answered the Squire, ‘to be very plain, my Daughter is bespoke already; but if she was not, I would not marry her to a Lord upon any Account; I hate all Lords; they are a Parcel of Courtiers and Hannoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them.’——
‘Well, Sir,’ said the Gentleman, ‘if that is your Resolution, the Message I am to deliver to you, is, that my Lord desires the Favour of your Company this Morning in Hide-Park.’2
‘You may tell my Lord,’ answered the Squire, ‘that I am busy and cannot come. I have enough to look after at home, and can’t stir abroad on any Account.’
‘I am sure, Sir,’ quoth the other, ‘you are too much a Gentleman to send such a Message; you will not, I am convinced, have it said of you, that after having affronted a noble Peer, you refuse him Satisfaction. His Lordship would have been willing, from his great Regard to the young Lady, to have made up Matters in another Way; but unless he is to look on you as a Father, his Honour will not suffer his putting up such an Indignity as you must be sensible you offered him.’
‘I offered him!’ cries the Squire; ‘it is a d—n’d Lie, I never offered him any Thing.’
Upon these Words the Gentleman returned a very short verbal Rebuke, and this he accompanied at the same time with some manual Remonstrances, which no sooner reached the Ears of Mr. Western, than that worthy Squire began to caper very briskly about the Room, bellowing at the same time with all his Might, as if desirous to summon a greater Number of Spectators to behold his Agility.
The Parson, who had left great part of the Tankard unfinished, was not retired far; he immediately attended therefore on the Squire’s Vociferation, crying, ‘Bless me! Sir, what’s the Matter?’— ‘Matter?’ quoth the Squire, ‘here’s a Highway-man, I believe, who wants to rob and murder me—for he hath fallen upon me with that Stick there in his Hand, when I wish I may be d—n’d if I gid un the least Provocation.’
‘How, Sir,’ said the Captain, ‘did you not tell me I ly’d?’
‘No, as I hope to be saved,’ answered the Squire.—‘I believe I might say, “’Twas a Lie that I had offered any Affront to my Lord,’—but I never said the Word you lie.—I understand myself better, and you might have understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked Man. If I had a Stick in my Hand, you would not have dared strike me. I’d have knocked thy Lantern Jaws about thy Ears. Come down into Yard this Minute, and I’ll take a Bout with thee at single Stick for a broken Head, that I will; or I will go into naked Room and box thee for a Belly-full. At unt half a Man, at unt I’m sure.’
The Captain, with some Indignation, replied, ‘I see, Sir, you are below my Notice, and I shall inform his Lordship you are below his.—I am sorry I have dirtied my Fingers with you.’—At which Words he withdrew, the Parson interposing to prevent the Squire from stopping him, in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though he made some Efforts for the Purpose, did not seem very violently bent on Success. However, when the Captain was departed, the Squire sent many Curses and some Menaces after him; but as these did not set out from his Lips till the Officer was at the Bottom of the Stairs, and grew louder and louder as he was more and more remote, they did not reach his Ears, or at least did not retard his Departure.
Poor Sophia however, who, in her Prison, heard all her Father’s Outcries from first to last, began now first to thunder with her Foot, and afterwards to scream as loudly as the old Gentleman himself had done before, though in a much sweeter Voice. These Screams soon silenced the Squire, and turned all his Consideration towards his Daughter, whom he loved so tenderly, that the least Apprehension of any Harm happening to her, threw him presently into Agonies: For except in that single Instance in which the whole future Happiness of her Life was concerned, she was sovereign Mistress of his Inclinations.
Having ended his Rage against the Captain, with swearing he would take the Law of him, the Squire now mounted up Stairs to Sophia, whom, as soon as he had unlocked and opened the Door, he found all pale and breathless. The Moment however that she saw her Father, she collected all her Spirits, and catching him hold by the Hand, she cry’d passionately, ‘O my dear Sir, I am almost frightned to Death; I hope to Heaven no Harm hath happened to you.’—‘No, no,’ cries the Squire, ‘no great Harm. The Rascal hath not hurt me much, but rat me if I don’t ha the La o’un.’ ‘Pray, dear Sir,’ says she, ‘tell me what’s the Matter, who is it that hath insulted you?’ ‘I don’t know the Name o’un,’ answered Western, ‘some Officer Fellow I suppose that we are to pay for beating us, but I’ll make him pay this Bout, if the Rascal hath got any thing, which I suppose he hath not. For thof he was drest out so vine, I question whether he had got a Voot of Land in the World.’ ‘But, dear Sir,’ cries she, ‘what was the Occasion of your Quarrel?’ ‘What should it be, Sophy?’ answered the Squire, ‘but about you, Sophy. All my Misfortunes are about you; you will be the Death of your poor Father at last. Here’s a Varlet of a Lord, the Lord knows who forsooth! who hath a taan a Liking to you, and because I would not gi un my Consent, he sent me a Kallenge. Come, do be a good Girl, Sophy, and put an End to all your Father’s Troubles; come do, consent to ha un; he will be in Town within this Day or two; do but promise me to marry un as soon as he comes, and you will make me the happiest Man in the World, and I will make you the happiest Woman; you shall have the finest Cloaths in London, and the finest Jewels, and a Coach and Six at your Command. I promised Allworthy already to give up half my Estate, —Odrabbet it! I should hardly stick at giving up the whole.’ ‘Will my Papa be so kind,’ says she, ‘as to hear me speak!’—‘Why wout ask, Sophy?’ cries he, ‘when dost know I had rather hear thy Voice, than the Musick of the best Pack of Dogs in England.—Hear thee, my dear little Girl! I hope I shall hear thee as long as I live: for if I was ever to lose that Pleasure, I would not gee a Brass Varden3 to live a Moment longer. Indeed, Sophy, you do not know how I love you, indeed you don’t, or you never could have run away and left your poor Father, who hath no other Joy, no other Comfort upon Earth but his little Sophy.’ At these Words the Tears stood in his Eyes; and Sophia, (with the Tears streaming from hers) answered, ‘Indeed, my dear Papa
, I know you have loved me tenderly, and Heaven is my Witness how sincerely I have returned your Affection; nor could any thing but an Apprehension of being forced into the Arms of this Man, have driven me to run from a Father whom I love so passionately, that I would, with Pleasure, sacrifice my Life to his Happiness; nay, I have endeavoured to reason myself into doing more, and had almost worked up a Resolution, to endure the most miserable of all Lives, to comply with your Inclination. It was that Resolution alone to which I could not force my Mind; nor can I ever.’ Here the Squire began to look wild, and the Foam appeared at his Lips, which Sophia observing, begged to be heard out, and then proceeded, ‘If my Father’s Life, his Health, or any real Happiness of his was at Stake, here stands your resolved Daughter, may Heaven blast me, if there is a Misery I would not suffer to preserve you.—No, that most detested, most loathsome of all Lots would I embrace. I would give my Hand to Blifil for your Sake.’—‘I tell thee, it will preserve me,’ answers the Father; ‘it will gee me Health, Happiness, Life, every thing.—Upon my Soul I shall die if dost refuse me; I shall break my Heart, I shall upon my Soul.’—‘Is it possible,’ says she, ‘you can have such a Desire to make me miserable?’ ‘I tell thee noa,’ answered he loudly, ‘my whole Desire is to make thee happy; me! d—n me if there is a Thing upon Earth I would not do to see thee happy.’—‘And will not my dear Papa allow me to have the least Knowledge of what will make me so? If it be true that Happiness consists in Opinion; what must be my Condition, when I shall think myself the most miserable of all the Wretches upon Earth?’ ‘Better think yourself so,’ said he, ‘than know it by being married to a poor bastardly Vagabond.’ ‘If it will content you, Sir,’ said Sophia, ‘I will give you the most solemn Promise never to marry him nor any other while my Papa lives, without his Consent. Let me dedicate my whole Life to your Service; let me be again your poor Sophy, and my whole Business and Pleasure be, as it hath been, to please and divert you.’ ‘Lookee, Sophy,’ answered the Squire, ‘I am not to be choused4 in this Manner. Your Aunt Western would then have Reason to think me the Fool she doth. No, no, Sophy, I’d have you to know I have a got more Wisdom, and know more of the World than to take the Word of a Woman in a Matter where a Man is concerned.’ ‘How, Sir, have I deserved this Want of Confidence?’ said she, ‘Have I ever broke a single Promise to you? Or have I ever been found guilty of a Falshood from my Cradle?’ ‘Lookee, Sophy,’ cries he, ‘that’s neither here nor there. I am determin’d upon this Match, and have him you shall, d—n me if shat unt. D—n me if shat unt, though dost hang thyself the next Morning.’ At repeating which Words he clinched his Fist, knit his Brows, bit his Lips, and thundered so loud, that the poor afflicted, terrified Sophia sunk trembling into her Chair, and had not a Flood of Tears come immediately to her Relief, perhaps worse had followed.
The History of Tom Jones (Penguin Classics) Page 94
