Section 38 of Tom Jones. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. Book 11, containing about three days. Chapter 1. A Crust for the Critics. In our last initial chapter, we may be supposed to have treated that formidable set of men who are called critics, with more freedom than them becomes us, since they exact, and indeed generally receive, great condescension from authors. We shall in this therefore give the reasons of our conduct to this august body, and here we shall perhaps place them in a light in which they have not hitherto been seen. This word critic is of Greek derivation, and signifies judgment. Hence I presume some persons who have not understood the original, and have seen the English translation of the primitive, have concluded that it meant judgment in the legal sense, in which it is frequently used as equivalent to condemnation. I am the rather inclined to be of that opinion, as the greatest number of critics have of late years been found amongst the lawyers. Many of these gentlemen, from despair perhaps of ever rising to the bench in Westminster Hall, have placed themselves on the benches at the playhouse, where they have exerted their judicial capacity and have given judgment, that is, condemned without mercy. The gentleman would perhaps be well enough pleased if we were to leave them thus compared to one of the most important and honourable officers in the Commonwealth, and if we intended to apply to their favour, we would do so. But as we designed to deal very sincerely and plainly to with them, we must remind them of another officer of justice, of a much lower rank, to whom, as they not only pronounce, but execute their own judgment, they bear likewise some remote resemblance. But in reality there is another light, in which these modern critics may, with great justice and propriety, be seen, and this is that of a common slanderer. If a person who pries into the characters of others, with no other design but to discover their faults and to publish unto the world, deserves the title of a slanderer of the reputations of men, why should not a critic, who reads with the same malevolent view, be as properly styled the slanderer of the reputation of books? Vice hath not, I believe, a more abject slave. Society produces not a more odious vermin, nor can the devil receive a guest more worthy of him, nor possibly more welcome to him than a slanderer. The world I am afraid regards not this monster with half the abhorrence which he deserves, and I am more afraid to assign the reason of this criminal lenity shown towards him. Yet it is certain that the thief looks innocent in the comparison, nay, the murderer himself can seldom stand in competition with his guilt. For slander is a more cruel weapon than a sword, as the wounds which the former gives are always incurable. One method indeed there is of killing, and that the basest and most executable of all, which bears an exact analogy to the vice he had disclaimed against, and that is poison, a means of revenge so base, and yet so horrible, that it was once wisely distinguished by our laws from all other murders in the peculiar severity of the punishment. Besides the dreadful mischiefs done by slander and the baseness of the means by which they are affected, there are other circumstances that highly aggravate its atrocious quality, for it often proceeds from no provocation, and seldom promises itself any reward, unless some black and infernal mind may propose a reward in the thoughts of having procured the ruin and misery of another. Shakespeare had nobly touched this vice, when he says, ''Who steals my purse steals trash, to something, nothing, to a mine, to his, and hath been slaved to thousands, but he that filters from me my good name, robs me of that which not enriches him, but makes me poor indeed. With all this my good reader will doubt his agree, but much of it will probably seem too severe when applied to the slanderer of books, but let it here be considered that both proceed from the same wicked disposition of mind and are alike void of the excuse of temptation. Nor shall we conclude the injury done this way to be very slight when we consider a book as the author's offspring, and indeed as a child of his brain. The reader who hath suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a virgin state can have but a very inadequate idea of this kind of paternal fondness. To such we may parody the tender exclamation of McDuff, alas thou hast written no book. But the author whose muse hath brought forth will feel the pathetic strain, perhaps will accompany me with tears, especially if his darling be already no more, while I mention the uneasiness with which the big muse bears about her burden, the painful labour with which she produces it, and lastly the care, the fondness with which the tender father nourishes his favourite, till it be brought to maturity and produced into the world. Nor is there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour of absolute instinct and which may so well be reconciled to worldly wisdom as this. These children may most truly be called the riches of their father, and many of them have with true filial piety fed their parent in his old age, so that not only the affection but the interest of the author may be highly injured by these slanderers whose poisonous breath brings his book to an untimely end. Lastly the slander of a book is in truth the slander of the author, for as no one can call another bastard without calling the mother a whore, so neither can anyone give the names of sad stuff, horrid nonsense etc. to a book without calling the author a blockhead, which, though in a moral sense it is a preferable appellation to that of villain, is perhaps rather more injurious to his worldly interest. Now, however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others I doubt not, will feel and acknowledge the truth of it. Nay, may perhaps, think I have not treated the subject with decent solemnity, but surely a man may speak truth with a smiling countenance. In reality, to depreciate a book maliciously, or even wantonly, is at least a very in-natured office, and a morose, snarling critic may I believe be suspected to be a bad man. I will therefore endeavour in the remaining part of this chapter to explain the marks of this character and to show what criticism I here intend to obviate, for I can never be understood, unless by the very persons here meant, to insinuate that there are no proper judges of writing, or to endeavour to exclude from the commonwealth of literature any of those noble critics to whose labours the learned world are so greatly indebted. Such were Aristotle, Horace, and Longueness among the ancients, Dachet, and Pursuit among the French, and some perhaps among us, who have certainly been duly authorized to execute at least a judicial authority in Foureau literario. But without ascertaining all the proper qualifications of a critic, which I have touched on elsewhere, I think I may very boldly object to the censures of any one past upon works which he had not himself read. Such censures as these, whether they speak from their own guess or suspicion, or from the report and opinion of others, may properly be said to slander the reputation of the book they condemn. Such may likewise be suspected of deserving this character, who, without assigning any particular faults, condemn the whole in general defamatory terms, such as vile, dull, damn stuff, etc., and particularly by the use of the monosyllable loe, a word which becomes the mouth of no critic who is not right honourable. Again, though there may be some faults justly assigned in the work, yet if those are not in the most essential parts, or if they are compensated by greater beauties, it will save a rather of the malice of a slanderer than of the judgment of a true critic to pass a severe sentence upon the whole, merely on account of some vicious part. This is directly contrary to the sentiments of Horace.  Mr. Francis. For, as Marshall says, a liter non fit avité liber. No book can be otherwise composed. All beauty of character as well as of countenance, and indeed of everything human, is to be tried in this manner. Cruel indeed would it be if such a work as this history, which hath employed some thousands of hours in the composing, should be liable to be condemned, because some particular chapter, or perhaps chapters, may be obnoxious to very just and sensible objections, and yet nothing is more common than the most rigorous sentence upon books supported by such objections, which, if they were rightly taken, and that they are not always, do by no means go to the merit of the whole. In the theatre especially, a single expression which doth not coincide with the taste of the audience, or with any individual critic of that audience, is sure to be hissed, and one scene which should be disapproved would hazard the whole peace. To write within such severe rules as these, is as impossible as to live up to some splenetic opinions, and if we judge according to the sentiments of some critics, and of some Christians, no author will be saved in this world, and no man in the next. Chapter 2. The Adventures Which Sophia Met With After Her Leaving Upton Our history, just before it was obliged to turn about and travel backwards, had mentioned the departure of Sophia and her maid from the inn.  Sophia, having directed her guide to travel through by-roads across the country, they now passed to Severn, and had scarce got a mile from the inn when the young lady, looking behind her, saw several horses coming after on full speed. This greatly alarmed her fears, and she called to the guide to put on as fast as possible. He immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full gallop. But the faster they went, the faster were they followed, and as the horses behind were somewhat swifter than those before, so the former were at length overtaken. A happy circumstance for poor Sophia, whose fears joined to her fatigue, had almost overpowered her spirits. But she was now instantly relieved by a female voice that greeted her in the softest manner, and with the utmost civility. This greeting, Sophia, as soon as she could recover her breath, would like civility, and with the highest satisfaction to herself, returned. The travelers who joined Sophia, and who had given her such terror, consisted like her own company of two females and a guide. The two parties proceeded three full miles together before anyone offered again to open their mouths, when our heroine, having pretty well got the better of her fear, but yet being somewhat surprised that the other still continued to attend her, as she pursued no great road, and had already passed through several turnings, accosted the strange lady in a most obliging tone, and said, she was very happy to find they were both travelling the same way. The other, who, like a ghost, only wanted to be spoke to, readily answered, that the happiness was entirely hers, that she was a perfect stranger in that country, and was so overjoyed at meeting a companion of her own sex that she had perhaps been guilty of an impertinence, which required great apology in keeping pace with her. More civilities passed between these two ladies. For Mrs. Honour had now given place to the fine habit of the stranger, and had fallen into the rear. But though Sophia had great curiosity to know why the other lady continued to travel on, through the same byroads with herself, nay, though this gave her some uneasiness, yet fear, or modesty, or some other consideration, restrained her from asking the question. The strange lady now laboured under a difficulty, which appears almost below the dignity of a history to mention. Her bonnet had been blown from her head, not less than five times within the last mile, nor could she come at any ribbon, nor handkerchief to tie it under her chin. When Sophia was informed of this, she immediately supplied her with a handkerchief for this purpose, which, while she was pulling from her pocket, she perhaps too much neglected the management of her horse. For the beast, now unluckily making a full step, fell upon his forelegs, and threw his fair rider from his back. Though Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received not the least damage, and the same circumstances which had perhaps contributed to her fall, now preserved her from confusion. For the lane which they were then passing was narrow, and very much overgrown with trees, so that the moon could hear a fort very little light, and was moreover at present so obscured in a cloud that it was almost perfectly dark. By these means, the young lady's modesty, which was extremely delicate, escaped as free from injury as her limbs, and she was once more reinstated in her saddle, having received no other harm than a little fright by her fall. Daylight at length appeared in its full luster, and now the two ladies who were riding over a common, side by side, looking statuously at each other, at the same moment both their eyes became fixed, both their horses stopped, and both speaking together, with equal joy pronounced, the one the name of Sophia, the other that of Harriet. This unexpected encounter surprised the ladies much more than I believe it will the sagacious reader, who must have imagined that the strange lady could be no other than Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the cousin of Miss Western, whom we before mentioned to have sell it from the inn a few minutes after her. So great was the surprise and joy which these two cousins conceived at this meeting, for they had formally been most intimate acquaintance and friends, and had long lived together with their aunt Western, that it is impossible to recount half the congratulations which passed between them before either asked a very natural question of the other, namely whether she was going. This at last, however, came first from Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but easy and natural as the question may seem, Sophia found it difficult to give it a very ready and certain answer. She begged her cousin therefore to suspend all curiosity till they arrived at some inn, which I suppose, so she, can hardly be far distant, and believe me, Harriet, I suspend as much curiosity on my side, for, indeed, I believe our astonishment is pretty equal. The conversation which passed between these ladies on the road was, I apprehend, little worth relating, and less certainly was that between the two waiting women, for they likewise began to pay their compliments to each other. As for the guides, they were debarred from the pleasure of this course, the one being placed in the van, and the other obliged to bring up the rear. In this posture they travelled many hours, till they came into a wide and well-beaten road, which, as they turned to the right, soon brought them to a very fair promising inn, where they all lighted. But so fatigued was Sophia, that as she had set her horse during the last five or six miles with great difficulties, so was she now incapable of dismounting from him without assistance. This the landlord, who had hauled of her horse presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his arms from her saddle, and she too readily accepted the tender of this service. Indeed, fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the blush that day, and the second militia's attempt succeeded better than the first. For my landlord had no sooner received the young lady in his arms than his feet, which the gout had lately very severely handled, gave way, and down he tembled. But at the same time, with no less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to throw himself under his charming burden, so that he alone received any bruise from the fall. For the great injury which happened to Sophia was a violent shock given to her modesty by an in-moderate grin, which, at her rising from the ground, she observed in the countenances of most of the bystanders. This made her suspect what had really happened and what we shall not here relate, for the indulgence of those readers who are capable of laughing at the offence given to a young lady's delicacy. Excellence of this kind we have never regarded in a comical light, nor will we scruple to say that he must have a very inadequate idea of the modesty of a beautiful young woman, who would wish to sacrifice it to so paltry a satisfaction as can arise from laughter. This fright and shock joined to the violent fatigue which both her mind and body had undergone, almost overcame the excellent constitution of Sophia, and she had scarce strength sufficient to totter into the inn, leaning on the arm of her maid. Here she was no sooner seated, than she called for a glass of water. But Mrs. Honor, very judiciously in my opinion, changed it into a glass of wine. Mrs. Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs. Honor that Sophia had not been in bed during the last two nights, and observing her to look very pale and when with her fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh herself with some sleep. She was yet a stranger to her history or apprehensions, but had she known both, she would have given the same advice, for rest was visibly necessary for her, and their long journey through byroads so entirely removed all danger of pursuit that she was herself perfectly easy on that account. Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of a friend, which was hardly seconded by her maid. Mrs. Fitzpatrick likewise offered to bear her cousin company, which Sophia with much complacence accepted. The mistress was no sooner in bed, than the maid prepared to follow her example. She began to make many apologies to her sister Abigail for leaving her alone in so hard a place as an inn, but the other stopped her short, being as well inclined to end up as herself, and desired the honor of being her bedfellow. Sophia's maid agreed to give her a share of her bed, but put in her claim to all the honor. So, after many curtsies and compliments, two bed together went the waiting women, as their mistresses had done before them. It was usual with my landlord, as indeed it is, with the whole fraternity, to inquire particularly of all coachmen, footmen, post-boys and others into the names of all his guests, what their estate was and where it lay. It cannot therefore be wondered at that the many particular circumstances which attended our travelers, and especially their retiring old sleep at so extraordinary and unusual an hour, as ten in the morning, should excite his curiosity. As soon therefore as the guides entered the kitchen, he began to examine who the ladies were and whence they came, but the guides, though they faithfully related all they knew, gave him very little satisfaction. On the contrary, they rather inflamed his curiosity than extinguished it. This landlord had the character, among all his neighbors, of being a very sagacious fellow. He was thought to see farther and deeper into things than any man in the parish, the person himself not accepted. Perhaps his look had contributed not a little to procure him this reputation, for there was in this something wonderfully wise and significant, especially when he had a pipe in his mouth, which, indeed, he seldom was without. His behavior likewise greatly assisted in promoting the opinion of his wisdom. In his deportment he was solemn, if not solemn, and when he spoke, which was seldom, he always delivered himself in a slow voice. And, though his sentences were short, they were still interrupted with many hums and hares, eye-eyes and other expletives, so that, though he accompanied his words with certain explanatory gestures, such as shaking or nodding the head or pointing with his forefinger, he generally left his hearers to understand more than he expressed. Nay, he commonly gave them a hint that he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose. This last circumstance alone may, indeed, very well account for his character of wisdom, since men are strangely inclined to worship what they do not understand. A grand secret, upon which several imposers of mankind have totally relied for the success of their frauds. This polite person, now taking his wife aside, asked her what she thought of the ladies lately arrived. Think of them, said the wife. Why, what should I think of them? I know, answered he, what I think. The guides tell strange stories. One pretends to be come from Gloucester, and the other from Upton, and neither of them, for what I can find, can tell whether they are going. But what people ever travel across the country from Upton hither, especially to London, and one of the maid-servants, before she alighted from her horse, asked if this was not the London road. Now I have put all these circumstances together, and whom do you think I have found them out to be? Nay, answered she, you know I never pretend to guess at your discoveries. It is a good girl, replied he, checking her under the chin. I must own you have always submitted to my knowledge of these matters. Why, then, depend upon it. Mind what I say. Depend upon it. There are certainly some of the rebel ladies, who they say travel with the young chevelier, and have taken a roundabout way to escape the Duke's army. Husband, quote the wife, you have certainly hid it, for one of them is dressed as fine as any princess, and to be sure, she looks for all the world like one. But yet, when I consider one thing, when you consider, cries the landlord contemptuously. Come, pray let's hear what you consider. Why, it is, answered the wife, that she is too humble to be any very great lady, for, while our Betty was warming the bed, she called her nothing but child, and my dear, and sweetheart, and, when Betty offered to pull off her shoes and stockings, she would not suffer her, saying she would not give her the trouble. Pah, answered the husband, that is nothing. Thus think, because you have seen some great ladies rude and uncivil to persons below them, that none of them know how to behave themselves when they come before their own furious. I think I know people of fashion when I see them. I think I do. Did not she call for a glass of water when she came in? Another sort of woman would have called for a dram. You know they would.  And I believe those who buy me will have a bad bargain. Now, would a woman of her quality travel without a footman, unless upon some such extraordinary occasion? Nay, to be sure, husband, cries she. You know these matters better than I, or most folk. I think I do know something, said he. To be sure, answered the wife, the poor little heart looks so pitious when she sat down in the chair. I protest I could not help having a compassion for her almost as much as if she had been a poor body. But what's to be done, husband? Even she be in a rebel, I suppose she intend to betray her up to the court. Well, she is a sweet-tempered, good-humoured lady, be she what she will, and I shall hardly refrain from crying when I hear she is hanged or beheaded. Pah, answered the husband. But as to what's to be done, it is not so easy a matter to determine. I hope, before she goes away, we shall have the news of a battle. For if the chivalier should get the better, she may gain as interest at court and make our fortunes without betraying her. Why, that is true, replied the wife, and I hardly hope she will have it in her power. Certainly she is a sweet, good lady. It would go horribly against me to have her come to any harm. Puh, cries the landlord. Women are always so tender-hearted. Why, you would not harbour rebels, would you? No, certainly, answered the wife, and as for betraying her, come what will on it, nobody can blame us. It is what anybody would do in our case. While our political landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the reputation of great wisdom among his neighbours, was engaged in debating this matter with himself, for he paid little attention to the opinion of his wife, news arrived that the rebels had given the Duke the slip, and had got a day's march towards London. Then soon after arrived a famous Jacobite squire, who, with great joy in his countenance, shook the landlord by the hand, saying, Olds our own boy, ten thousand honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk, old England forever, ten thousand French, my brave lad, I am going to tap away directly. This news determined the opinion of the wise man, and he resolved to make his court to the young lady when she arose. For yet now, he said, discovered that she was no other than Madame Jenny Cameron herself. Chapter 3 A very short chapter, in which however is a sun, a moon, a star, and an angel. The sun, for he keeps very good hours at this time of the year, had been some time retired to rest, when Sophia arose greatly refreshed by her sleep, which, short as it was, nothing but her extreme fatigue could have occasioned, for though she had told her maid, and perhaps herself too, that she was perfectly easy when she left Upton, yet it is certain her mind was a little affected with that melody which is attended with all the restless symptoms of a fever, and is perhaps the very distemper which physicians mean, if they mean anything, by the fever on the spirits. Mrs. Fitzpatrick likewise left her bed at the same time, and, having summoned her maid, immediately dressed herself. She was really a very pretty woman, and had she been in any other company but that of Sophia might have been thought beautiful. But when Mrs. Honor of her own accord attended, for her mistress would not suffer her to be waked, and had equipped our heron, the charms of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had performed the office of the morning star, and had preceded greater glories, shared the fate of that star, and were totally eclipsed the moment those glories shone forth. Perhaps Sophia never looked more beautiful than she did at this instant. We ought not therefore to condemn the maid of the inn for her hyperbole, who, when she descended, after having lighted the fire, declared, and ratified it with an oath, that if ever there was an angel upon earth, she was now above stairs. Sophia had acquainted her cousin with her design to go to London, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick had agreed to accompany her. For the arrival of her husband at Upton had put an end to her design of going to Bath, or to her aunt Wiston. They had therefore no sooner finished their tea than Sophia proposed to set out, the moon then shining extremely bright, and as for the frost she defied it, nor had she any of those apprehensions which many young ladies would have felt at traveling by night, for she had, as we have before observed, some little degree of natural courage, and this her present sensations, which bordered somewhat on despair, greatly increased. Besides, as she had already travelled twice with safety by the light of the moon, she was the better emboldened to trust to it a third time. The disposition of Mrs. Fitzpatrick was more timorous, for though the greater terrors had conquered the less, and the presence of her husband had driven her away at so unseasonable an hour from Upton, yet being now arrived at a place where she thought herself safe from his pursuit, these lesser terrors of I know not what, operated so strongly that she earnestly entreated her cousin to stay till the next morning, and not expose herself to the dangers of travelling by night. Sophia, who is yielding to an excess when she could neither laugh nor reason her cousin out of these apprehensions, at last gave way to them. Perhaps indeed, had she known of her father's arrival at Upton, it might have been more difficult to have persuaded her. For, as so Jones, she had, I am afraid, no great horror at the thoughts of being overtaken by him. Nay, to confess the truth I believe she rather wished than feared it, though I might honestly enough have concealed this wish from the reader, as it was one of those secret spontaneous emotions of the soul, to which the reason is often a stranger. When our young ladies had determined to remain all that evening in their inn, they were attended by the landlady, who desired to know what their ladyships would be pleased to eat. Such charms were there in the voice, in the manner, and in the affable deportment of Sophia, that she ravished the landlady to the highest degree, and that good woman, concluding that she had attended Jenny Cameron, became in a moment a staunch Jacobite, and wished heartily well to the young pretenders' cause, from the great sweetness and affability with which she had been treated by a supposed mistress. The two cousins began now to impart to each other their reciprocal curiosity to know what extraordinary accidents on both sides occasioned this so strange and unexpected meeting. At last, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, having obtained of Sophia a promise of communicating likewise in her turn, began to relate what the reader, if he's desirous to know her history, may read in the ensuing chapter. End of section 38 of Tom Jones. Chapter 4 The History of Mrs. Fitzpatrick Mrs. Fitzpatrick, after a silence of a few moments, fetching a deep sigh, thus began. It is natural to the unhappy to feel a secret concern in recollecting those periods of their lives which have been most delightful to them. The remembrance of past pleasures affects us with a kind of tender grief, like what we suffer for departed friends, and the ideas of both may be said to haunt our imaginations. For this reason I never reflect without sorrow on those days, the happiest far of my life, which we spent together when both were under the care of my aunt Western. Alas, why are Miss Graveyers and Miss Kitty no more? You remember, I am sure, when we knew each other by no other names. Indeed, you gave the latter appellation with too much cause. I have since experienced how much I deserved it. You, my Sophia, was always my superior in everything, and I heartily hope you will be so in your fortune. I shall never forget the wise and matronly advice you once gave me, when I lamented being disappointed of a ball, though you could not be then fourteen years old. Oh, my Sophie, how blessed must have been my situation when I could think such a disappointment of misfortune, and when indeed it was the greatest I had ever known. And yet, my dear Harriet, answered Sophia, it was then a serious matter with you. Comfort yourself therefore with thinking that whatever you now lament may hear after appear as trifling and contemptible as a ball would at this time. Alas, my Sophia, replied the other lady, you yourself will think otherwise of my present situation, for greatly must that tender heart be altered if my misfortunes do not draw many a sigh, nay, many a tear from you. The knowledge of this should perhaps deter me from relating what I am convinced will so much affect you. Here Mrs. Fitzpatrick stopped, till, at the repeated entreaties of Sophia, she thus proceeded. Though you must have heard much of my marriage, yet as matters may probably have been misrepresented, I will set out from the very commencement of my unfortunate acquaintance with my present husband, which was at Bath, soon after you left my aunt, and returned home to your father. Among the gay young fellows who were at this season at Bath, Mr. Fitzpatrick was one. He was handsome, dégagé, extremely gallant, and in his dress exceeded most others. In short, my dear, if you was unlucky to see him now, I could describe him no better than by telling you who was the very reverse of everything which he is, for he hath rusticated himself so long that he has become an absolute wild Irishman. But to proceed in my story, the qualifications which he then possessed so well recommended him that, though the people of quality at that time lived separate from the rest of the company, and excluded them from all their parties, Mr. Fitzpatrick found means to gain admittance. It was perhaps no easy matter to avoid him, for he required very little or no invitation, and as, being handsome and genteel, he found it no very difficult matter to ingratiate himself with the ladies, so, having frequently drawn his sword, the men did not care publicly to affront him. Had it not been for some such reason, I believe he would have been soon expelled by his own sex, for surely he had no strict title to be preferred to the English Gentry, nor did they seem inclined to show him any extraordinary favor. They all abused him behind his back, which might probably proceed for men be, for by the women he was well received, and very particularly distinguished by them. My aunt, though no person of quality herself, as she had always lived about the court, was enrolled in that party, for by whatever means you get into the polite circle when you are once there, it is sufficient merit for you that you are there. This observation, young as you was, you could scarce avoid making for my aunt, who was free or reserved, with all people just as they had more or less of this merit. And this merit, I believe, it was, which principally recommended Mr. Fitzpatrick to her favor, in which he so well succeeded that he was always one of her private parties. Nor was he backward in returning such distinction, for he soon grew so very particular in his behavior to her that the scandal club first began to take notice of it, and the better disposed persons made a match between them. For my own part, I confess, I may no doubt but that his designs were strictly honorable, as the phrase is, that is, to rob a lady of her fortune by way of marriage. My aunt was, I conceive, neither young enough nor handsome enough to attract much wicked inclination, but she had matrimonial charms and great abundance. I was the more confirmed in this opinion from the extraordinary respect which she showed to myself from the first moment of our acquaintance. This I understood as an attempt to lessen, if possible, that disinclination which my interests might be supposed to give me towards the match. And I know not, but in some measure it had that effect. For, as I was well contented with my own fortune, and of all people the least a slave to interested views, so I could not be violently the enemy of a man with whose behavior to me I was greatly pleased. And the more so, as I was the only object of such respect, for he behaved at the same time to many women of quality without any respect at all. Agreeable as this was to me, he soon changed it into another kind of behavior which was perhaps more so. He now put on much softness and tenderness and languished inside abundantly. At times, indeed, whether from art or nature I will not determine, he gave his usual loose to gayity and mirth. But this was always in general company and with other women. For even in a country dance, when he was not my partner, he became grave, and put on the softest look imaginable the moment he approached me. Indeed, he was in all things so very particular towards me, that I must have been blind not to have discovered it. And, and, and, and you was more pleased still, my dear Harriet, cries Sophia. You need not be ashamed, added she, sighing. For sure there are irresistible charms and tenderness, which too many men are able to effect. True, answered her cousin. Men, who in all other instances want common sense, are very Machiavelles in the art of loving. I wish I did not know an instance. Well, scandal now began to be as busy with me as it had before been with my aunt, and some good ladies did not scruple to affirm that Mr. Fitzpatrick had an intrigue with us both. But, what may seem astonishing, my aunt never saw, nor in the least seemed to suspect, that which was visible enough, I believe, from both our behaviors.  In fact, they so greedily swallow the addresses which are made to them that, like an outrageous glutton, they are not at leisure to observe what passes amongst others at the same table. This I have observed in more cases than my own, and this was so strongly verified by my aunt that, though she often found us together at her return from the pump, the least canting word of his, pretending in patience at her absence, effectually smothered all suspicion. One artifice exceeded with her to admiration. This was his treating me like a little child, and never calling me by any other name in her presence but that of pretty mess. This indeed did him some disservice with your humble servant, but I soon saw through it, especially as in her absence he behaved to me, as I have said, in a different manner. However, if I was not greatly disoblaged by a conduct of which I had discovered the design, I smarted very severely for it, for my aunt really conceived me to be what her lover, as she thought him, called me, and treated me in all respects as a perfect infant. To say the truth, I wonder she had not insisted on my again wearing leading strings. At last, my lover, for so he was, thought proper in a most solemn manner to disclose a secret which I had known long before. He now placed all the love which he had pretended to my aunt to my account. He lamented, in very pathetic terms, the encouragement she had given him, and made a high merit of the tedious hours in which he had undergone her conversation. What shall I tell you, my dear Sophia? Then I will confess the truth. I was pleased with my man. I was pleased with my conquest. To rival my aunt delighted me. To rival so many other women charmed me. In short, I am afraid I did not behave as I should do, even upon the very first declaration. I wish I did not almost give him positive encouragement before we parted. The bath now talked loudly. I might almost say roared against me. Several young women affected to shun my acquaintance, not so much perhaps from any real suspicion, as from a desire of banishing me from a company in which I too much engrossed their favorite man. And here I cannot admit expressing my gratitude to the kindness intended me by Mr. Nash, who took me one day aside, and gave me advice, which if I had followed, I had been a happy woman. Child, says he, I am sorry to see the familiarity which subsists between you and a fellow who is altogether unworthy of you, and I am afraid will prove your ruin. As for your old stinking aunt, if it was to be no injury to you and my pretty Sophie Western—I assure you, I repeat his words—I should be heartily glad that the fellow was in possession of all that belongs to her. I never advised old women, for if they had taken into their heads to go to the devil it is no more possible than worthwhile to keep them from him. Innocence and youth and beauty are worthy of better fate, and I would save them from his clutches. Let me advise you therefore, dear child, never suffer this fellow to be particular with you again. Many more things he said to me which I have now forgotten, and indeed I attended very little to them at the time, for inclination contradicted all he said, and besides I could not be persuaded that women of quality would condescend to familiarity with such a person as he described. But I am afraid, my dear, I shall tire you with the detail of so many minute circumstances. To be concise, therefore, imagine me married, imagine me with my husband at the feet of my aunt, and then imagine the maddest woman in bedlam in a raving fit, and your imagination will suggest to you no more than what really happened. The very next day my aunt left the place partly to avoid seeing Mr. Fitzpatrick or myself, and as much perhaps to avoid seeing anyone else. For, though I am told she hath since denied everything stoutly, I believe she was then a little confounded at her disappointment. Since that time I have written to her many letters, but never could obtain an answer, which I must own sit somewhat the heavier, as she herself was, though undesignedly, the occasion of all my sufferings. For, had it not been under the color of paying his addresses to her, Mr. Fitzpatrick would never have found sufficient opportunities to have engaged my heart, which, in other circumstances, I still flatter myself would not have been an easy conquest of such a person. Indeed, I believe I should not have erred so grossly in my choice if I had relied on my own judgment, but I trusted totally to the opinion of others, and very foolishly took the merit of a man for granted, whom I saw so universally well received by the women. What is the reason, my dear, that we, who have understandings equal to the wisest and greatest of the other sacks, so often make choice of the silliest fellows for companions and favorites? It raises my indignation to the highest pitch to reflect on the numbers of women of sense who have been undone by fools. Here she paused a moment, but Sophia making no answer, she proceeded as in the next chapter. Chapter 5, in which the history of Mrs. Fitzpatrick is continued. We remained at Bath no longer than a fortnight after our wedding, for as to any reconciliation with my aunt there were no hopes, and of my fortune not one far than could be touched till I was of age, of which I now wanted more than two years. My husband, therefore, was resolved to set out for Ireland, against which I remonstrated very earnestly, and insisted on a promise which he had made me before our marriage that I should never take this journey against my consent. And indeed, I never intended to consent to it, nor will anybody, I believe, blame me for that resolution. But this, however, I never mentioned to my husband, and petitioned only for the reprieve of a month. But he had fixed the day, and to that day he obstinately adhered. The evening before our departure, as we were disputing this point with great eagerness on both sides, he started suddenly from his chair and left me abruptly, saying he was going to the rooms. He was hardly out of the house when I saw a paper lying on the floor, which I suppose he had carelessly pulled from his pocket, together with his handkerchief. This paper I took up, and finding it to be a letter, I made no scruple to open and read it. And indeed, I read it so often that I can repeat it to you all misword for word. This, then, was the letter. To Mr. Brian Fitzpatrick. Sir. Yours received, and I'm surprised you should use me in this manner, as have never seen any of your cash unless for one Lindsay Woolsey coat, and your bill now is upwards of one hundred and fifty pounds.  But I can neither live on hopes or promises, nor will my woollen draper take any such impayment.  Praise, sir, take a fool's advice for once, and marry the first you can get. You will pardon my offering my advice, as you know I sincerely wish you well. Shall draw on you per next post in favor of Monsieur's John Dreggett and Company at fourteen days, which doubt not your honoring, and am, sir, your humble servant, Sam Cosgrave. This was the letter word for word. Guess, my dear girl, guess how this letter affected me. You prefer the niece on account of her ready money. If every one of these words had been a dagger, I could with pleasure have stabbed them into his heart. But I will not recount my frantic behavior on the occasion. I had pretty well spent my tears before his return home. But sufficient remains of them appeared in my swollen eyes. He threw himself sullenly into his chair, and for a long time we were both silent. At length, in a haughty tone, he said, I hope, madam, your servants have packed up all your things, for the coach will be ready by six in the morning. My patience was totally subdued by this provocation, and I answered, no, sir, there is a letter so remains unpacked. And then, throwing it on the table, I fell to upbraiding him with the most bitter language I could invent. Whether guilt or shame or prudence restrained him, I cannot say. But, though he is the most passionate of men, he exerted no rage on this occasion. He endeavored, on the contrary, to pacify me by the most gentle means. He swore the phrase in the letter to which I principally objected was not his, nor had he ever written any such. He owned, indeed, the having mentioned his marriage, and that preference which he had given to myself. But, denied with many oaths, the having mentioned any such matter at all, on account of the straits he was in for money, arising, he said, from his having too long neglected his estate in Ireland. And this, he said, which he could not bear to discover to me, was the only reason of his having so strenuously insisted on our journey. He then used several very endearing expressions and concluded by a very fond caress and many violent protestations of love. There was one circumstance which, though he did not appeal to it, had much weight with me in his favour, and that was the word jointure in the Taylor's letter, whereas my aunt never had been married, and this Mr. Fitzpatrick well knew. As I imagined, therefore, that the fellow might have inserted this of his own head, or from hearsay, I persuaded myself he might have ventured likewise on that odious line on no better authority. What reasoning was this, my dear, was I not an advocate rather than a judge? But why do I mention such a circumstance as this, or appeal to it for the justification of my forgiveness? In short, had he been guilty of twenty times as much, half the tenderness and fondness which he used would have prevailed on me to have forgiven him. I now made no farther objections to our setting out, which we did the next morning, and in a little more than a week arrived at the seat of Mr. Fitzpatrick. Your curiosity will excuse me from relating any occurrences which passed during our journey, for it would indeed be highly disagreeable to travel it over again, and no less so to you to travel it over with me. This seat, then, is an ancient mansion house. If I was in one of those merry humours in which you have so often seen me, I could describe it to you ridiculously enough. It looked as if it had been formally inhabited by a gentleman. Here was room enough, and not the less room on account of the furniture, for indeed there is very little in it. An old woman who seemed to co-evil with the building, and greatly resembled her whom Chamont mentions in the orphan, received us at the gate, and in a howl, scarce human, and to me unintelligible, welcomed her master home. In short, the whole scene was so gloomy and melancholy that it threw my spirits into the lowest ejection, which my husband discerning, instead of relieving, increased by two or three malicious observations. There are good houses, madam, says he, as you find in other places besides England, but perhaps you would rather be in dirty lodgings at Bath. Happy, my dears, the woman who, in any state of life, hath a cheerful, good-natured companion to support and comfort her. But why do I reflect on happy situations only to aggravate my own misery? My companion, far from clearing up the gloom of solitude, soon convinced me that I must have been wretched with him in any place, and in any condition. In a word, he was a surly fellow, a character perhaps you have never seen, for indeed no woman ever sees it exemplified but in a father, a brother, or a husband. Though you have a father, he is not of that character. This surly fellow had formally appeared to me the very reverse, and so he did still to every other person. Good Heaven, how is it possible for a man to maintain a constant line his appearance abroad and in company, and to content himself with showing disagreeable truth only at home? Here, my dear, they make themselves amends for the uneasy restraint which they put on their tempers in the world. For I have observed, the more merry and gay and good-humored my husband hath at any time been in company, the more sullen and morose he was sure to become at our next private meeting. How shall I describe his barbarity? To my fondness he was called an insensible. My little comical ways, which you, my Sophie, and which others have called so agreeable, he treated with contempt. In my most serious moments he sung and whistled, and whenever I was thoroughly dejected and miserable, he was angry and abused me, for though he was never pleased with my good humor nor ascribed it to my satisfaction in him. Yet my low spirits always offended him, and those he imputed to my repentance of having, as he said, married an Irishman. You will easily conceive, my dear gray-bears, I ask your pardon, I really forgot myself, that when a woman makes an imprudent match in the sense of the world, that is, when she is not an errant prostitute to pecuniary interest, she must necessarily have some inclination and affection for her man. You will as easily believe that this affection may possibly be lessened. Nay, I do assure you, contempt will wholly eradicate it. This contempt I now began to entertain for my husband, whom I now discovered to be, I must use the expression, an errant blockhead. Perhaps you will wonder I did not make this discovery long before, but women will suggest a thousand excuses to themselves for the folly of those they like. Besides, give me leave to tell you, it requires a most penetrating eye to discern a fool through the disguises of gaiting and good breeding. It will be easily imagined that, when I once despised my husband, as I confessed to you, I soon did, I must consequently dislike his company, and indeed, I had the happiness of being very little troubled with it. For our house was now most elegantly furnished, our sellers well stocked, and dogs and horses provided in great abundance. As my gentleman therefore entertained his neighbors with great hospitality, so his neighbors resorted to him with great alacrity, and sports and drinking consumed him so much of his time that a small part of his conversation, that is to say of his ill humours, fell to my share. Happy would it have been for me if I could easily have avoided all other disagreeable company, but alas, I was confined to some which constantly tormented me, and the more as I saw no prospect of being relieved from them. These companions were my own rocking thoughts, which plagued and in a manner haunted me night and day. In this situation I passed through a scene, the horrors of which can neither be painted nor imagined. Think, my dear, figure if you can to yourself what I must have undergone. I became a mother by the man I scorned, hated, and detested. I went through all the agonies and miseries of a lying in, ten times more painful in such a circumstance than the worst labour can be when one endures it for a man one loves. In a desert, or rather indeed, a scene of riot and revel, without a friend, without a companion, or without any of those agreeable circumstances which often alleviate, and perhaps sometimes more than compensate, the sufferings of our sex at that season. Chapter 6, in which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia into a dreadful consternation. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was proceeding in her narrative when she was interrupted by the entrance of dinner, greatly to the concern of Sophia, for the misfortunes of her friend had raised her anxiety and left her no appetite, but what Mrs. Fitzpatrick was dissatisfied by her relation. The landlord now intended with a plate under his arm, and with the same respect and his countenance and address which he would have put on had the ladies arrived in a coach in six. The married ladies seemed less affected with her own misfortunes than was her cousin, for the former eat very heartily, whereas the latter could hardly swallow a morsel. Sophia likewise showed more concern and sorrow in her countenance than appeared in the other lady, who, having observed these symptoms in her friend, begged her to be comforted, saying, perhaps I may yet end better than either you or I expect. Our landlord thought he had now an opportunity to open his mouth and was resolved not to admit it. I am sorry, madam, cries he, that your ladyship can't eat, for to be sure you must be hungry after so long fasting. I hope your ladyship is not an easy at anything for, as madam there says, all may end better than anybody expects. A gentleman who was here just now brought excellent news, and perhaps some folks who have given other folks the slip may get to London before they are overtaken, and if they do, I make no doubt that they will find people who will be very ready to receive them. All persons under the apprehension of danger convert whatever they see and hear into the objects of that apprehension. Sophia therefore immediately concluded from the foregoing speech that she was known and pursued by her father. She was now struck with the utmost concernation, and for a few minutes deprived of the power of speech, which she no sooner recovered than she desired the landlord to send his servants out of the room, and then addressing herself to him, said, I perceive, sir, you know who we are, but I beseech you, nay, I am convinced if you have any compassion or goodness you will not betray us. I betray your ladyship, quoth the landlord. No, and then he swore several very hearty oaths. I would sooner be cut into ten thousand pieces.  I, I never betrayed anyone in my life yet, and I am sure I shall not begin with so sweet a lady as your ladyship. All the world would very much blame me if I should, since it will be in your ladyship's power so shortly to reward me. My wife can witness for me. I knew your ladyship the moment you came into the house. I said it was your honor before I lifted you from your horse, and I shall carry the bruises I got in your ladyship's service to the grave. But what signified that, as long as I saved your ladyship? To be sure some people this morning would have thought of getting a reward, but no such thought ever entered into my head. I would sooner star up and take any reward for betraying your ladyship. I promise you, sir, says Sophia. If it be ever in my power to reward you, you shall not lose by your generosity. A lack a day, madam, answered the landlord. In your ladyship's power, heaven put it as much into your will. I am only afraid your honor will forget such a poor man as an innkeeper. But if your ladyship should not, I hope you will remember what reward I refused. Refused. That is, I would have refused, and to be sure it may be called refusing, for I might have had it certainly. And to be sure you might have been in some houses. But for my part would not me think for the world have your ladyship wronged me so much as to imagine I ever thought of betraying you, even before I heard the good news. What news, pray? says Sophia, something eagerly. Have not your ladyship heard it then? Cries the landlord. Nay, like enough for I heard it only a few minutes ago, and if I had never heard it may the devil fly away with me this instant if I would have betrayed your honor. No, if I would, may I. Here he subjoined several dreadful imprecations, which Sophia at last interrupted, and begged to know what he meant by the news. He was going to answer when Mrs. Honor came running into the room, all pale and breathless, and cried out, Madam, we are all undone, all ruined. There, come, there, come.  But Mrs. Fitzpatrick asked Honor who were come? Who, answered she, why the French? Several hundred thousands of them are landed, and we shall all be murdered and ravished. As a miser, who half in some well-built city at cottage, valued twenty shillings, when at a distance he is alarmed with the news of a fire, turns pale and trembles at his loss. But when he finds the beautiful palaces only are burnt, and his own cottage remains safe, he comes instantly to himself and smiles at his good fortunes. Or as, for we dislike something in the former simile, the tender mother, when terrified with the apprehension that her darling boy is drowned, is struck senseless and almost dead with consternation. But when she is told the little master is safe, and the victory only, with twelve hundred brave men gone to the bottom, life and sense again return, maternal fondness enjoys the sudden relief from all its fears, and the general benevolence which at another time would have deeply felt the dreadful catastrophe lies fast asleep in her mind. So Sophia, then whom none was more capable of tenderly feeling the general calamity of her country, found such immediate satisfaction from the relief of those terrors she had of being overtaken by her father, that the arrival of the French scarce made any impression on her. She gently chid her maid for the fright into which she had thrown her and said she was glad it was no worse, for that she had feared somebody else was come. I, I, quoth the landlord smiling, her ladyship knows better things. She knows the French are our very best friends, and come over hither only for our good. They are the people who were to make Old England flourish again. I warrant her honour thought the Duke was coming, and that was enough to put her into a fright. I was going to tell your ladyship the news. His honour's majesty, heaven bless him, hath given the Duke the slip, and is marching as fast as he can to London, and ten thousand French are landed to join him on the road. Sophia was not greatly pleased with this news, nor with the gentleman who related it, but as she still imagined he knew her, for she could not possibly have any suspicion of the real truth, she durst not show any dislike, and now the landlord having removed the cloth from the table with drew, but at his departure frequently repeated his hopes of being remembered hereafter. The mind of Sophia was not at all easy under the supposition of being known at this house, for she still applied to herself many things which the landlord had addressed to Jenny Cameron. She therefore ordered her maid to pump out of him by what means he had become acquainted with her person, and who had offered him the reward for betraying her. She likewise ordered the horses to be in readiness by four in the morning, at which our Mrs. Fitzpatrick promised to bear her company, and then, composing herself as well as she could, she desired that lady to continue her story. End of Section 39. Section 40 of Tom Jones. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Renee Bell. Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. Book 11, Chapter 7, in which Mrs. Fitzpatrick concludes her history. While Mrs. Honor, in pursuance of the commands of her mistress, ordered a bowl of punch, and invited my landlord and landlady to partake of it, Mrs. Fitzpatrick thus went on with her relation. Most of the officers who were quartered at a town in our neighborhood were of my husband's acquaintance. Among these, there was a lieutenant, a very pretty sort of man, and who was married to a woman, so agreeable both in her temper and conversation, that from our first knowing each other, which was soon after my lying in, we were almost inseparable companions, for I had the good fortune to make myself equally agreeable to her. The lieutenant, who was neither a sought nor a sportsman, was frequently of our parties. Indeed, he was very little with my husband, and no more than good-breeding constrained him to be, as he lived almost constantly at our house. My husband often expressed much dissatisfaction at the lieutenant's preferring my company to his. He was very angry with me on that account, and gave me many a hearty curse for drawing away his companion, saying, I ought to be damned for having spoiled one of the prettiest fellows in the world by making a milk-soap of him.  And if I should admit the possibility of this, so little right had my husband to place the loss of his companion to me, that I am convinced it was my conversation alone which induced him ever to come to the house. No child, it was Envy, the worst and most rancorous kind of Envy, the envy of superiority of understanding. The wretch could not bear to see my conversation preferred to his, by a man of whom he could not entertain the least jealousy.  If you marry a man, is as most probable you will, of less capacity than yourself, make frequent trials of his temper before marriage, and see whether he can bear to submit to such a superiority. Promise me, Sophie, you will take this advice, for you will hear after find its importance. It is very likely I shall never marry at all, answer Sophia. I think at least I shall never marry a man in whose understanding I see any defects before marriage, and I promise you I would rather give up my own than see any such afterwards. Give up your understanding, replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Oh, fly child, I will not believe so meanly of you. Everything else I might myself be brought to give up, but never this. Nature would not have allotted this superiority to the wife in so many instances, if she had intended we should all of us have surrendered it to the husband. This, indeed, meant a sense never expected of us, of which the lieutenant I have just mentioned was one notable example, for though he had a very good understanding, he always acknowledged, as was really true, that his wife had a better. And this perhaps was one reason of the hatred my tyrant bore her. Before he would be so governed by a wife, he said, especially such an ugly bit, for indeed she was not a regular beauty, but very agreeable and extremely gentile, he would see all the women upon earth at the devil, which was a very usual phrase with him. He said, he wondered what I could see in her to be so charmed with her company, since this woman says he had come among us, there is an end of your beloved reading, which you pretended to like so much that you could not afford time to return the visits of the ladies in this country. And I must confess I had been guilty of a little readiness this way, for the ladies there are at least no better than the mere country ladies here, and I think I need make no other excuse to you for declining any intimacy with them. This correspondence, however, continued a whole year, even all the while the lieutenant was quartered in that town, for which I was continued to pay the tax of being constantly abused in the manner above mentioned by my husband, I mean when he was at home, for he was frequently absent a month at a time at Dublin, and once made a journey of two months to London, in all which journeys I thought it a very singular happiness that he never once desired my company. May by his frequent centuries on men who could not travel, as he phrased it, without a wife tied up to their tail, he sufficiently intimated that had I been never so desirous of accompanying him, my wishes would have been in vain. But heaven knows such wishes were very far from my thoughts. At length my friend was removed from me, and I was again left to my solitude, to the tormenting conversation with my own reflections, and to apply to books for my only comfort. I now read almost all day long. How many books do you think I read in three months? I can't guess, indeed, cousin answers Ovia.  I read a good deal in Daniel's English history of friends, a great deal in Plutarch's lives. The Atalantis, Pope's Homer, Dryden's Plays, Shillingworth, The Countess d'Onois, and Locke's Human Understanding. During this interval I wrote three very supplicating, and I thought, moving letters to my aunt, but as I received no answer to any of them, my disdain would not suffer me to continue my application. Here she stopped, and looking earnestly at Sophia said, He thinks, my dear, I read something in your eyes which her purchase me of a neglect in another place where I should have met with a kinder recharge. Indeed, dear Harriet answered Sophia, your story is an apology for an neglect, but indeed, I feel that I have been guilty of a remissness without so good an excuse, yet pray proceed for I long, though I tremble, to hear the end. Thus then, Mrs. Patrick resumed her narrator. My husband now took a second journey to England, where he continued upwards of three months. During the greater part of this time, I led a life from which nothing but having led a worse could make me think tolerable, for perfect solitude can never be reconciled to a social mind like mine, but when it relieves you from the company of those you hate, but added to my wretchedness was the loss of my little infant. Not that I pretend to have had for it that extravagant tenderness of which I believe I might have been capable under other circumstances, but I resolved in every instance to discharge the duty of the tenderest mother, and this care prevented me from feeling the weight of that heaviest of all things, when it can be at all said to lie heavy on our hands. I had spent full ten weeks almost entirely by myself, having seen nobody all that time except my servants and a very few visitors, and a young lady, a relation to my husband, came from a distant part of Ireland to visit me. She had stayed once before a week at my house, and then I gave her a pressing invitation to return, for she was a very agreeable woman, and had improved good natural parts by a proper education. Indeed, she was to me a welcome guest. A few days after her arrival, perceiving me in very low spirits without inquiring the cause, which indeed she very well knew, the young lady fell to compassionate in my case. She said, though politeness had prevented me from complaining to my husband's relations of his behavior, yet they all were very sensible of it, and felt great concern upon that account, but none more than herself. And after some more general discourse on this head, which I own, I could not forbear countenancy. At last, after much previous precaution and enjoined concealment, she communicated to me, as a profound secret, that my husband kept a mistress. You will certainly imagine I heard this news with the utmost insensibility. Upon my word, if you do, your imagination will mislead you. The temp had not so kept down my anger to my husband, but that hatred rose again on this occasion. What can be the reason of this? Are we so abominably selfish that we can be concerned that others have in possession even of what we despise? Or are we not rather abominably vain, and is not this the greatest injury done to our vanity? What thank you, Sophia? I don't know, indeed answer, Sophia. I have never troubled myself with any of these deep contemplations, but I think the lady did very ill in communicating to you such a secret. And yet, my dear, this conduct is natural, replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and when you have seen me read as much as myself, you will acknowledge it to be so. I am sorry to hear it as natural, return, Sophia. I want neither reading nor experience to convince me that it is very dishonorable and very ill-natured. Nay, it is surely as ill-read to tell a husband or wife of the faults of each other as to tell them of their own. Continued Mrs. Fitzpatrick, my husband at last returned, and if I am thoroughly acquainted with my own thoughts, I hated him now more than ever, but I despised him rather less. For certainly nothing so much weakens our attempt as an injury done to our pride or vanity. He now assumed a carriage to me so very different from what he had lately worn, and so nearly resembling his behavior the first week around marriage, that had I now had any spark of love remaining, he might possibly ever kindle my fondness for him. But though hatred may succeed to contempt, and may perhaps get the better of it, love, I believe, cannot, the truth is, the passion of love is too restless to remain contended without the gratification which it receives from its object, and one can no more be inclined to love without loving than we can have eyes without seeing.  I have bewildered myself so, but one is apt in these abstract considerations to lose the concatenation of ideas, as Mr. Locke says, in short, the truth is, in short, I scarce know what it is, but as I was saying, my husband returned, and his behavior at first greatly surprised me, but he soon acquainted me with the motive and taught me to account for it, and the word then, he had spent and lost all the ready money of my fortune, and as he could mortgage his honor state no deeper, he was now desirous to supply himself with cash for his extravagance by selling a little the state of mind, which he could not do without my assistance, and to obtain this favor was the whole and sole motive of all the fondness which he now put on. With this, I peremptorily refused to comply. I told him, and I told him truly, that had I been possessed of the indies at our first marriage, he might have commended it all, where it had been a constant maxim with me that where a woman disposes of her heart, she should always deposit her fortune, but as he had been so kind long ago to restore the former into my possession, I was resolved likewise to retain what little remained of the latter. I will not describe to you the passion into which these words and the resolute air in which they were spoken through him, nor will I trouble you with the whole scene which succeeded between us. Out came, you may be well assured, the story of the mistress, and how they did come, with all the embellishments which anger and disdain could bestow upon him. Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed a little thunderstruck with this, and more confused than I had seen him, though his ideas are always confused enough, heaven knows. He did not, however, endeavor to exculpate himself, but took a method which almost equally confounded me. What was this but recrimination? He effected to be jealous. He may, for all I know, be inclined enough to jealousen his natural temper. Nay, he must have had it from nature, or the devil must have put it into his head, for I defy all the world to cast a justice version on my character. Nay, the most scandalous tongues have never dared censure my reputation. My fame, I think, heaven, have always been as spotless as my life, and that falsehood itself accuses that of it dare. No, my dear grave heirs, however provoked, however ill-treated, however injured in my love, I have firmly resolved ever to give the least proof for censure on this account. And yet, my dear, there are some people so malicious, sometimes so venomous, that no innocence can escape them. The most undesigned word, the most accidental look, but least familiarity, the most innocent freedom, will be misconstrued, and magnified into I know not what, by some people. But I despise, my dear grave heirs. I despise all such slander. No such malice, I assure you, ever gave me an uneasy moment. No, no, I promise you, I am above all that. But where was I? Oh, let me see.  Why, of whom but the lieutenant I mentioned to you before? He was obliged to resort above a year and more back to find any object for this unaccountable passion, if indeed he really felt any such, and was not an errant counterfeit in order to abuse me. But I have tired you already with too many particulars. I will now bring my story to a very speedy conclusion. In short then, after many scenes very unworthy to be repeated, in which my cousin engaged so heartily on my side, that Mr. Fitzpatrick at last turned her out of doors, when he found I was neither to be sued nor bullied into compliance, he took a very violent method indeed. Perhaps you will conclude he beat me, but this, though he had the approach very near to it, he never actually did. He confined me to my room without suffering me to have either pen, ink, paper, or book, and the servant every day made my bed and brought me my food. When I had remained a week under this imprisonment, he made me a visit, and with the voice of a schoolmaster, or what is often much the same, of a tyrant, asked me, if I would yet comply, I answered very stally that I would die first. Then so you shall, and be damned, Christy, for you shall never go alive out of this room. Here I remained a fortnight longer, and to save the truth, my constancy was almost subdued, and I began to think of submission when one day, in the absence of my husband, who was gone abroad for some short time, by the greatest misfortune in the world, an accident happened. I, at a time when I began to give way to the utmost despair, everything would be excusable at such a time, at that very time I received, but it would take up an hour to tell you all particulars, and one word then, for I will not tire you with circumstances. Gold, the common key to all padlocks, opened my door, set me at liberty. I now made haste to Dublin, where I immediately procured a passage to England, and was proceeding to Bath in order to throw myself into the protection of my aunt or of your father, or of any relation who would afford it.  And thus, my dear, ends my history, the tragic one I am sure it is to myself, but perhaps I ought rather to apologize to you for its dullness. Sophia heaped a deep sigh, and answered, Indeed, Harriet, I pity you from my soul, but what could you expect? Why? Why would you marry an Irishman? Upon my word, replied her cousin, your censure is unjust. There are among the Irishmen of as much worth and honor as any among the English. Nay, to speak the truth, generosity of spirit is rather more common among them. I have known some examples there, too, of good husbands, and I believe these are not very plenty in England. Ask me, rather, what I could expect when I marry the fool, and I will tell you a solemn truth. I did not know him to be so. Can no man, said Sophia, in a very low and altered voice, do you think, make a bad husband who is not a fool? That, answered the other, is too general and negative, but none I believe is so likely as a fool to prove so. Among my acquaintance the silliest fellows are the worst husbands, and I will venture to assert as a fact that a man of sense rarely behaves very ill to a wife who deserves very well. Chapter 8 The dreadful alarm in the end, with the arrival of an unexpected friend of Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Sophia now, at the desire of her cousin, related not what follows, but what had gone before in this history, for which reason the reader will, I suppose, excuse me for not repeating it over again. One remark, however, I cannot bear making on her narrative, namely that she may no more mention of jumps, from the beginning to the end, than if there had been no such person alive. This I will neither endeavor to account for, nor to excuse. Indeed, this may be called a kind of dishonesty. It seems the more inexcusable, from the apparent openness and explicit sincerity of the other lady. But so it was. Just as Sophia arrived at the conclusion of her story, there arrived in the room where the two ladies were sitting in noise, not unlike in loudness, to that of a pack of hounds just let out from their kennel, nor in shrillness to cats when cater walling, or to screech owls, or indeed more like, for what animal can resemble a human voice, to those sounds which, in the pleasant mansions of that gate which seems to derive its name from a duplicity of tongues, issued from the mouths and sometimes from the nostrils of those fair river nymphs, eclipsed of old beniades, and the vulgar tongue translated oyster winches, for when instead of the antient libations of milk and honey and oil, the rich distillation from the juniper berry, or perhaps from malt, hath, by the early devotion of their rotaries, been poured forth in great abundance, should any daring tongue with unhallowed license profane, i.e. depreciate, the delicate fat milk and oyster, the place sounded firm, the flounder as much alive as when in the water, the shrimp as big as a prawn, the fine cod alive but a few hours ago, or any other at the various treasures which those water dieties who fish the sea and rivers have committed to the care of the nymphs, the angry niadies lift up their mortal voices in the profane wretched strut death for his impiety. Such was the noise which now burst from one of the rooms below, and soon the thunder, which long had rattled at a distance, began to approach nearer and nearer, till having ascended by degrees upstairs that last entered the apartment where the ladies were. In short, to drop all metaphor figure, Mrs. Honor having scolded violently below stairs and continued to sing all the way up, came into a mistress in a most outrageous passion crying out, what does your ladyship think? Would you imagine that this impudent villain, the master of this house, had the impudence to tell me, nay, to stand it out to my face, that your ladyship is that nasty stinky whore, Jenny Cameron the caller, that runs about the country with a pretender? Nay, the lying saucy villain had the assurance to tell me that your ladyship had owned yourself to be so, but I have clawed the rascal, I have left the marks of my nails in his impudent face. My ladys, as I use saucy scoundrel, my lady is meat for no pretenders, she is a young lady of as good fashion and family and fortunate as any insomerset shire. Did you never hear of the great squire Weston, Sarah? She is his only daughter, she is, and heiress to all his greatest state.  The principal uneasiness with which Sophia was affected on this occasion on her head herself caused by having in her passion discovered who she was. However, as this mistake of the landlord sufficiently accounted for those passages which Sophia had before mistaken, she acquired some ease on that account, nor could she upon the hull for bear smiling. This enraged honor, and she cried, Indeed, madam, I did not think your ladyship would have made a laughing matter of it, to be called whore by such an impudent love rascal. Your ladyship may be angry with me for all I know for taking your part, since proper service they say stings, but to be sure I could never bear to hear a lady of mine called whore. Nor will I bear it. I am sure your ladyship is as virtuous a lady as ever set foot on English ground, and I will claw any villain's eyes out who dares for to offer to presume for to say the least work to the contrary. Nobody ever could say the least ill of the character of any lady that ever I waited upon. Hinkalay Lekrani In plain truth, honor had as much love for her mistress as most servants have, that is to say, but besides this, her pride obliged her to support the character of the lady she waited on, for she thought her own was in a very close manner connected with it. In proportion as the character of her mistress was raised, hers likewise as she conceived was raised with it, and on the contrary, she thought the one could not be lowered without the other. On this subject reader, I must stop a moment to tell thee a story. The famous Nell Gwynn, stepping one day from a house where she had made a short visit into her coach, saw a great mob assembled, and her footmen all bloody and dirty. The fellow, being asked by his mistress the reason of his being in that condition, answered, I have been fighting that one with an impudent rascal who called your ladyship a bore.  Do they, rise the fellow in a muttering voice, after he had shut the coach door, they shan't call me a horse footman for all that. Thus the passion of Mrs. Honor appears natural enough, even if it were to be no otherwise accounted for, but in reality there was another cause of her anger, from which we must vaguely to remind our reader of a circumstance mentioned in the above simile. There are indeed certain liquors which, being applied to our passions or to fire, produce effects that very reverse of those produced by water, as they serve to kindle and inflame rather than to extinguish. Among these, the generous liquor called Punch's one. It was not therefore without reason that the learned Dr. Cheney used to call drinking punch pouring liquid fire down her throat. Now, Mrs. Honor had unluckily poured so much of this liquid fire down her throat, that the smoke of it began to ascend into her perichronium and blinded the eyes of reason, which is there supposed to keep her residence, while the fire itself from the stomach easily reached the heart, and there inflamed the noble passion of pride, so that upon the hole we shall cease to wonder at the violent rage of the waiting one. Though at first sight we must confess the cause seems inadequate to the effect. Sophia and her cousin both did all in their power to extinguish these flames which had roared so loudly all over the house. They at length prevailed, or to carry the metaphor one step further, the fire having consumed all the fuel which the language affords to wet every reproachful term in it, at last went out of its own accord. But though tranquility was restored above stairs, it was not so below, where my landlady, highly resenting the injury done to the beauty of her husband by the flesh spades of Mrs. Honor, called aloud for revenge and justice. As to the poor man who had principally suffered in the engagement, he was perfectly quiet. Perhaps the blood which he lost might have cooled his anger, for the enemy had not only applied her nails to his cheeks, but likewise her fists to his nostrils, which lamented the blow with tears of blood and great abundance. To this we may add reflections on his mistake, but indeed nothing so effectually silenced his resentment as the manner in which he now discovered his error. For as to the behavior of Mrs. Honor, it had the more confirmed him in his opinion. But he was now assured by a person of great figure, and he was attended by a great equipage, that one of the ladies was a woman of fashion, and his intimate acquaintance. By the orders of this person, the landlord now ascended, and acquainted our fair travelers that a great gentleman below desired to do them the honor of waiting on them. Sophia turned pale and trembled at this message, though the reader would conclude it was too civil, notwithstanding the landlord's blunder to have come from her father. But fear hath the common fault of a justice of peace. He is apt to conclude hastily from every slight circumstance without examining the evidence on both sides. To ease the reader's curiosity, therefore, rather than his apprehensions, we proceed to inform him that an Irish queer had arrived very late that evening at the inn in his wet time. This nobleman, having sailed from his supper at the hurricane before commemorated, had seen the attendant of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and upon a short inquiry, was informed that her lady, with whom he was very particularly acquainted, was above. This information he had no sooner received than he addressed himself to the landlord, pacified, and sent him upstairs with compliments rather civiler than those which were delivered. It may perhaps be wondered at that the waiting woman herself was not the messenger employed on this occasion, but we are sorry to say she was not at present qualified for that, or indeed for any other office. The rum, for so the landlord chose to call the distillation from malt, had basically taken the advantage of the fatigue which the poor woman had undergone, and had made terrible depredations on her noble faculties at a time when they were very unable to resist the attack. We shall not describe this tragical scene too fully, but we thought ourselves obliged by that historic integrity which we profess, shortly to hand a matter which we would otherwise have been glad to have spared. Many historians indeed, for one of this integrity, or diligence to say no worse, often need the reader to find out these little circumstances in the dark, and sometimes to his great confusion and perplexity. Sophia was very soon eased of her causeless fright by the entry of the noble peer, who was not only an intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but in reality a very particular friend of that lady. To say truth, it was by his assistance that she had been unable to escape from her husband, for this nobleman had the same gallant disposition with those renowned knights of whom we read in heroic story, and had delivered many an imprisoned nymph from endurance. He was indeed as bitter an enemy to the savage authority too often exercised by husbands and fathers over the young and lovely of the other sex, as every knight errant was to the barbarous power of enchanters. Nay, to say truth, I have often suspected that those very enchanters with which romance everywhere abounds were in reality no other than the husbands of those days, and matrimony itself was, perhaps, the enchanted castle in which the nymphs were said to be confined. This nobleman had an estate in the neighborhood of Fitzpatrick, and had been for some time acquainted with the lady. No sooner, therefore, did he hear of her confinement than he earnestly applied himself to procure her liberty, which he presently effected not by storming the castle according to the example of anti-heroes, but by corrupting the governor in conformity with the modern art of war, in which craft is held to be preferable to valor, and gold is found to be more irresistible than either lead or steel. This circumstance, however, as the lady did not think it material enough to relate to her friend, we would not at that time impart it to the reader. We rather chose to leave him a while under a supposition that she had found, or coined, or by some very extraordinary, perhaps supernatural means that possessed herself of the money with which she had brought her keeper, than to interrupt her narrative by giving a hint of what seemed to her of too little importance to be mentioned. The peer, after a short conversation, could not forbear expressing some surprise at meeting the lady in that place, nor could he refrain from telling her he imagined she had been gone to bat. Mrs. Fitzpatrick very freely answered that she had been prevented in her purpose by the arrival of a person she did not mention. In short, says she, I was overtaken by my husband, for I need not effect to conceal what the world knows too well already. I had the good fortune to escape in a most surprising manner, and am now going to London with this young lady, who is a near relation of mine, and who hath escaped from as great a tyrant as my own. His lordship, concluding that this tyrant was likewise a husband, made a speech full of compliments to both the ladies, and as full of invectors against its own sex, nor indeed did he avoid some oblique glances at the matrimonial institution itself, and at the unjust powers given by it to man over the more sensible and more meritorious part of the species. He ended his oration with an offer of his protection, and of his coaching six, which was instantly accepted by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and at last upon her persuasion and spysophia. Matters being thus adjusted, his lordship took his leave, and the ladies retired to rest, where Mrs. Fitzpatrick entertained her cousin with many high encomiums on the character of the noble peers, and enlarged very particularly on his great fondness for his wife, saying she believed he was almost the only person of high rank who was entirely constant to the marriage bid. Indeed, Edige, my dear Sophie, that is a very rare virtue amongst men of condition. Never expect it when you marry, for believe me, if you do, you will certainly be deceived. A gentle sigh stole from Sophia at these words, which perhaps contributed to form a dream with no very pleasant kind, but as she never revealed this dream to anyone, so the reader cannot expect to see it related here. Chapter 9 The morning introduced in some pretty writing a stagecoach, the civility of chambermates, the heroic temper of Sophia, her generosity, the return to it, the departure of the company, and their arrival at London, with some remarks for the use of travelers. Those members of society who were born to furnish the blessings of life now began to light their candles in order to pursue their daily labors for the use of those who were born to enjoy these blessings. The sturdy hind now tends to levy of his fellow laborer, the ox, the cunning artificer, the diligent mechanic spring from their hard mattress, and now the bonny housemate begins to repair the disordered drum room, while the riotous authors of that disorder and broken interrupted slumbers tumble and toss as if the hardness of down disquieted their repose. In simple phrase, the clock had no sooner struck seven than the ladies were ready for their journey, and at their desire, his lordship and his equipodge were prepared to attend them. And now a matter of some difficulty arose, and this was how his lordship himself should be conveyed. For though in stagecoaches, her passengers are properly considered as so much luggage, the ingenious coachman stows half a dozen with perfect ease into the place of four. For well he contrives that the fat hostess, or well-fed alderman, may take up no more room than the snoo-miss or taper master, it being the nature of guts one will squeeze to give way and to lie in a narrow compass. Yet in these vehicles, which are called for distinction's sake, gentlemen's coaches, though they are often larger than the others, this method of packing is never attempted. This lordship would have put a short end to the difficulty by very gallantly desiring to mount its horse, but Mrs. Fitzpatrick would by no means consent to it. It was therefore concluded that the Abigail's should by turns relieve each other on one of his lordship's horses, which was presently equipped with a side saddle for that purpose. Everything being settled at the end, the ladies discharged their former guides, and Sophia made a present to the landlord, partly to repair the bruise which he had received under herself, and partly on account of what he had suffered under the hands of her enraged lady woman. And now Sophia first discovered a loss which gave her some uneasiness, and this was of the 100-pound bank bill which her father had given her at the last meeting, in which, within a very inconsiderable trifle, was all the treasure she was at present worth. She searched everywhere, and shook and tumbled all her things to no purpose. The bill was not to be found, and she was at last fully persuaded that she had lost it from her pocket when she had the misfortune of tumbling from her horse in the dark lane, as before recorded, a fact that seemed the more probable as she now recollected some discomposure in her pockets which had happened in that time, and the great difficulty with which she had drawn forth her anchorchief the very instant before her fall in order to relieve the distress of Mrs. Fitzpatrick. The misfortunes of this kind, whatever inconveniences they may be attended with, are incapable of subduing a mind in which there is any strength without the assistance of avarice. Sophia, therefore, though nothing could be worse time than this accident at such a season, immediately got the better of her concern, and with her wanted serenity and cheerfulness of countenance returned to her company. His lordship conducted the ladies into the vehicle, as he did likewise Mrs. Honor, who after many civilities and more dear madams, at last yielded to the well-bred opportunities of her sister Abigail, and submitted to be complimented with the first right in the coach, in which indeed she would afterwards have been contented to have pursued her whole journey, had not her mistress, after several fruitless intimations, at length forced her to take her turn on horseback. The coach, now having received its company, began to move forward, attended by many servants and led by two captains who had before rode with this lordship, and who would have been dismissed from the vehicle upon a much less worthy occasion than was this of accommodating two ladies. In this they acted only as gentlemen, but they were ready at any time to have performed the office of a footman, or indeed would have condescended lower for the honor of his lordship's company and for the convenience of his table. My landlord was so pleased with the present he had received from Sophia, that he rather rejoiced in than regretted his bruise or his scratches. The reader will perhaps be curious to know the quantum of this present, but we cannot satisfy his curiosity. Whatever it was, it satisfied the landlord for his body we heard, but he lamented he had not known before how little the lady valued her money, or to be sure since he, one might have charged every article double and she would have made no capital at the reckoning. His wife, however, was far from drawing this conclusion. Whether she really felt any injury done to her husband more than he did himself, I will not say. Certain it is she was much less satisfied with the generosity of Sophia. Indeed, Christ she, my dear, the lady knows better how to dispose of her money than you imagine. She might very well think we should not put up such a business without some satisfaction, and the law would have cost her an infinite ill more than this poor little matter, which I wonder you would take. You are always so bloodily wise, quote the husband, it would have cost her more with it. Just fancy I don't know that as well as thee, but with any of that more or so much have come into our pockets. Indeed, as son Tom the Lawyer had been alive, I could have been glad to have put such a pretty business into his hands. He would have got a good peeking out of it. But I have no relation now with the Lawyer, and why should I go to law for the benefit of strangers? Nay, to be sure, answer she, you must know best. I believe I do, replied he. I fancy, when money is to be God, I can smell it out as well as another. Everybody, let me tell you, would not have talked people out of this. Mind that, I say. Everybody would not have controlled this out of her. Mind that. The wife then joined in the applause of her husband's agacity, and thus ended the short dialogue between them on this occasion. We will therefore take our leave of these good people, and attend his lordship and his fair companions, who made such good expedition that they performed a journey of ninety miles in two days, and on the second evening arrived in London, without having encountered any one adventure on the road worth the dignity of this history to relate. Our pen therefore shall imitate the expedition which it describes, and our history shall keep pace with the travelers who are its subject. Good writers will indeed do well to imitate the ingenious traveler in this instance, who always proportions his stay at any place to the beauties, elegancies, and curiosities which it affords. At Escher, at Stowe, at Wilton, at Eastbury, and at Fires Park, days are too short for the ravished imagination, while we admire the wondrous power of art in improving nature. And some of these art chiefly engages our admiration, and others, nature and art, contend for our applause, but in the last, though former, seems to triumph. Here, nature appears in her richest attire, and art, dressed with the modestest simplicity, attends her benign and mistress. Here, nature indeed pours forth the choicest treasures which she hath lavished on this world, and here human nature presents you with an object which can be exceeded only in the other. The same taste, the same imagination, which luxuriously riots in these elegant scenes, can be amused with objects of far inferior note. The woods, the rivers, the lawns of Devon and Dorset attract the eye of the ingenious traveler, and retard his pace, which delay he afterwards compensates by swiftly scouring over the gloomy heath of Bad Shoe, or that pleasant plain which extends itself westward from Stockbridge, where no other object than one single tree only in 16 miles presents itself to the view. Unless the clouds, in compassion to our tired spirits, kindly open their raregated mansions to our prosperity. Not so travels the money-meditating tradesman, the sagacious justice, the dignified doctor, the warm-clad grazer, with all the numerous offspring of wealth and dullness, on they jog with equal pace, through the verdant meadows or over the barren heath, their horses measuring four miles and a half per hour with the utmost exactness, the eyes of the beast, and those master-being alike directed forwards, and employed in contemplating the same objects in the same manner. With equal ratcher, the good writer surveys the proudest boast of the architect, and those fair buildings with which some unknown name hath adorned the rich clothing town, where heaps of bricks are piled up as a kind of monument to show that heaps of money had been piled there before. And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, we will lead to thy sagacity to apply all this to the bow-ocean writers, and to those authors who are their opposites. This thou wilt be abundantly able to perform without our aid, but stir thyself, therefore, on this occasion, for though we will always lend the proper assistance in difficult places, as we do not, like some others, expect thee to use thy arts of divination to discover our meaning. Yet we shall not indulge thy laziness, where nothing but thy own attention is required, for thou art highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we intended, when we began this great work, to lead thy sagacity, nothing to do, or that, without sometimes exercising this talent, thou wilt be able to travel through our pages with any pleasure or profit to thyself. And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, we will lead to thy sagacity to apply all this to the bow-ocean writers, and to those authors who are their opposites. This thou wilt be abundantly able to perform without our aid, but stir thyself, therefore, on this occasion, for though we will always lend the proper assistance in difficult places, as we do not, like some others, expect thee to use the arts of divination to discover our meaning. Yet we shall not indulge thy laziness, where nothing but thy own attention is required, for thou art highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we intended, when we began this great work, to lead thy sagacity, nothing to do, or that, without sometimes exercising this talent, thou wilt be able to travel through our pages with any pleasure or profit to thyself. Chapter 10 Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few more concerning suspicion. Our company, being arrived at London, were sat down at his lordship's house, where, while they refreshed themselves after the fatigue of their journey, servants were dispatched to provide a lodging for the two ladies, for, as their ladyship was not thin in town, Mrs. Fitzpatrick would by no means consent to accept the bed in the mansion of the peer. Some readers, well perhaps, condemned this extraordinary delicacy, as I may call it, of virtue, as too nice and scrupulous, but we must make allowances for her situation, which must be owned to have been very ticklish, and when we consider the malice of sensorious tongues, we must allow, if it was a fault, the fault was an excess on the right side, in which every woman who is in the self-same situation will do well to imitate. The most formal appearance of virtue, when it is only an appearance, may perhaps, in very obstructive considerations, seem to be rather less commendable than virtue itself without this formality, but it will, however, be always more commended, and this, I believe, will be granted by all, and it is necessary, unless in some very particular cases, for every woman to support either the one or the other. Allotting being prepared, Sophia accompanied her cousin for that evening, but resolved early in the morning to inquire after the lady into his protection. As we have formally mentioned, she had determined to throw herself when she quitted her father's house. And this, she was the more eager in doing for some observation she had made during her journey in the coach. Now, as we would by no means fix the odious character of suspicion on Sophia, we are almost afraid to open to our reader the conceits which filled her mind concerning the suspicious patron of whom she certainly entertained at presence and doubts, which is they are very apt to enter into the bosoms of the worst of people. We think proper not to mention more plainly, till we have first suggested a word or two to our reader touching suspicion in general. But this, there have always appeared to me to be two degrees. The first of these I choose to derive from the heart, as the extreme velocity of its discernment seems to denote a previous inward impulse, and the rather estus superlative degree often forms its own objects, sees what is not, and always more than really exists. This is that quick-sighted penetration whose hawk's eyes note symptom of evil can escape, which observes not only upon the actions, but upon the words and looks of men. And, as it proceeds from the heart of the observer, so it dies into the heart of the observed, and their spies evil, as it were in the first embryo, nay, sometimes before it can be said to be conceived, an admirable faculty, if it weren't fallible, that as this degree of perfection is not even claimed by more than one mortal being, so from the fallibility of such acute discernment have arisen many sad mischiefs and most grievous heartaches to innocence and virtue.  And I am the more inclined to this opinion, as I'm afraid it always proceeds from a bad heart, for the reasons I would love to mention to have for one more, namely because I never knew it the property of a good one. Now, from this degree of suspicion, I entirely and absolutely acquit Sophia. A second degree of this quality seems to arise from the head. This is indeed no other than the faculty of seeing what is before your eyes, and the drawing conclusions from what you see. The form of these is unavoidable by those who have any eyes, and the latter is perhaps no less certain and necessary consequence of our having any brains. This is altogether as bitter an enemy to guilt, as the former is to innocence. Nor can I see it in an unamiable light, even though, through human fallibility, it should be sometimes mistaken. For instance, if a husband should accidentally surprise his wife in the lap or in the embraces of some of those pretty young gentlemen who professed the art of cook-old-making, I should not highly, I think, blame him for concluding something more than what he saw from the familiarity which he really had seen, and which we are at least favorable enough to when we call them innocent freedoms. The reader will easily suggest great plenty of instances to himself. I shall add but one more, which, however un-Christian it may be thought by some, I cannot help but seeming to be strictly justifiable, and this is a suspicion that a man is capable of doing what he had done already, that it is possible for one who has been a villain once to act the same part again, and to confess the truth of this degree of suspicion, I believe Sophia was guilty. From this degree of suspicion she had, in fact, conceived the opinion that her cousin was really not better than she should be. The case, it seems, was this. Mrs. Fitzpatrick wisely considered that the virtue of a young lady is, in the world, in the same situation with a poor hair, which is certain whenever it ventures abroad to meet its enemies, for it can hardly meet any other. No sooner, therefore, was she determined to take the first opportunity of quitting the protection of her husband than she resolved to cast herself under the protection of some other man, and whom could she so properly choose to be her guardian as a person of quality, of fortune, of honor, and who, besides a gallant disposition which inclines men to knight errantry, that is, to be the champions of ladies in distress, had often declared a violent attachment to herself, and had already given her all the instances of it in his power. But, as the law hath foolishly omitted this office of vice-husband, or guardian to an elope lady, and as Malice's aptitude to nominate him by a more disagreeable appellation, it was concluded that his lordship should perform all such kind offices to the lady and seeker, and without publicly assuming the character of her protector. Nay, to prevent any other person from seeing him in this life, it was agreed that the lady should proceed directly to Bath, and that his lordship should first go to London, and then should go down to that place by the advice of his physicians. Now, all this Sophia very plainly understood, not from the lips or behavior of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but from the peer, who was infinitely less expert at retaining a secret than was the good lady, and perhaps the exact secrecy which Mrs. Fitzpatrick had observed on this head in her narrative, served not a little to heighten those suspicions which were now risen in the mind of her cousin. Sophia very easily found out the lady she sought, for indeed there was not a chairman in town to whom her house was not perfectly well known, and as she received, in return of her first message, her most pressing invitation, she immediately accepted it. Mrs. Fitzpatrick indeed did not desire her cousin to stay with her, with more earnestness than the civility required, whether she had discerned and resented the suspicion above mentioned, or from what other motive had arose, I cannot say, but certain it is she was full as desire supporting with Sophia, as Sophia herself could be of going. The young lady, when she came to take leave of her cousin, could not avoid giving her a short hint of advice. She begged her for heaven's sake to take care of herself, and to consider in how dangerous a situation she stood, adding she hoped some method would be found of reconciling her to her husband. You must remember, my dear, says she, the maxim which my Aunt Western had so often repeated to us both, that whenever the matrimonial alliances broke, and war declared between husband and wife, she can hardly make a disadvantageous piece for herself on any conditions. These are my Aunt's very words, and she had had a great deal of experience in the world. Mrs. Fitzpatrick answered with a contentious smile, Never fear me, child, take care of herself, for you are younger than I. I will come and visit you in a few days, but dear Sophie, let me give you one piece of advice. Leave the character of gray bears in the country, for believe me, it will sit very awkwardly upon you in this town. Thus the two cousins parted, and Sophie had repaired directly to Lady Belliston, where she found the most hearty, as well as the most polite, welcome. Lady had taken a great fancy to her when she had seen her formerly with her Aunt Western. She was indeed extremely glad to see her, and was no sooner acquainted with the reasons which induced her to leave the squire and to fly to London, but she highly applauded her sense and resolution, and after expressing the highest satisfaction in the opinion which Sophia had declared she entertained the relationship by choosing her house for an asylum, she promised her all the protection which it was in her power to give. As we have now brought Sophia into safe hands, the reader will, I apprehend, be content to deposit her there awhile, and to look a little after other personages, and particularly poor Jones, whom we have left long enough to depend on for his past defenses, which, as is the nature of life, brought sufficient punishment upon him themselves. End of section 40