A FOUNDLING. 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 execrable of all, which bears an exact analogy to the vice here exclaimed 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 effected, there are other circumstances that highly aggravate its atrocious quality: for it of ten 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 hath nobly touched this vice, when he says, Who steals my purse steals trash, 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and hath been slave to thou But he who filches from me my good name, With all this my good reader will doubtless 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 the 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 Macduff, "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 Lastly, the slander of a book is, in truth, the slander of the author: for as no one can call ano. ther bastard, without calling the mother a whore, so neither can any one give the names of sad stuff, horrid nonsense, &c. 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 ill-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 shew 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 Longinus among the Ancients, Dacier and Bossu among the French, and some perhaps among us, who have certainly been duly authorized to execute at least a judicial authority in foro 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 hath not himself read. Such censurers 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, d-n'd stuff, &c. and particularly by the use of the monosyllable Low; 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 savour 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. Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis But where the beauties, more in number, shine, MR FRANCIS. For as Martial says, Aliter not fit, avite, liber. No book can be otherwise composed. All beauty of character, as well as of countenance, and indeed of every thing 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 audienee, is sure to be hissed; and one scene which should be disapproved, would hazard the whole piece. 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. CHAP. II. 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, with like civility, and with the highest satisfaction to herself, returned. The travellers 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 any one 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 by-roads 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 history to mention. Her bonnet had been blown from her head not less than five times within The Adventures which Sophia met with after her the last mile; nor could she come at any ribbon 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; we shall now, therefore, pursue the steps of that lovely creature, and leave her unworthy lover a little longer to bemoan his ill luck, or rather his ill conduct. Sophia having directed her guide to travel through by-roads across the country, they now passed the 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, oined to her fatigue, had almost overpowered or 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 false 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 circumstance 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 over-grown with trees, so that the moon could here afford 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. Day-light at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the two ladies, who were riding over a common, side by side, looking stedfastly at each other, at the same moment both their eyes became fixed; both their horses stopt, 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 sallied 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 formerly 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, whither 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," says 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 be gan to pay their compliments to each other. As for the guides, they were debarred from the pleasure of discourse, 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 alighted; but so fatigued was Sophia, that, as she had sat her horse during the last five or six miles with great difficulty, so was she now incapable of dismounting from him without as sistance. This the landlord, who had hold of her horse, presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his arms from her saddle, and she too readily accepted the tender of his service. In deed Fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the blush that day, and the second malicious 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 tumbled; but at the same VOL. I. time, with no less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to throw himself under his charming bur den, 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 immoderate grin, which, at her rising from the ground, she observed in the countenances of most of the by-standers. 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. Accidents 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 seat ed than she called for a glass of water; but Mrs Honour, very judiciously in my opinion, changed it into a glass of wine. Mrs Fitzpatrick hearing from Mrs Honour, that Sophia had not been in bed during the two last nights, and observing her to look very pale and wan with fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh herself with some sleep. She was yet a stranger to her history, or her 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 ac count. Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of her friend, which was heartily seconded by her maid. Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise offered to bear her cousin company, which Sophia, with much complaisance, accepted. The mistress was no sooner in bed than the maid prepared to follow her example. She be gan to make many apologies to her sister Abigail for leaving her alone in so horrid a place as an inn; but the other stopped her short, being as well inclined to a nap as herself, and desired the honour of being her bed-fellow. Sophia's maid agreed to give her a share of her bed, hut put in her claim to all the honour. So after many curtsies and compliments, to 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 enquire particularly of all coachmen, footmen, postboys, 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 parti Y it. cular circumstances which attended our travellers, and especially their retiring all to 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 This landlord had the character, among all his neighbours, of being a very sagacious fellow. He was thought to see farther and deeper into things than any man in the parish, the parson himself not excepted. 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 behaviour, likewise, greatly assisted in promoting the opinion of his wisdom. In his deportment he was solemn, if not sullen; 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 hum's and ha's, ay, ays, 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 fore-finger, 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 on mankind have totally relied for the success of their frauds. rebel ladies, who, they say, travel with the young Chevalier, and have taken a round-about way to escape the Duke's army." "Husband," quoth the wife," you have certainly hit it; for one of them is dress'd 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." "Pooh!" answered the husband," that is nothing. Dost 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 inferiors? 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. If she be not a woman of very great quality, sell me for a fool; 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 looked so piteous, 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? If an she be a rebel, I suppose you intend to betray her up to the court. Well, she's a sweettempered, good-humoured lady, be she what she will; and I shall hardly refrain from crying, when I hear she is hanged or beheaded.” This politic person now taking his wife aside, asked her, what she thought of the ladies late ly arrived?" Think of them?" said the wife, why, what should I think of them ?"-" I know," answered he, "what I think. The "Pooh!" answered the husband. "But as to guides tell strange stories. One pretends to be what's to be done, it is not so easy a matter to come from Gloucester, and the other from Up- determine. I hope, before she goes away, we ton; and neither of them, for what I can find, shall have the news of a battle; for if the Che can tell whither they are going. But what peo- valier should get the better, she may gain us inple ever travel across the country from Upton terest at court, and make our fortunes without hither, especially to London? And one of the betraying her."-" Why, that's true," replied maid-servants, before she alighted from her the wife; " and I heartily hope she will have horse, asked, if this was not the London road? it in her power. Certainly she's a sweet good Now I have put all these circumstances together, lady; it would go horribly against me to have and whom do you think I have found them out her come to any harm."-" Pooh !" cries the to be?"-" Nay," answered she, "you know I landlord, "women are always so tender-heartnever pretend to guess at your discoveries." ed. Why, you would not harbour rebels, would "It is a good girl," replied he, chucking her you?""No certainly," answered the wife; under the chin; "I must own you have always" and as for betraying her, come what will on't, submitted to my knowledge of these matters. nobody can blame us; it is what any body Why, then, depend upon it; mind what I say would do in our case." -depend upon it they are certainly some of the While our politic landlord, who had not, we sée, undeservedly the reputation of great wis dom 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; and soon after arrived a famous Jacobite squire, who, with great joy in his countenance, shook the landlord by the hand, saying, "All's our own, boy; ten thousand honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk. Old England for ever! 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 he had now (he said) discovered she was no other than Madam Jenny Cameron herself. CHAP. III. her husband at Upton had put an end to her de sign of going to Bath, or to her aunt Western. 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 travelling 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 entreat A very short Chapter, in which however is a Sun, ed her cousin to stay till the next morning, and 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 her self too, that she was perfectly easy when she left Upton, yet it is certain her mind was a little affected with that malady which is attended with all the restless symptoms of a fever, and is perhaps the very distemper which physicians mean (if they mean any thing) 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 Honour, of her own accord, attended, (for her mistress would not suffer her to be waked,) and had equipped our heroine, 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 not expose herself to the dangers of travelling by night. Sophia, who was 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 to 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 of ten 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 Pretender's cause, from the great sweetness and affability with which she had been treated by his 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 is desirous to know her history, may read in the ensuing chapter. |