just know one another by sight, though you are relations,) I am confident she will withdraw her protection from my niece, who hath certainly imposed upon her. This is the only method. Justices of the peace, indeed! do you imagine any such event can arrive to a woman of figure in a civilized nation?"

"D-n their figures," cries the squire; "a pretty civilized nation, truly, where women are above the law. And what, must I stand sending a parcel of compliments to a confounded whore, that keeps away a daughter from her own natural father? I tell you, sister, I am not so ignorant as you think me. I know you would have women above the law, but it is all a lie ; I heard his lordship say at a 'Size, that no one is above the law. But this of yours is Hanover law, I suppose.

"Mr Western," said she, "I think you daily improve in ignorance. I protest you are grown an arrant bear."

"No more a bear than yourself, sister Western," said the squire. "Pox! you may talk of your civility an you will-I am sure you never shew any to me. I am no bear-no-nor no dog neither, though I know somebody that is something that begins with a b-; but pox! I will shew you I have got more good manners than some folks."

"Mr Western," answered the lady, "you may say what you please, je vous mesprise de tout mon cœur. I shall not, therefore, be angry. Besides, as my cousin with that odious Irish name justly says, I have that regard for the honour and true interest of my family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it, that I have resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; for indeed, indeed, brother, you are not a fit minister to be employed at a polite court. Greenland Greenland should always be the scene of the tramontane negociation."

"I thank Heaven," cries the squire, "I don't understand you now. You are got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I'll shew you I scorn to be behind-hand in civility with you; and as you are not angry for what I have said, so I am not angry for what you have said. Indeed I have always thought it a folly for relations to quarrel; and if they do now and then give a hasty word, why, people, should give and take. For my part, I never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to go up to London, for I never was there but twice in my life, and then I did not stay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can't be expected to know much of the streets and the folks in that time. I never denied that you know'd all these matters better than I. For me to dispute that, would be all as one, as for you to dispute the management of a pack of dogs, or the finding a hare sitting, with me."-"Which I promise you," says she," I never will.""Well, and I promise you," returned he, "that I never will dispute t'other."

Here then a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady) between the contending parties; and now the parson arriving, and the horses being ready, the squire departed, having promised his sister to follow her advice, and she prepared to follow him the next day.

But having communicated these matters to the parson on the road, they both agreed that the prescribed formalities might very well be dispensed with; and the squire having changed his mind, proceeded in the manner we have already seen.

CHAP. VII.

In which various Misfortunes befel poor Jones.

AFFAIRS were in the aforesaid situation, when Mrs Honour arrived at Mrs Miller's and called Jones out from the company, as we have before seen, with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as follows:

"O my dear sir, how shall I get spirits to tell you! you are undone, sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am undone.""Hath any thing happened to Sophia?" cries Jones, staring like a madman. "All that is bad," cries Honour ; "O, I shall never get such another lady! O that I should ever live to see this day!" At these words Jones turned pale as ashes, trembled and stammered; but Honour went on. "O, Mr Jones, I have lost my lady for ever." "How! what! for heaven's sake tell me. O my dear Sophia !"—" You may well call her so," said Honour; " she was the dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another place."-" D—n your place," cries Jones; "where is? what! what is become of my Sophia ?"-" Ay, to be sure," cries she," servants may be d-d. It signifies nothing what becomes of them, though they are turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure they are not flesh and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it signifies nothing what becomes of them."-" If you have any pity, any compassion," cries Jones, "I beg you will instantly tell me what hath happened to Sophia?"—“ To be sure I have more pity for you than you have for me," answered Honour; "I don't d-n you because you have lost the sweetest lady in the world. To be sure you are worthy to be pitied, and I am worthy to be pitied too; for to be sure if ever there was a good mistress"- "What hath happened?" cries Jones, in almost a raving fit.— "What?-What?" said Honour; "why the worst that could have happened both for you and for me. Her father is come to town, and hath carried her away from us both." Here Jones fell on his knees in thanksgiving that it was no worse. "No worse!" repeated Honour, “what could be worse for either of us? He carried her off-swearing she should marry Mr Blifil-that's for your comfort; and for poor me, I am turned

out of doors."-" Indeed, Mrs Honour," answered Jones, "you frighted me out of my wits. I imagined some most dreadful, sudden accident had happened to Sophia; something, compared to which, even the seeing her married to Blifil would be a trifle; but while there is life, there are hopes, my dear Honour. Women, in this land of liberty, cannot be married by actual brutal force."-"To be sure, sir," said she, "that's true. There may be some hopes for you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are there for poor me? And to be sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer all this upon your account. All the quarrel the squire has to me is for tking your part, as I have done, against Mr Blifil." Indeed, Mrs Honour," answered he, "I am sensible of my obligations to you, and will leave nothing in my power undone to make you amends.”—"Alas, sir," said she, "what can make a servant amends for the loss of one place, but the getting another altogether as good?"-"Do not despair, Mrs Honour," said Jones, "I hope to reinstate you again in the same. "Alack-a-day, sir," said she," how can I flatter myself with such hopes, when I know it's a thing impossible; for the squire is so set against me: and yet if you should ever have my lady-as to be sure I now hopes heartily you will; for you are a generous good-natured gentleman, and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she loves you as dearly as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it; because, as why, every body that is in the least acquainted with my lady must see it; for, poor dear lady, she can't dissemble; and if two people who loves one another a'n't happy, why, who should be so? Happiness don't always depend upon what people has; besides, my lady has enough for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would be all the pity in the world to keep two such lovers asunder; nay, I am convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last; for if it is to be, there is no preventing it. If a marriage is made in heaven, all the justices of peace upon earth can't break it off. To be sure I wishes that Parson Supple had but a little more spirit to tell the squire of his wickedness in endeavouring to force his daughter contrary to her liking; but then his whole dependance is upon the squire; and so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious good sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings behind the squire's back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face. To be sure I never saw him make so bold as just now; I was afeard the squire would have struck him. I would not have your honour be melancholy, sir, nor despair; things may go better, as long as you are sure of my lady, and that I am certain you may be; for she never will be brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed, I am terribly afeard the squire will do her a mischief in his passion; for he is a prodigious passionate gentleman, and I am afeard too the lady

will be brought to break her heart, for she is as tender-hearted as a chicken; it is pity, methinks, she had not a little of my courage. If I was in love with a young man, and my father offered to lock me up, I'd tear his eyes out, but I'd come at him. But then there's a great fortune in the case, which it is in her father's power either to give her or not; that, to be sure, may make some difference."

Whether Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue, or whether it was for want of any vacancy in the discourse, I cannot determine; but he never once attempted to answer, nor did she once stop, till Partridge came running into the room, and informed him that the great lady was upon the stairs.

Nothing could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced. Honour knew nothing of any acquaintance that subsisted between him and Lady Bellaston, and she ́was almost the last person in the world to whom he would have communicated it. In this hurry and distress, he took (as is common enough) the worst course; and, instead of exposing her to the lady, which would have been of little consequence, he chose to expose the lady to her; he therefore resolved to hide Honour, whom he had but just time to convey behind the bed, and to draw the curtains.

The hurry in which Jones had been all the day engaged on account of his poor landlady and her family-the terrors occasioned by Mrs Honour-and the confusion into which he was thrown by the sudden arrival of Lady Bellaston, had altogether driven former thoughts out of his head; so that it never once occurred to his me mory to act the part of a sick man; which indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress, nor the freshness of his countenance, would have at all supported.

He received her ladyship, therefore, rather agreeable to her desires than to her expectations, with all the good humour he could muster up in his countenance, and without any real or affected appearance of the least disorder.

Lady Bellaston no sooner entered the room than she squatted herself down on the bed: "So, my dear Jones," said she, "you find nothing can detain me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you, that I have neither seen nor heard from you all day; for I perceive your distemper would have suffered you to come abroad: nay, I suppose you have not sat in your chamber all day, dressed up like a fine lady, to see company after a lying-in. But, however, don't think I intend to scold you; for I never will give you an excuse for the cold behaviour of a husband, by putting on the ill-humour of a wife."

Nay, Lady Bellaston," said Jones, "I am sure your ladyship will not upbraid me with neglect of duty, when I only waited for orders. Who, my dear creature, hath reason to com

child," says the good lady, "ways perhaps may be found to make you amends. Come to me tomorrow morning." She then took up her fan, which lay on the ground, and, without even looking at Jones, walked very majestically out of the room; there being a kind of dignity in the impudence of women of quality, which their inferiors vainly aspire to attain in circumstances

of this nature.

Jones followed her down stairs, often offering her his hand, which she absolutely refused him, and got into her chair without taking any notice of him, as he stood bowing before her.

At his return up stairs, a long dialogue passed between him and Mrs Honour, while she was adjusting herself after the discomposure she had undergone. The subject of this was his infidelity to her young lady, on which she enlarged with great bitterness; but Jones at last found means to reconcile her, and not only so, but to obtain a promise of most inviolable secrecy, and that she would the next morning endeavour to find out Sophia, and bring him a further account of the proceedings of the squire.

Thus ended this unfortunate adventure, to the satisfaction only of Mrs Honour; for a secret (as some of my readers will perhaps acknowledge from experience) is often a very valuable possession; and that not only to those who faithfully keep it, but sometimes to such as whisper it about till it comes to the ears of every one, except the ignorant person, who pays for the supposed concealing of what is publicly known.

CHAP. VIII.

Short and sweet.

NOTWITHSTANDING all the obligations she had received from Jones, Mrs Miller could not forbear in the morning some gentle remonstrances for the hurricane which had happened the preceding night in his chamber. These were, however, so gentle and so friendly, professing, and indeed truly, to aim at nothing more than the real good of Mr Jones himself, that he, far from being offended, thankfully received the admonition of the good woman, expressed much concern for what had passed, excused it as well as he could, and promised never more to bring the same disturbances into the house.

But though Mrs Miller did not refrain from a short expostulation in private at their first meeting, yet the occasion of his being summoned down stairs that morning was of a much more agreeable kind; being indeed to perform the office of a father to Miss Nancy, and to give her in wedlock to Mr Nightingale, who was now already dressed, and full as sober as many of my readers will think am an ought to be, who receives a wife in so imprudent a manner.

And here, perhaps, it may be proper to ac

count for the escape which this young gentleman had made from his uncle, and for his ap pearance in the condition in which we have seen him the night before.

Now when the uncle had arrived at his lodg ings with his nephew, partly to indulge his own inclinations, (for he dearly loved his bottle,) and partly to disqualify his nephew from the immediate execution of his purpose, he ordered wine to be set on the table; with which he so briskly plied the young gentleman, that this latter, who, though not much used to drinking, did not detest it so as to be guilty of disobedience, or of want of complaisance, by refusing, was soon completely finished.

Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed for his nephew, a messenger arrived with a piece of news, which so entirely disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a moment lost all consideration for his nephew, and his whole mind became entirely taken up with his own concerns.

This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter had taken the opportunity of almost the first moment of his absence, and had gone off with a neighbouring young clergyman; against whom though her father could have had but one objection, namely, that he was worth nothing, yet she had never thought proper to communicate her amour even to that father; and so artfully had she managed, that it had never been once suspected by any, till now that it was consummated.

Old Mr Nightingale no sooner received this account, than, in the utmost confusion, he ordered a post-chaise to be instantly got ready, and having recommended his nephew to the care of a servant, he directly left the house, scarce knowing what he did, nor whither he went.

The uncle being thus departed, when the servant came to attend the nephew to bed, had waked him for that purpose, and had at last made him sensible that his uncle was gone, he, instead of accepting the kind offices tendered him, insisted on a chair being called: with this the servant, who had received no strict orders to the contrary, readily complied; and thus, being conducted back to the house of Mrs Miller, he had staggered up to Mr Jones's chamber, as hath been before recounted.

This bar of the uncle being now removed, (though young Nightingale knew not as yet in what manner,) and all parties being quickly ready, the mother, Mr Jones, Mr Nightingale, and his love, stepped into a hackney-coach, which conveyed him to Doctor's-Commons; where Miss Nancy was, in vulgar language, soon made an honest woman, and the poor mother became, in the purest sense of the word, one of the happiest of all human beings.

And now Mr Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman and her family brought to a happy conclusion, began to apply himself to his own concerns. But here, lest many of

my readers should censure his folly for thus troubling himself with the affairs of others, and lest some few should think he acted more disinterestedly than indeed he did, we think proper to assure our reader, that he was so far from being unconcerned in this matter, that he had indeed a very considerable interest in bringing it to that final consummation.

To explain this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could truly say with him in Terence, Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto. He was never an indifferent spectator of the misery or happiness of any one; and he felt either the one or the other in as great proportion as he himself contributed to either. He could not, therefore, be the instrument of raising a whole family from the lowest state of wretchedness to the highest pitch of joy, without conveying great felicity to himself; more perhaps than worldly men often purchase to themselves by undergo ing the most severe labour, and often by wading through the deepest iniquity.

Those readers who are of the same complection with him, will perhaps think this short chapter contains abundance of matter; while others may probably wish, short as it is, that it had been totally spared as impertinent to the main design, which I suppose they conclude is to bring Mr Jones to the gallows, or, if possible, to a more deplorable catastrophe.

CHAP. IX.

Containing Love-Letters of several sorts.

Mr Jones, at his return home, found the following letters lying on his table, which he luckily opened in the order they were sent.

LETTER I.

Surely I am under some strange infatuation; I cannot keep my resolutions a moment, however strongly made, or justly founded. Last night I resolved never to see you more; this morning I am willing to hear if you can, as you say, clear up this affair: and yet I know that to be impossible. I have said every thing to myself which you can invent.-Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come to me therefore the moment you receive this. If you can forge an excuse, I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed to-I will think no more. -Come to me directly. This is the third let ter I have writ, the two former are burnt; I am almost inclined to burn this too.-I wish I may preserve my senses.-Come to me presently."

LETTER II.

"If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my doors, come to me this instant."

LETTER III.

"I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings.-The moment you receive this, let me see you;-I shall not stir out, nor shall any body be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain you long."

Jones had just read over these three billets, when Mr Nightingale came into the room. " Well, Tom," said he, “ any news from Lady Bellaston, after last night's adventure ?" (for it was now no secret to any one in that house who the lady was.)-" The Lady Bellaston!" answered Jones, very gravely. Nay, dear Tom," cries Nightingale," don't be so reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant who the queen of the fairies is?"-" And did you really then know the lady at the masquerade?" said Jones." Yes, upon my soul, did I," said Nightingale," and have given you twenty hints of it since, though you seemed always so tender on that point, that I would not speak plainly. I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter, you are not so well acquainted with the character of the lady, as with her person. Don't be angry, Tom; but upon my honour you are not the first young fellow she hath debauched. Her reputation is in no danger, believe me."

Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the vestal kind when this amour began, yet as he was thoroughly ignorant of the town, and had very little acquaintance in it, he had yet no knowledge of that character which is vulgarly called a demirep; that is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man she likes, under the name and appearance of virtue; and who, though some over-nice ladies will not be seen with her, is visited (as they term it) by the whole town; in short, whom every body knows to be what nobody calls her.

When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted with his intrigue, and began to suspect, that so scrupulous a delicacy as he had hitherto observed was not quite necessary on the occasion, he gave a latitude to his friend's tongue, and desired him to speak plainly what he knew, or had ever heard of the lady.

Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate in his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to tittle-tattle. He had no sooner, therefore, received a full liberty of speaking from Jones, than he entered upon a long narrative concerning the lady; which, as it contained many particulars highly to her dishonour, we have too great a tenderness for all women of condition to repeat. We would cautiously avoid giving an opportunity to the future commentators on our works, of making any malicious application, and of forcing us to be, against our will, the author of scandal, which never entered into our head.