Chapter iv.

A little chapter, in which is contained a little incident.

Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the young

gentleman in his confinement, Mrs Honour was one. The reader, perhaps,

when he reflects on some expressions which have formerly dropt from

her, may conceive that she herself had a very particular affection for

Mr Jones; but, in reality, it was no such thing. Tom was a handsome

young fellow; and for that species of men Mrs Honour had some regard;

but this was perfectly indiscriminate; for having being crossed in the

love which she bore a certain nobleman's footman, who had basely

deserted her after a promise of marriage, she had so securely kept

together the broken remains of her heart, that no man had ever since

been able to possess himself of any single fragment. She viewed all

handsome men with that equal regard and benevolence which a sober and

virtuous mind bears to all the good. She might indeed be called a

lover of men, as Socrates was a lover of mankind, preferring one to

another for corporeal, as he for mental qualifications; but never

carrying this preference so far as to cause any perturbation in the

philosophical serenity of her temper.

The day after Mr Jones had that conflict with himself which we have

seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs Honour came into his room, and

finding him alone, began in the following manner:--“La, sir, where do

you think I have been? I warrants you, you would not guess in fifty

years; but if you did guess, to be sure I must not tell you

neither.”--“Nay, if it be something which you must not tell me,” said

Jones, “I shall have the curiosity to enquire, and I know you will not

be so barbarous to refuse me.”--“I don't know,” cries she, “why I

should refuse you neither, for that matter; for to be sure you won't

mention it any more. And for that matter, if you knew where I have

been, unless you knew what I have been about, it would not signify

much. Nay, I don't see why it should be kept a secret for my part; for

to be sure she is the best lady in the world.” Upon this, Jones began

to beg earnestly to be let into this secret, and faithfully promised

not to divulge it. She then proceeded thus:--“Why, you must know, sir,

my young lady sent me to enquire after Molly Seagrim, and to see

whether the wench wanted anything; to be sure, I did not care to go,

methinks; but servants must do what they are ordered.--How could you

undervalue yourself so, Mr Jones?--So my lady bid me go and carry her

some linen, and other things. She is too good. If such forward sluts

were sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I told my lady,

says I, madam, your la'ship is encouraging idleness.”--“And was my

Sophia so good?” says Jones. “My Sophia! I assure you, marry come up,”

answered Honour. “And yet if you knew all--indeed, if I was as Mr

Jones, I should look a little higher than such trumpery as Molly

Seagrim.” “What do you mean by these words,” replied Jones, “if I knew

all?” “I mean what I mean,” says Honour. “Don't you remember putting

your hands in my lady's muff once? I vow I could almost find in my

heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would never come to the

hearing on't.” Jones then made several solemn protestations. And

Honour proceeded--“Then to be sure, my lady gave me that muff; and

afterwards, upon hearing what you had done”--“Then you told her what I

had done?” interrupted Jones. “If I did, sir,” answered she, “you need

not be angry with me. Many's the man would have given his head to have

had my lady told, if they had known,--for, to be sure, the biggest

lord in the land might be proud--but, I protest, I have a great mind

not to tell you.” Jones fell to entreaties, and soon prevailed on her

to go on thus. “You must know then, sir, that my lady had given this

muff to me; but about a day or two after I had told her the story, she

quarrels with her new muff, and to be sure it is the prettiest that

ever was seen. Honour, says she, this is an odious muff; it is too big

for me, I can't wear it: till I can get another, you must let me have

my old one again, and you may have this in the room on't--for she's a

good lady, and scorns to give a thing and take a thing, I promise you

that. So to be sure I fetched it her back again, and, I believe, she

hath worn it upon her arm almost ever since, and I warrants hath given

it many a kiss when nobody hath seen her.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr Western himself, who came

to summon Jones to the harpsichord; whither the poor young fellow went

all pale and trembling. This Western observed, but, on seeing Mrs

Honour, imputed it to a wrong cause; and having given Jones a hearty

curse between jest and earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and not poach

up the game in his warren.

Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty, and we may

believe it was no small addition to her charms, in the eye of Mr

Jones, that she now happened to have on her right arm this very muff.

She was playing one of her father's favourite tunes, and he was

leaning on her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers, and put her

out. This so disconcerted the squire, that he snatched the muff from

her, and with a hearty curse threw it into the fire. Sophia instantly

started up, and with the utmost eagerness recovered it from the

flames.

Though this incident will probably appear of little consequence to

many of our readers; yet, trifling as it was, it had so violent an

effect on poor Jones, that we thought it our duty to relate it. In

reality, there are many little circumstances too often omitted by

injudicious historians, from which events of the utmost importance

arise. The world may indeed be considered as a vast machine, in which

the great wheels are originally set in motion by those which are very

minute, and almost imperceptible to any but the strongest eyes.

Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia; not all the

dazzling brightness, and languishing softness of her eyes; the harmony

of her voice, and of her person; not all her wit, good-humour,

greatness of mind, or sweetness of disposition, had been able so

absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of poor Jones, as this

little incident of the muff. Thus the poet sweetly sings of Troy--

_--Captique dolis lachrymisque coacti

Quos neque Tydides, nec Larissaeus Achilles,

Non anni domuere decem, non mille Carinae._

What Diomede or Thetis' greater son,

A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege had done

False tears and fawning words the city won.

The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprize. All those

considerations of honour and prudence which our heroe had lately with

so much military wisdom placed as guards over the avenues of his

heart, ran away from their posts, and the god of love marched in, in

triumph.