Chapter iv.

A picture of a country gentlewoman taken from the life.

Mr Western having finished his holla, and taken a little breath, began

to lament, in very pathetic terms, the unfortunate condition of men,

who are, says he, “always whipt in by the humours of some d--n'd b--

or other. I think I was hard run enough by your mother for one man;

but after giving her a dodge, here's another b-- follows me upon the

foil; but curse my jacket if I will be run down in this manner by any

o'um.”

Sophia never had a single dispute with her father, till this unlucky

affair of Blifil, on any account, except in defence of her mother,

whom she had loved most tenderly, though she lost her in the eleventh

year of her age. The squire, to whom that poor woman had been a

faithful upper-servant all the time of their marriage, had returned

that behaviour by making what the world calls a good husband. He very

seldom swore at her (perhaps not above once a week) and never beat

her; she had not the least occasion for jealousy, and was perfect

mistress of her time; for she was never interrupted by her husband,

who was engaged all the morning in his field exercises, and all the

evening with bottle companions. She scarce indeed ever saw him but at

meals; where she had the pleasure of carving those dishes which she

had before attended at the dressing. From these meals she retired

about five minutes after the other servants, having only stayed to

drink “the king over the water.” Such were, it seems, Mr Western's

orders; for it was a maxim with him, that women should come in with

the first dish, and go out after the first glass. Obedience to these

orders was perhaps no difficult task; for the conversation (if it may

be called so) was seldom such as could entertain a lady. It consisted

chiefly of hallowing, singing, relations of sporting adventures,

b--d--y, and abuse of women, and of the government.

These, however, were the only seasons when Mr Western saw his wife;

for when he repaired to her bed, he was generally so drunk that he

could not see; and in the sporting season he always rose from her

before it was light. Thus was she perfect mistress of her time, and

had besides a coach and four usually at her command; though unhappily,

indeed, the badness of the neighbourhood, and of the roads, made this

of little use; for none who had set much value on their necks would

have passed through the one, or who had set any value on their hours,

would have visited the other. Now to deal honestly with the reader,

she did not make all the return expected to so much indulgence; for

she had been married against her will by a fond father, the match

having been rather advantageous on her side; for the squire's estate

was upward of £3000 a year, and her fortune no more than a bare £8000.

Hence perhaps she had contracted a little gloominess of temper, for

she was rather a good servant than a good wife; nor had she always the

gratitude to return the extraordinary degree of roaring mirth, with

which the squire received her, even with a good-humoured smile. She

would, moreover, sometimes interfere with matters which did not

concern her, as the violent drinking of her husband, which in the

gentlest terms she would take some of the few opportunities he gave

her of remonstrating against. And once in her life she very earnestly

entreated him to carry her for two months to London, which he

peremptorily denied; nay, was angry with his wife for the request ever

after, being well assured that all the husbands in London are

cuckolds.

For this last, and many other good reasons, Western at length heartily

hated his wife; and as he never concealed this hatred before her

death, so he never forgot it afterwards; but when anything in the

least soured him, as a bad scenting day, or a distemper among his

hounds, or any other such misfortune, he constantly vented his spleen

by invectives against the deceased, saying, “If my wife was alive now,

she would be glad of this.”

These invectives he was especially desirous of throwing forth before

Sophia; for as he loved her more than he did any other, so he was

really jealous that she had loved her mother better than him. And this

jealousy Sophia seldom failed of heightening on these occasions; for

he was not contented with violating her ears with the abuse of her

mother, but endeavoured to force an explicit approbation of all this

abuse; with which desire he never could prevail upon her by any

promise or threats to comply.

Hence some of my readers will, perhaps, wonder that the squire had not

hated Sophia as much as he had hated her mother; but I must inform

them, that hatred is not the effect of love, even through the medium

of jealousy. It is, indeed, very possible for jealous persons to kill

the objects of their jealousy, but not to hate them. Which sentiment

being a pretty hard morsel, and bearing something of the air of a

paradox, we shall leave the reader to chew the cud upon it to the end

of the chapter.