she leaned, without being able to speak one word. He kissed them off, which, for some moments, she allowed him to do without any resistance; but then recollecting herself, gently withdrew out of his arms; and, to turn the discourse from a subject too tender, and which she found she could not support, bethought herself to ask him a question she never had time to put to him before, how he came into that room? He begun to stammer, and would, in all probability, have raised her suspicions by the answer he was going to give, when, at once, the door opened, and in came Lady Bellaston.

Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she suddenly stopt; when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting herself with admirable presence of mind, she said, -though with sufficient indications of surprise both in voice and countenance," I thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?"

Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what means he had discovered her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion of the real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted, so she was very little confounded; and the less, as the lady had, in all their conversations on the subject, entirely taken her side against her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she went through the whole story of what had happened at the playhouse, and the cause of her hasty return.

The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed her, she put on an air of good-humour, and said, "I should not have broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had known you had company."

Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words. To which that poor young lady, having her face overspread with blushes and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, "I am sure, madam, I shall always think the honour of your ladyship's company"- "I hope, at least," cries Lady Bellaston, " I interrupt no business."-" No, madam," answered Sophia, "our business was at an end. Your ladyship may be pleased to remember, I have often mentioned the loss of my pocket-book, which this gentleman having very luckily found, was so kind to return it to me with the bill in it."

Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers, and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby squire, when he is first introduced into a polite assembly. He began, however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who, he saw, did not intend to claim any acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the

stranger on his part. He said, ever since he had the pocket-book in his possession, he had used great diligence in inquiring out the lady whose name was writ in it; but never till that day could be so fortunate to discover her.

Sophia had, indeed, mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to Lady Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or other, had never once hinted to her that it was in his possession, she believed not one syllable of what Sophia now said, and wonderfully admired the extreme quickness of the young lady, in inventing such an excuse. The reason of Sophia's leaving the playhouse met with no better credit; and though she could not account for the meeting between these two lovers, she was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.

With an affected smile, therefore, she said"Indeed, Miss Western, you have had very good luck in recovering your money; not only as it fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he happened to discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not consent to have it advertised.–It was great good fortune, sir, that you found out to whom the note belonged."

"O madam," cries Jones, "it was inclosed in a pocket-book in which the young lady's name was written."

"That was very fortunate indeed," cries the lady;" and it was no less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house; for she is very little known."

Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he conceived he had now an opportunity of satisfying Sophia, as to the question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he proceeded thus: " Why, madam,” answered he, "it was by the luckiest chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was mentioning what I had found, and the name of the owner, the other night, to a lady at the masquerade, who told me, she believed she knew where I might see Miss Western; and if I would come to her house the next morning, she would inform me. I went, according to her appointment, but she was not at home; nor could I ever meet with her till this morning, when she directed me to your ladyship's house. I came accordingly, and did myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and upon my saying that I had very particular business, a servant shewed me into this room; where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the play."

Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady Bellaston, without any fear of being remarked by Sophia; for she was visibly too much confounded to make any observations. This hint a little alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the agitations of Sophia's mind, resolved to take the only method of relieving her, which was by re

tiring: but before he did this, he said, “I be lieve, madam, it is customary to give some reward on these occasions ;-I must insist on a very high one for my honesty ;-it is, madam, no less than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit here."

"Sir," replied the lady, "I make no doubt that you are a gentleman, and my doors are never shut to people of fashion."

Jones then, after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia, who was terribly alarmed lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already but too well.

Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance Mrs Honour, who, notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well-bred to behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky circumstance, as he communicated to her the house where he lodged, with which Sophia was unacquainted.

CHAP. XII

In which the Thirteenth Book is concluded.

THE elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling too much truth: by which it may be fairly inferred, that, in some cases, to lie is not only excusable but commendable.

And surely there are no persons who may so properly challenge a right to this commendable deviation from truth, as young women in the affair of love; for which they may plead precept, education, and, above all, the sanction, nay, I may say the necessity, of custom, by which they are restrained, not from submitting to the honest impulses of nature (for that would be a foolish prohibition) but from owning them.

We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now pursued the dictates of the above-mentioned right honourable philosopher. As she was perfectly satisfied, then, that Lady Bellaston was ignorant of the person of Jones, so she determined to keep her in that ignorance, though at the expence of a little fibbing.

Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cried, “ Upon my word, a good pretty young fellow; I wonder who he is; for I don't remember ever to have seen his face before."

"Nor I neither, madam," cries Sophia; "I must say he behaved very handsomely in relation to my note."

"Yes; and he is a very handsome fellow," said the lady; "don't you think so?"

"I did not take much notice of him," answered Sophia; "but I thought he seemed rather awkward and ungenteel than otherwise."

"You are extremely right," cries Lady Bellaston; "you may see, by his manner, that he hath not kept good company. Nay, notwithstanding his returning your note, and refusing

the reward, I almost question whether he is a gentleman.—I have always observed, there is a something in persons well-born, which others can never acquire.—I think I will give orders not to be at home to him.”

"Nay, sure, madam," answered Sophia, "one can't suspect after what he hath done;-besides, if your ladyship observed him, there was an ele gance in his discourse, a delicacy, a prettiness of expression that, that"

66

I confess," said Lady Bellaston," the fellow hath words.-And indeed, Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must.

"I forgive your ladyship!" said Sophia. "Yes, indeed, you must," answered she laughing; "for I had a horrible suspicion when I first came into the room-) -I vow you must forgive it; but I suspected it was Mr Jones himself."

"Did your ladyship, indeed?" cries Sophia, blushing, and affecting a laugh.

"Yes, I vow I did," answered she, "I can't imagine what put it into my head: for give the fellow his due, he was genteelly dressed; which I think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the case with your friend.”

"This raillery," cries Sophia," is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston, after my promise to your ladyship."

"Not at all, child," said the lady." It would have been cruel before; but after you promised me never to marry without your father's consent, in which you know is implied your giving up Jones, sure you can bear a little raillery on a passion which was pardonable enough in a young girl in the country, and of which you tell me you have so entirely got the better. What must I think, my dear Sophy, if you cannot bear a little ridicule even on his dress ? I shall begin to fear you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether you have dealt ingenuously with me."

"Indeed, madam," cries Sophia," your ladyship mistakes me, if you imagine I had any

concern on his account."

"On his account!" answered the lady; "you must have mistaken me; I went no farther than his dress ;-for I would not injure your taste by any other comparison.I don't imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr Jones had been such a fellow as this"

"I thought," says Sophia, "your ladyship had allowed him to be handsome."

"Whom, pray?" cried the lady, hastily.

"Mr Jones," answered Sophia ;-—and immediately recollecting herself," Mr Jones !-no, no; I ask your pardon ;-I mean the gentleman who was just now here."

"O Sophy! Sophy!" cries the lady; "this Mr Jones, I am afraid, still runs in your head.” "Then, upon my honour, madam," said Sophia," Mr Jones is as entirely indifferent to me, as the gentleman who just now left us.”

"Upon my honour,' said Lady Bellaston, "I believe it. Forgive me, therefore, a little innocent raillery; but I promise you I will never mention his name any more."

And now the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the delight of Sophia than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented her rival a little longer, had not business of more importance called her away. As for Sophia, her mind was not perfectly easy under this first practice of deceit ; upon which, when she retired

to her chamber, she reflected with the highest uneasiness and conscious shame. Nor could the peculiar hardship of her situation, and the necessity of the case, at all reconcile her mind to her conduct; for the frame of her mind was too delicate to bear the thought of having been guilty of a falsehood, however qualified by circumstances. Nor did this thought once suffer her to close her eyes during the whole succeeding night.

CHAP. I.

An Essay to prove that an Author will write the better for having some knowledge of the subject on which he writes.

As several gentlemen in these times, by the wonderful force of genius only, without the least assistance of learning, perhaps without being well able to read, have made a considerable figure in the republic of letters; the modern critics, I am told, have lately begun to assert, that' all kind of learning is entirely useless to a writer; and, indeed, no other than a kind of fetters on the natural sprightliness and activity of the imagination, which is thus weighed down, and prevented from soaring to those high flights which otherwise it would be able to reach.

This doctrine, I am afraid, is, at present, carried much too far; for why should writing differ so much from all other arts? The nimble ness of a dancing-master is not at all prejudiced by being taught to move; nor doth any mechanic, I believe, exercise his tools the worse by having learnt to use them. For my own part, I cannot conceive that Homer or Virgil would have writ with more fire, if, instead of being masters of all the learning of their times, they had been as ignorant as most of the authors of the present age. Nor do I believe that all the imagination, fire, and judgment of Pitt, could have produced those orations that have made the senate of England in these our times a rival in eloquence of Greece and Rome, if he had not been so well read in the writings of Demosthenes and Cicero, as to have transferred their whole

spirit into his speeches, and with their spirit, their knowledge too.

I would not here be understood to insist on the same fund of learning in any of my brethren, as Cicero persuades us is necessary to the composition of an orator. On the contrary, very little reading is, I conceive, necessary to the poet, less to the critic, and the least of all to the politician. For the first, perhaps, Byshe's Art of Poetry, and a few of our modern poets, may suffice; for the second, a moderate heap of plays; and for the last, an indifferent collection of political journals.

To say the truth, I require no more than that a man should have some little knowledge of the subject on which he treats, according to the old maxim of law, Quam quisque artem norit in eâ se exerceat. With this alone a writer may sometimes do tolerably well; and indeed, without this, all the other learning in the world will stand him in little stead.

For instance, let us suppose that Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and Cicero, Thucydides and Livy, could have met altogether, and have clubbed their several talents to have composed a treatise on the art of dancing; I believe it will be readily agreed they could not have equalled the excellent treatise which Mr Essex hath given us on that subject, entitled, The Rudiments of genteel Education. And, indeed, should the excellent Mr Broughton be prevailed on to set fist to paper, and to complete the abovesaid rudiments, by delivering down the true principles of Athletics, I question whether the world will have any cause to lament, that none of the great writers, either ancient or modern, have ever treated about that noble and useful art.

To avoid a multiplicity of examples in so plain

a case, and to come at once to my point, I am apt to conceive, that one reason why many English writers have totally failed in describing the manners of upper life, may possibly be, that in reality they know nothing of it.

This is a knowledge unhappily not in the power of many authors to arrive at. Books will give us a very imperfect idea of it; nor will the stage a much better: the fine gentleman formed upon reading the former, will almost always turn out a pedant, and he who forms himself upon the latter, a coxcomb.

Nor are the characters drawn from these models better supported. Vanbrugh and Congreve copied nature; but they who copy them draw as unlike the present age, as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a rout or a drum in the dresses of Titian and of Vandyke. In short, imitation here will not do the business. The picture must be after nature herself. A true knowledge of the world is gained only by conversation, and the manners of every rank must be seen in order to be known.

Now it happens that this higher order of mortals is not to be seen, like all the rest of the human species, for nothing, in the streets, shops, and coffee-houses; nor are they shewn, like the upper rank of animals, for so much a-piece. In short, this is a sight to which no persons are admitted, without one or other of these qualifica tions, viz. either birth or fortune; or what is equivalent to both, the honourable profession of a gamester. And, very unluckily for the world, persons so qualified very seldom care to take upon themselves the bad trade of writing; which is generally entered upon by the lower and poorer sort, as it is a trade which many think requires no kind of stock to set up with.

Hence those strange monsters in lace and embroidery, in silks and brocades, with vast wigs and hoops, which, under the name of lords and ladies, strut the stage, to the great delight of attornies and their clerks in the pit, and of the citizens and their apprentices in the galleries; and which are no more to be found in real life, than the centaur, the chimera, or any other crea ture of mere fiction. But to let my reader into a secret, this knowledge of upper life, though

relish for pleasure, all is vanity and servile imitation. Dressing and cards, eating and drinking, bowing and curtseying, make up the business of their lives.

Some there are, however, of this rank, upon whom passion exercises its tyranny, and hurries them far beyond the bounds which decorum prescribes. Of these, the ladies are as much distinguished by their noble intrepidity, and a certain superior contempt of reputation, from the frail ones of meaner degree, as a virtuous woman of quality is, by the elegance and delicacy of her sentiments, from the honest wife of a yeoman or shopkeeper. Lady Bellaston was of this intrepid character; but let not my country readers conclude from her, that this is the general conduct of women of fashion, or that we meant to represent them as such. They might as well suppose, that every clergyman was represented by Thwackum, or every soldier by Ensign Northerton.

There is not, indeed, a greater error than that which universally prevails among the vulgar, who, borrowing their opinion from some ignorant satirist, have affixed the character of lewdness to these times. On the contrary, I am convinced there never was less of love-intrigue carried on among persons of condition than now. Our present women have been taught by their mothers to fix their thoughts only on ambition and vanity, and to despise the pleasures of love as unworthy their regard; and being afterwards, by the care of such mothers, married without having husbands, they seem pretty well confirmed in the justness of those sentiments: whence they content themselves, for the dull remainder of life, with the pursuit of more innocent, but, I am afraid, more childish amusements, the bare mention of which would ill suit with the dignity of this history. In my humble opinion, the true characteristic of the present Beau Monde is rather folly than vice, and the only epithet which it deserves is that of frivolous.

CHAP. II.

very great resource to a writer whose province is comedy, or that kind of novels which, like this I am writing, is of the comic class.

What Mr Pope says of women, is very applicable to most in this station; who are, indeed, so entirely made of form and affectation, that they have no character at all, at least, none which appears. I will venture to say, the highest life is much the dullest, and affords very little humour or entertainment. The various callings in lower spheres produce the great variety of humorous characters; whereas, here, except among the few who are engaged in the pursuit of ambition, and the fewer still who have a

tend Amours.

JONES had not been long at home before he received the following letter:

"I was never more surprised than when I found you was gone. When you left the room, I little imagined you intended to have left the house without seeing me again. Your behaviour is all of a piece; and convinces me how much I ought to despise a heart which can doat upon an idiot: though I know not whether I should not admire her cunning more than her simplicity. Wonderful, both! For though she

understood not a word of what passed between us, she yet had the skill, the assurance, the what shall I call it? to deny, to my face, that she knows you, or ever saw you before.-Was this a scheme laid between you? and, have you been base enough to betray me?-O, how I despise her, you, and all the world; but chiefly myself! for--I dare not write what I should afterwards run mad to read; but, remember, I can detest as violently as I have loved."

Jones had but little time given him to reflect on this letter, before a second was brought him from the same hand; and this, likewise, we shall set down in the precise words:

"When you consider the hurry of spirits in which I must have writ, you cannot be surprised at any expressions in my former note. Yet, perhaps, on reflection, they were rather too warm. At least, I would, if possible, think all owing to the odious playhouse, and to the impertinence of a fool, which detained me beyond my appointment. How easy is it to think well of those we love! Perhaps you desire I should think so.-I have resolved to see you to-night; so come to me immediately.

"P. S. I have ordered to be at home to none but yourself.

"P. S. Mr Jones will imagine I shall assist him in his defence; for, I believe, he cannot desire to impose on me more than I desire to impose on myself.

"P. S. Come immediately."

To the men of intrigue I refer the determination, whether the angry or the tender letter gave the greatest uneasiness to Jones. Certain it is, he had no violent inclination to pay any more visits that evening, unless to one single person. However, he thought his honour engaged; and had not this been motive sufficient, he would not have ventured to blow the temper of Lady Bellaston into that flame of which he had reason to think it susceptible, and of which he feared the consequence might be a discovery to Sophia, which he dreaded. After some discontented walks, therefore, about the room, he was preparing to depart, when the lady kindly prevent ed him, not by another letter, but by her own presence.

She entered the room very disordered in her dress, and very discomposed in her looks, and threw herself into a chair; where, having recovered her breath, she said, "You see, sir, when women have gone one length too far, they will stop at none. If any person would have sworn this to me a week ago, I would not have believed it of myself."—" I hope, madam," said Jones, "my charming Lady Bellaston will be as difficult to believe any thing against one who is so sensible of the many obligations she hath con

VOL. I.

so angry

ferred upon him."-"Indeed!" says she; "sensible of obligations! Did I expect to hear such cold language from Mr Jones?"-" Pardon me, my dear angel!" said he, "if, after the letters I have received, the terrors of your anger, though I know not how I have deserved it". "And have I then," says she, with a smile, a countenance? Have I really brought a chiding face with me?"-" If there be honour in man,' said he, "I have done nothing to merit your anger. You remember the appointment you sent me; I went in pursuance" "I beseech you," cried she," do not run through the odious recital. Answer me but one question, and I shall be easy. Have you not betrayed my honour to her?"-Jones fell upon his knees, and began to utter the most violent protestations, when Partridge came dancing and capering into the room, like one drunk with joy, crying out, "She's found, she's found! Here, sir, here; she's here! Mrs Honour is upon the stairs."- -"Stop her a moment," cries Jones: "Here, madam, step behind the bed; I have no other room, nor closet, nor place on earth, to hide you in. Sure never was so d-n'd an accident!"-“ D-n'd, indeed!" said the lady, as she went to her place of concealment; and presently afterwards in came Mrs Honour. "Heyday!" says she, "Mr Jones, what's the matter? That impudent rascal, your servant, would scarce let me come up stairs. I hope he hath not the same reason to keep me from you as he had at Upton.—I suppose you hardly expected to see me; but you have certainly bewitched my lady. Poor, dear, young lady! To be sure, I love her as tenderly as if she was my own sister. Lord have mercy upon you, if you don't make her a good husband! and to be sure, if you do not, nothing can be bad enough for you." Jones begged her only to whisper, for that there was a lady dying in the next room.-" A lady!" cries she; "ay, I suppose one of your ladies. O, Mr Jones, there are too many of them in the world. I believe we are got into the house of one; for my Lady Bellaston, I darst to say, is no better than she should be."-" Hush, hush," cries Jones, "every word is overheard in the next room."-"I don't care a farthing," cries Honour, "I speaks no scandal of any one; but, to be sure, the servants make no scruple of saying, as how her ladyship meets men at another place, where the house goes under the name of a poor gentlewoman; but her ladyship pays the rent, and many's the good thing besides, they say, she hath of her."-Here Jones, after expressing the utmost uneasiness, offered to stop her mouth.-" Hey-day! Why sure, Mr Jones, you will let me speak; I speak no scandal, for I only says what I heard from others: and, thinks I to myself, much good may it do the gentlewoman with her riches, if she comes by it in such a wicked manner. To be sure it is better to be poor and honest."-" The 2 c