Amidst these thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless
night, and in the morning the result of the whole
was to abide by Molly, and to think no more of Sophia.
In this virtuous resolution he continued all the next
day till the evening, cherishing the idea of Molly,
and driving Sophia from his thoughts; but in the fatal
evening, a very trifling accident set all his passions
again on float, and worked so total a change in his
mind, that we think it decent to communicate it in
a fresh chapter.
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
