Mr. Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing Sophia’s
letter, and being at last in a state of good spirits, he agreed to carry
an appointment, which he had before made, into execution. This was, to
attend Mrs. Miller and her youngest daughter into the gallery at the St.
James’s playhouse, and to admit Mr. Partridge as one of the company. For,
as Jones had really that taste for humour which many affect, he expected
to enjoy much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge; from whom he
expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise
unadulterated by art.
In the first row, then, of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller,
her youngest daughter, and Partridge take their places. Partridge
immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When
the first music was played he said it was a wonder how so many fiddlers
could play at one time without putting one another out.
As soon as the play, which was Shakespeare’s _Julius Cæsar_, began,
Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the scene
in Brutus’s orchard, when he asked Jones, “What season of the year is
it, Sir?” Jones answered, “Wait but a moment and you shall hear the boy
Lucius say it is the 14th of March.” To which Partridge replied with a
smile, “Ay, then I understand why the boy was asleep. Had it been in
apple-harvesting time I warrant you he would have been awake and busy as
soon as what’s-his-name, Squire Brutus, had turned his back.” And upon
the entreaties of Portia to share Brutus’s confidence he inquired if she
was not a Somersetshire wench. “For Madam,” said he, “is mighty like the
housewives in our county, who will plague their husbands to death rather
than let ’em keep a secret.” Nor was he satisfied with Cæsar’s yielding
to Calphurnia’s objections against his going to the Capitol. “Ay,
anything to please your wife, you old dotard,” said he; “you might have
known better than to give heed to a silly woman’s nightmares.”
When they came to the Forum scene and the speeches of Brutus and Antony,
Partridge sat with his eyes fixed on the orators and with his mouth open.
The same passions which succeeded each other in the crowd of citizens
succeeded likewise in him. He was at first all for Brutus and then all
for Antony, until he learnt that Cæsar had left 75 drachmas to every
Roman citizen. “How much is that in our English money?” he asked Jones,
who answered that it was about two guineas. At that he looked chapfallen,
bethinking him that, though a round sum, it was not enough to warrant
the crowd in such extravagant rejoicing.
“I begin to suspect, Sir,” said he to Jones, “this Squire Antony hath not
been above hoodwinking us, but he seemed so much more concerned about
the matter than the other speaker, Brutus, that I for one couldn’t help
believing every word he said. Yet I believed the other one, too, when he
was talking, and I was mightily pleased with what he said about liberty
and Britons never being slaves.” “You mean Romans,” answered Jones, “not
Britons.” “Well, well,” said Partridge, “I know it is only a play, but if
I thought they were merely Romans, and not Britons at heart, I should not
care a hang about ’em or what became of ’em.”
To say the truth, I believe honest Partridge, though a raw country fellow
and ignorant of those dramatic rules which learned critics from the
Temple and the other Inns of Court have introduced, along with improved
catcalls, into our playhouses, was here uttering the sentiments of
nature. Should we be concerned about the fortunes of those ancient Romans
were they utter strangers to us and did we not put ourselves in their
places, which is as much as to turn them all from Romans into Britons?
To be sure, while our imagination is thus turning them, it will not
forbear a few necessary amendments for the sake of verisimilitude. For,
to name only one particular, no free and independent Briton could imagine
himself bribed by so paltry a legacy as a couple of guineas; but he
can multiply that sum in his mind until it shall have reached the much
more considerable amount which he will consent to take for his vote at a
Westminster election; and thus honour will be satisfied. And the critics
aforesaid will then be able to point out to us the advantages of British
over Roman liberty, being attended not only with the proud privileges of
our great and glorious Constitution, but also with a higher emolument.
Mr. Jones would doubtless have made these reflections to himself had
he not, while Partridge was still speaking, been distracted by the
sudden appearance in an opposite box of Lady Bellaston and Sophia. As
he had only left her ladyship that very afternoon, after a conversation
of so private a nature that it must on no account be communicated to
the reader, he would have disregarded the imperious signals which she
forthwith began making to him with her fan; but the truth is, whatever
reluctance he may have felt to rejoin her ladyship at that moment was
overborne by his eagerness to approach the amiable Sophia, though he
turned pale and his knees trembled at the risk of that approach in
circumstances so dangerous. As soon as he had recovered his composure he
hastened to obey her ladyship’s commands, but on his entry into the box
his spirits were again confounded by the evident agitation of Sophia,
and, seizing her hand, he stammered, “Madam, I——.” “Hoity, toity! Mr.
Jones,” cried Lady Bellaston; “do you salute a chit of a girl before
you take notice of a dowager? Are these the new manners among people of
fashion? It is lucky for my heart that I can call myself a dowager, for
I vow to-night you look like a veritable Adonis, and,” she added in a
whisper too low to be heard by Sophia, “your Venus adores you more madly
than ever, you wicked wretch.”
Jones was 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 at 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 openly to claim
any close acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the
stranger on his part. Accordingly, he leaned over to Sophia, who was
staring hard at the stage, and asked her if she enjoyed the performance.
“Pray, don’t tease Miss Western with your civilities,” interrupted Lady
Bellaston, “for you must know the child hath lost her heart this night to
that ravishing fellow Ainley, though I tell her to my certain knowledge
he is a husband already, and, what is more, a father. These country
girls have nothing but sweethearts in their heads.” “Upon my honour,
madam,” cried Sophia, “your ladyship injures me.” “Not I, miss, indeed,”
replied her ladyship tartly, “and if you want a sweetheart, have you not
one of the most gallant young fellows about town ready to your hand in
Lord Fellamar? You must be an arrant mad woman to refuse him.” Sophia
was visibly too much confounded to make any observations, and again
turned towards the stage, Lady Bellaston taking the opportunity to dart
languishing glances at Jones behind her back and to squeeze his hand;
in short, to practise the behaviour customary with women of fashion who
desire to signify their sentiments for a gentleman without expressing
them in actual speech; when Jones, who saw the agitation of Sophia’s
mind, resolved to take the only method of relieving her, which was by
retiring. This he did, as Brutus was rushing upon his own sword; and
poor Jones almost wished the sword might spit him, too, in his rage and
despair at what her ladyship had maliciously insinuated about Sophia and
Mr. Ainley.