BOOK VIII.

CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS.

Chapter i.

A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being much the

longest of all our introductory chapters.

As we are now entering upon a book in which the course of our history

will oblige us to relate some matters of a more strange and surprizing

kind than any which have hitherto occurred, it may not be amiss, in

the prolegomenous or introductory chapter, to say something of that

species of writing which is called the marvellous. To this we shall,

as well for the sake of ourselves as of others, endeavour to set some

certain bounds, and indeed nothing can be more necessary, as

critics[*] of different complexions are here apt to run into very

different extremes; for while some are, with M. Dacier, ready to

allow, that the same thing which is impossible may be yet

probable,[**] others have so little historic or poetic faith, that they

believe nothing to be either possible or probable, the like to which

hath not occurred to their own observation.

[*] By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean

every reader in the world.

[**] It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.

First, then, I think it may very reasonably be required of every

writer, that he keeps within the bounds of possibility; and still

remembers that what it is not possible for man to perform, it is

scarce possible for man to believe he did perform. This conviction

perhaps gave birth to many stories of the antient heathen deities (for

most of them are of poetical original). The poet, being desirous to

indulge a wanton and extravagant imagination, took refuge in that

power, of the extent of which his readers were no judges, or rather

which they imagined to be infinite, and consequently they could not be

shocked at any prodigies related of it. This hath been strongly urged

in defence of Homer's miracles; and it is perhaps a defence; not, as

Mr Pope would have it, because Ulysses told a set of foolish lies to

the Phaeacians, who were a very dull nation; but because the poet

himself wrote to heathens, to whom poetical fables were articles of

faith. For my own part, I must confess, so compassionate is my temper,

I wish Polypheme had confined himself to his milk diet, and preserved

his eye; nor could Ulysses be much more concerned than myself, when

his companions were turned into swine by Circe, who showed, I think,

afterwards, too much regard for man's flesh to be supposed capable of

converting it into bacon. I wish, likewise, with all my heart, that

Homer could have known the rule prescribed by Horace, to introduce

supernatural agents as seldom as possible. We should not then have

seen his gods coming on trivial errands, and often behaving themselves

so as not only to forfeit all title to respect, but to become the

objects of scorn and derision. A conduct which must have shocked the

credulity of a pious and sagacious heathen; and which could never have

been defended, unless by agreeing with a supposition to which I have

been sometimes almost inclined, that this most glorious poet, as he

certainly was, had an intent to burlesque the superstitious faith of

his own age and country.

But I have rested too long on a doctrine which can be of no use to a

Christian writer; for as he cannot introduce into his works any of

that heavenly host which make a part of his creed, so it is horrid

puerility to search the heathen theology for any of those deities who

have been long since dethroned from their immortality. Lord

Shaftesbury observes, that nothing is more cold than the invocation of

a muse by a modern; he might have added, that nothing can be more

absurd. A modern may with much more elegance invoke a ballad, as some

have thought Homer did, or a mug of ale, with the author of Hudibras;

which latter may perhaps have inspired much more poetry, as well as

prose, than all the liquors of Hippocrene or Helicon.

The only supernatural agents which can in any manner be allowed to us

moderns, are ghosts; but of these I would advise an author to be

extremely sparing. These are indeed, like arsenic, and other dangerous

drugs in physic, to be used with the utmost caution; nor would I

advise the introduction of them at all in those works, or by those

authors, to which, or to whom, a horse-laugh in the reader would be

any great prejudice or mortification.

As for elves and fairies, and other such mummery, I purposely omit the

mention of them, as I should be very unwilling to confine within any

bounds those surprizing imaginations, for whose vast capacity the

limits of human nature are too narrow; whose works are to be

considered as a new creation; and who have consequently just right to

do what they will with their own.

Man therefore is the highest subject (unless on very extraordinary

occasions indeed) which presents itself to the pen of our historian,

or of our poet; and, in relating his actions, great care is to be

taken that we do not exceed the capacity of the agent we describe.

Nor is possibility alone sufficient to justify us; we must keep

likewise within the rules of probability. It is, I think, the opinion

of Aristotle; or if not, it is the opinion of some wise man, whose

authority will be as weighty when it is as old, “That it is no excuse

for a poet who relates what is incredible, that the thing related is

really matter of fact.” This may perhaps be allowed true with regard

to poetry, but it may be thought impracticable to extend it to the

historian; for he is obliged to record matters as he finds them,

though they may be of so extraordinary a nature as will require no

small degree of historical faith to swallow them. Such was the

successless armament of Xerxes described by Herodotus, or the

successful expedition of Alexander related by Arrian. Such of later

years was the victory of Agincourt obtained by Harry the Fifth, or

that of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. All which

instances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the more

astonishing.

Such facts, however, as they occur in the thread of the story, nay,

indeed, as they constitute the essential parts of it, the historian is

not only justifiable in recording as they really happened, but indeed

would be unpardonable should he omit or alter them. But there are

other facts not of such consequence nor so necessary, which, though

ever so well attested, may nevertheless be sacrificed to oblivion in

complacence to the scepticism of a reader. Such is that memorable

story of the ghost of George Villiers, which might with more propriety

have been made a present of to Dr Drelincourt, to have kept the ghost

of Mrs Veale company, at the head of his Discourse upon Death, than

have been introduced into so solemn a work as the History of the

Rebellion.

To say the truth, if the historian will confine himself to what really

happened, and utterly reject any circumstance, which, though never so

well attested, he must be well assured is false, he will sometimes

fall into the marvellous, but never into the incredible. He will often

raise the wonder and surprize of his reader, but never that

incredulous hatred mentioned by Horace. It is by falling into fiction,

therefore, that we generally offend against this rule, of deserting

probability, which the historian seldom, if ever, quits, till he

forsakes his character and commences a writer of romance. In this,

however, those historians who relate public transactions, have the

advantage of us who confine ourselves to scenes of private life. The

credit of the former is by common notoriety supported for a long time;

and public records, with the concurrent testimony of many authors,

bear evidence to their truth in future ages. Thus a Trajan and an

Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have all met with the belief of

posterity; and no one doubts but that men so very good, and so very

bad, were once the masters of mankind.

But we who deal in private character, who search into the most retired

recesses, and draw forth examples of virtue and vice from holes and

corners of the world, are in a more dangerous situation. As we have no

public notoriety, no concurrent testimony, no records to support and

corroborate what we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the limits

not only of possibility, but of probability too; and this more

especially in painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and

folly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet with assent;

for ill-nature adds great support and strength to faith.

Thus we may, perhaps, with little danger, relate the history of

Fisher; who having long owed his bread to the generosity of Mr Derby,

and having one morning received a considerable bounty from his hands,

yet, in order to possess himself of what remained in his friend's

scrutore, concealed himself in a public office of the Temple, through

which there was a passage into Mr Derby's chambers. Here he overheard

Mr Derby for many hours solacing himself at an entertainment which he

that evening gave his friends, and to which Fisher had been invited.

During all this time, no tender, no grateful reflections arose to

restrain his purpose; but when the poor gentleman had let his company

out through the office, Fisher came suddenly from his lurking-place,

and walking softly behind his friend into his chamber, discharged a

pistol-ball into his head. This may be believed when the bones of

Fisher are as rotten as his heart. Nay, perhaps, it will be credited,

that the villain went two days afterwards with some young ladies to

the play of Hamlet; and with an unaltered countenance heard one of the

ladies, who little suspected how near she was to the person, cry out,

“Good God! if the man that murdered Mr Derby was now present!”

manifesting in this a more seared and callous conscience than even

Nero himself; of whom we are told by Suetonius, “that the

consciousness of his guilt, after the death of his mother, became

immediately intolerable, and so continued; nor could all the

congratulations of the soldiers, of the senate, and the people, allay

the horrors of his conscience.”

But now, on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I had known

a man whose penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a large

fortune in a way where no beginning was chaulked out to him; that he

had done this with the most perfect preservation of his integrity, and

not only without the least injustice or injury to any one individual

person, but with the highest advantage to trade, and a vast increase

of the public revenue; that he had expended one part of the income of

this fortune in discovering a taste superior to most, by works where

the highest dignity was united with the purest simplicity, and another

part in displaying a degree of goodness superior to all men, by acts

of charity to objects whose only recommendations were their merits, or

their wants; that he was most industrious in searching after merit in

distress, most eager to relieve it, and then as careful (perhaps too

careful) to conceal what he had done; that his house, his furniture,

his gardens, his table, his private hospitality, and his public

beneficence, all denoted the mind from which they flowed, and were all

intrinsically rich and noble, without tinsel, or external ostentation;

that he filled every relation in life with the most adequate virtue;

that he was most piously religious to his Creator, most zealously

loyal to his sovereign; a most tender husband to his wife, a kind

relation, a munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a knowing and a

chearful companion, indulgent to his servants, hospitable to his

neighbours, charitable to the poor, and benevolent to all mankind.

Should I add to these the epithets of wise, brave, elegant, and indeed

every other amiable epithet in our language, I might surely say,

_--Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo;

Vel duo, vel nemo;_

and yet I know a man who is all I have here described. But a single

instance (and I really know not such another) is not sufficient to

justify us, while we are writing to thousands who never heard of the

person, nor of anything like him. Such _rarae aves_ should be remitted

to the epitaph writer, or to some poet who may condescend to hitch him

in a distich, or to slide him into a rhime with an air of carelessness

and neglect, without giving any offence to the reader.

In the last place, the actions should be such as may not only be

within the compass of human agency, and which human agents may

probably be supposed to do; but they should be likely for the very

actors and characters themselves to have performed; for what may be

only wonderful and surprizing in one man, may become improbable, or

indeed impossible, when related of another.

This last requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversation of

character; and it requires a very extraordinary degree of judgment,

and a most exact knowledge of human nature.

It is admirably remarked by a most excellent writer, that zeal can no

more hurry a man to act in direct opposition to itself, than a rapid

stream can carry a boat against its own current. I will venture to

say, that for a man to act in direct contradiction to the dictates of

his nature, is, if not impossible, as improbable and as miraculous as

anything which can well be conceived. Should the best parts of the

story of M. Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should the worst

incidents of Nero's life be imputed to Antoninus, what would be more

shocking to belief than either instance? whereas both these being

related of their proper agent, constitute the truly marvellous.

Our modern authors of comedy have fallen almost universally into the

error here hinted at; their heroes generally are notorious rogues, and

their heroines abandoned jades, during the first four acts; but in the

fifth, the former become very worthy gentlemen, and the latter women

of virtue and discretion: nor is the writer often so kind as to give

himself the least trouble to reconcile or account for this monstrous

change and incongruity. There is, indeed, no other reason to be

assigned for it, than because the play is drawing to a conclusion; as

if it was no less natural in a rogue to repent in the last act of a

play, than in the last of his life; which we perceive to be generally

the case at Tyburn, a place which might indeed close the scene of some

comedies with much propriety, as the heroes in these are most commonly

eminent for those very talents which not only bring men to the

gallows, but enable them to make an heroic figure when they are there.

Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be permitted

to deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keeps

within the rules of credibility, the more he can surprize the reader

the more he will engage his attention, and the more he will charm him.

As a genius of the highest rank observes in his fifth chapter of the

Bathos, “The great art of all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, in

order to join the credible with the surprizing.”

For though every good author will confine himself within the bounds of

probability, it is by no means necessary that his characters, or his

incidents, should be trite, common, or vulgar; such as happen in every

street, or in every house, or which may be met with in the home

articles of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from showing many

persons and things, which may possibly have never fallen within the

knowledge of great part of his readers. If the writer strictly

observes the rules above-mentioned, he hath discharged his part; and

is then intitled to some faith from his reader, who is indeed guilty

of critical infidelity if he disbelieves him.

For want of a portion of such faith, I remember the character of a

young lady of quality, which was condemned on the stage for being

unnatural, by the unanimous voice of a very large assembly of clerks

and apprentices; though it had the previous suffrages of many ladies

of the first rank; one of whom, very eminent for her understanding,

declared it was the picture of half the young people of her

acquaintance.

Chapter ii.

In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones.

When Jones had taken leave of his friend the lieutenant, he

endeavoured to close his eyes, but all in vain; his spirits were too

lively and wakeful to be lulled to sleep. So having amused, or rather

tormented, himself with the thoughts of his Sophia till it was open

daylight, he called for some tea; upon which occasion my landlady

herself vouchsafed to pay him a visit.

This was indeed the first time she had seen him, or at least had taken

any notice of him; but as the lieutenant had assured her that he was

certainly some young gentleman of fashion, she now determined to show

him all the respect in her power; for, to speak truly, this was one of

those houses where gentlemen, to use the language of advertisements,

meet with civil treatment for their money.

She had no sooner begun to make his tea, than she likewise began to

discourse:--“La! sir,” said she, “I think it is great pity that such a

pretty young gentleman should under-value himself so, as to go about

with these soldier fellows. They call themselves gentlemen, I warrant

you; but, as my first husband used to say, they should remember it is

we that pay them. And to be sure it is very hard upon us to be obliged

to pay them, and to keep 'um too, as we publicans are. I had twenty of

'um last night, besides officers: nay, for matter o' that, I had

rather have the soldiers than officers: for nothing is ever good

enough for those sparks; and I am sure, if you was to see the bills;

la! sir, it is nothing. I have had less trouble, I warrant you, with a

good squire's family, where we take forty or fifty shillings of a

night, besides horses. And yet I warrants me, there is narrow a one of

those officer fellows but looks upon himself to be as good as arrow a

squire of £500 a year. To be sure it doth me good to hear their men

run about after 'um, crying your honour, and your honour. Marry come

up with such honour, and an ordinary at a shilling a head. Then

there's such swearing among 'um, to be sure it frightens me out o' my

wits: I thinks nothing can ever prosper with such wicked people. And

here one of 'um has used you in so barbarous a manner. I thought

indeed how well the rest would secure him; they all hang together; for

if you had been in danger of death, which I am glad to see you are

not, it would have been all as one to such wicked people. They would

have let the murderer go. Laud have mercy upon 'um; I would not have

such a sin to answer for, for the whole world. But though you are

likely, with the blessing, to recover, there is laa for him yet; and

if you will employ lawyer Small, I darest be sworn he'll make the

fellow fly the country for him; though perhaps he'll have fled the

country before; for it is here to-day and gone to-morrow with such

chaps. I hope, however, you will learn more wit for the future, and

return back to your friends; I warrant they are all miserable for your

loss; and if they was but to know what had happened--La, my seeming! I

would not for the world they should. Come, come, we know very well

what all the matter is; but if one won't, another will; so pretty a

gentleman need never want a lady. I am sure, if I was you, I would see

the finest she that ever wore a head hanged, before I would go for a

soldier for her.--Nay, don't blush so” (for indeed he did to a violent

degree). “Why, you thought, sir, I knew nothing of the matter, I

warrant you, about Madam Sophia.”--“How,” says Jones, starting up, “do

you know my Sophia?”--“Do I! ay marry,” cries the landlady; “many's

the time hath she lain in this house.”--“With her aunt, I suppose,”

says Jones. “Why, there it is now,” cries the landlady. “Ay, ay, ay, I

know the old lady very well. And a sweet young creature is Madam

Sophia, that's the truth on't.”--“A sweet creature,” cries Jones; “O

heavens!”

Angels are painted fair to look like her.

There's in her all that we believe of heav'n,

Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,

Eternal joy and everlasting love.

“And could I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia!”--“I

wish,” says the landlady, “you knew half so much of her. What would

you have given to have sat by her bed-side? What a delicious neck she

hath! Her lovely limbs have stretched themselves in that very bed you

now lie in.”--“Here!” cries Jones: “hath Sophia ever laid here?”--“Ay,

ay, here; there, in that very bed,” says the landlady; “where I wish

you had her this moment; and she may wish so too for anything I know

to the contrary, for she hath mentioned your name to me.”--“Ha!” cries

he; “did she ever mention her poor Jones? You flatter me now: I can

never believe so much.”--“Why, then,” answered she, “as I hope to be

saved, and may the devil fetch me if I speak a syllable more than the

truth, I have heard her mention Mr Jones; but in a civil and modest

way, I confess; yet I could perceive she thought a great deal more

than she said.”--“O my dear woman!” cries Jones, “her thoughts of me I

shall never be worthy of. Oh, she is all gentleness, kindness,

goodness! Why was such a rascal as I born, ever to give her soft bosom

a moment's uneasiness? Why am I cursed? I, who would undergo all the

plagues and miseries which any daemon ever invented for mankind, to

procure her any good; nay, torture itself could not be misery to me,

did I but know that she was happy.”--“Why, look you there now,” says

the landlady; “I told her you was a constant lovier.”--“But pray,

madam, tell me when or where you knew anything of me; for I never was

here before, nor do I remember ever to have seen you.”--“Nor is it

possible you should,” answered she; “for you was a little thing when I

had you in my lap at the squire's.”--“How, the squire's?” says Jones:

“what, do you know that great and good Mr Allworthy then?”--“Yes,

marry, do I,” says she: “who in the country doth not?”--“The fame of

his goodness indeed,” answered Jones, “must have extended farther than

this; but heaven only can know him--can know that benevolence which it

copied from itself, and sent upon earth as its own pattern. Mankind

are as ignorant of such divine goodness, as they are unworthy of it;

but none so unworthy of it as myself. I, who was raised by him to such

a height; taken in, as you must well know, a poor base-born child,

adopted by him, and treated as his own son, to dare by my follies to

disoblige him, to draw his vengeance upon me. Yes, I deserve it all;

for I will never be so ungrateful as ever to think he hath done an act

of injustice by me. No, I deserve to be turned out of doors, as I am.

And now, madam,” says he, “I believe you will not blame me for turning

soldier, especially with such a fortune as this in my pocket.” At

which words he shook a purse, which had but very little in it, and

which still appeared to the landlady to have less.

My good landlady was (according to vulgar phrase) struck all of a heap

by this relation. She answered coldly, “That to be sure people were

the best judges what was most proper for their circumstances. But

hark,” says she, “I think I hear somebody call. Coming! coming! the

devil's in all our volk; nobody hath any ears. I must go down-stairs;

if you want any more breakfast the maid will come up. Coming!” At

which words, without taking any leave, she flung out of the room; for

the lower sort of people are very tenacious of respect; and though

they are contented to give this gratis to persons of quality, yet they

never confer it on those of their own order without taking care to be

well paid for their pains.

Chapter iii.

In which the surgeon makes his second appearance.

Before we proceed any farther, that the reader may not be mistaken in

imagining the landlady knew more than she did, nor surprized that she

knew so much, it may be necessary to inform him that the lieutenant

had acquainted her that the name of Sophia had been the occasion of

the quarrel; and as for the rest of her knowledge, the sagacious

reader will observe how she came by it in the preceding scene. Great

curiosity was indeed mixed with her virtues; and she never willingly

suffered any one to depart from her house, without enquiring as much

as possible into their names, families, and fortunes.

She was no sooner gone than Jones, instead of animadverting on her

behaviour, reflected that he was in the same bed which he was informed

had held his dear Sophia. This occasioned a thousand fond and tender

thoughts, which we would dwell longer upon, did we not consider that

such kind of lovers will make a very inconsiderable part of our

readers. In this situation the surgeon found him, when he came to

dress his wound. The doctor perceiving, upon examination, that his

pulse was disordered, and hearing that he had not slept, declared that

he was in great danger; for he apprehended a fever was coming on,

which he would have prevented by bleeding, but Jones would not submit,

declaring he would lose no more blood; “and, doctor,” says he, “if you

will be so kind only to dress my head, I have no doubt of being well

in a day or two.”

“I wish,” answered the surgeon, “I could assure your being well in a

month or two. Well, indeed! No, no, people are not so soon well of

such contusions; but, sir, I am not at this time of day to be

instructed in my operations by a patient, and I insist on making a

revulsion before I dress you.”

Jones persisted obstinately in his refusal, and the doctor at last

yielded; telling him at the same time that he would not be answerable

for the ill consequence, and hoped he would do him the justice to

acknowledge that he had given him a contrary advice; which the patient

promised he would.

The doctor retired into the kitchen, where, addressing himself to the

landlady, he complained bitterly of the undutiful behaviour of his

patient, who would not be blooded, though he was in a fever.

“It is an eating fever then,” says the landlady; “for he hath devoured

two swinging buttered toasts this morning for breakfast.”

“Very likely,” says the doctor: “I have known people eat in a fever;

and it is very easily accounted for; because the acidity occasioned by

the febrile matter may stimulate the nerves of the diaphragm, and

thereby occasion a craving which will not be easily distinguishable

from a natural appetite; but the aliment will not be concreted, nor

assimilated into chyle, and so will corrode the vascular orifices, and

thus will aggravate the febrific symptoms. Indeed, I think the

gentleman in a very dangerous way, and, if he is not blooded, I am

afraid will die.”

“Every man must die some time or other,” answered the good woman; “it

is no business of mine. I hope, doctor, you would not have me hold him

while you bleed him. But, hark'ee, a word in your ear; I would advise

you, before you proceed too far, to take care who is to be your

paymaster.”

“Paymaster!” said the doctor, staring; “why, I've a gentleman under my

hands, have I not?”

“I imagined so as well as you,” said the landlady; “but, as my first

husband used to say, everything is not what it looks to be. He is an

arrant scrub, I assure you. However, take no notice that I mentioned

anything to you of the matter; but I think people in business oft

always to let one another know such things.”

“And have I suffered such a fellow as this,” cries the doctor, in a

passion, “to instruct me? Shall I hear my practice insulted by one who

will not pay me? I am glad I have made this discovery in time. I will

see now whether he will be blooded or no.” He then immediately went

upstairs, and flinging open the door of the chamber with much

violence, awaked poor Jones from a very sound nap, into which he was

fallen, and, what was still worse, from a delicious dream concerning

Sophia.

“Will you be blooded or no?” cries the doctor, in a rage. “I have told

you my resolution already,” answered Jones, “and I wish with all my

heart you had taken my answer; for you have awaked me out of the

sweetest sleep which I ever had in my life.”

“Ay, ay,” cries the doctor; “many a man hath dozed away his life.

Sleep is not always good, no more than food; but remember, I demand of

you for the last time, will you be blooded?”--“I answer you for the

last time,” said Jones, “I will not.”--“Then I wash my hands of you,”

cries the doctor; “and I desire you to pay me for the trouble I have

had already. Two journeys at 5s. each, two dressings at 5s. more, and

half a crown for phlebotomy.”--“I hope,” said Jones, “you don't intend

to leave me in this condition.”--“Indeed but I shall,” said the other.

“Then,” said Jones, “you have used me rascally, and I will not pay you

a farthing.”--“Very well,” cries the doctor; “the first loss is the

best. What a pox did my landlady mean by sending for me to such

vagabonds!” At which words he flung out of the room, and his patient

turning himself about soon recovered his sleep; but his dream was

unfortunately gone.

Chapter iv.

In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers that was ever

recorded in history, the barber of Bagdad, or he in Don Quixote, not

excepted.

The clock had now struck five when Jones awaked from a nap of seven

hours, so much refreshed, and in such perfect health and spirits, that

he resolved to get up and dress himself; for which purpose he unlocked

his portmanteau, and took out clean linen, and a suit of cloaths; but

first he slipt on a frock, and went down into the kitchen to bespeak

something that might pacify certain tumults he found rising within his

stomach.

Meeting the landlady, he accosted her with great civility, and asked,

“What he could have for dinner?”--“For dinner!” says she; “it is an

odd time a day to think about dinner. There is nothing drest in the

house, and the fire is almost out.”--“Well, but,” says he, “I must

have something to eat, and it is almost indifferent to me what; for,

to tell you the truth, I was never more hungry in my life.”--“Then,”

says she, “I believe there is a piece of cold buttock and carrot,

which will fit you.”--“Nothing better,” answered Jones; “but I should

be obliged to you, if you would let it be fried.” To which the

landlady consented, and said, smiling, “she was glad to see him so

well recovered;” for the sweetness of our heroe's temper was almost

irresistible; besides, she was really no ill-humoured woman at the

bottom; but she loved money so much, that she hated everything which

had the semblance of poverty.

Jones now returned in order to dress himself, while his dinner was

preparing, and was, according to his orders, attended by the barber.

This barber, who went by the name of Little Benjamin, was a fellow of

great oddity and humour, which had frequently let him into small

inconveniencies, such as slaps in the face, kicks in the breech,

broken bones, &c. For every one doth not understand a jest; and those

who do are often displeased with being themselves the subjects of it.

This vice was, however, incurable in him; and though he had often

smarted for it, yet if ever he conceived a joke, he was certain to be

delivered of it, without the least respect of persons, time, or place.

He had a great many other particularities in his character, which I

shall not mention, as the reader will himself very easily perceive

them, on his farther acquaintance with this extraordinary person.

Jones being impatient to be drest, for a reason which may be easily

imagined, thought the shaver was very tedious in preparing his suds,

and begged him to make haste; to which the other answered with much

gravity, for he never discomposed his muscles on any account,

“_Festina lente_, is a proverb which I learned long before I ever

touched a razor.”--“I find, friend, you are a scholar,” replied Jones.

“A poor one,” said the barber, “_non omnia possumus omnes._”--“Again!”

said Jones; “I fancy you are good at capping verses.”--“Excuse me,

sir,” said the barber, “_non tanto me dignor honore_.” And then

proceeding to his operation, “Sir,” said he, “since I have dealt in

suds, I could never discover more than two reasons for shaving; the

one is to get a beard, and the other to get rid of one. I conjecture,

sir, it may not be long since you shaved from the former of these

motives. Upon my word, you have had good success; for one may say of

your beard, that it is _tondenti gravior_.”--“I conjecture,” says

Jones, “that thou art a very comical fellow.”--“You mistake me widely,

sir,” said the barber: “I am too much addicted to the study of

philosophy; _hinc illae lacrymae_, sir; that's my misfortune. Too much

learning hath been my ruin.”--“Indeed,” says Jones, “I confess,

friend, you have more learning than generally belongs to your trade;

but I can't see how it can have injured you.”--“Alas! sir,” answered

the shaver, “my father disinherited me for it. He was a

dancing-master; and because I could read before I could dance, he took

an aversion to me, and left every farthing among his other

children.--Will you please to have your temples--O la! I ask your

pardon, I fancy there is _hiatus in manuscriptis_. I heard you was

going to the wars; but I find it was a mistake.”--“Why do you conclude

so?” says Jones. “Sure, sir,” answered the barber, “you are too wise a

man to carry a broken head thither; for that would be carrying coals

to Newcastle.”

“Upon my word,” cries Jones, “thou art a very odd fellow, and I like

thy humour extremely; I shall be very glad if thou wilt come to me

after dinner, and drink a glass with me; I long to be better

acquainted with thee.”

“O dear sir!” said the barber, “I can do you twenty times as great a

favour, if you will accept of it.”--“What is that, my friend?” cries

Jones. “Why, I will drink a bottle with you if you please; for I

dearly love good-nature; and as you have found me out to be a comical

fellow, so I have no skill in physiognomy, if you are not one of the

best-natured gentlemen in the universe.” Jones now walked downstairs

neatly drest, and perhaps the fair Adonis was not a lovelier figure;

and yet he had no charms for my landlady; for as that good woman did

not resemble Venus at all in her person, so neither did she in her

taste. Happy had it been for Nanny the chambermaid, if she had seen

with the eyes of her mistress, for that poor girl fell so violently in

love with Jones in five minutes, that her passion afterwards cost her

many a sigh. This Nanny was extremely pretty, and altogether as coy;

for she had refused a drawer, and one or two young farmers in the

neighbourhood, but the bright eyes of our heroe thawed all her ice in

a moment.

When Jones returned to the kitchen, his cloth was not yet laid; nor

indeed was there any occasion it should, his dinner remaining _in

statu quo_, as did the fire which was to dress it. This disappointment

might have put many a philosophical temper into a passion; but it had

no such effect on Jones. He only gave the landlady a gentle rebuke,

saying, “Since it was so difficult to get it heated he would eat the

beef cold.” But now the good woman, whether moved by compassion, or by

shame, or by whatever other motive, I cannot tell, first gave her

servants a round scold for disobeying the orders which she had never

given, and then bidding the drawer lay a napkin in the Sun, she set

about the matter in good earnest, and soon accomplished it.

This Sun, into which Jones was now conducted, was truly named, as

_lucus a non lucendo_; for it was an apartment into which the sun had

scarce ever looked. It was indeed the worst room in the house; and

happy was it for Jones that it was so. However, he was now too hungry

to find any fault; but having once satisfied his appetite, he ordered

the drawer to carry a bottle of wine into a better room, and expressed

some resentment at having been shown into a dungeon.

The drawer having obeyed his commands, he was, after some time,

attended by the barber, who would not indeed have suffered him to wait

so long for his company had he not been listening in the kitchen to

the landlady, who was entertaining a circle that she had gathered

round her with the history of poor Jones, part of which she had

extracted from his own lips, and the other part was her own ingenious

composition; for she said “he was a poor parish boy, taken into the

house of Squire Allworthy, where he was bred up as an apprentice, and

now turned out of doors for his misdeeds, particularly for making love

to his young mistress, and probably for robbing the house; for how

else should he come by the little money he hath; and this,” says she,

“is your gentleman, forsooth!”--“A servant of Squire Allworthy!” says

the barber; “what's his name?”--“Why he told me his name was Jones,”

says she: “perhaps he goes by a wrong name. Nay, and he told me, too,

that the squire had maintained him as his own son, thof he had

quarrelled with him now.”--“And if his name be Jones, he told you the

truth,” said the barber; “for I have relations who live in that

country; nay, and some people say he is his son.”--“Why doth he not go

by the name of his father?”--“I can't tell that,” said the barber;

“many people's sons don't go by the name of their father.”--“Nay,”

said the landlady, “if I thought he was a gentleman's son, thof he was

a bye-blow, I should behave to him in another guess manner; for many

of these bye-blows come to be great men, and, as my poor first husband

used to say, never affront any customer that's a gentleman.”

Chapter v.

A dialogue between Mr Jones and the barber.

This conversation passed partly while Jones was at dinner in his

dungeon, and partly while he was expecting the barber in the parlour.

And, as soon as it was ended, Mr Benjamin, as we have said, attended

him, and was very kindly desired to sit down. Jones then filling out a

glass of wine, drank his health by the appellation of _doctissime

tonsorum_. “_Ago tibi gratias, domine_” said the barber; and then

looking very steadfastly at Jones, he said, with great gravity, and

with a seeming surprize, as if he had recollected a face he had seen

before, “Sir, may I crave the favour to know if your name is not

Jones?” To which the other answered, “That it was.”--“_Proh deum atque

hominum fidem_!” says the barber; “how strangely things come to pass!

Mr Jones, I am your most obedient servant. I find you do not know me,

which indeed is no wonder, since you never saw me but once, and then

you was very young. Pray, sir, how doth the good Squire Allworthy? how

doth _ille optimus omnium patronus_?”--“I find,” said Jones, “you do

indeed know me; but I have not the like happiness of recollecting

you.”--“I do not wonder at that,” cries Benjamin; “but I am surprized

I did not know you sooner, for you are not in the least altered. And

pray, sir, may I, without offence, enquire whither you are travelling

this way?”--“Fill the glass, Mr Barber,” said Jones, “and ask no more

questions.”--“Nay, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I would not be

troublesome; and I hope you don't think me a man of an impertinent

curiosity, for that is a vice which nobody can lay to my charge; but I

ask pardon; for when a gentleman of your figure travels without his

servants, we may suppose him to be, as we say, _in casu incognito_,

and perhaps I ought not to have mentioned your name.”--“I own,” says

Jones, “I did not expect to have been so well known in this country as

I find I am; yet, for particular reasons, I shall be obliged to you if

you will not mention my name to any other person till I am gone from

hence.”--“_Pauca verba_,” answered the barber;” and I wish no other

here knew you but myself; for some people have tongues; but I promise

you I can keep a secret. My enemies will allow me that virtue.”--“And

yet that is not the characteristic of your profession, Mr Barber,”

answered Jones. “Alas! sir,” replied Benjamin, “_Non si male nunc et

olim sic erit_. I was not born nor bred a barber, I assure you. I have

spent most of my time among gentlemen, and though I say it, I

understand something of gentility. And if you had thought me as worthy

of your confidence as you have some other people, I should have shown

you I could have kept a secret better. I should not have degraded your

name in a public kitchen; for indeed, sir, some people have not used

you well; for besides making a public proclamation of what you told

them of a quarrel between yourself and Squire Allworthy, they added

lies of their own, things which I knew to be lies.”--“You surprize me

greatly,” cries Jones. “Upon my word, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I tell

the truth, and I need not tell you my landlady was the person. I am

sure it moved me to hear the story, and I hope it is all false; for I

have a great respect for you, I do assure you I have, and have had

ever since the good-nature you showed to Black George, which was

talked of all over the country, and I received more than one letter

about it. Indeed, it made you beloved by everybody. You will pardon

me, therefore; for it was real concern at what I heard made me ask

many questions; for I have no impertinent curiosity about me: but I

love good-nature and thence became _amoris abundantia erga te_.”

Every profession of friendship easily gains credit with the miserable;

it is no wonder therefore, if Jones, who, besides his being miserable,

was extremely open-hearted, very readily believed all the professions

of Benjamin, and received him into his bosom. The scraps of Latin,

some of which Benjamin applied properly enough, though it did not

savour of profound literature, seemed yet to indicate something

superior to a common barber; and so indeed did his whole behaviour.

Jones therefore believed the truth of what he had said, as to his

original and education; and at length, after much entreaty, he said,

“Since you have heard, my friend, so much of my affairs, and seem so

desirous to know the truth, if you will have patience to hear it, I

will inform you of the whole.”--“Patience!” cries Benjamin, “that I

will, if the chapter was never so long; and I am very much obliged to

you for the honour you do me.”

Jones now began, and related the whole history, forgetting only a

circumstance or two, namely, everything which passed on that day in

which he had fought with Thwackum; and ended with his resolution to go

to sea, till the rebellion in the North had made him change his

purpose, and had brought him to the place where he then was.

Little Benjamin, who had been all attention, never once interrupted

the narrative; but when it was ended he could not help observing, that

there must be surely something more invented by his enemies, and told

Mr Allworthy against him, or so good a man would never have dismissed

one he had loved so tenderly, in such a manner. To which Jones

answered, “He doubted not but such villanous arts had been made use of

to destroy him.”

And surely it was scarce possible for any one to have avoided making

the same remark with the barber, who had not indeed heard from Jones

one single circumstance upon which he was condemned; for his actions

were not now placed in those injurious lights in which they had been

misrepresented to Allworthy; nor could he mention those many false

accusations which had been from time to time preferred against him to

Allworthy: for with none of these he was himself acquainted. He had

likewise, as we have observed, omitted many material facts in his

present relation. Upon the whole, indeed, everything now appeared in

such favourable colours to Jones, that malice itself would have found

it no easy matter to fix any blame upon him.

Not that Jones desired to conceal or to disguise the truth; nay, he

would have been more unwilling to have suffered any censure to fall on

Mr Allworthy for punishing him, than on his own actions for deserving

it; but, in reality, so it happened, and so it always will happen; for

let a man be never so honest, the account of his own conduct will, in

spite of himself, be so very favourable, that his vices will come

purified through his lips, and, like foul liquors well strained, will

leave all their foulness behind. For though the facts themselves may

appear, yet so different will be the motives, circumstances, and

consequences, when a man tells his own story, and when his enemy tells

it, that we scarce can recognise the facts to be one and the same.

Though the barber had drank down this story with greedy ears, he was

not yet satisfied. There was a circumstance behind which his

curiosity, cold as it was, most eagerly longed for. Jones had

mentioned the fact of his amour, and of his being the rival of Blifil,

but had cautiously concealed the name of the young lady. The barber,

therefore, after some hesitation, and many hums and hahs, at last

begged leave to crave the name of the lady, who appeared to be the

principal cause of all this mischief. Jones paused a moment, and then

said, “Since I have trusted you with so much, and since, I am afraid,

her name is become too publick already on this occasion, I will not

conceal it from you. Her name is Sophia Western.”

“_Proh deum atque hominum fidem_! Squire Western hath a daughter grown

a woman!”--“Ay, and such a woman,” cries Jones, “that the world cannot

match. No eye ever saw anything so beautiful; but that is her least

excellence. Such sense! such goodness! Oh, I could praise her for

ever, and yet should omit half her virtues!”--“Mr Western a daughter

grown up!” cries the barber: “I remember the father a boy; well,

_Tempus edax rerum_.”

The wine being now at an end, the barber pressed very eagerly to be

his bottle; but Jones absolutely refused, saying, “He had already

drank more than he ought: and that he now chose to retire to his room,

where he wished he could procure himself a book.”--“A book!” cries

Benjamin; “what book would you have? Latin or English? I have some

curious books in both languages; such as _Erasmi Colloquia, Ovid de

Tristibus, Gradus ad Parnassum;_ and in English I have several of the

best books, though some of them are a little torn; but I have a great

part of Stowe's Chronicle; the sixth volume of Pope's Homer; the third

volume of the Spectator; the second volume of Echard's Roman History;

the Craftsman; Robinson Crusoe; Thomas a Kempis; and two volumes of

Tom Brown's Works.”

“Those last,” cries Jones, “are books I never saw, so if you please

lend me one of those volumes.” The barber assured him he would be

highly entertained, for he looked upon the author to have been one of

the greatest wits that ever the nation produced. He then stepped to

his house, which was hard by, and immediately returned; after which,

the barber having received very strict injunctions of secrecy from

Jones, and having sworn inviolably to maintain it, they separated; the

barber went home, and Jones retired to his chamber.

Chapter vi.

In which more of the talents of Mr Benjamin will appear, as well as

who this extraordinary person was.

In the morning Jones grew a little uneasy at the desertion of his

surgeon, as he apprehended some inconvenience, or even danger, might

attend the not dressing his wound; he enquired of the drawer, what

other surgeons were to be met with in that neighbourhood. The drawer

told him, there was one not far off; but he had known him often refuse

to be concerned after another had been sent before him; “but, sir,”

says he, “if you will take my advice, there is not a man in the

kingdom can do your business better than the barber who was with you

last night. We look upon him to be one of the ablest men at a cut in

all this neighbourhood. For though he hath not been her above three

months, he hath done several great cures.”

The drawer was presently dispatched for Little Benjamin, who being

acquainted in what capacity he was wanted, prepared himself

accordingly, and attended; but with so different an air and aspect

from that which he wore when his basin was under his arm, that he

could scarce be known to be the same person.

“So, tonsor,” says Jones, “I find you have more trades than one; how

came you not to inform me of this last night?”--“A surgeon,” answered

Benjamin, with great gravity, “is a profession, not a trade. The

reason why I did not acquaint you last night that I professed this

art, was, that I then concluded you was under the hands of another

gentleman, and I never love to interfere with my brethren in their

business. _Ars omnibus communis_. But now, sir, if you please, I will

inspect your head, and when I see into your skull, I will give my

opinion of your case.”

Jones had no great faith in this new professor; however, he suffered

him to open the bandage and to look at his wound; which as soon as he

had done, Benjamin began to groan and shake his head violently. Upon

which Jones, in a peevish manner, bid him not play the fool, but tell

him in what condition he found him. “Shall I answer you as a surgeon,

or a friend?” said Benjamin. “As a friend, and seriously,” said Jones.

“Why then, upon my soul,” cries Benjamin, “it would require a great

deal of art to keep you from being well after a very few dressings;

and if you will suffer me to apply some salve of mine, I will answer

for the success.” Jones gave his consent, and the plaister was applied

accordingly.

“There, sir,” cries Benjamin: “now I will, if you please, resume my

former self; but a man is obliged to keep up some dignity in his

countenance whilst he is performing these operations, or the world

will not submit to be handled by him. You can't imagine, sir, of how

much consequence a grave aspect is to a grave character. A barber may

make you laugh, but a surgeon ought rather to make you cry.”

“Mr Barber, or Mr Surgeon, or Mr Barber-surgeon,” said Jones. “O dear

sir!” answered Benjamin, interrupting him, “_Infandum, regina, jubes

renovare dolorem_. You recall to my mind that cruel separation of the

united fraternities, so much to the prejudice of both bodies, as all

separations must be, according to the old adage, _Vis unita fortior_;

which to be sure there are not wanting some of one or of the other

fraternity who are able to construe. What a blow was this to me, who

unite both in my own person!” “Well, by whatever name you please to be

called,” continued Jones, “you certainly are one of the oddest, most

comical fellows I ever met with, and must have something very

surprizing in your story, which you must confess I have a right to

hear.”--“I do confess it,” answered Benjamin, “and will very readily

acquaint you with it, when you have sufficient leisure, for I promise

you it will require a good deal of time.” Jones told him, he could

never be more at leisure than at present. “Well, then,” said Benjamin,

“I will obey you; but first I will fasten the door, that none may

interrupt us.” He did so, and then advancing with a solemn air to

Jones, said: “I must begin by telling you, sir, that you yourself have

been the greatest enemy I ever had.” Jones was a little startled at

this sudden declaration. “I your enemy, sir!” says he, with much

amazement, and some sternness in his look. “Nay, be not angry,” said

Benjamin, “for I promise you I am not. You are perfectly innocent of

having intended me any wrong; for you was then an infant: but I shall,

I believe, unriddle all this the moment I mention my name. Did you

never hear, sir, of one Partridge, who had the honour of being reputed

your father, and the misfortune of being ruined by that honour?” “I

have, indeed, heard of that Partridge,” says Jones, “and have always

believed myself to be his son.” “Well, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I am

that Partridge; but I here absolve you from all filial duty, for I do

assure you, you are no son of mine.” “How!” replied Jones, “and is it

possible that a false suspicion should have drawn all the ill

consequences upon you, with which I am too well acquainted?” “It is

possible,” cries Benjamin, “for it is so: but though it is natural

enough for men to hate even the innocent causes of their sufferings,

yet I am of a different temper. I have loved you ever since I heard of

your behaviour to Black George, as I told you; and I am convinced,

from this extraordinary meeting, that you are born to make me amends

for all I have suffered on that account. Besides, I dreamt, the night

before I saw you, that I stumbled over a stool without hurting myself;

which plainly showed me something good was towards me: and last night

I dreamt again, that I rode behind you on a milk-white mare, which is

a very excellent dream, and betokens much good fortune, which I am

resolved to pursue unless you have the cruelty to deny me.”

“I should be very glad, Mr Partridge,” answered Jones, “to have it in

my power to make you amends for your sufferings on my account, though

at present I see no likelihood of it; however, I assure you I will

deny you nothing which is in my power to grant.”

“It is in your power sure enough,” replied Benjamin; “for I desire

nothing more than leave to attend you in this expedition. Nay, I have

so entirely set my heart upon it, that if you should refuse me, you

will kill both a barber and a surgeon in one breath.”

Jones answered, smiling, that he should be very sorry to be the

occasion of so much mischief to the public. He then advanced many

prudential reasons, in order to dissuade Benjamin (whom we shall

hereafter call Partridge) from his purpose; but all were in vain.

Partridge relied strongly on his dream of the milk-white mare.

“Besides, sir,” says he, “I promise you I have as good an inclination

to the cause as any man can possibly have; and go I will, whether you

admit me to go in your company or not.”

Jones, who was as much pleased with Partridge as Partridge could be

with him, and who had not consulted his own inclination but the good

of the other in desiring him to stay behind, when he found his friend

so resolute, at last gave his consent; but then recollecting himself,

he said, “Perhaps, Mr Partridge, you think I shall be able to support

you, but I really am not;” and then taking out his purse, he told out

nine guineas, which he declared were his whole fortune.

Partridge answered, “That his dependence was only on his future

favour; for he was thoroughly convinced he would shortly have enough

in his power. At present, sir,” said he, “I believe I am rather the

richer man of the two; but all I have is at your service, and at your

disposal. I insist upon your taking the whole, and I beg only to

attend you in the quality of your servant; _Nil desperandum est Teucro

duce et auspice Teucro_”: but to this generous proposal concerning the

money, Jones would by no means submit.

It was resolved to set out the next morning, when a difficulty arose

concerning the baggage; for the portmanteau of Mr Jones was too large

to be carried without a horse.

“If I may presume to give my advice,” says Partridge, “this

portmanteau, with everything in it, except a few shirts, should be

left behind. Those I shall be easily able to carry for you, and the

rest of your cloaths will remain very safe locked up in my house.”

This method was no sooner proposed than agreed to; and then the barber

departed, in order to prepare everything for his intended expedition.

Chapter vii.

Containing better reasons than any which have yet appeared for the

conduct of Partridge; an apology for the weakness of Jones; and some

further anecdotes concerning my landlady.

Though Partridge was one of the most superstitious of men, he would

hardly perhaps have desired to accompany Jones on his expedition

merely from the omens of the joint-stool and white mare, if his

prospect had been no better than to have shared the plunder gained in

the field of battle. In fact, when Partridge came to ruminate on the

relation he had heard from Jones, he could not reconcile to himself

that Mr Allworthy should turn his son (for so he most firmly believed

him to be) out of doors, for any reason which he had heard assigned.

He concluded, therefore, that the whole was a fiction, and that Jones,

of whom he had often from his correspondents heard the wildest

character, had in reality run away from his father. It came into his

head, therefore, that if he could prevail with the young gentleman to

return back to his father, he should by that means render a service to

Allworthy, which would obliterate all his former anger; nay, indeed,

he conceived that very anger was counterfeited, and that Allworthy had

sacrificed him to his own reputation. And this suspicion indeed he

well accounted for, from the tender behaviour of that excellent man to

the foundling child; from his great severity to Partridge, who,

knowing himself to be innocent, could not conceive that any other

should think him guilty; lastly, from the allowance which he had

privately received long after the annuity had been publickly taken

from him, and which he looked upon as a kind of smart-money, or rather

by way of atonement for injustice; for it is very uncommon, I believe,

for men to ascribe the benefactions they receive to pure charity, when

they can possibly impute them to any other motive. If he could by any

means therefore persuade the young gentleman to return home, he

doubted not but that he should again be received into the favour of

Allworthy, and well rewarded for his pains; nay, and should be again

restored to his native country; a restoration which Ulysses himself

never wished more heartily than poor Partridge.

As for Jones, he was well satisfied with the truth of what the other

had asserted, and believed that Partridge had no other inducements but

love to him, and zeal for the cause; a blameable want of caution and

diffidence in the veracity of others, in which he was highly worthy of

censure. To say the truth, there are but two ways by which men become

possessed of this excellent quality. The one is from long experience,

and the other is from nature; which last, I presume, is often meant by

genius, or great natural parts; and it is infinitely the better of the

two, not only as we are masters of it much earlier in life, but as it

is much more infallible and conclusive; for a man who hath been

imposed on by ever so many, may still hope to find others more honest;

whereas he who receives certain necessary admonitions from within,

that this is impossible, must have very little understanding indeed,

if he ever renders himself liable to be once deceived. As Jones had

not this gift from nature, he was too young to have gained it by

experience; for at the diffident wisdom which is to be acquired this

way, we seldom arrive till very late in life; which is perhaps the

reason why some old men are apt to despise the understandings of all

those who are a little younger than themselves.

Jones spent most part of the day in the company of a new acquaintance.

This was no other than the landlord of the house, or rather the

husband of the landlady. He had but lately made his descent

downstairs, after a long fit of the gout, in which distemper he was

generally confined to his room during one half of the year; and during

the rest, he walked about the house, smoaked his pipe, and drank his

bottle with his friends, without concerning himself in the least with

any kind of business. He had been bred, as they call it, a gentleman;

that is, bred up to do nothing; and had spent a very small fortune,

which he inherited from an industrious farmer his uncle, in hunting,

horse-racing, and cock-fighting, and had been married by my landlady

for certain purposes, which he had long since desisted from answering;

for which she hated him heartily. But as he was a surly kind of

fellow, so she contented herself with frequently upbraiding him by

disadvantageous comparisons with her first husband, whose praise she

had eternally in her mouth; and as she was for the most part mistress

of the profit, so she was satisfied to take upon herself the care and

government of the family, and, after a long successless struggle, to

suffer her husband to be master of himself.

In the evening, when Jones retired to his room, a small dispute arose

between this fond couple concerning him:--“What,” says the wife, “you

have been tippling with the gentleman, I see?”--“Yes,” answered the

husband, “we have cracked a bottle together, and a very gentlemanlike

man he is, and hath a very pretty notion of horse-flesh. Indeed, he is

young, and hath not seen much of the world; for I believe he hath been

at very few horse-races.”--“Oho! he is one of your order, is he?”

replies the landlady: “he must be a gentleman to be sure, if he is a

horse-racer. The devil fetch such gentry! I am sure I wish I had never

seen any of them. I have reason to love horse-racers truly!”--“That

you have,” says the husband; “for I was one, you know.”--“Yes,”

answered she, “you are a pure one indeed. As my first husband used to

say, I may put all the good I have ever got by you in my eyes, and see

never the worse.”--“D--n your first husband!” cries he. “Don't d--n a

better man than yourself,” answered the wife: “if he had been alive,

you durst not have done it.”--“Then you think,” says he, “I have not

so much courage as yourself; for you have d--n'd him often in my

hearing.”--“If I did,” says she, “I have repented of it many's the

good time and oft. And if he was so good to forgive me a word spoken

in haste or so, it doth not become such a one as you to twitter me. He

was a husband to me, he was; and if ever I did make use of an ill word

or so in a passion, I never called him rascal; I should have told a

lie, if I had called him rascal.” Much more she said, but not in his

hearing; for having lighted his pipe, he staggered off as fast as he

could. We shall therefore transcribe no more of her speech, as it

approached still nearer and nearer to a subject too indelicate to find

any place in this history.

Early in the morning Partridge appeared at the bedside of Jones, ready

equipped for the journey, with his knapsack at his back. This was his

own workmanship; for besides his other trades, he was no indifferent

taylor. He had already put up his whole stock of linen in it,

consisting of four shirts, to which he now added eight for Mr Jones;

and then packing up the portmanteau, he was departing with it towards

his own house, but was stopt in his way by the landlady, who refused

to suffer any removals till after the payment of the reckoning.

The landlady was, as we have said, absolute governess in these

regions; it was therefore necessary to comply with her rules; so the

bill was presently writ out, which amounted to a much larger sum than

might have been expected, from the entertainment which Jones had met

with. But here we are obliged to disclose some maxims, which publicans

hold to be the grand mysteries of their trade. The first is, If they

have anything good in their house (which indeed very seldom happens)

to produce it only to persons who travel with great equipages. 2dly,

To charge the same for the very worst provisions, as if they were the

best. And lastly, If any of their guests call but for little, to make

them pay a double price for everything they have; so that the amount

by the head may be much the same.

The bill being made and discharged, Jones set forward with Partridge,

carrying his knapsack; nor did the landlady condescend to wish him a

good journey; for this was, it seems, an inn frequented by people of

fashion; and I know not whence it is, but all those who get their

livelihood by people of fashion, contract as much insolence to the

rest of mankind, as if they really belonged to that rank themselves.

Chapter viii.

Jones arrives at Gloucester, and goes to the Bell; the character of

that house, and of a petty-fogger which he there meets with.

Mr Jones and Partridge, or Little Benjamin (which epithet of Little

was perhaps given him ironically, he being in reality near six feet

high), having left their last quarters in the manner before described,

travelled on to Gloucester without meeting any adventure worth

relating.

Being arrived here, they chose for their house of entertainment the

sign of the Bell, an excellent house indeed, and which I do most

seriously recommend to every reader who shall visit this antient city.

The master of it is brother to the great preacher Whitefield; but is

absolutely untainted with the pernicious principles of Methodism, or

of any other heretical sect. He is indeed a very honest plain man,

and, in my opinion, not likely to create any disturbance either in

church or state. His wife hath, I believe, had much pretension to

beauty, and is still a very fine woman. Her person and deportment

might have made a shining figure in the politest assemblies; but

though she must be conscious of this and many other perfections, she

seems perfectly contented with, and resigned to, that state of life to

which she is called; and this resignation is entirely owing to the

prudence and wisdom of her temper; for she is at present as free from

any Methodistical notions as her husband: I say at present; for she

freely confesses that her brother's documents made at first some

impression upon her, and that she had put herself to the expense of a

long hood, in order to attend the extraordinary emotions of the

Spirit; but having found, during an experiment of three weeks, no

emotions, she says, worth a farthing, she very wisely laid by her

hood, and abandoned the sect. To be concise, she is a very friendly

good-natured woman; and so industrious to oblige, that the guests must

be of a very morose disposition who are not extremely well satisfied

in her house.

Mrs Whitefield happened to be in the yard when Jones and his attendant

marched in. Her sagacity soon discovered in the air of our heroe

something which distinguished him from the vulgar. She ordered her

servants, therefore, immediately to show him into a room, and

presently afterwards invited him to dinner with herself; which

invitation he very thankfully accepted; for indeed much less agreeable

company than that of Mrs Whitefield, and a much worse entertainment

than she had provided, would have been welcome after so long fasting

and so long a walk.

Besides Mr Jones and the good governess of the mansion, there sat down

at table an attorney of Salisbury, indeed the very same who had

brought the news of Mrs Blifil's death to Mr Allworthy, and whose

name, which I think we did not before mention, was Dowling: there was

likewise present another person, who stiled himself a lawyer, and who

lived somewhere near Linlinch, in Somersetshire. This fellow, I say,

stiled himself a lawyer, but was indeed a most vile petty-fogger,

without sense or knowledge of any kind; one of those who may be termed

train-bearers to the law; a sort of supernumeraries in the profession,

who are the hackneys of attorneys, and will ride more miles for

half-a-crown than a postboy.

During the time of dinner, the Somersetshire lawyer recollected the

face of Jones, which he had seen at Mr Allworthy's; for he had often

visited in that gentleman's kitchen. He therefore took occasion to

enquire after the good family there with that familiarity which would

have become an intimate friend or acquaintance of Mr Allworthy; and

indeed he did all in his power to insinuate himself to be such, though

he had never had the honour of speaking to any person in that family

higher than the butler. Jones answered all his questions with much

civility, though he never remembered to have seen the petty-fogger

before; and though he concluded, from the outward appearance and

behaviour of the man, that he usurped a freedom with his betters, to

which he was by no means intitled.

As the conversation of fellows of this kind is of all others the most

detestable to men of any sense, the cloth was no sooner removed than

Mr Jones withdrew, and a little barbarously left poor Mrs Whitefield

to do a penance, which I have often heard Mr Timothy Harris, and other

publicans of good taste, lament, as the severest lot annexed to their

calling, namely, that of being obliged to keep company with their

guests.

Jones had no sooner quitted the room, than the petty-fogger, in a

whispering tone, asked Mrs Whitefield, “If she knew who that fine

spark was?” She answered, “She had never seen the gentleman

before.”--“The gentleman, indeed!” replied the petty-fogger; “a pretty

gentleman, truly! Why, he's the bastard of a fellow who was hanged for

horse-stealing. He was dropt at Squire Allworthy's door, where one of

the servants found him in a box so full of rain-water, that he would

certainly have been drowned, had he not been reserved for another

fate.”--“Ay, ay, you need not mention it, I protest: we understand

what that fate is very well,” cries Dowling, with a most facetious

grin.--“Well,” continued the other, “the squire ordered him to be

taken in; for he is a timbersome man everybody knows, and was afraid

of drawing himself into a scrape; and there the bastard was bred up,

and fed, and cloathified all to the world like any gentleman; and

there he got one of the servant-maids with child, and persuaded her to

swear it to the squire himself; and afterwards he broke the arm of one

Mr Thwackum a clergyman, only because he reprimanded him for following

whores; and afterwards he snapt a pistol at Mr Blifil behind his back;

and once, when Squire Allworthy was sick, he got a drum, and beat it

all over the house to prevent him from sleeping; and twenty other

pranks he hath played, for all which, about four or five days ago,

just before I left the country, the squire stripped him stark naked,

and turned him out of doors.”

“And very justly too, I protest,” cries Dowling; “I would turn my own

son out of doors, if he was guilty of half as much. And pray what is

the name of this pretty gentleman?”

“The name o' un?” answered Petty-fogger; “why, he is called Thomas

Jones.”

“Jones!” answered Dowling a little eagerly; “what, Mr Jones that lived

at Mr Allworthy's? was that the gentleman that dined with us?”--“The

very same,” said the other. “I have heard of the gentleman,” cries

Dowling, “often; but I never heard any ill character of him.”--“And I

am sure,” says Mrs Whitefield, “if half what this gentleman hath said

be true, Mr Jones hath the most deceitful countenance I ever saw; for

sure his looks promise something very different; and I must say, for

the little I have seen of him, he is as civil a well-bred man as you

would wish to converse with.”

Petty-fogger calling to mind that he had not been sworn, as he usually

was, before he gave his evidence, now bound what he had declared with

so many oaths and imprecations that the landlady's ears were shocked,

and she put a stop to his swearing, by assuring him of her belief.

Upon which he said, “I hope, madam, you imagine I would scorn to tell

such things of any man, unless I knew them to be true. What interest

have I in taking away the reputation of a man who never injured me? I

promise you every syllable of what I have said is fact, and the whole

country knows it.”

As Mrs Whitefield had no reason to suspect that the petty-fogger had

any motive or temptation to abuse Jones, the reader cannot blame her

for believing what he so confidently affirmed with many oaths. She

accordingly gave up her skill in physiognomy, and hence-forwards

conceived so ill an opinion of her guest, that she heartily wished him

out of her house.

This dislike was now farther increased by a report which Mr Whitefield

made from the kitchen, where Partridge had informed the company, “That

though he carried the knapsack, and contented himself with staying

among servants, while Tom Jones (as he called him) was regaling in the

parlour, he was not his servant, but only a friend and companion, and

as good a gentleman as Mr Jones himself.”

Dowling sat all this while silent, biting his fingers, making faces,

grinning, and looking wonderfully arch; at last he opened his lips,

and protested that the gentleman looked like another sort of man. He

then called for his bill with the utmost haste, declared he must be at

Hereford that evening, lamented his great hurry of business, and

wished he could divide himself into twenty pieces, in order to be at

once in twenty places.

The petty-fogger now likewise departed, and then Jones desired the

favour of Mrs Whitefield's company to drink tea with him; but she

refused, and with a manner so different from that with which she had

received him at dinner, that it a little surprized him. And now he

soon perceived her behaviour totally changed; for instead of that

natural affability which we have before celebrated, she wore a

constrained severity on her countenance, which was so disagreeable to

Mr Jones, that he resolved, however late, to quit the house that

evening.

He did indeed account somewhat unfairly for this sudden change; for

besides some hard and unjust surmises concerning female fickleness and

mutability, he began to suspect that he owed this want of civility to

his want of horses; a sort of animals which, as they dirty no sheets,

are thought in inns to pay better for their beds than their riders,

and are therefore considered as the more desirable company; but Mrs

Whitefield, to do her justice, had a much more liberal way of

thinking. She was perfectly well-bred, and could be very civil to a

gentleman, though he walked on foot. In reality, she looked on our

heroe as a sorry scoundrel, and therefore treated him as such, for

which not even Jones himself, had he known as much as the reader,

could have blamed her; nay, on the contrary, he must have approved her

conduct, and have esteemed her the more for the disrespect shown

towards himself. This is indeed a most aggravating circumstance, which

attends depriving men unjustly of their reputation; for a man who is

conscious of having an ill character, cannot justly be angry with

those who neglect and slight him; but ought rather to despise such as

affect his conversation, unless where a perfect intimacy must have

convinced them that their friend's character hath been falsely and

injuriously aspersed.

This was not, however, the case of Jones; for as he was a perfect

stranger to the truth, so he was with good reason offended at the

treatment he received. He therefore paid his reckoning and departed,

highly against the will of Mr Partridge, who having remonstrated much

against it to no purpose, at last condescended to take up his knapsack

and to attend his friend.

Chapter ix.

Containing several dialogues between Jones and Partridge, concerning

love, cold, hunger, and other matters; with the lucky and narrow

escape of Partridge, as he was on the very brink of making a fatal

discovery to his friend.

The shadows began now to descend larger from the high mountains; the

feathered creation had betaken themselves to their rest. Now the

highest order of mortals were sitting down to their dinners, and the

lowest order to their suppers. In a word, the clock struck five just

as Mr Jones took his leave of Gloucester; an hour at which (as it was

now mid-winter) the dirty fingers of Night would have drawn her sable

curtain over the universe, had not the moon forbid her, who now, with

a face as broad and as red as those of some jolly mortals, who, like

her, turn night into day, began to rise from her bed, where she had

slumbered away the day, in order to sit up all night. Jones had not

travelled far before he paid his compliments to that beautiful planet,

and, turning to his companion, asked him if he had ever beheld so

delicious an evening? Partridge making no ready answer to his

question, he proceeded to comment on the beauty of the moon, and

repeated some passages from Milton, who hath certainly excelled all

other poets in his description of the heavenly luminaries. He then

told Partridge the story from the Spectator, of two lovers who had

agreed to entertain themselves when they were at a great distance from

each other, by repairing, at a certain fixed hour, to look at the

moon; thus pleasing themselves with the thought that they were both

employed in contemplating the same object at the same time. “Those

lovers,” added he, “must have had souls truly capable of feeling all

the tenderness of the sublimest of all human passions.”--“Very

probably,” cries Partridge: “but I envy them more, if they had bodies

incapable of feeling cold; for I am almost frozen to death, and am

very much afraid I shall lose a piece of my nose before we get to

another house of entertainment. Nay, truly, we may well expect some

judgment should happen to us for our folly in running away so by night

from one of the most excellent inns I ever set my foot into. I am sure

I never saw more good things in my life, and the greatest lord in the

land cannot live better in his own house than he may there. And to

forsake such a house, and go a rambling about the country, the Lord

knows whither, _per devia rura viarum_, I say nothing for my part; but

some people might not have charity enough to conclude we were in our

sober senses.”--“Fie upon it, Mr Partridge!” says Jones, “have a

better heart; consider you are going to face an enemy; and are you

afraid of facing a little cold? I wish, indeed, we had a guide to

advise which of these roads we should take.”--“May I be so bold,” says

Partridge, “to offer my advice? _Interdum stultus opportuna

loquitur_”--“Why, which of them,” cries Jones, “would you

recommend?”--“Truly neither of them,” answered Partridge. “The only

road we can be certain of finding, is the road we came. A good hearty

pace will bring us back to Gloucester in an hour; but if we go

forward, the Lord Harry knows when we shall arrive at any place; for I

see at least fifty miles before me, and no house in all the

way.”--“You see, indeed, a very fair prospect,” says Jones, “which

receives great additional beauty from the extreme lustre of the moon.

However, I will keep the left-hand track, as that seems to lead

directly to those hills, which we were informed lie not far from

Worcester. And here, if you are inclined to quit me, you may, and

return back again; but for my part, I am resolved to go forward.”

“It is unkind in you, sir,” says Partridge, “to suspect me of any such

intention. What I have advised hath been as much on your account as on

my own: but since you are determined to go on, I am as much determined

to follow. _I prae sequar te_.”

They now travelled some miles without speaking to each other, during

which suspense of discourse Jones often sighed, and Benjamin groaned

as bitterly, though from a very different reason. At length Jones made

a full stop, and turning about, cries, “Who knows, Partridge, but the

loveliest creature in the universe may have her eyes now fixed on that

very moon which I behold at this instant?” “Very likely, sir,”

answered Partridge; “and if my eyes were fixed on a good surloin of

roast beef, the devil might take the moon and her horns into the

bargain.” “Did ever Tramontane make such an answer?” cries Jones.

“Prithee, Partridge, wast thou ever susceptible of love in thy life,

or hath time worn away all the traces of it from thy memory?”

“Alack-a-day!” cries Partridge, “well would it have been for me if I

had never known what love was. _Infandum regina jubes renovare

dolorem_. I am sure I have tasted all the tenderness, and sublimities,

and bitternesses of the passion.” “Was your mistress unkind, then?”

says Jones. “Very unkind, indeed, sir,” answered Partridge; “for she

married me, and made one of the most confounded wives in the world.

However, heaven be praised, she's gone; and if I believed she was in

the moon, according to a book I once read, which teaches that to be

the receptacle of departed spirits, I would never look at it for fear

of seeing her; but I wish, sir, that the moon was a looking-glass for

your sake, and that Miss Sophia Western was now placed before it.” “My

dear Partridge,” cries Jones, “what a thought was there! A thought

which I am certain could never have entered into any mind but that of

a lover. O Partridge! could I hope once again to see that face; but,

alas! all those golden dreams are vanished for ever, and my only

refuge from future misery is to forget the object of all my former

happiness.” “And do you really despair of ever seeing Miss Western

again?” answered Partridge; “if you will follow my advice I will

engage you shall not only see her but have her in your arms.” “Ha! do

not awaken a thought of that nature,” cries Jones: “I have struggled

sufficiently to conquer all such wishes already.” “Nay,” answered

Partridge, “if you do not wish to have your mistress in your arms you

are a most extraordinary lover indeed.” “Well, well,” says Jones, “let

us avoid this subject; but pray what is your advice?” “To give it you

in the military phrase, then,” says Partridge, “as we are soldiers,

`To the right about.' Let us return the way we came; we may yet reach

Gloucester to-night, though late; whereas, if we proceed, we are

likely, for aught I see, to ramble about for ever without coming

either to house or home.” “I have already told you my resolution is to

go on,” answered Jones; “but I would have you go back. I am obliged to

you for your company hither; and I beg you to accept a guinea as a

small instance of my gratitude. Nay, it would be cruel in me to suffer

you to go any farther; for, to deal plainly with you, my chief end and

desire is a glorious death in the service of my king and country.” “As

for your money,” replied Partridge, “I beg, sir, you will put it up; I

will receive none of you at this time; for at present I am, I believe,

the richer man of the two. And as your resolution is to go on, so mine

is to follow you if you do. Nay, now my presence appears absolutely

necessary to take care of you, since your intentions are so desperate;

for I promise you my views are much more prudent; as you are resolved

to fall in battle if you can, so I am resolved as firmly to come to no

hurt if I can help it. And, indeed, I have the comfort to think there

will be but little danger; for a popish priest told me the other day

the business would soon be over, and he believed without a battle.” “A

popish priest!” cries Jones, “I have heard is not always to be

believed when he speaks in behalf of his religion.” “Yes, but so far,”

answered the other, “from speaking in behalf of his religion, he

assured me the Catholicks did not expect to be any gainers by the

change; for that Prince Charles was as good a Protestant as any in

England; and that nothing but regard to right made him and the rest of

the popish party to be Jacobites.”--“I believe him to be as much a

Protestant as I believe he hath any right,” says Jones; “and I make no

doubt of our success, but not without a battle. So that I am not so

sanguine as your friend the popish priest.” “Nay, to be sure, sir,”

answered Partridge, “all the prophecies I have ever read speak of a

great deal of blood to be spilt in the quarrel, and the miller with

three thumbs, who is now alive, is to hold the horses of three kings,

up to his knees in blood. Lord, have mercy upon us all, and send

better times!” “With what stuff and nonsense hast thou filled thy

head!” answered Jones: “this too, I suppose, comes from the popish

priest. Monsters and prodigies are the proper arguments to support

monstrous and absurd doctrines. The cause of King George is the cause

of liberty and true religion. In other words, it is the cause of

common sense, my boy, and I warrant you will succeed, though Briarius

himself was to rise again with his hundred thumbs, and to turn

miller.” Partridge made no reply to this. He was, indeed, cast into

the utmost confusion by this declaration of Jones. For, to inform the

reader of a secret, which he had no proper opportunity of revealing

before, Partridge was in truth a Jacobite, and had concluded that

Jones was of the same party, and was now proceeding to join the

rebels. An opinion which was not without foundation. For the tall,

long-sided dame, mentioned by Hudibras--that many-eyed, many-tongued,

many-mouthed, many-eared monster of Virgil, had related the story of

the quarrel between Jones and the officer, with the usual regard to

truth. She had, indeed, changed the name of Sophia into that of the

Pretender, and had reported, that drinking his health was the cause

for which Jones was knocked down. This Partridge had heard, and most

firmly believed. 'Tis no wonder, therefore, that he had thence

entertained the above-mentioned opinion of Jones; and which he had

almost discovered to him before he found out his own mistake. And at

this the reader will be the less inclined to wonder, if he pleases to

recollect the doubtful phrase in which Jones first communicated his

resolution to Mr Partridge; and, indeed, had the words been less

ambiguous, Partridge might very well have construed them as he did;

being persuaded as he was that the whole nation were of the same

inclination in their hearts; nor did it stagger him that Jones had

travelled in the company of soldiers; for he had the same opinion of

the army which he had of the rest of the people.

But however well affected he might be to James or Charles, he was

still much more attached to Little Benjamin than to either; for which

reason he no sooner discovered the principles of his fellow-traveller

than he thought proper to conceal and outwardly give up his own to the

man on whom he depended for the making his fortune, since he by no

means believed the affairs of Jones to be so desperate as they really

were with Mr Allworthy; for as he had kept a constant correspondence

with some of his neighbours since he left that country, he had heard

much, indeed more than was true, of the great affection Mr Allworthy

bore this young man, who, as Partridge had been instructed, was to be

that gentleman's heir, and whom, as we have said, he did not in the

least doubt to be his son.

He imagined therefore that whatever quarrel was between them, it would

be certainly made up at the return of Mr Jones; an event from which he

promised great advantages, if he could take this opportunity of

ingratiating himself with that young gentleman; and if he could by any

means be instrumental in procuring his return, he doubted not, as we

have before said, but it would as highly advance him in the favour of

Mr Allworthy.

We have already observed, that he was a very good-natured fellow, and

he hath himself declared the violent attachment he had to the person

and character of Jones; but possibly the views which I have just

before mentioned, might likewise have some little share in prompting

him to undertake this expedition, at least in urging him to continue

it, after he had discovered that his master and himself, like some

prudent fathers and sons, though they travelled together in great

friendship, had embraced opposite parties. I am led into this

conjecture, by having remarked, that though love, friendship, esteem,

and such like, have very powerful operations in the human mind;

interest, however, is an ingredient seldom omitted by wise men, when

they would work others to their own purposes. This is indeed a most

excellent medicine, and, like Ward's pill, flies at once to the

particular part of the body on which you desire to operate, whether it

be the tongue, the hand, or any other member, where it scarce ever

fails of immediately producing the desired effect.

Chapter x.

In which our travellers meet with a very extraordinary adventure.

Just as Jones and his friend came to the end of their dialogue in the

preceding chapter, they arrived at the bottom of a very steep hill.

Here Jones stopt short, and directing his eyes upwards, stood for a

while silent. At length he called to his companion, and said,

“Partridge, I wish I was at the top of this hill; it must certainly

afford a most charming prospect, especially by this light; for the

solemn gloom which the moon casts on all objects, is beyond expression

beautiful, especially to an imagination which is desirous of

cultivating melancholy ideas.”--“Very probably,” answered Partridge;

“but if the top of the hill be properest to produce melancholy

thoughts, I suppose the bottom is the likeliest to produce merry ones,

and these I take to be much the better of the two. I protest you have

made my blood run cold with the very mentioning the top of that

mountain; which seems to me to be one of the highest in the world. No,

no, if we look for anything, let it be for a place under ground, to

screen ourselves from the frost.”--“Do so,” said Jones; “let it be but

within hearing of this place, and I will hallow to you at my return

back.”--“Surely, sir, you are not mad,” said Partridge.--“Indeed, I

am,” answered Jones, “if ascending this hill be madness; but as you

complain so much of the cold already, I would have you stay below. I

will certainly return to you within an hour.”--“Pardon me, sir,” cries

Partridge; “I have determined to follow you wherever you go.” Indeed

he was now afraid to stay behind; for though he was coward enough in

all respects, yet his chief fear was that of ghosts, with which the

present time of night, and the wildness of the place, extremely well

suited.

At this instant Partridge espied a glimmering light through some

trees, which seemed very near to them. He immediately cried out in a

rapture, “Oh, sir! Heaven hath at last heard my prayers, and hath

brought us to a house; perhaps it may be an inn. Let me beseech you,

sir, if you have any compassion either for me or yourself, do not

despise the goodness of Providence, but let us go directly to yon

light. Whether it be a public-house or no, I am sure if they be

Christians that dwell there, they will not refuse a little house-room

to persons in our miserable condition.” Jones at length yielded to the

earnest supplications of Partridge, and both together made directly

towards the place whence the light issued.

They soon arrived at the door of this house, or cottage, for it might

be called either, without much impropriety. Here Jones knocked several

times without receiving any answer from within; at which Partridge,

whose head was full of nothing but of ghosts, devils, witches, and

such like, began to tremble, crying, “Lord, have mercy upon us! surely

the people must be all dead. I can see no light neither now, and yet I

am certain I saw a candle burning but a moment before.--Well! I have

heard of such things.”--“What hast thou heard of?” said Jones. “The

people are either fast asleep, or probably, as this is a lonely place,

are afraid to open their door.” He then began to vociferate pretty

loudly, and at last an old woman, opening an upper casement, asked,

Who they were, and what they wanted? Jones answered, They were

travellers who had lost their way, and having seen a light in the

window, had been led thither in hopes of finding some fire to warm

themselves. “Whoever you are,” cries the woman, “you have no business

here; nor shall I open the door to any one at this time of night.”

Partridge, whom the sound of a human voice had recovered from his

fright, fell to the most earnest supplications to be admitted for a

few minutes to the fire, saying, he was almost dead with the cold; to

which fear had indeed contributed equally with the frost. He assured

her that the gentleman who spoke to her was one of the greatest

squires in the country; and made use of every argument, save one,

which Jones afterwards effectually added; and this was, the promise of

half-a-crown;--a bribe too great to be resisted by such a person,

especially as the genteel appearance of Jones, which the light of the

moon plainly discovered to her, together with his affable behaviour,

had entirely subdued those apprehensions of thieves which she had at

first conceived. She agreed, therefore, at last, to let them in; where

Partridge, to his infinite joy, found a good fire ready for his

reception.