CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i.
Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not, write such
histories as this.
Among other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute
these several introductory chapters, I have considered them as a kind
of mark or stamp, which may hereafter enable a very indifferent reader
to distinguish what is true and genuine in this historic kind of
writing, from what is false and counterfeit. Indeed, it seems likely
that some such mark may shortly become necessary, since the favourable
reception which two or three authors have lately procured for their
works of this nature from the public, will probably serve as an
encouragement to many others to undertake the like. Thus a swarm of
foolish novels and monstrous romances will be produced, either to the
great impoverishing of booksellers, or to the great loss of time and
depravation of morals in the reader; nay, often to the spreading of
scandal and calumny, and to the prejudice of the characters of many
worthy and honest people.
I question not but the ingenious author of the Spectator was
principally induced to prefix Greek and Latin mottos to every paper,
from the same consideration of guarding against the pursuit of those
scribblers, who having no talents of a writer but what is taught by
the writing-master, are yet nowise afraid nor ashamed to assume the
same titles with the greatest genius, than their good brother in the
fable was of braying in the lion's skin.
By the device therefore of his motto, it became impracticable for any
man to presume to imitate the Spectators, without understanding at
least one sentence in the learned languages. In the same manner I have
now secured myself from the imitation of those who are utterly
incapable of any degree of reflection, and whose learning is not equal
to an essay.
I would not be here understood to insinuate, that the greatest merit
of such historical productions can ever lie in these introductory
chapters; but, in fact, those parts which contain mere narrative only,
afford much more encouragement to the pen of an imitator, than those
which are composed of observation and reflection. Here I mean such
imitators as Rowe was of Shakespear, or as Horace hints some of the
Romans were of Cato, by bare feet and sour faces.
To invent good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very rare
talents, and yet I have observed few persons who have scrupled to aim
at both: and if we examine the romances and novels with which the
world abounds, I think we may fairly conclude, that most of the
authors would not have attempted to show their teeth (if the
expression may be allowed me) in any other way of writing; nor could
indeed have strung together a dozen sentences on any other subject
whatever.
_Scribimus indocti doctique passim_,[*]
[*] --Each desperate blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the trade of every living wight.--FRANCIS.
may be more truly said of the historian and biographer, than of any
other species of writing; for all the arts and sciences (even
criticism itself) require some little degree of learning and
knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may perhaps be thought an exception; but
then it demands numbers, or something like numbers: whereas, to the
composition of novels and romances, nothing is necessary but paper,
pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using them. This, I
conceive, their productions show to be the opinion of the authors
themselves: and this must be the opinion of their readers, if indeed
there be any such.
Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world, who
always denominate the whole from the majority, have cast on all
historical writers who do not draw their materials from records. And
it is the apprehension of this contempt that hath made us so
cautiously avoid the term romance, a name with which we might
otherwise have been well enough contented. Though, as we have good
authority for all our characters, no less indeed than the vast
authentic doomsday-book of nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our labours
have sufficient title to the name of history. Certainly they deserve
some distinction from those works, which one of the wittiest of men
regarded only as proceeding from a _pruritus_, or indeed rather from a
looseness of the brain.
But besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful
as well as entertaining of all kinds of writing, there is just reason
to apprehend, that by encouraging such authors we shall propagate much
dishonour of another kind; I mean to the characters of many good and
valuable members of society; for the dullest writers, no more than the
dullest companions, are always inoffensive. They have both enough of
language to be indecent and abusive. And surely if the opinion just
above cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so nastily derived
should be nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make others so.
To prevent therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of
leisure, of letters, and of the liberty of the press, especially as
the world seems at present to be more than usually threatened with
them, I shall here venture to mention some qualifications, every one
of which are in a pretty high degree necessary to this order of
historians.
The first is, genius, without a full vein of which no study, says
Horace, can avail us. By genius I would understand that power or
rather those powers of the mind, which are capable of penetrating into
all things within our reach and knowledge, and of distinguishing their
essential differences. These are no other than invention and judgment;
and they are both called by the collective name of genius, as they are
of those gifts of nature which we bring with us into the world.
Concerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very great
errors; for by invention, I believe, is generally understood a
creative faculty, which would indeed prove most romance writers to
have the highest pretensions to it; whereas by invention is really
meant no more (and so the word signifies) than discovery, or finding
out; or to explain it at large, a quick and sagacious penetration into
the true essence of all the objects of our contemplation. This, I
think, can rarely exist without the concomitancy of judgment; for how
we can be said to have discovered the true essence of two things,
without discerning their difference, seems to me hard to conceive. Now
this last is the undisputed province of judgment, and yet some few men
of wit have agreed with all the dull fellows in the world in
representing these two to have been seldom or never the property of
one and the same person.
But though they should be so, they are not sufficient for our purpose,
without a good share of learning; for which I could again cite the
authority of Horace, and of many others, if any was necessary to prove
that tools are of no service to a workman, when they are not sharpened
by art, or when he wants rules to direct him in his work, or hath no
matter to work upon. All these uses are supplied by learning; for
nature can only furnish us with capacity; or, as I have chose to
illustrate it, with the tools of our profession; learning must fit
them for use, must direct them in it, and, lastly, must contribute
part at least of the materials. A competent knowledge of history and
of the belles-lettres is here absolutely necessary; and without this
share of knowledge at least, to affect the character of an historian,
is as vain as to endeavour at building a house without timber or
mortar, or brick or stone. Homer and Milton, who, though they added
the ornament of numbers to their works, were both historians of our
order, were masters of all the learning of their times.
Again, there is another sort of knowledge, beyond the power of
learning to bestow, and this is to be had by conversation. So
necessary is this to the understanding the characters of men, that
none are more ignorant of them than those learned pedants whose lives
have been entirely consumed in colleges, and among books; for however
exquisitely human nature may have been described by writers, the true
practical system can be learnt only in the world. Indeed the like
happens in every other kind of knowledge. Neither physic nor law are
to be practically known from books. Nay, the farmer, the planter, the
gardener, must perfect by experience what he hath acquired the
rudiments of by reading. How accurately soever the ingenious Mr Miller
may have described the plant, he himself would advise his disciple to
see it in the garden. As we must perceive, that after the nicest
strokes of a Shakespear or a Jonson, of a Wycherly or an Otway, some
touches of nature will escape the reader, which the judicious action
of a Garrick, of a Cibber, or a Clive,[*] can convey to him; so, on the
real stage, the character shows himself in a stronger and bolder light
than he can be described. And if this be the case in those fine and
nervous descriptions which great authors themselves have taken from
life, how much more strongly will it hold when the writer himself
takes his lines not from nature, but from books? Such characters are
only the faint copy of a copy, and can have neither the justness nor
spirit of an original.
[*] There is a peculiar propriety in mentioning this great actor,
and these two most justly celebrated actresses, in this place, as
they have all formed themselves on the study of nature only, and not
on the imitation of their predecessors. Hence they have been able to
excel all who have gone before them; a degree of merit which the
servile herd of imitators can never possibly arrive at.
Now this conversation in our historian must be universal, that is,
with all ranks and degrees of men; for the knowledge of what is called
high life will not instruct him in low; nor, _e converso_, will his
being acquainted with the inferior part of mankind teach him the
manners of the superior. And though it may be thought that the
knowledge of either may sufficiently enable him to describe at least
that in which he hath been conversant, yet he will even here fall
greatly short of perfection; for the follies of either rank do in
reality illustrate each other. For instance, the affectation of high
life appears more glaring and ridiculous from the simplicity of the
low; and again, the rudeness and barbarity of this latter, strikes
with much stronger ideas of absurdity, when contrasted with, and
opposed to, the politeness which controuls the former. Besides, to say
the truth, the manners of our historian will be improved by both these
conversations; for in the one he will easily find examples of
plainness, honesty, and sincerity; in the other of refinement,
elegance, and a liberality of spirit; which last quality I myself have
scarce ever seen in men of low birth and education.
Nor will all the qualities I have hitherto given my historian avail
him, unless he have what is generally meant by a good heart, and be
capable of feeling. The author who will make me weep, says Horace,
must first weep himself. In reality, no man can paint a distress well
which he doth not feel while he is painting it; nor do I doubt, but
that the most pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears.
In the same manner it is with the ridiculous. I am convinced I never
make my reader laugh heartily but where I have laughed before him;
unless it should happen at any time, that instead of laughing with me
he should be inclined to laugh at me. Perhaps this may have been the
case at some passages in this chapter, from which apprehension I will
here put an end to it.
Chapter ii.
Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed, which Mr Jones met with
in his walk with the Man of the Hill.
Aurora now first opened her casement, _Anglice_ the day began to
break, when Jones walked forth in company with the stranger, and
mounted Mazard Hill; of which they had no sooner gained the summit
than one of the most noble prospects in the world presented itself to
their view, and which we would likewise present to the reader, but for
two reasons: first, we despair of making those who have seen this
prospect admire our description; secondly, we very much doubt whether
those who have not seen it would understand it.
Jones stood for some minutes fixed in one posture, and directing his
eyes towards the south; upon which the old gentleman asked, What he
was looking at with so much attention? “Alas! sir,” answered he with a
sigh, “I was endeavouring to trace out my own journey hither. Good
heavens! what a distance is Gloucester from us! What a vast track of
land must be between me and my own home!”--“Ay, ay, young gentleman,”
cries the other, “and by your sighing, from what you love better than
your own home, or I am mistaken. I perceive now the object of your
contemplation is not within your sight, and yet I fancy you have a
pleasure in looking that way.” Jones answered with a smile, “I find,
old friend, you have not yet forgot the sensations of your youth. I
own my thoughts were employed as you have guessed.”
They now walked to that part of the hill which looks to the
north-west, and which hangs over a vast and extensive wood. Here they
were no sooner arrived than they heard at a distance the most violent
screams of a woman, proceeding from the wood below them. Jones
listened a moment, and then, without saying a word to his companion
(for indeed the occasion seemed sufficiently pressing), ran, or rather
slid, down the hill, and, without the least apprehension or concern
for his own safety, made directly to the thicket, whence the sound had
issued.
He had not entered far into the wood before he beheld a most shocking
sight indeed, a woman stript half naked, under the hands of a ruffian,
who had put his garter round her neck, and was endeavouring to draw
her up to a tree. Jones asked no questions at this interval, but fell
instantly upon the villain, and made such good use of his trusty oaken
stick that he laid him sprawling on the ground before he could defend
himself, indeed almost before he knew he was attacked; nor did he
cease the prosecution of his blows till the woman herself begged him
to forbear, saying, she believed he had sufficiently done his
business.
The poor wretch then fell upon her knees to Jones, and gave him a
thousand thanks for her deliverance. He presently lifted her up, and
told her he was highly pleased with the extraordinary accident which
had sent him thither for her relief, where it was so improbable she
should find any; adding, that Heaven seemed to have designed him as
the happy instrument of her protection. “Nay,” answered she, “I could
almost conceive you to be some good angel; and, to say the truth, you
look more like an angel than a man in my eye.” Indeed he was a
charming figure; and if a very fine person, and a most comely set of
features, adorned with youth, health, strength, freshness, spirit, and
good-nature, can make a man resemble an angel, he certainly had that
resemblance.
The redeemed captive had not altogether so much of the human-angelic
species: she seemed to be at least of the middle age, nor had her face
much appearance of beauty; but her cloaths being torn from all the
upper part of her body, her breasts, which were well formed and
extremely white, attracted the eyes of her deliverer, and for a few
moments they stood silent, and gazing at each other; till the ruffian
on the ground beginning to move, Jones took the garter which had been
intended for another purpose, and bound both his hands behind him. And
now, on contemplating his face, he discovered, greatly to his
surprize, and perhaps not a little to his satisfaction, this very
person to be no other than ensign Northerton. Nor had the ensign
forgotten his former antagonist, whom he knew the moment he came to
himself. His surprize was equal to that of Jones; but I conceive his
pleasure was rather less on this occasion.
Jones helped Northerton upon his legs, and then looking him stedfastly
in the face, “I fancy, sir,” said he, “you did not expect to meet me
any more in this world, and I confess I had as little expectation to
find you here. However, fortune, I see, hath brought us once more
together, and hath given me satisfaction for the injury I have
received, even without my own knowledge.”
“It is very much like a man of honour, indeed,” answered Northerton,
“to take satisfaction by knocking a man down behind his back. Neither
am I capable of giving you satisfaction here, as I have no sword; but
if you dare behave like a gentleman, let us go where I can furnish
myself with one, and I will do by you as a man of honour ought.”
“Doth it become such a villain as you are,” cries Jones, “to
contaminate the name of honour by assuming it? But I shall waste no
time in discourse with you. Justice requires satisfaction of you now,
and shall have it.” Then turning to the woman, he asked her, if she
was near her home; or if not, whether she was acquainted with any
house in the neighbourhood, where she might procure herself some
decent cloaths, in order to proceed to a justice of the peace.
She answered she was an entire stranger in that part of the world.
Jones then recollecting himself, said, he had a friend near who would
direct them; indeed, he wondered at his not following; but, in fact,
the good Man of the Hill, when our heroe departed, sat himself down on
the brow, where, though he had a gun in his hand, he with great
patience and unconcern had attended the issue.
Jones then stepping without the wood, perceived the old man sitting as
we have just described him; he presently exerted his utmost agility,
and with surprizing expedition ascended the hill.
The old man advised him to carry the woman to Upton, which, he said,
was the nearest town, and there he would be sure of furnishing her
with all manner of conveniencies. Jones having received his direction
to the place, took his leave of the Man of the Hill, and, desiring him
to direct Partridge the same way, returned hastily to the wood.
Our heroe, at his departure to make this enquiry of his friend, had
considered, that as the ruffian's hands were tied behind him, he was
incapable of executing any wicked purposes on the poor woman. Besides,
he knew he should not be beyond the reach of her voice, and could
return soon enough to prevent any mischief. He had moreover declared
to the villain, that if he attempted the least insult, he would be
himself immediately the executioner of vengeance on him. But Jones
unluckily forgot, that though the hands of Northerton were tied, his
legs were at liberty; nor did he lay the least injunction on the
prisoner that he should not make what use of these he pleased.
Northerton therefore having given no parole of that kind, thought he
might without any breach of honour depart; not being obliged, as he
imagined, by any rules, to wait for a formal discharge. He therefore
took up his legs, which were at liberty, and walked off through the
wood, which favoured his retreat; nor did the woman, whose eyes were
perhaps rather turned toward her deliverer, once think of his escape,
or give herself any concern or trouble to prevent it.
Jones therefore, at his return, found the woman alone. He would have
spent some time in searching for Northerton, but she would not permit
him; earnestly entreating that he would accompany her to the town
whither they had been directed. “As to the fellow's escape,” said she,
“it gives me no uneasiness; for philosophy and Christianity both
preach up forgiveness of injuries. But for you, sir, I am concerned at
the trouble I give you; nay, indeed, my nakedness may well make me
ashamed to look you in the face; and if it was not for the sake of
your protection, I should wish to go alone.”
Jones offered her his coat; but, I know not for what reason, she
absolutely refused the most earnest solicitations to accept it. He
then begged her to forget both the causes of her confusion. “With
regard to the former,” says he, “I have done no more than my duty in
protecting you; and as for the latter, I will entirely remove it, by
walking before you all the way; for I would not have my eyes offend
you, and I could not answer for my power of resisting the attractive
charms of so much beauty.”
Thus our heroe and the redeemed lady walked in the same manner as
Orpheus and Eurydice marched heretofore; but though I cannot believe
that Jones was designedly tempted by his fair one to look behind him,
yet as she frequently wanted his assistance to help her over stiles,
and had besides many trips and other accidents, he was often obliged
to turn about. However, he had better fortune than what attended poor
Orpheus, for he brought his companion, or rather follower, safe into
the famous town of Upton.
Chapter iii.
The arrival of Mr Jones with his lady at the inn; with a very full
description of the battle of Upton.
Though the reader, we doubt not, is very eager to know who this lady
was, and how she fell into the hands of Mr Northerton, we must beg him
to suspend his curiosity for a short time, as we are obliged, for some
very good reasons which hereafter perhaps he may guess, to delay his
satisfaction a little longer.
Mr Jones and his fair companion no sooner entered the town, than they
went directly to that inn which in their eyes presented the fairest
appearance to the street. Here Jones, having ordered a servant to show
a room above stairs, was ascending, when the dishevelled fair, hastily
following, was laid hold on by the master of the house, who cried,
“Heyday, where is that beggar wench going? Stay below stairs, I desire
you.” But Jones at that instant thundered from above, “Let the lady
come up,” in so authoritative a voice, that the good man instantly
withdrew his hands, and the lady made the best of her way to the
chamber.
Here Jones wished her joy of her safe arrival, and then departed, in
order, as he promised, to send the landlady up with some cloaths. The
poor woman thanked him heartily for all his kindness, and said, she
hoped she should see him again soon, to thank him a thousand times
more. During this short conversation, she covered her white bosom as
well as she could possibly with her arms; for Jones could not avoid
stealing a sly peep or two, though he took all imaginable care to
avoid giving any offence.
Our travellers had happened to take up their residence at a house of
exceeding good repute, whither Irish ladies of strict virtue, and many
northern lasses of the same predicament, were accustomed to resort in
their way to Bath. The landlady therefore would by no means have
admitted any conversation of a disreputable kind to pass under her
roof. Indeed, so foul and contagious are all such proceedings, that
they contaminate the very innocent scenes where they are committed,
and give the name of a bad house, or of a house of ill repute, to all
those where they are suffered to be carried on.
Not that I would intimate that such strict chastity as was preserved
in the temple of Vesta can possibly be maintained at a public inn. My
good landlady did not hope for such a blessing, nor would any of the
ladies I have spoken of, or indeed any others of the most rigid note,
have expected or insisted on any such thing. But to exclude all vulgar
concubinage, and to drive all whores in rags from within the walls, is
within the power of every one. This my landlady very strictly adhered
to, and this her virtuous guests, who did not travel in rags, would
very reasonably have expected of her.
Now it required no very blameable degree of suspicion to imagine that
Mr Jones and his ragged companion had certain purposes in their
intention, which, though tolerated in some Christian countries,
connived at in others, and practised in all, are however as expressly
forbidden as murder, or any other horrid vice, by that religion which
is universally believed in those countries. The landlady, therefore,
had no sooner received an intimation of the entrance of the above-said
persons than she began to meditate the most expeditious means for
their expulsion. In order to this, she had provided herself with a
long and deadly instrument, with which, in times of peace, the
chambermaid was wont to demolish the labours of the industrious
spider. In vulgar phrase, she had taken up the broomstick, and was
just about to sally from the kitchen, when Jones accosted her with a
demand of a gown and other vestments, to cover the half-naked woman
upstairs.
Nothing can be more provoking to the human temper, nor more dangerous
to that cardinal virtue, patience, than solicitations of extraordinary
offices of kindness on behalf of those very persons with whom we are
highly incensed. For this reason Shakespear hath artfully introduced
his Desdemona soliciting favours for Cassio of her husband, as the
means of inflaming, not only his jealousy, but his rage, to the
highest pitch of madness; and we find the unfortunate Moor less able
to command his passion on this occasion, than even when he beheld his
valued present to his wife in the hands of his supposed rival. In
fact, we regard these efforts as insults on our understanding, and to
such the pride of man is very difficultly brought to submit.
My landlady, though a very good-tempered woman, had, I suppose, some
of this pride in her composition, for Jones had scarce ended his
request, when she fell upon him with a certain weapon, which, though
it be neither long, nor sharp, nor hard, nor indeed threatens from its
appearance with either death or wound, hath been however held in great
dread and abhorrence by many wise men--nay, by many brave ones;
insomuch, that some who have dared to look into the mouth of a loaded
cannon, have not dared to look into a mouth where this weapon was
brandished; and rather than run the hazard of its execution, have
contented themselves with making a most pitiful and sneaking figure in
the eyes of all their acquaintance.
To confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones was one of these; for
though he was attacked and violently belaboured with the aforesaid
weapon, he could not be provoked to make any resistance; but in a most
cowardly manner applied, with many entreaties, to his antagonist to
desist from pursuing her blows; in plain English, he only begged her
with the utmost earnestness to hear him; but before he could obtain
his request, my landlord himself entered into the fray, and embraced
that side of the cause which seemed to stand very little in need of
assistance.
There are a sort of heroes who are supposed to be determined in their
chusing or avoiding a conflict by the character and behaviour of the
person whom they are to engage. These are said to know their men, and
Jones, I believe, knew his woman; for though he had been so submissive
to her, he was no sooner attacked by her husband, than he demonstrated
an immediate spirit of resentment, and enjoined him silence under a
very severe penalty; no less than that, I think, of being converted
into fuel for his own fire.
The husband, with great indignation, but with a mixture of pity,
answered, “You must pray first to be made able. I believe I am a
better man than yourself; ay, every way, that I am;” and presently
proceeded to discharge half-a-dozen whores at the lady above stairs,
the last of which had scarce issued from his lips, when a swinging
blow from the cudgel that Jones carried in his hand assaulted him over
the shoulders.
It is a question whether the landlord or the landlady was the most
expeditious in returning this blow. My landlord, whose hands were
empty, fell to with his fist, and the good wife, uplifting her broom
and aiming at the head of Jones, had probably put an immediate end to
the fray, and to Jones likewise, had not the descent of this broom
been prevented--not by the miraculous intervention of any heathen
deity, but by a very natural though fortunate accident, viz., by the
arrival of Partridge; who entered the house at that instant (for fear
had caused him to run every step from the hill), and who, seeing the
danger which threatened his master or companion (which you chuse to
call him), prevented so sad a catastrophe, by catching hold of the
landlady's arm, as it was brandished aloft in the air.
The landlady soon perceived the impediment which prevented her blow;
and being unable to rescue her arm from the hands of Partridge, she
let fall the broom; and then leaving Jones to the discipline of her
husband, she fell with the utmost fury on that poor fellow, who had
already given some intimation of himself, by crying, “Zounds! do you
intend to kill my friend?”
Partridge, though not much addicted to battle, would not however stand
still when his friend was attacked; nor was he much displeased with
that part of the combat which fell to his share; he therefore returned
my landlady's blows as soon as he received them: and now the fight was
obstinately maintained on all parts, and it seemed doubtful to which
side Fortune would incline, when the naked lady, who had listened at
the top of the stairs to the dialogue which preceded the engagement,
descended suddenly from above, and without weighing the unfair
inequality of two to one, fell upon the poor woman who was boxing with
Partridge; nor did that great champion desist, but rather redoubled
his fury, when he found fresh succours were arrived to his assistance.
Victory must now have fallen to the side of the travellers (for the
bravest troops must yield to numbers) had not Susan the chambermaid
come luckily to support her mistress. This Susan was as two-handed a
wench (according to the phrase) as any in the country, and would, I
believe, have beat the famed Thalestris herself, or any of her subject
Amazons; for her form was robust and man-like, and every way made for
such encounters. As her hands and arms were formed to give blows with
great mischief to an enemy, so was her face as well contrived to
receive blows without any great injury to herself, her nose being
already flat to her face; her lips were so large, that no swelling
could be perceived in them, and moreover they were so hard, that a
fist could hardly make any impression on them. Lastly, her cheek-bones
stood out, as if nature had intended them for two bastions to defend
her eyes in those encounters for which she seemed so well calculated,
and to which she was most wonderfully well inclined.
This fair creature entering the field of battle, immediately filed to
that wing where her mistress maintained so unequal a fight with one of
either sex. Here she presently challenged Partridge to single combat.
He accepted the challenge, and a most desperate fight began between
them.
Now the dogs of war being let loose, began to lick their bloody lips;
now Victory, with golden wings, hung hovering in the air; now Fortune,
taking her scales from her shelf, began to weigh the fates of Tom
Jones, his female companion, and Partridge, against the landlord, his
wife, and maid; all which hung in exact balance before her; when a
good-natured accident put suddenly an end to the bloody fray, with
which half of the combatants had already sufficiently feasted. This
accident was the arrival of a coach and four; upon which my landlord
and landlady immediately desisted from fighting, and at their entreaty
obtained the same favour of their antagonists: but Susan was not so
kind to Partridge; for that Amazonian fair having overthrown and
bestrid her enemy, was now cuffing him lustily with both her hands,
without any regard to his request of a cessation of arms, or to those
loud exclamations of murder which he roared forth.
No sooner, however, had Jones quitted the landlord, than he flew to
the rescue of his defeated companion, from whom he with much
difficulty drew off the enraged chambermaid: but Partridge was not
immediately sensible of his deliverance, for he still lay flat on the
floor, guarding his face with his hands; nor did he cease roaring till
Jones had forced him to look up, and to perceive that the battle was
at an end.
The landlord, who had no visible hurt, and the landlady, hiding her
well-scratched face with her handkerchief, ran both hastily to the
door to attend the coach, from which a young lady and her maid now
alighted. These the landlady presently ushered into that room where Mr
Jones had at first deposited his fair prize, as it was the best
apartment in the house. Hither they were obliged to pass through the
field of battle, which they did with the utmost haste, covering their
faces with their handkerchiefs, as desirous to avoid the notice of any
one. Indeed their caution was quite unnecessary; for the poor
unfortunate Helen, the fatal cause of all the bloodshed, was entirely
taken up in endeavouring to conceal her own face, and Jones was no
less occupied in rescuing Partridge from the fury of Susan; which
being happily effected, the poor fellow immediately departed to the
pump to wash his face, and to stop that bloody torrent which Susan had
plentifully set a-flowing from his nostrils.
Chapter iv.
In which the arrival of a man of war puts a final end to hostilities,
and causes the conclusion of a firm and lasting peace between all
parties.
A serjeant and a file of musqueteers, with a deserter in their
custody, arrived about this time. The serjeant presently enquired for
the principal magistrate of the town, and was informed by my landlord,
that he himself was vested in that office. He then demanded his
billets, together with a mug of beer, and complaining it was cold,
spread himself before the kitchen fire.
Mr Jones was at this time comforting the poor distressed lady, who sat
down at a table in the kitchen, and leaning her head upon her arm, was
bemoaning her misfortunes; but lest my fair readers should be in pain
concerning a particular circumstance, I think proper here to acquaint
them, that before she had quitted the room above stairs, she had so
well covered herself with a pillowbeer which she there found, that her
regard to decency was not in the least violated by the presence of so
many men as were now in the room.
One of the soldiers now went up to the serjeant, and whispered
something in his ear; upon which he stedfastly fixed his eyes on the
lady, and having looked at her for near a minute, he came up to her,
saying, “I ask pardon, madam; but I am certain I am not deceived; you
can be no other person than Captain Waters's lady?”
The poor woman, who in her present distress had very little regarded
the face of any person present, no sooner looked at the serjeant than
she presently recollected him, and calling him by his name, answered,
“That she was indeed the unhappy person he imagined her to be;” but
added, “I wonder any one should know me in this disguise.” To which
the serjeant replied, “He was very much surprized to see her ladyship
in such a dress, and was afraid some accident had happened to
her.”--“An accident hath happened to me, indeed,” says she, “and I am
highly obliged to this gentleman” (pointing to Jones) “that it was not
a fatal one, or that I am now living to mention it.”--“Whatever the
gentleman hath done,” cries the serjeant, “I am sure the captain will
make him amends for it; and if I can be of any service, your ladyship
may command me, and I shall think myself very happy to have it in my
power to serve your ladyship; and so indeed may any one, for I know
the captain will well reward them for it.”
The landlady, who heard from the stairs all that past between the
serjeant and Mrs Waters, came hastily down, and running directly up to
her, began to ask pardon for the offences she had committed, begging
that all might be imputed to ignorance of her quality: for, “Lud!
madam,” says she, “how should I have imagined that a lady of your
fashion would appear in such a dress? I am sure, madam, if I had once
suspected that your ladyship was your ladyship, I would sooner have
burnt my tongue out, than have said what I have said; and I hope your
ladyship will accept of a gown, till you can get your own cloaths.”
“Prithee, woman,” says Mrs Waters, “cease your impertinence: how can
you imagine I should concern myself about anything which comes from
the lips of such low creatures as yourself? But I am surprized at your
assurance in thinking, after what is past, that I will condescend to
put on any of your dirty things. I would have you know, creature, I
have a spirit above that.”
Here Jones interfered, and begged Mrs Waters to forgive the landlady,
and to accept her gown: “for I must confess,” cries he, “our
appearance was a little suspicious when first we came in; and I am
well assured all this good woman did was, as she professed, out of
regard to the reputation of her house.”
“Yes, upon my truly was it,” says she: “the gentleman speaks very much
like a gentleman, and I see very plainly is so; and to be certain the
house is well known to be a house of as good reputation as any on the
road, and though I say it, is frequented by gentry of the best
quality, both Irish and English. I defy anybody to say black is my
eye, for that matter. And, as I was saying, if I had known your
ladyship to be your ladyship, I would as soon have burnt my fingers as
have affronted your ladyship; but truly where gentry come and spend
their money, I am not willing that they should be scandalized by a set
of poor shabby vermin, that, wherever they go, leave more lice than
money behind them; such folks never raise my compassion, for to be
certain it is foolish to have any for them; and if our justices did as
they ought, they would be all whipt out of the kingdom, for to be
certain it is what is most fitting for them. But as for your ladyship,
I am heartily sorry your ladyship hath had a misfortune, and if your
ladyship will do me the honour to wear my cloaths till you can get
some of your ladyship's own, to be certain the best I have is at your
ladyship's service.”
Whether cold, shame, or the persuasions of Mr Jones prevailed most on
Mrs Waters, I will not determine, but she suffered herself to be
pacified by this speech of my landlady, and retired with that good
woman, in order to apparel herself in a decent manner.
My landlord was likewise beginning his oration to Jones, but was
presently interrupted by that generous youth, who shook him heartily
by the hand, and assured him of entire forgiveness, saying, “If you
are satisfied, my worthy friend, I promise you I am;” and indeed, in
one sense, the landlord had the better reason to be satisfied; for he
had received a bellyfull of drubbing, whereas Jones had scarce felt a
single blow.
Partridge, who had been all this time washing his bloody nose at the
pump, returned into the kitchen at the instant when his master and the
landlord were shaking hands with each other. As he was of a peaceable
disposition, he was pleased with those symptoms of reconciliation; and
though his face bore some marks of Susan's fist, and many more of her
nails, he rather chose to be contented with his fortune in the last
battle than to endeavour at bettering it in another.
The heroic Susan was likewise well contented with her victory, though
it had cost her a black eye, which Partridge had given her at the
first onset. Between these two, therefore, a league was struck, and
those hands which had been the instruments of war became now the
mediators of peace.
Matters were thus restored to a perfect calm; at which the serjeant,
though it may seem so contrary to the principles of his profession,
testified his approbation. “Why now, that's friendly,” said he; “d--n
me, I hate to see two people bear ill-will to one another after they
have had a tussel. The only way when friends quarrel is to see it out
fairly in a friendly manner, as a man may call it, either with a fist,
or sword, or pistol, according as they like, and then let it be all
over; for my own part, d--n me if ever I love my friend better than
when I am fighting with him! To bear malice is more like a Frenchman
than an Englishman.”
He then proposed a libation as a necessary part of the ceremony at all
treaties of this kind. Perhaps the reader may here conclude that he
was well versed in antient history; but this, though highly probable,
as he cited no authority to support the custom, I will not affirm with
any confidence. Most likely indeed it is, that he founded his opinion
on very good authority, since he confirmed it with many violent oaths.
Jones no sooner heard the proposal than, immediately agreeing with the
learned serjeant, he ordered a bowl, or rather a large mug, filled
with the liquor used on these occasions, to be brought in, and then
began the ceremony himself. He placed his right hand in that of the
landlord, and, seizing the bowl with his left, uttered the usual
words, and then made his libation. After which, the same was observed
by all present. Indeed, there is very little need of being particular
in describing the whole form, as it differed so little from those
libations of which so much is recorded in antient authors and their
modern transcribers. The principal difference lay in two instances;
for, first, the present company poured the liquor only down their
throats; and, secondly, the serjeant, who officiated as priest, drank
the last; but he preserved, I believe, the antient form, in swallowing
much the largest draught of the whole company, and in being the only
person present who contributed nothing towards the libation besides
his good offices in assisting at the performance.
The good people now ranged themselves round the kitchen fire, where
good humour seemed to maintain an absolute dominion; and Partridge not
only forgot his shameful defeat, but converted hunger into thirst, and
soon became extremely facetious. We must however quit this agreeable
assembly for a while, and attend Mr Jones to Mrs Waters's apartment,
where the dinner which he had bespoke was now on the table. Indeed, it
took no long time in preparing, having been all drest three days
before, and required nothing more from the cook than to warm it over
again.
Chapter v.
An apology for all heroes who have good stomachs, with a description
of a battle of the amorous kind.
Heroes, notwithstanding the high ideas which, by the means of
flatterers, they may entertain of themselves, or the world may
conceive of them, have certainly more of mortal than divine about
them. However elevated their minds may be, their bodies at least
(which is much the major part of most) are liable to the worst
infirmities, and subject to the vilest offices of human nature. Among
these latter, the act of eating, which hath by several wise men been
considered as extremely mean and derogatory from the philosophic
dignity, must be in some measure performed by the greatest prince,
heroe, or philosopher upon earth; nay, sometimes Nature hath been so
frolicsome as to exact of these dignified characters a much more
exorbitant share of this office than she hath obliged those of the
lowest order to perform.
To say the truth, as no known inhabitant of this globe is really more
than man, so none need be ashamed of submitting to what the
necessities of man demand; but when those great personages I have just
mentioned condescend to aim at confining such low offices to
themselves--as when, by hoarding or destroying, they seem desirous to
prevent any others from eating--then they surely become very low and
despicable.
Now, after this short preface, we think it no disparagement to our
heroe to mention the immoderate ardour with which he laid about him at
this season. Indeed, it may be doubted whether Ulysses, who by the way
seems to have had the best stomach of all the heroes in that eating
poem of the Odyssey, ever made a better meal. Three pounds at least of
that flesh which formerly had contributed to the composition of an ox
was now honoured with becoming part of the individual Mr Jones.
This particular we thought ourselves obliged to mention, as it may
account for our heroe's temporary neglect of his fair companion, who
eat but very little, and was indeed employed in considerations of a
very different nature, which passed unobserved by Jones, till he had
entirely satisfied that appetite which a fast of twenty-four hours had
procured him; but his dinner was no sooner ended than his attention to
other matters revived; with these matters therefore we shall now
proceed to acquaint the reader.
Mr Jones, of whose personal accomplishments we have hitherto said very
little, was, in reality, one of the handsomest young fellows in the
world. His face, besides being the picture of health, had in it the
most apparent marks of sweetness and good-nature. These qualities were
indeed so characteristical in his countenance, that, while the spirit
and sensibility in his eyes, though they must have been perceived by
an accurate observer, might have escaped the notice of the less
discerning, so strongly was this good-nature painted in his look, that
it was remarked by almost every one who saw him.
It was, perhaps, as much owing to this as to a very fine complexion
that his face had a delicacy in it almost inexpressible, and which
might have given him an air rather too effeminate, had it not been
joined to a most masculine person and mien: which latter had as much
in them of the Hercules as the former had of the Adonis. He was
besides active, genteel, gay, and good-humoured; and had a flow of
animal spirits which enlivened every conversation where he was
present.
When the reader hath duly reflected on these many charms which all
centered in our heroe, and considers at the same time the fresh
obligations which Mrs Waters had to him, it will be a mark more of
prudery than candour to entertain a bad opinion of her because she
conceived a very good opinion of him.
But, whatever censures may be passed upon her, it is my business to
relate matters of fact with veracity. Mrs Waters had, in truth, not
only a good opinion of our heroe, but a very great affection for him.
To speak out boldly at once, she was in love, according to the present
universally-received sense of that phrase, by which love is applied
indiscriminately to the desirable objects of all our passions,
appetites, and senses, and is understood to be that preference which
we give to one kind of food rather than to another.
But though the love to these several objects may possibly be one and
the same in all cases, its operations however must be allowed to be
different; for, how much soever we may be in love with an excellent
surloin of beef, or bottle of Burgundy; with a damask rose, or Cremona
fiddle; yet do we never smile, nor ogle, nor dress, nor flatter, nor
endeavour by any other arts or tricks to gain the affection of the
said beef, &c. Sigh indeed we sometimes may; but it is generally in
the absence, not in the presence, of the beloved object. For otherwise
we might possibly complain of their ingratitude and deafness, with the
same reason as Pasiphae doth of her bull, whom she endeavoured to
engage by all the coquetry practised with good success in the
drawing-room on the much more sensible as well as tender hearts of the
fine gentlemen there.
The contrary happens in that love which operates between persons of
the same species, but of different sexes. Here we are no sooner in
love than it becomes our principal care to engage the affection of the
object beloved. For what other purpose indeed are our youth instructed
in all the arts of rendering themselves agreeable? If it was not with
a view to this love, I question whether any of those trades which deal
in setting off and adorning the human person would procure a
livelihood. Nay, those great polishers of our manners, who are by some
thought to teach what principally distinguishes us from the brute
creation, even dancing-masters themselves, might possibly find no
place in society. In short, all the graces which young ladies and
young gentlemen too learn from others, and the many improvements
which, by the help of a looking-glass, they add of their own, are in
reality those very _spicula et faces amoris_ so often mentioned by
Ovid; or, as they are sometimes called in our own language, the whole
artillery of love.
Now Mrs Waters and our heroe had no sooner sat down together than the
former began to play this artillery upon the latter. But here, as we
are about to attempt a description hitherto unassayed either in prose
or verse, we think proper to invoke the assistance of certain aërial
beings, who will, we doubt not, come kindly to our aid on this
occasion.
“Say then, ye Graces! you that inhabit the heavenly mansions of
Seraphina's countenance; for you are truly divine, are always in her
presence, and well know all the arts of charming; say, what were the
weapons now used to captivate the heart of Mr Jones.”
“First, from two lovely blue eyes, whose bright orbs flashed lightning
at their discharge, flew forth two pointed ogles; but, happily for our
heroe, hit only a vast piece of beef which he was then conveying into
his plate, and harmless spent their force. The fair warrior perceived
their miscarriage, and immediately from her fair bosom drew forth a
deadly sigh. A sigh which none could have heard unmoved, and which was
sufficient at once to have swept off a dozen beaus; so soft, so sweet,
so tender, that the insinuating air must have found its subtle way to
the heart of our heroe, had it not luckily been driven from his ears
by the coarse bubbling of some bottled ale, which at that time he was
pouring forth. Many other weapons did she assay; but the god of eating
(if there be any such deity, for I do not confidently assert it)
preserved his votary; or perhaps it may not be _dignus vindice nodus_,
and the present security of Jones may be accounted for by natural
means; for as love frequently preserves from the attacks of hunger, so
may hunger possibly, in some cases, defend us against love.
“The fair one, enraged at her frequent disappointments, determined on
a short cessation of arms. Which interval she employed in making ready
every engine of amorous warfare for the renewing of the attack when
dinner should be over.
“No sooner then was the cloth removed than she again began her
operations. First, having planted her right eye sidewise against Mr
Jones, she shot from its corner a most penetrating glance; which,
though great part of its force was spent before it reached our heroe,
did not vent itself absolutely without effect. This the fair one
perceiving, hastily withdrew her eyes, and levelled them downwards, as
if she was concerned for what she had done; though by this means she
designed only to draw him from his guard, and indeed to open his eyes,
through which she intended to surprize his heart. And now, gently
lifting up those two bright orbs which had already begun to make an
impression on poor Jones, she discharged a volley of small charms at
once from her whole countenance in a smile. Not a smile of mirth, nor
of joy; but a smile of affection, which most ladies have always ready
at their command, and which serves them to show at once their
good-humour, their pretty dimples, and their white teeth.
“This smile our heroe received full in his eyes, and was immediately
staggered with its force. He then began to see the designs of the
enemy, and indeed to feel their success. A parley now was set on foot
between the parties; during which the artful fair so slily and
imperceptibly carried on her attack, that she had almost subdued the
heart of our heroe before she again repaired to acts of hostility. To
confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones maintained a kind of Dutch
defence, and treacherously delivered up the garrison, without duly
weighing his allegiance to the fair Sophia. In short, no sooner had
the amorous parley ended and the lady had unmasked the royal battery,
by carelessly letting her handkerchief drop from her neck, than the
heart of Mr Jones was entirely taken, and the fair conqueror enjoyed
the usual fruits of her victory.”
Here the Graces think proper to end their description, and here we
think proper to end the chapter.
Chapter vi.
A friendly conversation in the kitchen, which had a very common,
though not very friendly, conclusion.
While our lovers were entertaining themselves in the manner which is
partly described in the foregoing chapter, they were likewise
furnishing out an entertainment for their good friends in the kitchen.
And this in a double sense, by affording them matter for their
conversation, and, at the same time, drink to enliven their spirits.
There were now assembled round the kitchen fire, besides my landlord
and landlady, who occasionally went backward and forward, Mr
Partridge, the serjeant, and the coachman who drove the young lady and
her maid.
Partridge having acquainted the company with what he had learnt from
the Man of the Hill concerning the situation in which Mrs Waters had
been found by Jones, the serjeant proceeded to that part of her
history which was known to him. He said she was the wife of Mr Waters,
who was a captain in their regiment, and had often been with him at
quarters. “Some folks,” says he, “used indeed to doubt whether they
were lawfully married in a church or no. But, for my part, that's no
business of mine: I must own, if I was put to my corporal oath, I
believe she is little better than one of us; and I fancy the captain
may go to heaven when the sun shines upon a rainy day. But if he does,
that is neither here nor there; for he won't want company. And the
lady, to give the devil his due, is a very good sort of lady, and
loves the cloth, and is always desirous to do strict justice to it;
for she hath begged off many a poor soldier, and, by her good-will,
would never have any of them punished. But yet, to be sure, Ensign
Northerton and she were very well acquainted together at our last
quarters; that is the very right and truth of the matter. But the
captain he knows nothing about it; and as long as there is enough for
him too, what does it signify? He loves her not a bit the worse, and I
am certain would run any man through the body that was to abuse her;
therefore I won't abuse her, for my part. I only repeat what other
folks say; and, to be certain, what everybody says, there must be some
truth in.”--“Ay, ay, a great deal of truth, I warrant you,” cries
Partridge; “_Veritas odium parit_”--“All a parcel of scandalous
stuff,” answered the mistress of the house. “I am sure, now she is
drest, she looks like a very good sort of lady, and she behaves
herself like one; for she gave me a guinea for the use of my
cloaths.”--“A very good lady indeed!” cries the landlord; “and if you
had not been a little too hasty, you would not have quarrelled with
her as you did at first.”--“You need mention that with my truly!”
answered she: “if it had not been for your nonsense, nothing had
happened. You must be meddling with what did not belong to you, and
throw in your fool's discourse.”--“Well, well,” answered he; “what's
past cannot be mended, so there's an end of the matter.”--“Yes,” cries
she, “for this once; but will it be mended ever the more hereafter?
This is not the first time I have suffered for your numscull's pate. I
wish you would always hold your tongue in the house, and meddle only
in matters without doors, which concern you. Don't you remember what
happened about seven years ago?”--“Nay, my dear,” returned he, “don't
rip up old stories. Come, come, all's well, and I am sorry for what I
have done.” The landlady was going to reply, but was prevented by the
peace-making serjeant, sorely to the displeasure of Partridge, who was
a great lover of what is called fun, and a great promoter of those
harmless quarrels which tend rather to the production of comical than
tragical incidents.
The serjeant asked Partridge whither he and his master were travelling?
“None of your magisters,” answered Partridge; “I am no man's servant, I
assure you; for, though I have had misfortunes in the world, I write
gentleman after my name; and, as poor and simple as I may appear now, I
have taught grammar-school in my time; _sed hei mihi! non sum quod
fui_.”--“No offence, I hope, sir,” said the serjeant; “where, then, if
I may venture to be so bold, may you and your friend be
travelling?”--“You have now denominated us right,” says Partridge.
“_Amici sumus._ And I promise you my friend is one of the greatest
gentlemen in the kingdom” (at which words both landlord and landlady
pricked up their ears). “He is the heir of Squire Allworthy.”--“What,
the squire who doth so much good all over the country?” cries my
landlady. “Even he,” answered Partridge.--“Then I warrant,” says she,
“he'll have a swinging great estate hereafter.”--“Most certainly,”
answered Partridge.--“Well,” replied the landlady, “I thought the first
moment I saw him he looked like a good sort of gentleman; but my
husband here, to be sure, is wiser than anybody.”--“I own, my dear,”
cries he, “it was a mistake.”--“A mistake, indeed!” answered she; “but
when did you ever know me to make such mistakes?”--“But how comes it,
sir,” cries the landlord, “that such a great gentleman walks about the
country afoot?”--“I don't know,” returned Partridge; “great gentlemen
have humours sometimes. He hath now a dozen horses and servants at
Gloucester; and nothing would serve him, but last night, it being very
hot weather, he must cool himself with a walk to yon high hill, whither
I likewise walked with him to bear him company; but if ever you catch
me there again: for I was never so frightened in all my life. We met
with the strangest man there.”--“I'll be hanged,” cries the landlord,
“if it was not the Man of the Hill, as they call him; if indeed he be a
man; but I know several people who believe it is the devil that lives
there.”--“Nay, nay, like enough,” says Partridge; “and now you put me
in the head of it, I verily and sincerely believe it was the devil,
though I could not perceive his cloven foot: but perhaps he might have
the power given him to hide that, since evil spirits can appear in what
shapes they please.”--“And pray, sir,” says the serjeant, “no offence,
I hope; but pray what sort of a gentleman is the devil? For I have
heard some of our officers say there is no such person; and that it is
only a trick of the parsons, to prevent their being broke; for, if it
was publickly known that there was no devil, the parsons would be of no
more use than we are in time of peace.”--“Those officers,” says
Partridge, “are very great scholars, I suppose.”--“Not much of
schollards neither,” answered the serjeant; “they have not half your
learning, sir, I believe; and, to be sure, I thought there must be a
devil, notwithstanding what they said, though one of them was a
captain; for methought, thinks I to myself, if there be no devil, how
can wicked people be sent to him? and I have read all that upon a
book.”--“Some of your officers,” quoth the landlord, “will find there
is a devil, to their shame, I believe. I don't question but he'll pay
off some old scores upon my account. Here was one quartered upon me
half a year, who had the conscience to take up one of my best beds,
though he hardly spent a shilling a day in the house, and suffered his
men to roast cabbages at the kitchen fire, because I would not give
them a dinner on a Sunday. Every good Christian must desire there
should be a devil for the punishment of such wretches.”--“Harkee,
landlord,” said the serjeant, “don't abuse the cloth, for I won't take
it.”--“D--n the cloth!” answered the landlord, “I have suffered enough
by them.”--“Bear witness, gentlemen,” says the serjeant, “he curses the
king, and that's high treason.”--“I curse the king! you villain,” said
the landlord. “Yes, you did,” cries the serjeant; “you cursed the
cloth, and that's cursing the king. It's all one and the same; for
every man who curses the cloth would curse the king if he durst; so for
matter o' that, it's all one and the same thing.”--“Excuse me there, Mr
Serjeant,” quoth Partridge, “that's a _non sequitur_.”--“None of your
outlandish linguo,” answered the serjeant, leaping from his seat; “I
will not sit still and hear the cloth abused.”--“You mistake me,
friend,” cries Partridge. “I did not mean to abuse the cloth; I only
said your conclusion was a _non sequitur_.[*]”--“You
are another,” cries the serjeant,” an you come to that. No more a
_sequitur_ than yourself. You are a pack of rascals, and I'll prove it;
for I will fight the best man of you all for twenty pound.” This
challenge effectually silenced Partridge, whose stomach for drubbing
did not so soon return after the hearty meal which he had lately been
treated with; but the coachman, whose bones were less sore, and whose
appetite for fighting was somewhat sharper, did not so easily brook the
affront, of which he conceived some part at least fell to his share. He
started therefore from his seat, and, advancing to the serjeant, swore
he looked on himself to be as good a man as any in the army, and
offered to box for a guinea. The military man accepted the combat, but
refused the wager; upon which both immediately stript and engaged, till
the driver of horses was so well mauled by the leader of men, that he
was obliged to exhaust his small remainder of breath in begging for
quarter.
[*] This word, which the serjeant unhappily mistook for an affront,
is a term in logic, and means that the conclusion does not follow
from the premises.
The young lady was now desirous to depart, and had given orders for
her coach to be prepared; but all in vain, for the coachman was
disabled from performing his office for that evening. An antient
heathen would perhaps have imputed this disability to the god of
drink, no less than to the god of war; for, in reality, both the
combatants had sacrificed as well to the former deity as to the
latter. To speak plainly, they were both dead drunk, nor was Partridge
in a much better situation. As for my landlord, drinking was his
trade; and the liquor had no more effect on him than it had on any
other vessel in his house.
The mistress of the inn, being summoned to attend Mr Jones and his
companion at their tea, gave a full relation of the latter part of the
foregoing scene; and at the same time expressed great concern for the
young lady, “who,” she said, “was under the utmost uneasiness at being
prevented from pursuing her journey. She is a sweet pretty creature,”
added she, “and I am certain I have seen her face before. I fancy she
is in love, and running away from her friends. Who knows but some
young gentleman or other may be expecting her, with a heart as heavy
as her own?”
Jones fetched a heavy sigh at those words; of which, though Mrs Waters
observed it, she took no notice while the landlady continued in the
room; but, after the departure of that good woman, she could not
forbear giving our heroe certain hints on her suspecting some very
dangerous rival in his affections. The aukward behaviour of Mr Jones
on this occasion convinced her of the truth, without his giving her a
direct answer to any of her questions; but she was not nice enough in
her amours to be greatly concerned at the discovery. The beauty of
Jones highly charmed her eye; but as she could not see his heart, she
gave herself no concern about it. She could feast heartily at the
table of love, without reflecting that some other already had been, or
hereafter might be, feasted with the same repast. A sentiment which,
if it deals but little in refinement, deals, however, much in
substance; and is less capricious, and perhaps less ill-natured and
selfish, than the desires of those females who can be contented enough
to abstain from the possession of their lovers, provided they are
sufficiently satisfied that no one else possesses them.
Chapter vii.
Containing a fuller account of Mrs Waters, and by what means she came
into that distressful situation from which she was rescued by Jones.
Though Nature hath by no means mixed up an equal share either of
curiosity or vanity in every human composition, there is perhaps no
individual to whom she hath not allotted such a proportion of both as
requires much arts, and pains too, to subdue and keep under;--a
conquest, however, absolutely necessary to every one who would in any
degree deserve the characters of wisdom or good breeding.
As Jones, therefore, might very justly be called a well-bred man, he
had stifled all that curiosity which the extraordinary manner in which
he had found Mrs Waters must be supposed to have occasioned. He had,
indeed, at first thrown out some few hints to the lady; but, when he
perceived her industriously avoiding any explanation, he was contented
to remain in ignorance, the rather as he was not without suspicion
that there were some circumstances which must have raised her blushes,
had she related the whole truth.
Now since it is possible that some of our readers may not so easily
acquiesce under the same ignorance, and as we are very desirous to
satisfy them all, we have taken uncommon pains to inform ourselves of
the real fact, with the relation of which we shall conclude this book.
This lady, then, had lived some years with one Captain Waters, who was
a captain in the same regiment to which Mr Northerton belonged. She
past for that gentleman's wife, and went by his name; and yet, as the
serjeant said, there were some doubts concerning the reality of their
marriage, which we shall not at present take upon us to resolve.
Mrs Waters, I am sorry to say it, had for some time contracted an
intimacy with the above-mentioned ensign, which did no great credit to
her reputation. That she had a remarkable fondness for that young
fellow is most certain; but whether she indulged this to any very
criminal lengths is not so extremely clear, unless we will suppose
that women never grant every favour to a man but one, without granting
him that one also.
The division of the regiment to which Captain Waters belonged had two
days preceded the march of that company to which Mr Northerton was the
ensign; so that the former had reached Worcester the very day after
the unfortunate re-encounter between Jones and Northerton which we
have before recorded.
Now, it had been agreed between Mrs Waters and the captain that she
would accompany him in his march as far as Worcester, where they were
to take their leave of each other, and she was thence to return to
Bath, where she was to stay till the end of the winter's campaign
against the rebels.
With this agreement Mr Northerton was made acquainted. To say the
truth, the lady had made him an assignation at this very place, and
promised to stay at Worcester till his division came thither; with
what view, and for what purpose, must be left to the reader's
divination; for, though we are obliged to relate facts, we are not
obliged to do a violence to our nature by any comments to the
disadvantage of the loveliest part of the creation.
Northerton no sooner obtained a release from his captivity, as we have
seen, than he hasted away to overtake Mrs Waters; which, as he was a
very active nimble fellow, he did at the last-mentioned city, some few
hours after Captain Waters had left her. At his first arrival he made
no scruple of acquainting her with the unfortunate accident; which he
made appear very unfortunate indeed, for he totally extracted every
particle of what could be called fault, at least in a court of honour,
though he left some circumstances which might be questionable in a
court of law.
Women, to their glory be it spoken, are more generally capable of that
violent and apparently disinterested passion of love, which seeks only
the good of its object, than men. Mrs Waters, therefore, was no sooner
apprized of the danger to which her lover was exposed, than she lost
every consideration besides that of his safety; and this being a
matter equally agreeable to the gentleman, it became the immediate
subject of debate between them.
After much consultation on this matter, it was at length agreed that
the ensign should go across the country to Hereford, whence he might
find some conveyance to one of the sea-ports in Wales, and thence
might make his escape abroad. In all which expedition Mrs Waters
declared she would bear him company; and for which she was able to
furnish him with money, a very material article to Mr Northerton, she
having then in her pocket three bank-notes to the amount of £90,
besides some cash, and a diamond ring of pretty considerable value on
her finger. All which she, with the utmost confidence, revealed to
this wicked man, little suspecting she should by these means inspire
him with a design of robbing her. Now, as they must, by taking horses
from Worcester, have furnished any pursuers with the means of
hereafter discovering their route, the ensign proposed, and the lady
presently agreed, to make their first stage on foot; for which purpose
the hardness of the frost was very seasonable.
The main part of the lady's baggage was already at Bath, and she had
nothing with her at present besides a very small quantity of linen,
which the gallant undertook to carry in his own pockets. All things,
therefore, being settled in the evening, they arose early the next
morning, and at five o'clock departed from Worcester, it being then
above two hours before day, but the moon, which was then at the full,
gave them all the light she was capable of affording.
Mrs Waters was not of that delicate race of women who are obliged to
the invention of vehicles for the capacity of removing themselves from
one place to another, and with whom consequently a coach is reckoned
among the necessaries of life. Her limbs were indeed full of strength
and agility, and, as her mind was no less animated with spirit, she
was perfectly able to keep pace with her nimble lover.
Having travelled on for some miles in a high road, which Northerton
said he was informed led to Hereford, they came at the break of day to
the side of a large wood, where he suddenly stopped, and, affecting to
meditate a moment with himself, expressed some apprehensions from
travelling any longer in so public a way. Upon which he easily
persuaded his fair companion to strike with him into a path which
seemed to lead directly through the wood, and which at length brought
them both to the bottom of Mazard Hill.
Whether the execrable scheme which he now attempted to execute was the
effect of previous deliberation, or whether it now first came into his
head, I cannot determine. But being arrived in this lonely place,
where it was very improbable he should meet with any interruption, he
suddenly slipped his garter from his leg, and, laying violent hands on
the poor woman, endeavoured to perpetrate that dreadful and detestable
fact which we have before commemorated, and which the providential
appearance of Jones did so fortunately prevent.
Happy was it for Mrs Waters that she was not of the weakest order of
females; for no sooner did she perceive, by his tying a knot in his
garter, and by his declarations, what his hellish intentions were,
than she stood stoutly to her defence, and so strongly struggled with
her enemy, screaming all the while for assistance, that she delayed
the execution of the villain's purpose several minutes, by which means
Mr Jones came to her relief at that very instant when her strength
failed and she was totally overpowered, and delivered her from the
ruffian's hands, with no other loss than that of her cloaths, which
were torn from her back, and of the diamond ring, which during the
contention either dropped from her finger, or was wrenched from it by
Northerton.
Thus, reader, we have given thee the fruits of a very painful enquiry
which for thy satisfaction we have made into this matter. And here we
have opened to thee a scene of folly as well as villany, which we
could scarce have believed a human creature capable of being guilty
of, had we not remembered that this fellow was at that time firmly
persuaded that he had already committed a murder, and had forfeited
his life to the law. As he concluded therefore that his only safety
lay in flight, he thought the possessing himself of this poor woman's
money and ring would make him amends for the additional burthen he was
to lay on his conscience.
And here, reader, we must strictly caution thee that thou dost not
take any occasion, from the misbehaviour of such a wretch as this, to
reflect on so worthy and honourable a body of men as are the officers
of our army in general. Thou wilt be pleased to consider that this
fellow, as we have already informed thee, had neither the birth nor
education of a gentleman, nor was a proper person to be enrolled among
the number of such. If, therefore, his baseness can justly reflect on
any besides himself, it must be only on those who gave him his
commission.