CONTAINING THE SAME INDIVIDUAL TIME WITH THE FORMER.
Chapter i.
Showing what is to be deemed plagiarism in a modern author, and what
is to be considered as lawful prize.
The learned reader must have observed that in the course of this
mighty work, I have often translated passages out of the best antient
authors, without quoting the original, or without taking the least
notice of the book from whence they were borrowed.
This conduct in writing is placed in a very proper light by the
ingenious Abbé Bannier, in his preface to his Mythology, a work of
great erudition and of equal judgment. “It will be easy,” says he,
“for the reader to observe that I have frequently had greater regard
to him than to my own reputation: for an author certainly pays him a
considerable compliment, when, for his sake, he suppresses learned
quotations that come in his way, and which would have cost him but the
bare trouble of transcribing.”
To fill up a work with these scraps may, indeed, be considered as a
downright cheat on the learned world, who are by such means imposed
upon to buy a second time, in fragments and by retail, what they have
already in gross, if not in their memories, upon their shelves; and it
is still more cruel upon the illiterate, who are drawn in to pay for
what is of no manner of use to them. A writer who intermixes great
quantity of Greek and Latin with his works, deals by the ladies and
fine gentlemen in the same paultry manner with which they are treated
by the auctioneers, who often endeavour so to confound and mix up
their lots, that, in order to purchase the commodity you want, you are
obliged at the same time to purchase that which will do you no
service.
And yet, as there is no conduct so fair and disinterested but that it
may be misunderstood by ignorance, and misrepresented by malice, I
have been sometimes tempted to preserve my own reputation at the
expense of my reader, and to transcribe the original, or at least to
quote chapter and verse, whenever I have made use either of the
thought or expression of another. I am, indeed, in some doubt that I
have often suffered by the contrary method; and that, by suppressing
the original author's name, I have been rather suspected of plagiarism
than reputed to act from the amiable motive assigned by that justly
celebrated Frenchman.
Now, to obviate all such imputations for the future, I do here confess
and justify the fact. The antients may be considered as a rich common,
where every person who hath the smallest tenement in Parnassus hath a
free right to fatten his muse. Or, to place it in a clearer light, we
moderns are to the antients what the poor are to the rich. By the poor
here I mean that large and venerable body which, in English, we call
the mob. Now, whoever hath had the honour to be admitted to any degree
of intimacy with this mob, must well know that it is one of their
established maxims to plunder and pillage their rich neighbours
without any reluctance; and that this is held to be neither sin nor
shame among them. And so constantly do they abide and act by this
maxim, that, in every parish almost in the kingdom, there is a kind of
confederacy ever carrying on against a certain person of opulence
called the squire, whose property is considered as free-booty by all
his poor neighbours; who, as they conclude that there is no manner of
guilt in such depredations, look upon it as a point of honour and
moral obligation to conceal, and to preserve each other from
punishment on all such occasions.
In like manner are the antients, such as Homer, Virgil, Horace,
Cicero, and the rest, to be esteemed among us writers, as so many
wealthy squires, from whom we, the poor of Parnassus, claim an
immemorial custom of taking whatever we can come at. This liberty I
demand, and this I am as ready to allow again to my poor neighbours in
their turn. All I profess, and all I require of my brethren, is to
maintain the same strict honesty among ourselves which the mob show to
one another. To steal from one another is indeed highly criminal and
indecent; for this may be strictly stiled defrauding the poor
(sometimes perhaps those who are poorer than ourselves), or, to set it
under the most opprobrious colours, robbing the spittal.
Since, therefore, upon the strictest examination, my own conscience
cannot lay any such pitiful theft to my charge, I am contented to
plead guilty to the former accusation; nor shall I ever scruple to
take to myself any passage which I shall find in an antient author to
my purpose, without setting down the name of the author from whence it
was taken. Nay, I absolutely claim a property in all such sentiments
the moment they are transcribed into my writings, and I expect all
readers henceforwards to regard them as purely and entirely my own.
This claim, however, I desire to be allowed me only on condition that
I preserve strict honesty towards my poor brethren, from whom, if ever
I borrow any of that little of which they are possessed, I shall never
fail to put their mark upon it, that it may be at all times ready to
be restored to the right owner.
The omission of this was highly blameable in one Mr Moore, who, having
formerly borrowed some lines of Pope and company, took the liberty to
transcribe six of them into his play of the Rival Modes. Mr Pope,
however, very luckily found them in the said play, and, laying violent
hands on his own property, transferred it back again into his own
works; and, for a further punishment, imprisoned the said Moore in the
loathsome dungeon of the Dunciad, where his unhappy memory now
remains, and eternally will remain, as a proper punishment for such
his unjust dealings in the poetical trade.
Chapter ii.
In which, though the squire doth not find his daughter, something is
found which puts an end to his pursuit.
The history now returns to the inn at Upton, whence we shall first
trace the footsteps of Squire Western; for, as he will soon arrive at
an end of his journey, we shall have then full leisure to attend our
heroe.
The reader may be pleased to remember that the said squire departed
from the inn in great fury, and in that fury he pursued his daughter.
The hostler having informed him that she had crossed the Severn, he
likewise past that river with his equipage, and rode full speed,
vowing the utmost vengeance against poor Sophia, if he should but
overtake her.
He had not gone far before he arrived at a crossway. Here he called a
short council of war, in which, after hearing different opinions, he
at last gave the direction of his pursuit to fortune, and struck
directly into the Worcester road.
In this road he proceeded about two miles, when he began to bemoan
himself most bitterly, frequently crying out, “What pity is it! Sure
never was so unlucky a dog as myself!” And then burst forth a volley
of oaths and execrations.
The parson attempted to administer comfort to him on this occasion.
“Sorrow not, sir,” says he, “like those without hope. Howbeit we have
not yet been able to overtake young madam, we may account it some good
fortune that we have hitherto traced her course aright. Peradventure
she will soon be fatigated with her journey, and will tarry in some
inn, in order to renovate her corporeal functions; and in that case,
in all moral certainty, you will very briefly be _compos voti_.”
“Pogh! d--n the slut!” answered the squire, “I am lamenting the loss
of so fine a morning for hunting. It is confounded hard to lose one of
the best scenting days, in all appearance, which hath been this
season, and especially after so long a frost.”
Whether Fortune, who now and then shows some compassion in her
wantonest tricks, might not take pity of the squire; and, as she had
determined not to let him overtake his daughter, might not resolve to
make him amends some other way, I will not assert; but he had hardly
uttered the words just before commemorated, and two or three oaths at
their heels, when a pack of hounds began to open their melodious
throats at a small distance from them, which the squire's horse and
his rider both perceiving, both immediately pricked up their ears, and
the squire, crying, “She's gone, she's gone! Damn me if she is not
gone!” instantly clapped spurs to the beast, who little needed it,
having indeed the same inclination with his master; and now the whole
company, crossing into a corn-field, rode directly towards the hounds,
with much hallowing and whooping, while the poor parson, blessing
himself, brought up the rear.
Thus fable reports that the fair Grimalkin, whom Venus, at the desire
of a passionate lover, converted from a cat into a fine woman, no
sooner perceived a mouse than, mindful of her former sport, and still
retaining her pristine nature, she leaped from the bed of her husband
to pursue the little animal.
What are we to understand by this? Not that the bride was displeased
with the embraces of her amorous bridegroom; for, though some have
remarked that cats are subject to ingratitude, yet women and cats too
will be pleased and purr on certain occasions. The truth is, as the
sagacious Sir Roger L'Estrange observes, in his deep reflections,
that, “if we shut Nature out at the door, she will come in at the
window; and that puss, though a madam, will be a mouser still.” In the
same manner we are not to arraign the squire of any want of love for
his daughter; for in reality he had a great deal; we are only to
consider that he was a squire and a sportsman, and then we may apply
the fable to him, and the judicious reflections likewise.
The hounds ran very hard, as it is called, and the squire pursued over
hedge and ditch, with all his usual vociferation and alacrity, and
with all his usual pleasure; nor did the thoughts of Sophia ever once
intrude themselves to allay the satisfaction he enjoyed in the chace,
which, he said, was one of the finest he ever saw, and which he swore
was very well worth going fifty miles for. As the squire forgot his
daughter, the servants, we may easily believe, forgot their mistress;
and the parson, after having expressed much astonishment, in Latin, to
himself, at length likewise abandoned all farther thoughts of the
young lady, and, jogging on at a distance behind, began to meditate a
portion of doctrine for the ensuing Sunday.
The squire who owned the hounds was highly pleased with the arrival of
his brother squire and sportsman; for all men approve merit in their
own way, and no man was more expert in the field than Mr Western, nor
did any other better know how to encourage the dogs with his voice,
and to animate the hunt with his holla.
Sportsmen, in the warmth of a chace, are too much engaged to attend to
any manner of ceremony, nay, even to the offices of humanity: for, if
any of them meet with an accident by tumbling into a ditch, or into a
river, the rest pass on regardless, and generally leave him to his
fate: during this time, therefore, the two squires, though often close
to each other, interchanged not a single word. The master of the hunt,
however, often saw and approved the great judgment of the stranger in
drawing the dogs when they were at a fault, and hence conceived a very
high opinion of his understanding, as the number of his attendants
inspired no small reverence to his quality. As soon, therefore, as the
sport was ended by the death of the little animal which had occasioned
it, the two squires met, and in all squire-like greeting saluted each
other.
The conversation was entertaining enough, and what we may perhaps
relate in an appendix, or on some other occasion; but as it nowise
concerns this history, we cannot prevail on ourselves to give it a
place here. It concluded with a second chace, and that with an
invitation to dinner. This being accepted, was followed by a hearty
bout of drinking, which ended in as hearty a nap on the part of Squire
Western.
Our squire was by no means a match either for his host, or for parson
Supple, at his cups that evening; for which the violent fatigue of
mind as well as body that he had undergone, may very well account,
without the least derogation from his honour. He was indeed, according
to the vulgar phrase, whistle drunk; for before he had swallowed the
third bottle, he became so entirely overpowered that though he was not
carried off to bed till long after, the parson considered him as
absent, and having acquainted the other squire with all relating to
Sophia, he obtained his promise of seconding those arguments which he
intended to urge the next morning for Mr Western's return.
No sooner, therefore, had the good squire shaken off his evening, and
began to call for his morning draught, and to summon his horses in
order to renew his pursuit, than Mr Supple began his dissuasives,
which the host so strongly seconded, that they at length prevailed,
and Mr Western agreed to return home; being principally moved by one
argument, viz., that he knew not which way to go, and might probably
be riding farther from his daughter instead of towards her. He then
took leave of his brother sportsman, and expressing great joy that the
frost was broken (which might perhaps be no small motive to his
hastening home), set forwards, or rather backwards, for Somersetshire;
but not before he had first despatched part of his retinue in quest of
his daughter, after whom he likewise sent a volley of the most bitter
execrations which he could invent.
Chapter iii.
The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed between him and
Partridge on the road.
At length we are once more come to our heroe; and, to say truth, we
have been obliged to part with him so long, that, considering the
condition in which we left him, I apprehend many of our readers have
concluded we intended to abandon him for ever; he being at present in
that situation in which prudent people usually desist from enquiring
any farther after their friends, lest they should be shocked by
hearing such friends had hanged themselves.
But, in reality, if we have not all the virtues, I will boldly say,
neither have we all the vices of a prudent character; and though it is
not easy to conceive circumstances much more miserable than those of
poor Jones at present, we shall return to him, and attend upon him
with the same diligence as if he was wantoning in the brightest beams
of fortune.
Mr Jones, then, and his companion Partridge, left the inn a few
minutes after the departure of Squire Western, and pursued the same
road on foot, for the hostler told them that no horses were by any
means to be at that time procured at Upton. On they marched with heavy
hearts; for though their disquiet proceeded from very different
reasons, yet displeased they were both; and if Jones sighed bitterly,
Partridge grunted altogether as sadly at every step.
When they came to the cross-roads where the squire had stopt to take
counsel, Jones stopt likewise, and turning to Partridge, asked his
opinion which track they should pursue. “Ah, sir,” answered Partridge,
“I wish your honour would follow my advice.” “Why should I not?”
replied Jones; “for it is now indifferent to me whither I go, or what
becomes of me.” “My advice, then,” said Partridge, “is, that you
immediately face about and return home; for who that hath such a home
to return to as your honour, would travel thus about the country like
a vagabond? I ask pardon, _sed vox ea sola reperta est_.”
“Alas!” cries Jones, “I have no home to return to;--but if my friend,
my father, would receive me, could I bear the country from which
Sophia is flown? Cruel Sophia! Cruel! No; let me blame myself!--No;
let me blame thee. D--nation seize thee--fool--blockhead! thou hast
undone me, and I will tear thy soul from thy body.”--At which words he
laid violent hands on the collar of poor Partridge, and shook him more
heartily than an ague-fit, or his own fears had ever done before.
Partridge fell trembling on his knees, and begged for mercy, vowing he
had meant no harm--when Jones, after staring wildly on him for a
moment, quitted his hold, and discharged a rage on himself, that, had
it fallen on the other, would certainly have put an end to his being,
which indeed the very apprehension of it had almost effected.
We would bestow some pains here in minutely describing all the mad
pranks which Jones played on this occasion, could we be well assured
that the reader would take the same pains in perusing them; but as we
are apprehensive that, after all the labour which we should employ in
painting this scene, the said reader would be very apt to skip it
entirely over, we have saved ourselves that trouble. To say the truth,
we have, from this reason alone, often done great violence to the
luxuriance of our genius, and have left many excellent descriptions
out of our work, which would otherwise have been in it. And this
suspicion, to be honest, arises, as is generally the case, from our
own wicked heart; for we have, ourselves, been very often most
horridly given to jumping, as we have run through the pages of
voluminous historians.
Suffice it then simply to say, that Jones, after having played the
part of a madman for many minutes, came, by degrees, to himself; which
no sooner happened, than, turning to Partridge, he very earnestly
begged his pardon for the attack he had made on him in the violence of
his passion; but concluded, by desiring him never to mention his
return again; for he was resolved never to see that country any more.
Partridge easily forgave, and faithfully promised to obey the
injunction now laid upon him. And then Jones very briskly cried out,
“Since it is absolutely impossible for me to pursue any farther the
steps of my angel--I will pursue those of glory. Come on, my brave
lad, now for the army:--it is a glorious cause, and I would willingly
sacrifice my life in it, even though it was worth my preserving.” And
so saying, he immediately struck into the different road from that
which the squire had taken, and, by mere chance, pursued the very same
through which Sophia had before passed.
Our travellers now marched a full mile, without speaking a syllable to
each other, though Jones, indeed, muttered many things to himself. As
to Partridge, he was profoundly silent; for he was not, perhaps,
perfectly recovered from his former fright; besides, he had
apprehensions of provoking his friend to a second fit of wrath,
especially as he now began to entertain a conceit, which may not,
perhaps, create any great wonder in the reader. In short, he began now
to suspect that Jones was absolutely out of his senses.
At length, Jones, being weary of soliloquy, addressed himself to his
companion, and blamed him for his taciturnity; for which the poor man
very honestly accounted, from his fear of giving offence. And now this
fear being pretty well removed, by the most absolute promises of
indemnity, Partridge again took the bridle from his tongue; which,
perhaps, rejoiced no less at regaining its liberty, than a young colt,
when the bridle is slipt from his neck, and he is turned loose into
the pastures.
As Partridge was inhibited from that topic which would have first
suggested itself, he fell upon that which was next uppermost in his
mind, namely, the Man of the Hill. “Certainly, sir,” says he, “that
could never be a man, who dresses himself and lives after such a
strange manner, and so unlike other folks. Besides, his diet, as the
old woman told me, is chiefly upon herbs, which is a fitter food for a
horse than a Christian: nay, landlord at Upton says that the
neighbours thereabouts have very fearful notions about him. It runs
strangely in my head that it must have been some spirit, who, perhaps,
might be sent to forewarn us: and who knows but all that matter which
he told us, of his going to fight, and of his being taken prisoner,
and of the great danger he was in of being hanged, might be intended
as a warning to us, considering what we are going about? besides, I
dreamt of nothing all last night but of fighting; and methought the
blood ran out of my nose, as liquor out of a tap. Indeed, sir,
_infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem_.”
“Thy story, Partridge,” answered Jones, “is almost as ill applied as
thy Latin. Nothing can be more likely to happen than death to men who
go into battle. Perhaps we shall both fall in it--and what then?”
“What then?” replied Partridge; “why then there is an end of us, is
there not? when I am gone, all is over with me. What matters the cause
to me, or who gets the victory, if I am killed? I shall never enjoy
any advantage from it. What are all the ringing of bells, and
bonfires, to one that is six foot under ground? there will be an end
of poor Partridge.” “And an end of poor Partridge,” cries Jones,
“there must be, one time or other. If you love Latin, I will repeat
you some fine lines out of Horace, which would inspire courage into a
coward.
`_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
Mors et fugacem persequitur virum
Nec parcit imbellis juventae
Poplitibus, timidoque tergo._'”
“I wish you would construe them,” cries Partridge; “for Horace is a
hard author, and I cannot understand as you repeat them.”
“I will repeat you a bad imitation, or rather paraphrase, of my own,”
said Jones; “for I am but an indifferent poet:
`Who would not die in his dear country's cause? Since, if base fear
his dastard step withdraws, From death he cannot fly:--One common
grave Receives, at last, the coward and the brave.'”
“That's very certain,” cries Partridge. “Ay, sure, _Mors omnibus
communis:_ but there is a great difference between dying in one's bed
a great many years hence, like a good Christian, with all our friends
crying about us, and being shot to-day or to-morrow, like a mad dog;
or, perhaps, hacked in twenty pieces with the sword, and that too
before we have repented of all our sins. O Lord, have mercy upon us!
to be sure the soldiers are a wicked kind of people. I never loved to
have anything to do with them. I could hardly bring myself ever to
look upon them as Christians. There is nothing but cursing and
swearing among them. I wish your honour would repent: I heartily wish
you would repent before it is too late; and not think of going among
them.--Evil communication corrupts good manners. That is my principal
reason. For as for that matter, I am no more afraid than another man,
not I; as to matter of that. I know all human flesh must die; but yet
a man may live many years, for all that. Why, I am a middle-aged man
now, and yet I may live a great number of years. I have read of
several who have lived to be above a hundred, and some a great deal
above a hundred. Not that I hope, I mean that I promise myself, to
live to any such age as that, neither.--But if it be only to eighty or
ninety. Heaven be praised, that is a great ways off yet; and I am not
afraid of dying then, no more than another man; but, surely, to tempt
death before a man's time is come seems to me downright wickedness and
presumption. Besides, if it was to do any good indeed; but, let the
cause be what it will, what mighty matter of good can two people do?
and, for my part, I understand nothing of it. I never fired off a gun
above ten times in my life; and then it was not charged with bullets.
And for the sword, I never learned to fence, and know nothing of the
matter. And then there are those cannons, which certainly it must be
thought the highest presumption to go in the way of; and nobody but a
madman--I ask pardon; upon my soul I meant no harm; I beg I may not
throw your honour into another passion.”
“Be under no apprehension, Partridge,” cries Jones; “I am now so well
convinced of thy cowardice, that thou couldst not provoke me on any
account.” “Your honour,” answered he, “may call me coward, or anything
else you please. If loving to sleep in a whole skin makes a man a
coward, _non immunes ab illis malis sumus_. I never read in my grammar
that a man can't be a good man without fighting. _Vir bonus est quis?
Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat_. Not a word of
fighting; and I am sure the scripture is so much against it, that a
man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian while he sheds
Christian blood.”
Chapter iv.
The adventure of a beggar-man.
Just as Partridge had uttered that good and pious doctrine, with which
the last chapter concluded, they arrived at another cross-way, when a
lame fellow in rags asked them for alms; upon which Partridge gave him
a severe rebuke, saying, “Every parish ought to keep their own poor.”
Jones then fell a-laughing, and asked Partridge, “if he was not
ashamed, with so much charity in his mouth, to have no charity in his
heart. Your religion,” says he, “serves you only for an excuse for
your faults, but is no incentive to your virtue. Can any man who is
really a Christian abstain from relieving one of his brethren in such
a miserable condition?” And at the same time, putting his hand in his
pocket, he gave the poor object a shilling.
“Master,” cries the fellow, after thanking him, “I have a curious
thing here in my pocket, which I found about two miles off, if your
worship will please to buy it. I should not venture to pull it out to
every one; but, as you are so good a gentleman, and so kind to the
poor, you won't suspect a man of being a thief only because he is
poor.” He then pulled out a little gilt pocket-book, and delivered it
into the hands of Jones.
Jones presently opened it, and (guess, reader, what he felt) saw in
the first page the words Sophia Western, written by her own fair hand.
He no sooner read the name than he prest it close to his lips; nor
could he avoid falling into some very frantic raptures,
notwithstanding his company; but, perhaps, these very raptures made
him forget he was not alone.
While Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had an
excellent brown buttered crust in his mouth or as if he had really
been a book-worm, or an author who had nothing to eat but his own
works, a piece of paper fell from its leaves to the ground, which
Partridge took up, and delivered to Jones, who presently perceived it
to be a bank-bill. It was, indeed, the very bill which Western had
given his daughter the night before her departure; and a Jew would
have jumped to purchase it at five shillings less than £100.
The eyes of Partridge sparkled at this news, which Jones now
proclaimed aloud; and so did (though with somewhat a different aspect)
those of the poor fellow who had found the book; and who (I hope from
a principle of honesty) had never opened it: but we should not deal
honestly by the reader if we omitted to inform him of a circumstance
which may be here a little material, viz. that the fellow could not
read.
Jones, who had felt nothing but pure joy and transport from the
finding the book, was affected with a mixture of concern at this new
discovery; for his imagination instantly suggested to him that the
owner of the bill might possibly want it before he should be able to
convey it to her. He then acquainted the finder that he knew the lady
to whom the book belonged, and would endeavour to find her out as soon
as possible, and return it her.
The pocket-book was a late present from Mrs Western to her niece; it
had cost five-and-twenty shillings, having been bought of a celebrated
toyman; but the real value of the silver which it contained in its
clasp was about eighteen-pence; and that price the said toyman, as it
was altogether as good as when it first issued from his shop, would
now have given for it. A prudent person would, however, have taken
proper advantage of the ignorance of this fellow, and would not have
offered more than a shilling, or perhaps sixpence, for it; nay, some
perhaps would have given nothing, and left the fellow to his action of
trover, which some learned serjeants may doubt whether he could, under
these circumstances, have maintained.
Jones, on the contrary, whose character was on the outside of
generosity, and may perhaps not very unjustly have been suspected of
extravagance, without any hesitation gave a guinea in exchange for the
book. The poor man, who had not for a long time before been possessed
of so much treasure, gave Mr Jones a thousand thanks, and discovered
little less of transport in his muscles than Jones had before shown
when he had first read the name of Sophia Western.
The fellow very readily agreed to attend our travellers to the place
where he had found the pocket-book. Together, therefore, they
proceeded directly thither; but not so fast as Mr Jones desired; for
his guide unfortunately happened to be lame, and could not possibly
travel faster than a mile an hour. As this place, therefore, was at
above three miles' distance, though the fellow had said otherwise, the
reader need not be acquainted how long they were in walking it.
Jones opened the book a hundred times during their walk, kissed it as
often, talked much to himself, and very little to his companions. At
all which the guide exprest some signs of astonishment to Partridge;
who more than once shook his head, and cryed, Poor gentleman! _orandum
est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano._
At length they arrived at the very spot where Sophia unhappily dropt
the pocket-book, and where the fellow had as happily found it. Here
Jones offered to take leave of his guide, and to improve his pace; but
the fellow, in whom that violent surprize and joy which the first
receipt of the guinea had occasioned was now considerably abated, and
who had now had sufficient time to recollect himself, put on a
discontented look, and, scratching his head, said, “He hoped his
worship would give him something more. Your worship,” said he, “will,
I hope, take it into your consideration that if I had not been honest
I might have kept the whole.” And, indeed, this the reader must
confess to have been true. “If the paper there,” said he, “be worth
£100, I am sure the finding it deserves more than a guinea. Besides,
suppose your worship should never see the lady, nor give it her--and,
though your worship looks and talks very much like a gentleman, yet I
have only your worship's bare word; and, certainly, if the right owner
ben't to be found, it all belongs to the first finder. I hope your
worship will consider of all these matters: I am but a poor man, and
therefore don't desire to have all; but it is but reasonable I should
have my share. Your worship looks like a good man, and, I hope, will
consider my honesty; for I might have kept every farthing, and nobody
ever the wiser.” “I promise thee, upon my honour,” cries Jones, “that
I know the right owner, and will restore it her.” “Nay, your worship,”
answered the fellow, “may do as you please as to that; if you will but
give me my share, that is, one-half of the money, your honour may keep
the rest yourself if you please;” and concluded with swearing, by a
very vehement oath, “that he would never mention a syllable of it to
any man living.”
“Lookee, friend,” cries Jones, “the right owner shall certainly have
again all that she lost; and as for any farther gratuity, I really
cannot give it you at present; but let me know your name, and where
you live, and it is more than possible you may hereafter have further
reason to rejoice at this morning's adventure.”
“I don't know what you mean by venture,” cries the fellow; “it seems I
must venture whether you will return the lady her money or no; but I
hope your worship will consider--” “Come, come,” said Partridge, “tell
his honour your name, and where you may be found; I warrant you will
never repent having put the money into his hands.” The fellow, seeing
no hopes of recovering the possession of the pocket-book, at last
complied in giving in his name and place of abode, which Jones writ
upon a piece of paper with the pencil of Sophia; and then, placing the
paper in the same page where she had writ her name, he cried out,
“There, friend, you are the happiest man alive; I have joined your
name to that of an angel.” “I don't know anything about angels,”
answered the fellow; “but I wish you would give me a little more
money, or else return me the pocket-book.” Partridge now waxed wrath:
he called the poor cripple by several vile and opprobrious names, and
was absolutely proceeding to beat him, but Jones would not suffer any
such thing: and now, telling the fellow he would certainly find some
opportunity of serving him, Mr Jones departed as fast as his heels
would carry him; and Partridge, into whom the thoughts of the hundred
pound had infused new spirits, followed his leader; while the man, who
was obliged to stay behind, fell to cursing them both, as well as his
parents; “for had they,” says he, “sent me to charity-school to learn
to write and read and cast accounts, I should have known the value of
these matters as well as other people.”
Chapter v.
Containing more adventures which Mr Jones and his companion met on the
road.
Our travellers now walked so fast, that they had very little time or
breath for conversation; Jones meditating all the way on Sophia, and
Partridge on the bank-bill, which, though it gave him some pleasure,
caused him at the same time to repine at fortune, which, in all his
walks, had never given him such an opportunity of showing his honesty.
They had proceeded above three miles, when Partridge, being unable any
longer to keep up with Jones, called to him, and begged him a little
to slacken his pace: with this he was the more ready to comply, as he
had for some time lost the footsteps of the horses, which the thaw had
enabled him to trace for several miles, and he was now upon a wide
common, where were several roads.
He here therefore stopt to consider which of these roads he should
pursue; when on a sudden they heard the noise of a drum, that seemed
at no great distance. This sound presently alarmed the fears of
Partridge, and he cried out, “Lord have mercy upon us all; they are
certainly a coming!” “Who is coming?” cries Jones; for fear had long
since given place to softer ideas in his mind; and since his adventure
with the lame man, he had been totally intent on pursuing Sophia,
without entertaining one thought of an enemy. “Who?” cries Partridge,
“why, the rebels: but why should I call them rebels? they may be very
honest gentlemen, for anything I know to the contrary. The devil take
him that affronts them, I say; I am sure, if they have nothing to say
to me, I will have nothing to say to them, but in a civil way. For
Heaven's sake, sir, don't affront them if they should come, and
perhaps they may do us no harm; but would it not be the wiser way to
creep into some of yonder bushes, till they are gone by? What can two
unarmed men do perhaps against fifty thousand? Certainly nobody but a
madman; I hope your honour is not offended; but certainly no man who
hath _mens sana in corpore sano_----” Here Jones interrupted this
torrent of eloquence, which fear had inspired, saying, “That by the
drum he perceived they were near some town.” He then made directly
towards the place whence the noise proceeded, bidding Partridge “take
courage, for that he would lead him into no danger;” and adding, “it
was impossible the rebels should be so near.”
Partridge was a little comforted with this last assurance; and though
he would more gladly have gone the contrary way, he followed his
leader, his heart beating time, but not after the manner of heroes, to
the music of the drum, which ceased not till they had traversed the
common, and were come into a narrow lane.
And now Partridge, who kept even pace with Jones, discovered something
painted flying in the air, a very few yards before him, which fancying
to be the colours of the enemy, he fell a bellowing, “Oh Lord, sir,
here they are; there is the crown and coffin. Oh Lord! I never saw
anything so terrible; and we are within gun-shot of them already.”
Jones no sooner looked up, than he plainly perceived what it was which
Partridge had thus mistaken. “Partridge,” says he, “I fancy you will
be able to engage this whole army yourself; for by the colours I guess
what the drum was which we heard before, and which beats up for
recruits to a puppet-show.”
“A puppet-show!” answered Partridge, with most eager transport. “And
is it really no more than that? I love a puppet-show of all the
pastimes upon earth. Do, good sir, let us tarry and see it. Besides, I
am quite famished to death; for it is now almost dark, and I have not
eat a morsel since three o'clock in the morning.”
They now arrived at an inn, or indeed an ale-house, where Jones was
prevailed upon to stop, the rather as he had no longer any assurance
of being in the road he desired. They walked both directly into the
kitchen, where Jones began to enquire if no ladies had passed that way
in the morning, and Partridge as eagerly examined into the state of
their provisions; and indeed his enquiry met with the better success;
for Jones could not hear news of Sophia; but Partridge, to his great
satisfaction, found good reason to expect very shortly the agreeable
sight of an excellent smoaking dish of eggs and bacon.
In strong and healthy constitutions love hath a very different effect
from what it causes in the puny part of the species. In the latter it
generally destroys all that appetite which tends towards the
conservation of the individual; but in the former, though it often
induces forgetfulness, and a neglect of food, as well as of everything
else; yet place a good piece of well-powdered buttock before a hungry
lover, and he seldom fails very handsomely to play his part. Thus it
happened in the present case; for though Jones perhaps wanted a
prompter, and might have travelled much farther, had he been alone,
with an empty stomach; yet no sooner did he sit down to the bacon and
eggs, than he fell to as heartily and voraciously as Partridge
himself.
Before our travellers had finished their dinner, night came on, and as
the moon was now past the full, it was extremely dark. Partridge
therefore prevailed on Jones to stay and see the puppet-show, which
was just going to begin, and to which they were very eagerly invited
by the master of the said show, who declared that his figures were the
finest which the world had ever produced, and that they had given
great satisfaction to all the quality in every town in England.
The puppet-show was performed with great regularity and decency. It
was called the fine and serious part of the Provoked Husband; and it
was indeed a very grave and solemn entertainment, without any low wit
or humour, or jests; or, to do it no more than justice, without
anything which could provoke a laugh. The audience were all highly
pleased. A grave matron told the master she would bring her two
daughters the next night, as he did not show any stuff; and an
attorney's clerk and an exciseman both declared, that the characters
of Lord and Lady Townley were well preserved, and highly in nature.
Partridge likewise concurred with this opinion.
The master was so highly elated with these encomiums, that he could
not refrain from adding some more of his own. He said, “The present
age was not improved in anything so much as in their puppet-shows;
which, by throwing out Punch and his wife Joan, and such idle
trumpery, were at last brought to be a rational entertainment. I
remember,” said he, “when I first took to the business, there was a
great deal of low stuff that did very well to make folks laugh; but
was never calculated to improve the morals of young people, which
certainly ought to be principally aimed at in every puppet-show: for
why may not good and instructive lessons be conveyed this way, as well
as any other? My figures are as big as the life, and they represent
the life in every particular; and I question not but people rise from
my little drama as much improved as they do from the great.” “I would
by no means degrade the ingenuity of your profession,” answered Jones,
“but I should have been glad to have seen my old acquaintance master
Punch, for all that; and so far from improving, I think, by leaving
out him and his merry wife Joan, you have spoiled your puppet-show.”
The dancer of wires conceived an immediate and high contempt for
Jones, from these words. And with much disdain in his countenance, he
replied, “Very probably, sir, that may be your opinion; but I have the
satisfaction to know the best judges differ from you, and it is
impossible to please every taste. I confess, indeed, some of the
quality at Bath, two or three years ago, wanted mightily to bring
Punch again upon the stage. I believe I lost some money for not
agreeing to it; but let others do as they will; a little matter shall
never bribe me to degrade my own profession, nor will I ever willingly
consent to the spoiling the decency and regularity of my stage, by
introducing any such low stuff upon it.”
“Right, friend,” cries the clerk, “you are very right. Always avoid
what is low. There are several of my acquaintance in London, who are
resolved to drive everything which is low from the stage.” “Nothing
can be more proper,” cries the exciseman, pulling his pipe from his
mouth. “I remember,” added he, “(for I then lived with my lord) I was
in the footman's gallery, the night when this play of the Provoked
Husband was acted first. There was a great deal of low stuff in it
about a country gentleman come up to town to stand for parliament-man;
and there they brought a parcel of his servants upon the stage, his
coachman I remember particularly; but the gentlemen in our gallery
could not bear anything so low, and they damned it. I observe, friend,
you have left all that matter out, and you are to be commended for
it.”
“Nay, gentlemen,” cries Jones, “I can never maintain my opinion
against so many; indeed, if the generality of his audience dislike
him, the learned gentleman who conducts the show might have done very
right in dismissing Punch from his service.”
The master of the show then began a second harangue, and said much of
the great force of example, and how much the inferior part of mankind
would be deterred from vice, by observing how odious it was in their
superiors; when he was unluckily interrupted by an incident, which,
though perhaps we might have omitted it at another time, we cannot
help relating at present, but not in this chapter.
Chapter vi.
From which it may be inferred that the best things are liable to be
misunderstood and misinterpreted.
A violent uproar now arose in the entry, where my landlady was well
cuffing her maid both with her fist and tongue. She had indeed missed
the wench from her employment, and, after a little search, had found
her on the puppet-show stage in company with the Merry Andrew, and in
a situation not very proper to be described.
Though Grace (for that was her name) had forfeited all title to
modesty; yet had she not impudence enough to deny a fact in which she
was actually surprized; she, therefore, took another turn, and
attempted to mitigate the offence. “Why do you beat me in this manner,
mistress?” cries the wench. “If you don't like my doings, you may turn
me away. If I am a w--e” (for the other had liberally bestowed that
appellation on her), “my betters are so as well as I. What was the
fine lady in the puppet-show just now? I suppose she did not lie all
night out from her husband for nothing.”
The landlady now burst into the kitchen, and fell foul on both her
husband and the poor puppet-mover. “Here, husband,” says she, “you see
the consequence of harbouring these people in your house. If one doth
draw a little drink the more for them, one is hardly made amends for
the litter they make; and then to have one's house made a bawdy-house
of by such lousy vermin. In short, I desire you would be gone
to-morrow morning; for I will tolerate no more such doings. It is only
the way to teach our servants idleness and nonsense; for to be sure
nothing better can be learned by such idle shows as these. I remember
when puppet-shows were made of good scripture stories, as Jephthah's
Rash Vow, and such good things, and when wicked people were carried
away by the devil. There was some sense in those matters; but as the
parson told us last Sunday, nobody believes in the devil now-a-days;
and here you bring about a parcel of puppets drest up like lords and
ladies, only to turn the heads of poor country wenches; and when their
heads are once turned topsy-turvy, no wonder everything else is so.”
Virgil, I think, tells us, that when the mob are assembled in a
riotous and tumultuous manner, and all sorts of missile weapons fly
about, if a man of gravity and authority appears amongst them, the
tumult is presently appeased, and the mob, which when collected into
one body, may be well compared to an ass, erect their long ears at the
grave man's discourse.
On the contrary, when a set of grave men and philosophers are
disputing; when wisdom herself may in a manner be considered as
present, and administering arguments to the disputants; should a
tumult arise among the mob, or should one scold, who is herself equal
in noise to a mighty mob, appear among the said philosophers; their
disputes cease in a moment, wisdom no longer performs her ministerial
office, and the attention of every one is immediately attracted by the
scold alone.
Thus the uproar aforesaid, and the arrival of the landlady, silenced
the master of the puppet-show, and put a speedy and final end to that
grave and solemn harangue, of which we have given the reader a
sufficient taste already. Nothing indeed could have happened so very
inopportune as this accident; the most wanton malice of fortune could
not have contrived such another stratagem to confound the poor fellow,
while he was so triumphantly descanting on the good morals inculcated
by his exhibitions. His mouth was now as effectually stopt, as that of
quack must be, if, in the midst of a declamation on the great virtues
of his pills and powders, the corpse of one of his martyrs should be
brought forth, and deposited before the stage, as a testimony of his
skill.
Instead, therefore, of answering my landlady, the puppet-show man ran
out to punish his Merry Andrew; and now the moon beginning to put
forth her silver light, as the poets call it (though she looked at
that time more like a piece of copper), Jones called for his
reckoning, and ordered Partridge, whom my landlady had just awaked
from a profound nap, to prepare for his journey; but Partridge, having
lately carried two points, as my reader hath seen before, was
emboldened to attempt a third, which was to prevail with Jones to take
up a lodging that evening in the house where he then was. He
introduced this with an affected surprize at the intention which Mr
Jones declared of removing; and, after urging many excellent arguments
against it, he at last insisted strongly that it could be to no manner
of purpose whatever; for that, unless Jones knew which way the lady
was gone, every step he took might very possibly lead him the farther
from her; “for you find, sir,” said he, “by all the people in the
house, that she is not gone this way. How much better, therefore,
would it be to stay till the morning, when we may expect to meet with
somebody to enquire of?”
This last argument had indeed some effect on Jones, and while he was
weighing it the landlord threw all the rhetoric of which he was master
into the same scale. “Sure, sir,” said he, “your servant gives you
most excellent advice; for who would travel by night at this time of
the year?” He then began in the usual stile to trumpet forth the
excellent accommodation which his house afforded; and my landlady
likewise opened on the occasion----But, not to detain the reader with
what is common to every host and hostess, it is sufficient to tell him
Jones was at last prevailed on to stay and refresh himself with a few
hours' rest, which indeed he very much wanted; for he had hardly shut
his eyes since he had left the inn where the accident of the broken
head had happened.
As soon as Jones had taken a resolution to proceed no farther that
night, he presently retired to rest, with his two bedfellows, the
pocket-book and the muff; but Partridge, who at several times had
refreshed himself with several naps, was more inclined to eating than
to sleeping, and more to drinking than to either.
And now the storm which Grace had raised being at an end, and my
landlady being again reconciled to the puppet-man, who on his side
forgave the indecent reflections which the good woman in her passion
had cast on his performances, a face of perfect peace and tranquillity
reigned in the kitchen; where sat assembled round the fire the
landlord and landlady of the house, the master of the puppet-show, the
attorney's clerk, the exciseman, and the ingenious Mr Partridge; in
which company past the agreeable conversation which will be found in
the next chapter.
Chapter vii.
Containing a remark or two of our own and many more of the good
company assembled in the kitchen.
Though the pride of Partridge did not submit to acknowledge himself a
servant, yet he condescended in most particulars to imitate the
manners of that rank. One instance of this was, his greatly magnifying
the fortune of his companion, as he called Jones: such is a general
custom with all servants among strangers, as none of them would
willingly be thought the attendant on a beggar: for, the higher the
situation of the master is, the higher consequently is that of the man
in his own opinion; the truth of which observation appears from the
behaviour of all the footmen of the nobility.
But, though title and fortune communicate a splendor all around them,
and the footmen of men of quality and of estate think themselves
entitled to a part of that respect which is paid to the quality and
estate of their masters, it is clearly otherwise with regard to virtue
and understanding. These advantages are strictly personal, and swallow
themselves all the respect which is paid to them. To say the truth,
this is so very little, that they cannot well afford to let any others
partake with them. As these therefore reflect no honour on the
domestic, so neither is he at all dishonoured by the most deplorable
want of both in his master. Indeed it is otherwise in the want of what
is called virtue in a mistress, the consequence of which we have
before seen: for in this dishonour there is a kind of contagion,
which, like that of poverty, communicates itself to all who approach
it.
Now for these reasons we are not to wonder that servants (I mean among
the men only) should have so great regard for the reputation of the
wealth of their masters, and little or none at all for their character
in other points, and that, though they would be ashamed to be the
footman of a beggar, they are not so to attend upon a rogue or a
blockhead; and do consequently make no scruple to spread the fame of
the iniquities and follies of their said masters as far as possible,
and this often with great humour and merriment. In reality, a footman
is often a wit as well as a beau, at the expence of the gentleman
whose livery he wears.
After Partridge, therefore, had enlarged greatly on the vast fortune
to which Mr Jones was heir, he very freely communicated an
apprehension, which he had begun to conceive the day before, and for
which, as we hinted at that very time, the behaviour of Jones seemed
to have furnished a sufficient foundation. In short, he was now pretty
well confirmed in an opinion that his master was out of his wits, with
which opinion he very bluntly acquainted the good company round the
fire.
With this sentiment the puppet-show man immediately coincided. “I
own,” said he, “the gentleman surprized me very much, when he talked
so absurdly about puppet-shows. It is indeed hardly to be conceived
that any man in his senses should be so much mistaken; what you say
now accounts very well for all his monstrous notions. Poor gentleman!
I am heartily concerned for him; indeed he hath a strange wildness
about his eyes, which I took notice of before, though I did not
mention it.”
The landlord agreed with this last assertion, and likewise claimed the
sagacity of having observed it. “And certainly,” added he, “it must be
so; for no one but a madman would have thought of leaving so good a
house to ramble about the country at that time of night.”
The exciseman, pulling his pipe from his mouth, said, “He thought the
gentleman looked and talked a little wildly;” and then turning to
Partridge, “if he be a madman,” says he, “he should not be suffered to
travel thus about the country; for possibly he may do some mischief.
It is a pity he was not secured and sent home to his relations.”
Now some conceits of this kind were likewise lurking in the mind of
Partridge; for, as he was now persuaded that Jones had run away from
Mr Allworthy, he promised himself the highest rewards if he could by
any means convey him back. But fear of Jones, of whose fierceness and
strength he had seen, and indeed felt, some instances, had however
represented any such scheme as impossible to be executed, and had
discouraged him from applying himself to form any regular plan for the
purpose. But no sooner did he hear the sentiments of the exciseman
than he embraced that opportunity of declaring his own, and expressed
a hearty wish that such a matter could be brought about.
“Could be brought about!” says the exciseman: “why, there is nothing
easier.”
“Ah! sir,” answered Partridge, “you don't know what a devil of a
fellow he is. He can take me up with one hand, and throw me out at
window; and he would, too, if he did but imagine--”
“Pogh!” says the exciseman, “I believe I am as good a man as he.
Besides, here are five of us.”
“I don't know what five,” cries the landlady, “my husband shall have
nothing to do in it. Nor shall any violent hands be laid upon anybody
in my house. The young gentleman is as pretty a young gentleman as
ever I saw in my life, and I believe he is no more mad than any of us.
What do you tell of his having a wild look with his eyes? they are the
prettiest eyes I ever saw, and he hath the prettiest look with them;
and a very modest civil young man he is. I am sure I have bepitied him
heartily ever since the gentleman there in the corner told us he was
crost in love. Certainly that is enough to make any man, especially
such a sweet young gentleman as he is, to look a little otherwise than
he did before. Lady, indeed! what the devil would the lady have better
than such a handsome man with a great estate? I suppose she is one of
your quality folks, one of your Townly ladies that we saw last night
in the puppet-show, who don't know what they would be at.”
The attorney's clerk likewise declared he would have no concern in the
business without the advice of counsel. “Suppose,” says he, “an action
of false imprisonment should be brought against us, what defence could
we make? Who knows what may be sufficient evidence of madness to a
jury? But I only speak upon my own account; for it don't look well for
a lawyer to be concerned in these matters, unless it be as a lawyer.
Juries are always less favourable to us than to other people. I don't
therefore dissuade you, Mr Thomson (to the exciseman), nor the
gentleman, nor anybody else.”
The exciseman shook his head at this speech, and the puppet-show man
said, “Madness was sometimes a difficult matter for a jury to decide:
for I remember,” says he, “I was once present at a tryal of madness,
where twenty witnesses swore that the person was as mad as a March
hare; and twenty others, that he was as much in his senses as any man
in England.--And indeed it was the opinion of most people, that it was
only a trick of his relations to rob the poor man of his right.”
“Very likely!” cries the landlady. “I myself knew a poor gentleman who
was kept in a mad-house all his life by his family, and they enjoyed
his estate, but it did them no good; for though the law gave it them,
it was the right of another.”
“Pogh!” cries the clerk, with great contempt, “who hath any right but
what the law gives them? If the law gave me the best estate in the
country, I should never trouble myself much who had the right.”
“If it be so,” says Partridge, “_Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula
cautum.”_
My landlord, who had been called out by the arrival of a horseman at
the gate, now returned into the kitchen, and with an affrighted
countenance cried out, “What do you think, gentlemen? The rebels have
given the duke the slip, and are got almost to London. It is certainly
true, for a man on horseback just now told me so.”
“I am glad of it with all my heart,” cries Partridge; “then there will
be no fighting in these parts.”
“I am glad,” cries the clerk, “for a better reason; for I would always
have right take place.”
“Ay, but,” answered the landlord, “I have heard some people say this
man hath no right.”
“I will prove the contrary in a moment,” cries the clerk: “if my
father dies seized of a right; do you mind me, seized of a right, I
say; doth not that right descend to his son; and doth not one right
descend as well as another?”
“But how can he have any right to make us papishes?” says the
landlord.
“Never fear that,” cries Partridge. “As to the matter of right, the
gentleman there hath proved it as clear as the sun; and as to the
matter of religion, it is quite out of the case. The papists
themselves don't expect any such thing. A popish priest, whom I know
very well, and who is a very honest man, told me upon his word and
honour they had no such design.”
“And another priest, of my acquaintance,” said the landlady, “hath
told me the same thing; but my husband is always so afraid of
papishes. I know a great many papishes that are very honest sort of
people, and spend their money very freely; and it is always a maxim
with me, that one man's money is as good as another's.”
“Very true, mistress,” said the puppet-show man, “I don't care what
religion comes; provided the Presbyterians are not uppermost; for they
are enemies to puppet-shows.”
“And so you would sacrifice your religion to your interest,” cries the
exciseman; “and are desirous to see popery brought in, are you?”
“Not I, truly,” answered the other; “I hate popery as much as any man;
but yet it is a comfort to one, that one should be able to live under
it, which I could not do among Presbyterians. To be sure, every man
values his livelihood first; that must be granted; and I warrant, if
you would confess the truth, you are more afraid of losing your place
than anything else; but never fear, friend, there will be an excise
under another government as well as under this.”
“Why, certainly,” replied the exciseman, “I should be a very ill man
if I did not honour the king, whose bread I eat. That is no more than
natural, as a man may say: for what signifies it to me that there
would be an excise-office under another government, since my friends
would be out, and I could expect no better than to follow them? No,
no, friend, I shall never be bubbled out of my religion in hopes only
of keeping my place under another government; for I should certainly
be no better, and very probably might be worse.”
“Why, that is what I say,” cries the landlord, “whenever folks say who
knows what may happen! Odsooks! should not I be a blockhead to lend my
money to I know not who, because mayhap he may return it again? I am
sure it is safe in my own bureau, and there I will keep it.”
The attorney's clerk had taken a great fancy to the sagacity of
Partridge. Whether this proceeded from the great discernment which the
former had into men, as well as things, or whether it arose from the
sympathy between their minds; for they were both truly Jacobites in
principle; they now shook hands heartily, and drank bumpers of strong
beer to healths which we think proper to bury in oblivion.
These healths were afterwards pledged by all present, and even by my
landlord himself, though reluctantly; but he could not withstand the
menaces of the clerk, who swore he would never set his foot within his
house again, if he refused. The bumpers which were swallowed on this
occasion soon put an end to the conversation. Here, therefore, we will
put an end to the chapter.
Chapter viii.
In which fortune seems to have been in a better humour with Jones than
we have hitherto seen her.
As there is no wholesomer, so perhaps there are few stronger, sleeping
potions than fatigue. Of this Jones might be said to have taken a very
large dose, and it operated very forcibly upon him. He had already
slept nine hours, and might perhaps have slept longer, had he not been
awakened by a most violent noise at his chamber-door, where the sound
of many heavy blows was accompanied with many exclamations of murder.
Jones presently leapt from his bed, where he found the master of the
puppet-show belabouring the back and ribs of his poor Merry-Andrew,
without either mercy or moderation.
Jones instantly interposed on behalf of the suffering party, and
pinned the insulting conqueror up to the wall: for the puppet-show man
was no more able to contend with Jones than the poor party-coloured
jester had been to contend with this puppet-man.
But though the Merry-Andrew was a little fellow, and not very strong,
he had nevertheless some choler about him. He therefore no sooner
found himself delivered from the enemy, than he began to attack him
with the only weapon at which he was his equal. From this he first
discharged a volley of general abusive words, and thence proceeded to
some particular accusations--“D--n your bl--d, you rascal,” says he,
“I have not only supported you (for to me you owe all the money you
get), but I have saved you from the gallows. Did you not want to rob
the lady of her fine riding-habit, no longer ago than yesterday, in
the back-lane here? Can you deny that you wished to have her alone in
a wood to strip her--to strip one of the prettiest ladies that ever
was seen in the world? and here you have fallen upon me, and have
almost murdered me, for doing no harm to a girl as willing as myself,
only because she likes me better than you.”
Jones no sooner heard this than he quitted the master, laying on him
at the same time the most violent injunctions of forbearance from any
further insult on the Merry-Andrew; and then taking the poor wretch
with him into his own apartment, he soon learned tidings of his
Sophia, whom the fellow, as he was attending his master with his drum
the day before, had seen pass by. He easily prevailed with the lad to
show him the exact place, and then having summoned Partridge, he
departed with the utmost expedition.
It was almost eight of the clock before all matters could be got ready
for his departure: for Partridge was not in any haste, nor could the
reckoning be presently adjusted; and when both these were settled and
over, Jones would not quit the place before he had perfectly
reconciled all differences between the master and the man.
When this was happily accomplished, he set forwards, and was by the
trusty Merry-Andrew conducted to the spot by which Sophia had past;
and then having handsomely rewarded his conductor, he again pushed on
with the utmost eagerness, being highly delighted with the
extraordinary manner in which he received his intelligence. Of this
Partridge was no sooner acquainted, than he, with great earnestness,
began to prophesy, and assured Jones that he would certainly have good
success in the end: for, he said, “two such accidents could never have
happened to direct him after his mistress, if Providence had not
designed to bring them together at last.” And this was the first time
that Jones lent any attention to the superstitious doctrines of his
companion.
They had not gone above two miles when a violent storm of rain
overtook them; and, as they happened to be at the same time in sight
of an ale-house, Partridge, with much earnest entreaty, prevailed with
Jones to enter, and weather the storm. Hunger is an enemy (if indeed
it may be called one) which partakes more of the English than of the
French disposition; for, though you subdue this never so often, it
will always rally again in time; and so it did with Partridge, who was
no sooner arrived within the kitchen, than he began to ask the same
questions which he had asked the night before. The consequence of this
was an excellent cold chine being produced upon the table, upon which
not only Partridge, but Jones himself, made a very hearty breakfast,
though the latter began to grow again uneasy, as the people of the
house could give him no fresh information concerning Sophia.