TOM JONES
PART 21
Chapter vi. — In which more of the talents of Mr Benjamin will appear, as well as who this extraordinary person was.
In the
morning Jones grew a little uneasy at the desertion of his surgeon, as he
apprehended some inconvenience, or even danger, might attend the not dressing
his wound; he enquired of the drawer, what other surgeons were to be met with
in that neighbourhood. The drawer told him, there was one not far off; but he
had known him often refuse to be concerned after another had been sent before
him; “but, sir,” says he, “if you will take my advice, there is not a man in
the kingdom can do your business better than the barber who was with you last
night. We look upon him to be one of the ablest men at a cut in all this
neighbourhood. For though he hath not been her above three months, he hath done
several great cures.”
The drawer
was presently dispatched for Little Benjamin, who being acquainted in what
capacity he was wanted, prepared himself accordingly, and attended; but with so
different an air and aspect from that which he wore when his basin was under
his arm, that he could scarce be known to be the same person.
“So,
tonsor,” says Jones, “I find you have more trades than one; how came you not to
inform me of this last night?”—“A surgeon,” answered Benjamin, with great
gravity, “is a profession, not a trade. The reason why I did not acquaint you
last night that I professed this art, was, that I then concluded you was under
the hands of another gentleman, and I never love to interfere with my brethren
in their business. Ars omnibus communis. But now, sir, if you please, I
will inspect your head, and when I see into your skull, I will give my opinion
of your case.”
Jones had
no great faith in this new professor; however, he suffered him to open the
bandage and to look at his wound; which as soon as he had done, Benjamin began
to groan and shake his head violently. Upon which Jones, in a peevish manner,
bid him not play the fool, but tell him in what condition he found him. “Shall
I answer you as a surgeon, or a friend?” said Benjamin. “As a friend, and
seriously,” said Jones. “Why then, upon my soul,” cries Benjamin, “it would
require a great deal of art to keep you from being well after a very few
dressings; and if you will suffer me to apply some salve of mine, I will answer
for the success.” Jones gave his consent, and the plaister was applied
accordingly.
“There,
sir,” cries Benjamin: “now I will, if you please, resume my former self; but a
man is obliged to keep up some dignity in his countenance whilst he is
performing these operations, or the world will not submit to be handled by him.
You can’t imagine, sir, of how much consequence a grave aspect is to a grave
character. A barber may make you laugh, but a surgeon ought rather to make you
cry.”
“Mr
Barber, or Mr Surgeon, or Mr Barber-surgeon,” said Jones. “O dear sir!”
answered Benjamin, interrupting him, “Infandum, regina, jubes renovare
dolorem. You recall to my mind that cruel separation of the united
fraternities, so much to the prejudice of both bodies, as all separations must
be, according to the old adage, Vis unita fortior; which to be sure
there are not wanting some of one or of the other fraternity who are able to
construe. What a blow was this to me, who unite both in my own person!” “Well,
by whatever name you please to be called,” continued Jones, “you certainly are
one of the oddest, most comical fellows I ever met with, and must have
something very surprizing in your story, which you must confess I have a right
to hear.”—“I do confess it,” answered Benjamin, “and will very readily acquaint
you with it, when you have sufficient leisure, for I promise you it will
require a good deal of time.” Jones told him, he could never be more at leisure
than at present. “Well, then,” said Benjamin, “I will obey you; but first I
will fasten the door, that none may interrupt us.” He did so, and then
advancing with a solemn air to Jones, said: “I must begin by telling you, sir,
that you yourself have been the greatest enemy I ever had.” Jones was a little
startled at this sudden declaration. “I your enemy, sir!” says he, with much
amazement, and some sternness in his look. “Nay, be not angry,” said Benjamin,
“for I promise you I am not. You are perfectly innocent of having intended me
any wrong; for you was then an infant: but I shall, I believe, unriddle all
this the moment I mention my name. Did you never hear, sir, of one Partridge,
who had the honour of being reputed your father, and the misfortune of being
ruined by that honour?” “I have, indeed, heard of that Partridge,” says Jones,
“and have always believed myself to be his son.” “Well, sir,” answered
Benjamin, “I am that Partridge; but I here absolve you from all filial duty,
for I do assure you, you are no son of mine.” “How!” replied Jones, “and is it
possible that a false suspicion should have drawn all the ill consequences upon
you, with which I am too well acquainted?” “It is possible,” cries Benjamin,
“for it is so: but though it is natural enough for men to hate even the
innocent causes of their sufferings, yet I am of a different temper. I have
loved you ever since I heard of your behaviour to Black George, as I told you;
and I am convinced, from this extraordinary meeting, that you are born to make
me amends for all I have suffered on that account. Besides, I dreamt, the night
before I saw you, that I stumbled over a stool without hurting myself; which
plainly showed me something good was towards me: and last night I dreamt again,
that I rode behind you on a milk-white mare, which is a very excellent dream,
and betokens much good fortune, which I am resolved to pursue unless you have
the cruelty to deny me.”
“I should
be very glad, Mr Partridge,” answered Jones, “to have it in my power to make
you amends for your sufferings on my account, though at present I see no
likelihood of it; however, I assure you I will deny you nothing which is in my
power to grant.”
“It is in
your power sure enough,” replied Benjamin; “for I desire nothing more than
leave to attend you in this expedition. Nay, I have so entirely set my heart
upon it, that if you should refuse me, you will kill both a barber and a
surgeon in one breath.”
Jones
answered, smiling, that he should be very sorry to be the occasion of so much
mischief to the public. He then advanced many prudential reasons, in order to
dissuade Benjamin (whom we shall hereafter call Partridge) from his purpose;
but all were in vain. Partridge relied strongly on his dream of the milk-white
mare. “Besides, sir,” says he, “I promise you I have as good an inclination to
the cause as any man can possibly have; and go I will, whether you admit me to
go in your company or not.”
Jones, who
was as much pleased with Partridge as Partridge could be with him, and who had
not consulted his own inclination but the good of the other in desiring him to
stay behind, when he found his friend so resolute, at last gave his consent;
but then recollecting himself, he said, “Perhaps, Mr Partridge, you think I
shall be able to support you, but I really am not;” and then taking out his
purse, he told out nine guineas, which he declared were his whole fortune.
Partridge
answered, “That his dependence was only on his future favour; for he was
thoroughly convinced he would shortly have enough in his power. At present,
sir,” said he, “I believe I am rather the richer man of the two; but all I have
is at your service, and at your disposal. I insist upon your taking the whole,
and I beg only to attend you in the quality of your servant; Nil desperandum
est Teucro duce et auspice Teucro”: but to this generous proposal
concerning the money, Jones would by no means submit.
It was
resolved to set out the next morning, when a difficulty arose concerning the
baggage; for the portmanteau of Mr Jones was too large to be carried without a
horse.
“If I may
presume to give my advice,” says Partridge, “this portmanteau, with everything
in it, except a few shirts, should be left behind. Those I shall be easily able
to carry for you, and the rest of your cloaths will remain very safe locked up
in my house.”
This
method was no sooner proposed than agreed to; and then the barber departed, in
order to prepare everything for his intended expedition.
Chapter vii. — Containing better reasons than any which have yet appeared for the conduct of Partridge; an apology for the weakness of Jones; and some further anecdotes concerning my landlady.
Though
Partridge was one of the most superstitious of men, he would hardly perhaps
have desired to accompany Jones on his expedition merely from the omens of the
joint-stool and white mare, if his prospect had been no better than to have
shared the plunder gained in the field of battle. In fact, when Partridge came
to ruminate on the relation he had heard from Jones, he could not reconcile to
himself that Mr Allworthy should turn his son (for so he most firmly believed
him to be) out of doors, for any reason which he had heard assigned. He
concluded, therefore, that the whole was a fiction, and that Jones, of whom he
had often from his correspondents heard the wildest character, had in reality
run away from his father. It came into his head, therefore, that if he could
prevail with the young gentleman to return back to his father, he should by
that means render a service to Allworthy, which would obliterate all his former
anger; nay, indeed, he conceived that very anger was counterfeited, and that
Allworthy had sacrificed him to his own reputation. And this suspicion indeed
he well accounted for, from the tender behaviour of that excellent man to the
foundling child; from his great severity to Partridge, who, knowing himself to
be innocent, could not conceive that any other should think him guilty; lastly,
from the allowance which he had privately received long after the annuity had
been publickly taken from him, and which he looked upon as a kind of smart-money,
or rather by way of atonement for injustice; for it is very uncommon, I
believe, for men to ascribe the benefactions they receive to pure charity, when
they can possibly impute them to any other motive. If he could by any means
therefore persuade the young gentleman to return home, he doubted not but that
he should again be received into the favour of Allworthy, and well rewarded for
his pains; nay, and should be again restored to his native country; a
restoration which Ulysses himself never wished more heartily than poor
Partridge.
As for
Jones, he was well satisfied with the truth of what the other had asserted, and
believed that Partridge had no other inducements but love to him, and zeal for
the cause; a blameable want of caution and diffidence in the veracity of
others, in which he was highly worthy of censure. To say the truth, there are
but two ways by which men become possessed of this excellent quality. The one
is from long experience, and the other is from nature; which last, I presume,
is often meant by genius, or great natural parts; and it is infinitely the
better of the two, not only as we are masters of it much earlier in life, but
as it is much more infallible and conclusive; for a man who hath been imposed
on by ever so many, may still hope to find others more honest; whereas he who
receives certain necessary admonitions from within, that this is impossible,
must have very little understanding indeed, if he ever renders himself liable
to be once deceived. As Jones had not this gift from nature, he was too young
to have gained it by experience; for at the diffident wisdom which is to be
acquired this way, we seldom arrive till very late in life; which is perhaps
the reason why some old men are apt to despise the understandings of all those
who are a little younger than themselves.
Jones
spent most part of the day in the company of a new acquaintance. This was no
other than the landlord of the house, or rather the husband of the landlady. He
had but lately made his descent downstairs, after a long fit of the gout, in
which distemper he was generally confined to his room during one half of the
year; and during the rest, he walked about the house, smoaked his pipe, and
drank his bottle with his friends, without concerning himself in the least with
any kind of business. He had been bred, as they call it, a gentleman; that is,
bred up to do nothing; and had spent a very small fortune, which he inherited
from an industrious farmer his uncle, in hunting, horse-racing, and
cock-fighting, and had been married by my landlady for certain purposes, which
he had long since desisted from answering; for which she hated him heartily.
But as he was a surly kind of fellow, so she contented herself with frequently
upbraiding him by disadvantageous comparisons with her first husband, whose
praise she had eternally in her mouth; and as she was for the most part
mistress of the profit, so she was satisfied to take upon herself the care and
government of the family, and, after a long successless struggle, to suffer her
husband to be master of himself.
In the
evening, when Jones retired to his room, a small dispute arose between this
fond couple concerning him:—“What,” says the wife, “you have been tippling with
the gentleman, I see?”—“Yes,” answered the husband, “we have cracked a bottle
together, and a very gentlemanlike man he is, and hath a very pretty notion of
horse-flesh. Indeed, he is young, and hath not seen much of the world; for I
believe he hath been at very few horse-races.”—“Oho! he is one of your order, is
he?” replies the landlady: “he must be a gentleman to be sure, if he is a
horse-racer. The devil fetch such gentry! I am sure I wish I had never seen any
of them. I have reason to love horse-racers truly!”—“That you have,” says the
husband; “for I was one, you know.”—“Yes,” answered she, “you are a pure one
indeed. As my first husband used to say, I may put all the good I have ever got
by you in my eyes, and see never the worse.”—“D—n your first husband!” cries
he. “Don’t d—n a better man than yourself,” answered the wife: “if he had been
alive, you durst not have done it.”—“Then you think,” says he, “I have not so
much courage as yourself; for you have d—n’d him often in my hearing.”—“If I
did,” says she, “I have repented of it many’s the good time and oft. And if he
was so good to forgive me a word spoken in haste or so, it doth not become such
a one as you to twitter me. He was a husband to me, he was; and if ever I did
make use of an ill word or so in a passion, I never called him rascal; I should
have told a lie, if I had called him rascal.” Much more she said, but not in
his hearing; for having lighted his pipe, he staggered off as fast as he could.
We shall therefore transcribe no more of her speech, as it approached still
nearer and nearer to a subject too indelicate to find any place in this
history.
Early in
the morning Partridge appeared at the bedside of Jones, ready equipped for the
journey, with his knapsack at his back. This was his own workmanship; for
besides his other trades, he was no indifferent taylor. He had already put up
his whole stock of linen in it, consisting of four shirts, to which he now
added eight for Mr Jones; and then packing up the portmanteau, he was departing
with it towards his own house, but was stopt in his way by the landlady, who
refused to suffer any removals till after the payment of the reckoning.
The
landlady was, as we have said, absolute governess in these regions; it was
therefore necessary to comply with her rules; so the bill was presently writ
out, which amounted to a much larger sum than might have been expected, from
the entertainment which Jones had met with. But here we are obliged to disclose
some maxims, which publicans hold to be the grand mysteries of their trade. The
first is, If they have anything good in their house (which indeed very seldom
happens) to produce it only to persons who travel with great equipages. 2dly,
To charge the same for the very worst provisions, as if they were the best. And
lastly, If any of their guests call but for little, to make them pay a double
price for everything they have; so that the amount by the head may be much the
same.
The bill
being made and discharged, Jones set forward with Partridge, carrying his
knapsack; nor did the landlady condescend to wish him a good journey; for this
was, it seems, an inn frequented by people of fashion; and I know not whence it
is, but all those who get their livelihood by people of fashion, contract as
much insolence to the rest of mankind, as if they really belonged to that rank
themselves.
Chapter viii. — Jones arrives at Gloucester, and goes to the Bell; the character of that house, and of a petty-fogger which he there meets with.
Mr Jones
and Partridge, or Little Benjamin (which epithet of Little was perhaps given
him ironically, he being in reality near six feet high), having left their last
quarters in the manner before described, travelled on to Gloucester without
meeting any adventure worth relating.
Being
arrived here, they chose for their house of entertainment the sign of the Bell,
an excellent house indeed, and which I do most seriously recommend to every
reader who shall visit this antient city. The master of it is brother to the
great preacher Whitefield; but is absolutely untainted with the pernicious
principles of Methodism, or of any other heretical sect. He is indeed a very
honest plain man, and, in my opinion, not likely to create any disturbance
either in church or state. His wife hath, I believe, had much pretension to
beauty, and is still a very fine woman. Her person and deportment might have
made a shining figure in the politest assemblies; but though she must be conscious
of this and many other perfections, she seems perfectly contented with, and
resigned to, that state of life to which she is called; and this resignation is
entirely owing to the prudence and wisdom of her temper; for she is at present
as free from any Methodistical notions as her husband: I say at present; for
she freely confesses that her brother’s documents made at first some impression
upon her, and that she had put herself to the expense of a long hood, in order
to attend the extraordinary emotions of the Spirit; but having found, during an
experiment of three weeks, no emotions, she says, worth a farthing, she very
wisely laid by her hood, and abandoned the sect. To be concise, she is a very
friendly good-natured woman; and so industrious to oblige, that the guests must
be of a very morose disposition who are not extremely well satisfied in her
house.
Mrs
Whitefield happened to be in the yard when Jones and his attendant marched in.
Her sagacity soon discovered in the air of our heroe something which
distinguished him from the vulgar. She ordered her servants, therefore,
immediately to show him into a room, and presently afterwards invited him to
dinner with herself; which invitation he very thankfully accepted; for indeed
much less agreeable company than that of Mrs Whitefield, and a much worse
entertainment than she had provided, would have been welcome after so long
fasting and so long a walk.
Besides Mr
Jones and the good governess of the mansion, there sat down at table an
attorney of Salisbury, indeed the very same who had brought the news of Mrs
Blifil’s death to Mr Allworthy, and whose name, which I think we did not before
mention, was Dowling: there was likewise present another person, who stiled
himself a lawyer, and who lived somewhere near Linlinch, in Somersetshire. This
fellow, I say, stiled himself a lawyer, but was indeed a most vile
petty-fogger, without sense or knowledge of any kind; one of those who may be
termed train-bearers to the law; a sort of supernumeraries in the profession,
who are the hackneys of attorneys, and will ride more miles for half-a-crown
than a postboy.
During the
time of dinner, the Somersetshire lawyer recollected the face of Jones, which
he had seen at Mr Allworthy’s; for he had often visited in that gentleman’s
kitchen. He therefore took occasion to enquire after the good family there with
that familiarity which would have become an intimate friend or acquaintance of
Mr Allworthy; and indeed he did all in his power to insinuate himself to be
such, though he had never had the honour of speaking to any person in that
family higher than the butler. Jones answered all his questions with much
civility, though he never remembered to have seen the petty-fogger before; and
though he concluded, from the outward appearance and behaviour of the man, that
he usurped a freedom with his betters, to which he was by no means intitled.
As the
conversation of fellows of this kind is of all others the most detestable to
men of any sense, the cloth was no sooner removed than Mr Jones withdrew, and a
little barbarously left poor Mrs Whitefield to do a penance, which I have often
heard Mr Timothy Harris, and other publicans of good taste, lament, as the
severest lot annexed to their calling, namely, that of being obliged to keep
company with their guests.
Jones had
no sooner quitted the room, than the petty-fogger, in a whispering tone, asked
Mrs Whitefield, “If she knew who that fine spark was?” She answered, “She had
never seen the gentleman before.”—“The gentleman, indeed!” replied the
petty-fogger; “a pretty gentleman, truly! Why, he’s the bastard of a fellow who
was hanged for horse-stealing. He was dropt at Squire Allworthy’s door, where
one of the servants found him in a box so full of rain-water, that he would
certainly have been drowned, had he not been reserved for another fate.”—“Ay,
ay, you need not mention it, I protest: we understand what that fate is very
well,” cries Dowling, with a most facetious grin.—“Well,” continued the other,
“the squire ordered him to be taken in; for he is a timbersome man everybody
knows, and was afraid of drawing himself into a scrape; and there the bastard
was bred up, and fed, and cloathified all to the world like any gentleman; and
there he got one of the servant-maids with child, and persuaded her to swear it
to the squire himself; and afterwards he broke the arm of one Mr Thwackum a
clergyman, only because he reprimanded him for following whores; and afterwards
he snapt a pistol at Mr Blifil behind his back; and once, when Squire Allworthy
was sick, he got a drum, and beat it all over the house to prevent him from
sleeping; and twenty other pranks he hath played, for all which, about four or
five days ago, just before I left the country, the squire stripped him stark
naked, and turned him out of doors.”
“And very
justly too, I protest,” cries Dowling; “I would turn my own son out of doors,
if he was guilty of half as much. And pray what is the name of this pretty
gentleman?”
“The name
o’ un?” answered Petty-fogger; “why, he is called Thomas Jones.”
“Jones!”
answered Dowling a little eagerly; “what, Mr Jones that lived at Mr
Allworthy’s? was that the gentleman that dined with us?”—“The very same,” said
the other. “I have heard of the gentleman,” cries Dowling, “often; but I never
heard any ill character of him.”—“And I am sure,” says Mrs Whitefield, “if half
what this gentleman hath said be true, Mr Jones hath the most deceitful
countenance I ever saw; for sure his looks promise something very different;
and I must say, for the little I have seen of him, he is as civil a well-bred
man as you would wish to converse with.”
Petty-fogger
calling to mind that he had not been sworn, as he usually was, before he gave
his evidence, now bound what he had declared with so many oaths and imprecations
that the landlady’s ears were shocked, and she put a stop to his swearing, by
assuring him of her belief. Upon which he said, “I hope, madam, you imagine I
would scorn to tell such things of any man, unless I knew them to be true. What
interest have I in taking away the reputation of a man who never injured me? I
promise you every syllable of what I have said is fact, and the whole country
knows it.”
As Mrs
Whitefield had no reason to suspect that the petty-fogger had any motive or
temptation to abuse Jones, the reader cannot blame her for believing what he so
confidently affirmed with many oaths. She accordingly gave up her skill in
physiognomy, and hence-forwards conceived so ill an opinion of her guest, that
she heartily wished him out of her house.
This
dislike was now farther increased by a report which Mr Whitefield made from the
kitchen, where Partridge had informed the company, “That though he carried the
knapsack, and contented himself with staying among servants, while Tom Jones
(as he called him) was regaling in the parlour, he was not his servant, but
only a friend and companion, and as good a gentleman as Mr Jones himself.”
Dowling
sat all this while silent, biting his fingers, making faces, grinning, and
looking wonderfully arch; at last he opened his lips, and protested that the
gentleman looked like another sort of man. He then called for his bill with the
utmost haste, declared he must be at Hereford that evening, lamented his great
hurry of business, and wished he could divide himself into twenty pieces, in
order to be at once in twenty places.
The
petty-fogger now likewise departed, and then Jones desired the favour of Mrs
Whitefield’s company to drink tea with him; but she refused, and with a manner
so different from that with which she had received him at dinner, that it a
little surprized him. And now he soon perceived her behaviour totally changed;
for instead of that natural affability which we have before celebrated, she
wore a constrained severity on her countenance, which was so disagreeable to Mr
Jones, that he resolved, however late, to quit the house that evening.
He did
indeed account somewhat unfairly for this sudden change; for besides some hard
and unjust surmises concerning female fickleness and mutability, he began to suspect
that he owed this want of civility to his want of horses; a sort of animals
which, as they dirty no sheets, are thought in inns to pay better for their
beds than their riders, and are therefore considered as the more desirable
company; but Mrs Whitefield, to do her justice, had a much more liberal way of
thinking. She was perfectly well-bred, and could be very civil to a gentleman,
though he walked on foot. In reality, she looked on our heroe as a sorry
scoundrel, and therefore treated him as such, for which not even Jones himself,
had he known as much as the reader, could have blamed her; nay, on the
contrary, he must have approved her conduct, and have esteemed her the more for
the disrespect shown towards himself. This is indeed a most aggravating
circumstance, which attends depriving men unjustly of their reputation; for a
man who is conscious of having an ill character, cannot justly be angry with
those who neglect and slight him; but ought rather to despise such as affect
his conversation, unless where a perfect intimacy must have convinced them that
their friend’s character hath been falsely and injuriously aspersed.
This was
not, however, the case of Jones; for as he was a perfect stranger to the truth,
so he was with good reason offended at the treatment he received. He therefore
paid his reckoning and departed, highly against the will of Mr Partridge, who
having remonstrated much against it to no purpose, at last condescended to take
up his knapsack and to attend his friend.
Chapter ix. — Containing several dialogues between Jones and Partridge, concerning love, cold, hunger, and other matters; with the lucky and narrow escape of Partridge, as he was on the very brink of making a fatal
discovery
to his friend.
The
shadows began now to descend larger from the high mountains; the feathered
creation had betaken themselves to their rest. Now the highest order of mortals
were sitting down to their dinners, and the lowest order to their suppers. In a
word, the clock struck five just as Mr Jones took his leave of Gloucester; an
hour at which (as it was now mid-winter) the dirty fingers of Night would have
drawn her sable curtain over the universe, had not the moon forbid her, who
now, with a face as broad and as red as those of some jolly mortals, who, like
her, turn night into day, began to rise from her bed, where she had slumbered
away the day, in order to sit up all night. Jones had not travelled far before
he paid his compliments to that beautiful planet, and, turning to his
companion, asked him if he had ever beheld so delicious an evening? Partridge
making no ready answer to his question, he proceeded to comment on the beauty
of the moon, and repeated some passages from Milton, who hath certainly
excelled all other poets in his description of the heavenly luminaries. He then
told Partridge the story from the Spectator, of two lovers who had agreed to
entertain themselves when they were at a great distance from each other, by
repairing, at a certain fixed hour, to look at the moon; thus pleasing
themselves with the thought that they were both employed in contemplating the
same object at the same time. “Those lovers,” added he, “must have had souls
truly capable of feeling all the tenderness of the sublimest of all human
passions.”—“Very probably,” cries Partridge: “but I envy them more, if they had
bodies incapable of feeling cold; for I am almost frozen to death, and am very
much afraid I shall lose a piece of my nose before we get to another house of
entertainment. Nay, truly, we may well expect some judgment should happen to us
for our folly in running away so by night from one of the most excellent inns I
ever set my foot into. I am sure I never saw more good things in my life, and
the greatest lord in the land cannot live better in his own house than he may
there. And to forsake such a house, and go a rambling about the country, the
Lord knows whither, per devia rura viarum, I say nothing for my part;
but some people might not have charity enough to conclude we were in our sober
senses.”—“Fie upon it, Mr Partridge!” says Jones, “have a better heart;
consider you are going to face an enemy; and are you afraid of facing a little
cold? I wish, indeed, we had a guide to advise which of these roads we should
take.”—“May I be so bold,” says Partridge, “to offer my advice? Interdum
stultus opportuna loquitur”—“Why, which of them,” cries Jones, “would you
recommend?”—“Truly neither of them,” answered Partridge. “The only road we can
be certain of finding, is the road we came. A good hearty pace will bring us
back to Gloucester in an hour; but if we go forward, the Lord Harry knows when
we shall arrive at any place; for I see at least fifty miles before me, and no
house in all the way.”—“You see, indeed, a very fair prospect,” says Jones,
“which receives great additional beauty from the extreme lustre of the moon.
However, I will keep the left-hand track, as that seems to lead directly to
those hills, which we were informed lie not far from Worcester. And here, if
you are inclined to quit me, you may, and return back again; but for my part, I
am resolved to go forward.”
“It is
unkind in you, sir,” says Partridge, “to suspect me of any such intention. What
I have advised hath been as much on your account as on my own: but since you
are determined to go on, I am as much determined to follow. I prae sequar te.”
They now
travelled some miles without speaking to each other, during which suspense of
discourse Jones often sighed, and Benjamin groaned as bitterly, though from a
very different reason. At length Jones made a full stop, and turning about,
cries, “Who knows, Partridge, but the loveliest creature in the universe may
have her eyes now fixed on that very moon which I behold at this instant?”
“Very likely, sir,” answered Partridge; “and if my eyes were fixed on a good
surloin of roast beef, the devil might take the moon and her horns into the
bargain.” “Did ever Tramontane make such an answer?” cries Jones. “Prithee,
Partridge, wast thou ever susceptible of love in thy life, or hath time worn
away all the traces of it from thy memory?” “Alack-a-day!” cries Partridge,
“well would it have been for me if I had never known what love was. Infandum
regina jubes renovare dolorem. I am sure I have tasted all the tenderness,
and sublimities, and bitternesses of the passion.” “Was your mistress unkind,
then?” says Jones. “Very unkind, indeed, sir,” answered Partridge; “for she
married me, and made one of the most confounded wives in the world. However,
heaven be praised, she’s gone; and if I believed she was in the moon, according
to a book I once read, which teaches that to be the receptacle of departed
spirits, I would never look at it for fear of seeing her; but I wish, sir, that
the moon was a looking-glass for your sake, and that Miss Sophia Western was
now placed before it.” “My dear Partridge,” cries Jones, “what a thought was
there! A thought which I am certain could never have entered into any mind but
that of a lover. O Partridge! could I hope once again to see that face; but,
alas! all those golden dreams are vanished for ever, and my only refuge from
future misery is to forget the object of all my former happiness.” “And do you
really despair of ever seeing Miss Western again?” answered Partridge; “if you
will follow my advice I will engage you shall not only see her but have her in
your arms.” “Ha! do not awaken a thought of that nature,” cries Jones: “I have
struggled sufficiently to conquer all such wishes already.” “Nay,” answered
Partridge, “if you do not wish to have your mistress in your arms you are a
most extraordinary lover indeed.” “Well, well,” says Jones, “let us avoid this
subject; but pray what is your advice?” “To give it you in the military phrase,
then,” says Partridge, “as we are soldiers, `To the right about.’ Let us return
the way we came; we may yet reach Gloucester to-night, though late; whereas, if
we proceed, we are likely, for aught I see, to ramble about for ever without
coming either to house or home.” “I have already told you my resolution is to
go on,” answered Jones; “but I would have you go back. I am obliged to you for
your company hither; and I beg you to accept a guinea as a small instance of my
gratitude. Nay, it would be cruel in me to suffer you to go any farther; for,
to deal plainly with you, my chief end and desire is a glorious death in the
service of my king and country.” “As for your money,” replied Partridge, “I
beg, sir, you will put it up; I will receive none of you at this time; for at
present I am, I believe, the richer man of the two. And as your resolution is
to go on, so mine is to follow you if you do. Nay, now my presence appears
absolutely necessary to take care of you, since your intentions are so
desperate; for I promise you my views are much more prudent; as you are
resolved to fall in battle if you can, so I am resolved as firmly to come to no
hurt if I can help it. And, indeed, I have the comfort to think there will be
but little danger; for a popish priest told me the other day the business would
soon be over, and he believed without a battle.” “A popish priest!” cries
Jones, “I have heard is not always to be believed when he speaks in behalf of
his religion.” “Yes, but so far,” answered the other, “from speaking in behalf
of his religion, he assured me the Catholicks did not expect to be any gainers
by the change; for that Prince Charles was as good a Protestant as any in
England; and that nothing but regard to right made him and the rest of the
popish party to be Jacobites.”—“I believe him to be as much a Protestant as I
believe he hath any right,” says Jones; “and I make no doubt of our success,
but not without a battle. So that I am not so sanguine as your friend the
popish priest.” “Nay, to be sure, sir,” answered Partridge, “all the prophecies
I have ever read speak of a great deal of blood to be spilt in the quarrel, and
the miller with three thumbs, who is now alive, is to hold the horses of three
kings, up to his knees in blood. Lord, have mercy upon us all, and send better
times!” “With what stuff and nonsense hast thou filled thy head!” answered
Jones: “this too, I suppose, comes from the popish priest. Monsters and
prodigies are the proper arguments to support monstrous and absurd doctrines.
The cause of King George is the cause of liberty and true religion. In other
words, it is the cause of common sense, my boy, and I warrant you will succeed,
though Briarius himself was to rise again with his hundred thumbs, and to turn
miller.” Partridge made no reply to this. He was, indeed, cast into the utmost
confusion by this declaration of Jones. For, to inform the reader of a secret,
which he had no proper opportunity of revealing before, Partridge was in truth
a Jacobite, and had concluded that Jones was of the same party, and was now
proceeding to join the rebels. An opinion which was not without foundation. For
the tall, long-sided dame, mentioned by Hudibras—that many-eyed, many-tongued,
many-mouthed, many-eared monster of Virgil, had related the story of the
quarrel between Jones and the officer, with the usual regard to truth. She had,
indeed, changed the name of Sophia into that of the Pretender, and had
reported, that drinking his health was the cause for which Jones was knocked
down. This Partridge had heard, and most firmly believed. ‘Tis no wonder,
therefore, that he had thence entertained the above-mentioned opinion of Jones;
and which he had almost discovered to him before he found out his own mistake.
And at this the reader will be the less inclined to wonder, if he pleases to
recollect the doubtful phrase in which Jones first communicated his resolution
to Mr Partridge; and, indeed, had the words been less ambiguous, Partridge
might very well have construed them as he did; being persuaded as he was that
the whole nation were of the same inclination in their hearts; nor did it
stagger him that Jones had travelled in the company of soldiers; for he had the
same opinion of the army which he had of the rest of the people.
But
however well affected he might be to James or Charles, he was still much more
attached to Little Benjamin than to either; for which reason he no sooner
discovered the principles of his fellow-traveller than he thought proper to
conceal and outwardly give up his own to the man on whom he depended for the
making his fortune, since he by no means believed the affairs of Jones to be so
desperate as they really were with Mr Allworthy; for as he had kept a constant
correspondence with some of his neighbours since he left that country, he had
heard much, indeed more than was true, of the great affection Mr Allworthy bore
this young man, who, as Partridge had been instructed, was to be that
gentleman’s heir, and whom, as we have said, he did not in the least doubt to
be his son.
He
imagined therefore that whatever quarrel was between them, it would be
certainly made up at the return of Mr Jones; an event from which he promised
great advantages, if he could take this opportunity of ingratiating himself
with that young gentleman; and if he could by any means be instrumental in
procuring his return, he doubted not, as we have before said, but it would as
highly advance him in the favour of Mr Allworthy.
We have
already observed, that he was a very good-natured fellow, and he hath himself
declared the violent attachment he had to the person and character of Jones; but
possibly the views which I have just before mentioned, might likewise have some
little share in prompting him to undertake this expedition, at least in urging
him to continue it, after he had discovered that his master and himself, like
some prudent fathers and sons, though they travelled together in great
friendship, had embraced opposite parties. I am led into this conjecture, by
having remarked, that though love, friendship, esteem, and such like, have very
powerful operations in the human mind; interest, however, is an ingredient
seldom omitted by wise men, when they would work others to their own purposes.
This is indeed a most excellent medicine, and, like Ward’s pill, flies at once
to the particular part of the body on which you desire to operate, whether it
be the tongue, the hand, or any other member, where it scarce ever fails of
immediately producing the desired effect.
To be continued
