TOM JONES
PART 22
Chapter x. — In which our travellers meet with a very extraordinary adventure.
Just as
Jones and his friend came to the end of their dialogue in the preceding
chapter, they arrived at the bottom of a very steep hill. Here Jones stopt
short, and directing his eyes upwards, stood for a while silent. At length he
called to his companion, and said, “Partridge, I wish I was at the top of this
hill; it must certainly afford a most charming prospect, especially by this
light; for the solemn gloom which the moon casts on all objects, is beyond
expression beautiful, especially to an imagination which is desirous of
cultivating melancholy ideas.”—“Very probably,” answered Partridge; “but if the
top of the hill be properest to produce melancholy thoughts, I suppose the
bottom is the likeliest to produce merry ones, and these I take to be much the
better of the two. I protest you have made my blood run cold with the very
mentioning the top of that mountain; which seems to me to be one of the highest
in the world. No, no, if we look for anything, let it be for a place under
ground, to screen ourselves from the frost.”—“Do so,” said Jones; “let it be
but within hearing of this place, and I will hallow to you at my return
back.”—“Surely, sir, you are not mad,” said Partridge.—“Indeed, I am,” answered
Jones, “if ascending this hill be madness; but as you complain so much of the
cold already, I would have you stay below. I will certainly return to you
within an hour.”—“Pardon me, sir,” cries Partridge; “I have determined to
follow you wherever you go.” Indeed he was now afraid to stay behind; for
though he was coward enough in all respects, yet his chief fear was that of
ghosts, with which the present time of night, and the wildness of the place,
extremely well suited.
At this
instant Partridge espied a glimmering light through some trees, which seemed
very near to them. He immediately cried out in a rapture, “Oh, sir! Heaven hath
at last heard my prayers, and hath brought us to a house; perhaps it may be an
inn. Let me beseech you, sir, if you have any compassion either for me or
yourself, do not despise the goodness of Providence, but let us go directly to
yon light. Whether it be a public-house or no, I am sure if they be Christians
that dwell there, they will not refuse a little house-room to persons in our
miserable condition.” Jones at length yielded to the earnest supplications of
Partridge, and both together made directly towards the place whence the light
issued.
They soon
arrived at the door of this house, or cottage, for it might be called either,
without much impropriety. Here Jones knocked several times without receiving
any answer from within; at which Partridge, whose head was full of nothing but
of ghosts, devils, witches, and such like, began to tremble, crying, “Lord,
have mercy upon us! surely the people must be all dead. I can see no light
neither now, and yet I am certain I saw a candle burning but a moment
before.—Well! I have heard of such things.”—“What hast thou heard of?” said
Jones. “The people are either fast asleep, or probably, as this is a lonely
place, are afraid to open their door.” He then began to vociferate pretty
loudly, and at last an old woman, opening an upper casement, asked, Who they
were, and what they wanted? Jones answered, They were travellers who had lost
their way, and having seen a light in the window, had been led thither in hopes
of finding some fire to warm themselves. “Whoever you are,” cries the woman,
“you have no business here; nor shall I open the door to any one at this time
of night.” Partridge, whom the sound of a human voice had recovered from his
fright, fell to the most earnest supplications to be admitted for a few minutes
to the fire, saying, he was almost dead with the cold; to which fear had indeed
contributed equally with the frost. He assured her that the gentleman who spoke
to her was one of the greatest squires in the country; and made use of every
argument, save one, which Jones afterwards effectually added; and this was, the
promise of half-a-crown;—a bribe too great to be resisted by such a person,
especially as the genteel appearance of Jones, which the light of the moon
plainly discovered to her, together with his affable behaviour, had entirely
subdued those apprehensions of thieves which she had at first conceived. She
agreed, therefore, at last, to let them in; where Partridge, to his infinite
joy, found a good fire ready for his reception.
The poor
fellow, however, had no sooner warmed himself, than those thoughts which were
always uppermost in his mind, began a little to disturb his brain. There was no
article of his creed in which he had a stronger faith than he had in
witchcraft, nor can the reader conceive a figure more adapted to inspire this
idea, than the old woman who now stood before him. She answered exactly to that
picture drawn by Otway in his Orphan. Indeed, if this woman had lived in the
reign of James the First, her appearance alone would have hanged her, almost
without any evidence.
Many
circumstances likewise conspired to confirm Partridge in his opinion. Her
living, as he then imagined, by herself in so lonely a place; and in a house,
the outside of which seemed much too good for her, but its inside was furnished
in the most neat and elegant manner. To say the truth, Jones himself was not a
little surprized at what he saw; for, besides the extraordinary neatness of the
room, it was adorned with a great number of nicknacks and curiosities, which
might have engaged the attention of a virtuoso.
While
Jones was admiring these things, and Partridge sat trembling with the firm
belief that he was in the house of a witch, the old woman said, “I hope,
gentlemen, you will make what haste you can; for I expect my master presently,
and I would not for double the money he should find you here.”—“Then you have a
master?” cried Jones. “Indeed, you will excuse me, good woman, but I was
surprized to see all those fine things in your house.”—“Ah, sir,” said she, “if
the twentieth part of these things were mine, I should think myself a rich
woman. But pray, sir, do not stay much longer, for I look for him in every
minute.”—“Why, sure he would not be angry with you,” said Jones, “for doing a
common act of charity?”—“Alack-a-day, sir!” said she, “he is a strange man, not
at all like other people. He keeps no company with anybody, and seldom walks
out but by night, for he doth not care to be seen; and all the country people
are as much afraid of meeting him; for his dress is enough to frighten those
who are not used to it. They call him, the Man of the Hill (for there he walks
by night), and the country people are not, I believe, more afraid of the devil
himself. He would be terribly angry if he found you here.”—“Pray, sir,” says
Partridge, “don’t let us offend the gentleman; I am ready to walk, and was
never warmer in my life. Do pray, sir, let us go. Here are pistols over the
chimney: who knows whether they be charged or no, or what he may do with
them?”—“Fear nothing, Partridge,” cries Jones; “I will secure thee from
danger.”—“Nay, for matter o’ that, he never doth any mischief,” said the woman;
“but to be sure it is necessary he should keep some arms for his own safety;
for his house hath been beset more than once; and it is not many nights ago
that we thought we heard thieves about it: for my own part, I have often
wondered that he is not murdered by some villain or other, as he walks out by
himself at such hours; but then, as I said, the people are afraid of him; and
besides, they think, I suppose, he hath nothing about him worth taking.”—“I should
imagine, by this collection of rarities,” cries Jones, “that your master had
been a traveller.”—“Yes, sir,” answered she, “he hath been a very great one:
there be few gentlemen that know more of all matters than he. I fancy he hath
been crost in love, or whatever it is I know not; but I have lived with him
above these thirty years, and in all that time he hath hardly spoke to six
living people.” She then again solicited their departure, in which she was
backed by Partridge; but Jones purposely protracted the time, for his curiosity
was greatly raised to see this extraordinary person. Though the old woman,
therefore, concluded every one of her answers with desiring him to be gone, and
Partridge proceeded so far as to pull him by the sleeve, he still continued to
invent new questions, till the old woman, with an affrighted countenance,
declared she heard her master’s signal; and at the same instant more than one
voice was heard without the door, crying, “D—n your blood, show us your money
this instant. Your money, you villain, or we will blow your brains about your
ears.”
“O, good
heaven!” cries the old woman, “some villains, to be sure, have attacked my
master. O la! what shall I do? what shall I do?”—“How!” cries Jones, “how!—Are
these pistols loaded?”—“O, good sir, there is nothing in them, indeed. O pray
don’t murder us, gentlemen!” (for in reality she now had the same opinion of
those within as she had of those without). Jones made her no answer; but
snatching an old broad sword which hung in the room, he instantly sallied out,
where he found the old gentleman struggling with two ruffians, and begging for
mercy. Jones asked no questions, but fell so briskly to work with his broad
sword, that the fellows immediately quitted their hold; and without offering to
attack our heroe, betook themselves to their heels and made their escape; for
he did not attempt to pursue them, being contented with having delivered the
old gentleman; and indeed he concluded he had pretty well done their business,
for both of them, as they ran off, cried out with bitter oaths that they were
dead men.
Jones
presently ran to lift up the old gentleman, who had been thrown down in the
scuffle, expressing at the same time great concern lest he should have received
any harm from the villains. The old man stared a moment at Jones, and then
cried, “No, sir, no, I have very little harm, I thank you. Lord have mercy upon
me!”—“I see, sir,” said Jones, “you are not free from apprehensions even of
those who have had the happiness to be your deliverers; nor can I blame any
suspicions which you may have; but indeed you have no real occasion for any;
here are none but your friends present. Having mist our way this cold night, we
took the liberty of warming ourselves at your fire, whence we were just
departing when we heard you call for assistance, which, I must say, Providence
alone seems to have sent you.”—“Providence, indeed,” cries the old gentleman,
“if it be so.”—“So it is, I assure you,” cries Jones. “Here is your own sword,
sir; I have used it in your defence, and I now return it into your hand.” The
old man having received the sword, which was stained with the blood of his
enemies, looked stedfastly at Jones during some moments, and then with a sigh
cried out, “You will pardon me, young gentleman; I was not always of a
suspicious temper, nor am I a friend to ingratitude.”
“Be
thankful then,” cries Jones, “to that Providence to which you owe your
deliverance: as to my part, I have only discharged the common duties of
humanity, and what I would have done for any fellow-creature in your
situation.”—“Let me look at you a little longer,” cries the old gentleman. “You
are a human creature then? Well, perhaps you are. Come pray walk into my little
hutt. You have been my deliverer indeed.”
The old woman
was distracted between the fears which she had of her master, and for him; and
Partridge was, if possible, in a greater fright. The former of these, however,
when she heard her master speak kindly to Jones, and perceived what had
happened, came again to herself; but Partridge no sooner saw the gentleman,
than the strangeness of his dress infused greater terrors into that poor fellow
than he had before felt, either from the strange description which he had
heard, or from the uproar which had happened at the door.
To say the
truth, it was an appearance which might have affected a more constant mind than
that of Mr Partridge. This person was of the tallest size, with a long beard as
white as snow. His body was cloathed with the skin of an ass, made something
into the form of a coat. He wore likewise boots on his legs, and a cap on his
head, both composed of the skin of some other animals.
As soon as
the old gentleman came into his house, the old woman began her congratulations
on his happy escape from the ruffians. “Yes,” cried he, “I have escaped,
indeed, thanks to my preserver.”—“O the blessing on him!” answered she: “he is
a good gentleman, I warrant him. I was afraid your worship would have been
angry with me for letting him in; and to be certain I should not have done it,
had not I seen by the moon-light, that he was a gentleman, and almost frozen to
death. And to be certain it must have been some good angel that sent him
hither, and tempted me to do it.”
“I am
afraid, sir,” said the old gentleman to Jones, “that I have nothing in this
house which you can either eat or drink, unless you will accept a dram of
brandy; of which I can give you some most excellent, and which I have had by me
these thirty years.” Jones declined this offer in a very civil and proper
speech, and then the other asked him, “Whither he was travelling when he mist
his way?” saying, “I must own myself surprized to see such a person as you
appear to be, journeying on foot at this time of night. I suppose, sir, you are
a gentleman of these parts; for you do not look like one who is used to travel
far without horses?”
“Appearances,”
cried Jones, “are often deceitful; men sometimes look what they are not. I
assure you I am not of this country; and whither I am travelling, in reality I scarce
know myself.”
“Whoever
you are, or whithersoever you are going,” answered the old man, “I have
obligations to you which I can never return.”
“I once
more,” replied Jones, “affirm that you have none; for there can be no merit in
having hazarded that in your service on which I set no value; and nothing is so
contemptible in my eyes as life.”
“I am
sorry, young gentleman,” answered the stranger, “that you have any reason to be
so unhappy at your years.”
“Indeed I
am, sir,” answered Jones, “the most unhappy of mankind.”—“Perhaps you have had
a friend, or a mistress?” replied the other. “How could you,” cries Jones,
“mention two words sufficient to drive me to distraction?”—“Either of them are
enough to drive any man to distraction,” answered the old man. “I enquire no
farther, sir; perhaps my curiosity hath led me too far already.”
“Indeed,
sir,” cries Jones, “I cannot censure a passion which I feel at this instant in
the highest degree. You will pardon me when I assure you, that everything which
I have seen or heard since I first entered this house hath conspired to raise
the greatest curiosity in me. Something very extraordinary must have determined
you to this course of life, and I have reason to fear your own history is not
without misfortunes.”
Here the
old gentleman again sighed, and remained silent for some minutes: at last,
looking earnestly on Jones, he said, “I have read that a good countenance is a
letter of recommendation; if so, none ever can be more strongly recommended
than yourself. If I did not feel some yearnings towards you from another
consideration, I must be the most ungrateful monster upon earth; and I am
really concerned it is no otherwise in my power than by words to convince you
of my gratitude.”
Jones,
after a moment’s hesitation, answered, “That it was in his power by words to
gratify him extremely. I have confest a curiosity,” said he, “sir; need I say
how much obliged I should be to you, if you would condescend to gratify it?
Will you suffer me therefore to beg, unless any consideration restrains you,
that you would be pleased to acquaint me what motives have induced you thus to
withdraw from the society of mankind, and to betake yourself to a course of
life to which it sufficiently appears you were not born?”
“I scarce
think myself at liberty to refuse you anything after what hath happened,”
replied the old man. “If you desire therefore to hear the story of an unhappy
man, I will relate it to you. Indeed you judge rightly, in thinking there is
commonly something extraordinary in the fortunes of those who fly from society;
for however it may seem a paradox, or even a contradiction, certain it is, that
great philanthropy chiefly inclines us to avoid and detest mankind; not on
account so much of their private and selfish vices, but for those of a relative
kind; such as envy, malice, treachery, cruelty, with every other species of
malevolence. These are the vices which true philanthropy abhors, and which
rather than see and converse with, she avoids society itself. However, without
a compliment to you, you do not appear to me one of those whom I should shun or
detest; nay, I must say, in what little hath dropt from you, there appears some
parity in our fortunes: I hope, however, yours will conclude more
successfully.”
Here some
compliments passed between our heroe and his host, and then the latter was
going to begin his history, when Partridge interrupted him. His apprehensions
had now pretty well left him, but some effects of his terrors remained; he
therefore reminded the gentleman of that excellent brandy which he had
mentioned. This was presently brought, and Partridge swallowed a large bumper.
The
gentleman then, without any farther preface, began as you may read in the next
chapter.
Chapter xi. — In which the Man of the Hill begins to relate his history.
“I was
born in a village of Somersetshire, called Mark, in the year 1657. My father
was one of those whom they call gentlemen farmers. He had a little estate of
about £300 a year of his own, and rented another estate of near the same value.
He was prudent and industrious, and so good a husbandman, that he might have
led a very easy and comfortable life, had not an arrant vixen of a wife soured
his domestic quiet. But though this circumstance perhaps made him miserable, it
did not make him poor; for he confined her almost entirely at home, and rather
chose to bear eternal upbraidings in his own house, than to injure his fortune
by indulging her in the extravagancies she desired abroad.
“By this Xanthippe”
(so was the wife of Socrates called, said Partridge)—“by this Xanthippe he had
two sons, of which I was the younger. He designed to give us both good
education; but my elder brother, who, unhappily for him, was the favourite of
my mother, utterly neglected his learning; insomuch that, after having been
five or six years at school with little or no improvement, my father, being
told by his master that it would be to no purpose to keep him longer there, at
last complied with my mother in taking him home from the hands of that tyrant,
as she called his master; though indeed he gave the lad much less correction
than his idleness deserved, but much more, it seems, than the young gentleman
liked, who constantly complained to his mother of his severe treatment, and she
as constantly gave him a hearing.”
“Yes,
yes,” cries Partridge, “I have seen such mothers; I have been abused myself by
them, and very unjustly; such parents deserve correction as much as their
children.”
Jones chid
the pedagogue for his interruption, and then the stranger proceeded.
“My
brother now, at the age of fifteen, bade adieu to all learning, and to
everything else but to his dog and gun; with which latter he became so expert,
that, though perhaps you may think it incredible, he could not only hit a
standing mark with great certainty, but hath actually shot a crow as it was
flying in the air. He was likewise excellent at finding a hare sitting, and was
soon reputed one of the best sportsmen in the country; a reputation which both he
and his mother enjoyed as much as if he had been thought the finest scholar.
“The
situation of my brother made me at first think my lot the harder, in being
continued at school: but I soon changed my opinion; for as I advanced pretty
fast in learning, my labours became easy, and my exercise so delightful, that
holidays were my most unpleasant time; for my mother, who never loved me, now
apprehending that I had the greater share of my father’s affection, and
finding, or at least thinking, that I was more taken notice of by some
gentlemen of learning, and particularly by the parson of the parish, than my
brother, she now hated my sight, and made home so disagreeable to me, that what
is called by school-boys Black Monday, was to me the whitest in the whole year.
“Having at
length gone through the school at Taunton, I was thence removed to Exeter
College in Oxford, where I remained four years; at the end of which an accident
took me off entirely from my studies; and hence, I may truly date the rise of
all which happened to me afterwards in life.
“There was
at the same college with myself one Sir George Gresham, a young fellow who was
intitled to a very considerable fortune, which he was not, by the will of his
father, to come into full possession of till he arrived at the age of
twenty-five. However, the liberality of his guardians gave him little cause to
regret the abundant caution of his father; for they allowed him five hundred
pounds a year while he remained at the university, where he kept his horses and
his whore, and lived as wicked and as profligate a life as he could have done
had he been never so entirely master of his fortune; for besides the five
hundred a year which he received from his guardians, he found means to spend a
thousand more. He was above the age of twenty-one, and had no difficulty in
gaining what credit he pleased.
“This
young fellow, among many other tolerable bad qualities, had one very
diabolical. He had a great delight in destroying and ruining the youth of
inferior fortune, by drawing them into expenses which they could not afford so
well as himself; and the better, and worthier, and soberer any young man was,
the greater pleasure and triumph had he in his destruction. Thus acting the
character which is recorded of the devil, and going about seeking whom he might
devour.
“It was my
misfortune to fall into an acquaintance and intimacy with this gentleman. My
reputation of diligence in my studies made me a desirable object of his
mischievous intention; and my own inclination made it sufficiently easy for him
to effect his purpose; for though I had applied myself with much industry to
books, in which I took great delight, there were other pleasures in which I was
capable of taking much greater; for I was high-mettled, had a violent flow of
animal spirits, was a little ambitious, and extremely amorous.
“I had not
long contracted an intimacy with Sir George before I became a partaker of all
his pleasures; and when I was once entered on that scene, neither my
inclination nor my spirit would suffer me to play an under part. I was second
to none of the company in any acts of debauchery; nay, I soon distinguished
myself so notably in all riots and disorders, that my name generally stood
first in the roll of delinquents; and instead of being lamented as the
unfortunate pupil of Sir George, I was now accused as the person who had misled
and debauched that hopeful young gentleman; for though he was the ringleader
and promoter of all the mischief, he was never so considered. I fell at last
under the censure of the vice-chancellor, and very narrowly escaped expulsion.
“You will
easily believe, sir, that such a life as I am now describing must be
incompatible with my further progress in learning; and that in proportion as I
addicted myself more and more to loose pleasure, I must grow more and more
remiss in application to my studies. This was truly the consequence; but this
was not all. My expenses now greatly exceeded not only my former income, but
those additions which I extorted from my poor generous father, on pretences of
sums being necessary for preparing for my approaching degree of batchelor of
arts. These demands, however, grew at last so frequent and exorbitant, that my
father by slow degrees opened his ears to the accounts which he received from
many quarters of my present behaviour, and which my mother failed not to echo
very faithfully and loudly; adding, `Ay, this is the fine gentleman, the
scholar who doth so much honour to his family, and is to be the making of it. I
thought what all this learning would come to. He is to be the ruin of us all, I
find, after his elder brother hath been denied necessaries for his sake, to
perfect his education forsooth, for which he was to pay us such interest: I
thought what the interest would come to,’ with much more of the same kind; but
I have, I believe, satisfied you with this taste.
“My
father, therefore, began now to return remonstrances instead of money to my
demands, which brought my affairs perhaps a little sooner to a crisis; but had
he remitted me his whole income, you will imagine it could have sufficed a very
short time to support one who kept pace with the expenses of Sir George
Gresham.
“It is
more than possible that the distress I was now in for money, and the
impracticability of going on in this manner, might have restored me at once to
my senses and to my studies, had I opened my eyes before I became involved in
debts from which I saw no hopes of ever extricating myself. This was indeed the
great art of Sir George, and by which he accomplished the ruin of many, whom he
afterwards laughed at as fools and coxcombs, for vying, as he called it, with a
man of his fortune. To bring this about, he would now and then advance a little
money himself, in order to support the credit of the unfortunate youth with
other people; till, by means of that very credit, he was irretrievably undone.
“My mind
being by these means grown as desperate as my fortune, there was scarce a
wickedness which I did not meditate, in order for my relief. Self-murder itself
became the subject of my serious deliberation; and I had certainly resolved on
it, had not a more shameful, though perhaps less sinful, thought expelled it
from my head.”—Here he hesitated a moment, and then cried out, “I protest, so
many years have not washed away the shame of this act, and I shall blush while
I relate it.” Jones desired him to pass over anything that might give him pain
in the relation; but Partridge eagerly cried out, “Oh, pray, sir, let us hear
this; I had rather hear this than all the rest; as I hope to be saved, I will
never mention a word of it.” Jones was going to rebuke him, but the stranger
prevented it by proceeding thus: “I had a chum, a very prudent, frugal young
lad, who, though he had no very large allowance, had by his parsimony heaped up
upwards of forty guineas, which I knew he kept in his escritore. I took
therefore an opportunity of purloining his key from his breeches-pocket, while
he was asleep, and thus made myself master of all his riches: after which I
again conveyed his key into his pocket, and counterfeiting sleep—though I never
once closed my eyes, lay in bed till after he arose and went to prayers—an
exercise to which I had long been unaccustomed.
“Timorous
thieves, by extreme caution, often subject themselves to discoveries, which
those of a bolder kind escape. Thus it happened to me; for had I boldly broke
open his escritore, I had, perhaps, escaped even his suspicion; but as it was
plain that the person who robbed him had possessed himself of his key, he had no
doubt, when he first missed his money, but that his chum was certainly the
thief. Now as he was of a fearful disposition, and much my inferior in
strength, and I believe in courage, he did not dare to confront me with my
guilt, for fear of worse bodily consequences which might happen to him. He
repaired therefore immediately to the vice-chancellor, and upon swearing to the
robbery, and to the circumstances of it, very easily obtained a warrant against
one who had now so bad a character through the whole university.
“Luckily
for me, I lay out of the college the next evening; for that day I attended a
young lady in a chaise to Witney, where we staid all night, and in our return,
the next morning, to Oxford, I met one of my cronies, who acquainted me with
sufficient news concerning myself to make me turn my horse another way.”
“Pray,
sir, did he mention anything of the warrant?” said Partridge. But Jones begged
the gentleman to proceed without regarding any impertinent questions; which he
did as follows:—
“Having
now abandoned all thoughts of returning to Oxford, the next thing which offered
itself was a journey to London. I imparted this intention to my female
companion, who at first remonstrated against it; but upon producing my wealth,
she immediately consented. We then struck across the country, into the great
Cirencester road, and made such haste, that we spent the next evening, save
one, in London.
“When you
consider the place where I now was, and the company with whom I was, you will,
I fancy, conceive that a very short time brought me to an end of that sum of
which I had so iniquitously possessed myself.
“I was now
reduced to a much higher degree of distress than before: the necessaries of
life began to be numbered among my wants; and what made my case still the more
grievous was, that my paramour, of whom I was now grown immoderately fond,
shared the same distresses with myself. To see a woman you love in distress; to
be unable to relieve her, and at the same time to reflect that you have brought
her into this situation, is perhaps a curse of which no imagination can
represent the horrors to those who have not felt it.”—“I believe it from my
soul,” cries Jones, “and I pity you from the bottom of my heart:” he then took
two or three disorderly turns about the room, and at last begged pardon, and
flung himself into his chair, crying, “I thank Heaven, I have escaped that!”
“This
circumstance,” continued the gentleman, “so severely aggravated the horrors of
my present situation, that they became absolutely intolerable. I could with
less pain endure the raging in my own natural unsatisfied appetites, even
hunger or thirst, than I could submit to leave ungratified the most whimsical
desires of a woman on whom I so extravagantly doated, that, though I knew she
had been the mistress of half my acquaintance, I firmly intended to marry her.
But the good creature was unwilling to consent to an action which the world
might think so much to my disadvantage. And as, possibly, she compassionated
the daily anxieties which she must have perceived me suffer on her account, she
resolved to put an end to my distress. She soon, indeed, found means to relieve
me from my troublesome and perplexed situation; for while I was distracted with
various inventions to supply her with pleasures, she very kindly—betrayed me to
one of her former lovers at Oxford, by whose care and diligence I was
immediately apprehended and committed to gaol.
“Here I
first began seriously to reflect on the miscarriages of my former life; on the
errors I had been guilty of; on the misfortunes which I had brought on myself;
and on the grief which I must have occasioned to one of the best of fathers.
When I added to all these the perfidy of my mistress, such was the horror of my
mind, that life, instead of being longer desirable, grew the object of my
abhorrence; and I could have gladly embraced death as my dearest friend, if it
had offered itself to my choice unattended by shame.
“The time
of the assizes soon came, and I was removed by habeas corpus to Oxford, where I
expected certain conviction and condemnation; but, to my great surprize, none
appeared against me, and I was, at the end of the sessions, discharged for want
of prosecution. In short, my chum had left Oxford, and whether from indolence,
or from what other motive I am ignorant, had declined concerning himself any
farther in the affair.”
“Perhaps,”
cries Partridge, “he did not care to have your blood upon his hands; and he was
in the right on’t. If any person was to be hanged upon my evidence, I should
never be able to lie alone afterwards, for fear of seeing his ghost.”
“I shall
shortly doubt, Partridge,” says Jones, “whether thou art more brave or wise.”—“You
may laugh at me, sir, if you please,” answered Partridge; “but if you will hear
a very short story which I can tell, and which is most certainly true, perhaps
you may change your opinion. In the parish where I was born—” Here Jones would
have silenced him; but the stranger interceded that he might be permitted to
tell his story, and in the meantime promised to recollect the remainder of his
own.
Partridge
then proceeded thus: “In the parish where I was born, there lived a farmer
whose name was Bridle, and he had a son named Francis, a good hopeful young
fellow: I was at the grammar-school with him, where I remember he was got into
Ovid’s Epistles, and he could construe you three lines together sometimes
without looking into a dictionary. Besides all this, he was a very good lad,
never missed church o’ Sundays, and was reckoned one of the best psalm-singers
in the whole parish. He would indeed now and then take a cup too much, and that
was the only fault he had.”—“Well, but come to the ghost,” cries Jones. “Never
fear, sir; I shall come to him soon enough,” answered Partridge. “You must
know, then, that farmer Bridle lost a mare, a sorrel one, to the best of my
remembrance; and so it fell out that this young Francis shortly afterward being
at a fair at Hindon, and as I think it was on—, I can’t remember the day; and
being as he was, what should he happen to meet but a man upon his father’s
mare. Frank called out presently, Stop thief; and it being in the middle of the
fair, it was impossible, you know, for the man to make his escape. So they
apprehended him and carried him before the justice: I remember it was Justice
Willoughby, of Noyle, a very worthy good gentleman; and he committed him to
prison, and bound Frank in a recognisance, I think they call it—a hard word
compounded of re and cognosco; but it differs in its meaning from
the use of the simple, as many other compounds do. Well, at last down came my
Lord Justice Page to hold the assizes; and so the fellow was had up, and Frank
was had up for a witness. To be sure, I shall never forget the face of the
judge, when he began to ask him what he had to say against the prisoner. He
made poor Frank tremble and shake in his shoes. `Well you, fellow,’ says my
lord, `what have you to say? Don’t stand humming and hawing, but speak out.’
But, however, he soon turned altogether as civil to Frank, and began to thunder
at the fellow; and when he asked him if he had anything to say for himself, the
fellow said, he had found the horse. `Ay!’ answered the judge, `thou art a
lucky fellow: I have travelled the circuit these forty years, and never found a
horse in my life: but I’ll tell thee what, friend, thou wast more lucky than
thou didst know of; for thou didst not only find a horse, but a halter too, I
promise thee.’ To be sure, I shall never forget the word. Upon which everybody
fell a laughing, as how could they help it? Nay, and twenty other jests he
made, which I can’t remember now. There was something about his skill in
horse-flesh which made all the folks laugh. To be certain, the judge must have
been a very brave man, as well as a man of much learning. It is indeed charming
sport to hear trials upon life and death. One thing I own I thought a little
hard, that the prisoner’s counsel was not suffered to speak for him, though he
desired only to be heard one very short word, but my lord would not hearken to
him, though he suffered a counsellor to talk against him for above
half-an-hour. I thought it hard, I own, that there should be so many of them;
my lord, and the court, and the jury, and the counsellors, and the witnesses,
all upon one poor man, and he too in chains. Well, the fellow was hanged, as to
be sure it could be no otherwise, and poor Frank could never be easy about it.
He never was in the dark alone, but he fancied he saw the fellow’s
spirit.”—“Well, and is this thy story?” cries Jones. “No, no,” answered
Partridge. “O Lord have mercy upon me! I am just now coming to the matter; for
one night, coming from the alehouse, in a long, narrow, dark lane, there he ran
directly up against him; and the spirit was all in white, and fell upon Frank;
and Frank, who was a sturdy lad, fell upon the spirit again, and there they had
a tussel together, and poor Frank was dreadfully beat: indeed he made a shift
at last to crawl home; but what with the beating, and what with the fright, he
lay ill above a fortnight; and all this is most certainly true, and the whole
parish will bear witness to it.”
The
stranger smiled at this story, and Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter;
upon which Partridge cried, “Ay, you may laugh, sir; and so did some others,
particularly a squire, who is thought to be no better than an atheist; who,
forsooth, because there was a calf with a white face found dead in the same
lane the next morning, would fain have it that the battle was between Frank and
that, as if a calf would set upon a man. Besides, Frank told me he knew it to
be a spirit, and could swear to him in any court in Christendom; and he had not
drank above a quart or two or such a matter of liquor, at the time. Lud have
mercy upon us, and keep us all from dipping our hands in blood, I say!”
“Well,
sir,” said Jones to the stranger, “Mr Partridge hath finished his story, and I
hope will give you no future interruption, if you will be so kind to proceed.”
He then resumed his narration; but as he hath taken breath for a while, we
think proper to give it to our reader, and shall therefore put an end to this
chapter.
To be continued
