TOM JONES
PART 34
Chapter xi. — The disasters which befel Jones on his departure for Coventry; with the sage remarks of Partridge.
No road
can be plainer than that from the place where they now were to Coventry; and
though neither Jones, nor Partridge, nor the guide, had ever travelled it
before, it would have been almost impossible to have missed their way, had it
not been for the two reasons mentioned in the conclusion of the last chapter.
These two
circumstances, however, happening both unfortunately to intervene, our
travellers deviated into a much less frequented track; and after riding full
six miles, instead of arriving at the stately spires of Coventry, they found
themselves still in a very dirty lane, where they saw no symptoms of
approaching the suburbs of a large city.
Jones now
declared that they must certainly have lost their way; but this the guide
insisted upon was impossible; a word which, in common conversation, is often
used to signify not only improbable, but often what is really very likely, and,
sometimes, what hath certainly happened; an hyperbolical violence like that
which is so frequently offered to the words infinite and eternal; by the former
of which it is usual to express a distance of half a yard, and by the latter, a
duration of five minutes. And thus it is as usual to assert the impossibility
of losing what is already actually lost. This was, in fact, the case at
present; for, notwithstanding all the confident assertions of the lad to the
contrary, it is certain they were no more in the right road to Coventry, than
the fraudulent, griping, cruel, canting miser is in the right road to heaven.
It is not,
perhaps, easy for a reader, who hath never been in those circumstances, to
imagine the horror with which darkness, rain, and wind, fill persons who have
lost their way in the night; and who, consequently, have not the pleasant
prospect of warm fires, dry cloaths, and other refreshments, to support their
minds in struggling with the inclemencies of the weather. A very imperfect idea
of this horror will, however, serve sufficiently to account for the conceits
which now filled the head of Partridge, and which we shall presently be obliged
to open.
Jones grew
more and more positive that they were out of their road; and the boy himself at
last acknowledged he believed they were not in the right road to Coventry;
though he affirmed, at the same time, it was impossible they should have mist
the way. But Partridge was of a different opinion. He said, “When they first
set out he imagined some mischief or other would happen.—Did not you observe,
sir,” said he to Jones, “that old woman who stood at the door just as you was
taking horse? I wish you had given her a small matter, with all my heart; for
she said then you might repent it; and at that very instant it began to rain,
and the wind hath continued rising ever since. Whatever some people may think,
I am very certain it is in the power of witches to raise the wind whenever they
please. I have seen it happen very often in my time: and if ever I saw a witch
in all my life, that old woman was certainly one. I thought so to myself at
that very time; and if I had had any halfpence in my pocket, I would have given
her some; for to be sure it is always good to be charitable to those sort of
people, for fear what may happen; and many a person hath lost his cattle by
saving a halfpenny.”
Jones,
though he was horridly vexed at the delay which this mistake was likely to
occasion in his journey, could not help smiling at the superstition of his
friend, whom an accident now greatly confirmed in his opinion. This was a
tumble from his horse; by which, however, he received no other injury than what
the dirt conferred on his cloaths.
Partridge
had no sooner recovered his legs, than he appealed to his fall, as conclusive
evidence of all he had asserted; but Jones finding he was unhurt, answered with
a smile: “This witch of yours, Partridge, is a most ungrateful jade, and doth
not, I find, distinguish her friends from others in her resentment. If the old
lady had been angry with me for neglecting her, I don’t see why she should
tumble you from your horse, after all the respect you have expressed for her.”
“It is ill
jesting,” cries Partridge, “with people who have power to do these things; for
they are often very malicious. I remember a farrier, who provoked one of them,
by asking her when the time she had bargained with the devil for would be out;
and within three months from that very day one of his best cows was drowned.
Nor was she satisfied with that; for a little time afterwards he lost a barrel
of best-drink: for the old witch pulled out the spigot, and let it run all over
the cellar, the very first evening he had tapped it to make merry with some of
his neighbours. In short, nothing ever thrived with him afterwards; for she
worried the poor man so, that he took to drinking; and in a year or two his
stock was seized, and he and his family are now come to the parish.”
The guide,
and perhaps his horse too, were both so attentive to this discourse, that,
either through want of care, or by the malice of the witch, they were now both
sprawling in the dirt.
Partridge
entirely imputed this fall, as he had done his own, to the same cause. He told
Mr Jones, “It would certainly be his turn next; and earnestly entreated him to
return back, and find out the old woman, and pacify her. We shall very soon,”
added he, “reach the inn; for though we have seemed to go forward, I am very
certain we are in the identical place in which we were an hour ago; and I dare
swear, if it was daylight, we might now see the inn we set out from.”
Instead of
returning any answer to this sage advice, Jones was entirely attentive to what
had happened to the boy, who received no other hurt than what had before
befallen Partridge, and which his cloaths very easily bore, as they had been
for many years inured to the like. He soon regained his side-saddle, and by the
hearty curses and blows which he bestowed on his horse, quickly satisfied Mr
Jones that no harm was done.
Chapter xii. — Relates that Mr Jones continued his journey, contrary to the advice of Partridge, with what happened on that occasion.
They now
discovered a light at some distance, to the great pleasure of Jones, and to the
no small terror of Partridge, who firmly believed himself to be bewitched, and
that this light was a Jack-with-a-lantern, or somewhat more mischievous.
But how
were these fears increased, when, as they approached nearer to this light (or
lights as they now appeared), they heard a confused sound of human voices; of
singing, laughing, and hallowing, together with a strange noise that seemed to
proceed from some instruments; but could hardly be allowed the name of music!
indeed, to favour a little the opinion of Partridge, it might very well be
called music bewitched.
It is
impossible to conceive a much greater degree of horror than what now seized on
Partridge; the contagion of which had reached the post-boy, who had been very
attentive to many things that the other had uttered. He now, therefore, joined
in petitioning Jones to return; saying he firmly believed what Partridge had
just before said, that though the horses seemed to go on, they had not moved a
step forwards during at least the last half-hour.
Jones
could not help smiling in the midst of his vexation, at the fears of these poor
fellows. “Either we advance,” says he, “towards the lights, or the lights have
advanced towards us; for we are now at a very little distance from them; but
how can either of you be afraid of a set of people who appear only to be
merry-making?”
“Merry-making,
sir!” cries Partridge; “who could be merry-making at this time of night, and in
such a place, and such weather? They can be nothing but ghosts or witches, or
some evil spirits or other, that’s certain.”
“Let them
be what they will,” cries Jones, “I am resolved to go up to them, and enquire
the way to Coventry. All witches, Partridge, are not such ill-natured hags as
that we had the misfortune to meet with last.”
“O Lord,
sir,” cries Partridge, “there is no knowing what humour they will be in; to be
sure it is always best to be civil to them; but what if we should meet with
something worse than witches, with evil spirits themselves?——Pray, sir, be
advised; pray, sir, do. If you had read so many terrible accounts as I have of
these matters, you would not be so fool-hardy.——The Lord knows whither we have
got already, or whither we are going; for sure such darkness was never seen
upon earth, and I question whether it can be darker in the other world.”
Jones put
forwards as fast as he could, notwithstanding all these hints and cautions, and
poor Partridge was obliged to follow; for though he hardly dared to advance, he
dared still less to stay behind by himself.
At length
they arrived at the place whence the lights and different noises had issued.
This Jones perceived to be no other than a barn, where a great number of men
and women were assembled, and diverting themselves with much apparent jollity.
Jones no
sooner appeared before the great doors of the barn, which were open, than a
masculine and very rough voice from within demanded, who was there?—To which
Jones gently answered, a friend; and immediately asked the road to Coventry.
“If you
are a friend,” cries another of the men in the barn, “you had better alight
till the storm is over” (for indeed it was now more violent than ever;) “you
are very welcome to put up your horse; for there is sufficient room for him at
the end of the barn.”
“You are
very obliging,” returned Jones; “and I will accept your offer for a few
minutes, whilst the rain continues; and here are two more who will be glad of
the same favour.” This was accorded with more good-will than it was accepted:
for Partridge would rather have submitted to the utmost inclemency of the
weather than have trusted to the clemency of those whom he took for hobgoblins;
and the poor post-boy was now infected with the same apprehensions; but they
were both obliged to follow the example of Jones; the one because he durst not
leave his horse, and the other because he feared nothing so much as being left
by himself.
Had this
history been writ in the days of superstition, I should have had too much
compassion for the reader to have left him so long in suspense, whether
Beelzebub or Satan was about actually to appear in person, with all his hellish
retinue; but as these doctrines are at present very unfortunate, and have but
few, if any believers, I have not been much aware of conveying any such
terrors. To say truth, the whole furniture of the infernal regions hath long
been appropriated by the managers of playhouses, who seem lately to have laid
them by as rubbish, capable only of affecting the upper gallery; a place in
which few of our readers ever sit.
However,
though we do not suspect raising any great terror on this occasion, we have
reason to fear some other apprehensions may here arise in our reader, into
which we would not willingly betray him; I mean that we are going to take a
voyage into fairy-land, and introduce a set of beings into our history, which
scarce any one was ever childish enough to believe, though many have been
foolish enough to spend their time in writing and reading their adventures.
To
prevent, therefore, any such suspicions, so prejudicial to the credit of an
historian, who professes to draw his materials from nature only, we shall now
proceed to acquaint the reader who these people were, whose sudden appearance
had struck such terrors into Partridge, had more than half frightened the
post-boy, and had a little surprized even Mr Jones himself.
The people
then assembled in this barn were no other than a company of Egyptians, or, as
they are vulgarly called, gypsies, and they were now celebrating the wedding of
one of their society.
It is
impossible to conceive a happier set of people than appeared here to be met
together. The utmost mirth, indeed, shewed itself in every countenance; nor was
their ball totally void of all order and decorum. Perhaps it had more than a
country assembly is sometimes conducted with: for these people are subject to a
formal government and laws of their own, and all pay obedience to one great magistrate,
whom they call their king.
Greater
plenty, likewise, was nowhere to be seen than what flourished in this barn.
Here was indeed no nicety nor elegance, nor did the keen appetite of the guests
require any. Here was good store of bacon, fowls, and mutton, to which every
one present provided better sauce himself than the best and dearest French cook
can prepare.
Aeneas is
not described under more consternation in the temple of Juno,
Dum
stupet obtutuque haeret defixus in uno,
than was
our heroe at what he saw in this barn. While he was looking everywhere round
him with astonishment, a venerable person approached him with many friendly
salutations, rather of too hearty a kind to be called courtly. This was no
other than the king of the gypsies himself. He was very little distinguished in
dress from his subjects, nor had he any regalia of majesty to support his
dignity; and yet there seemed (as Mr Jones said) to be somewhat in his air
which denoted authority, and inspired the beholders with an idea of awe and
respect; though all this was perhaps imaginary in Jones; and the truth may be,
that such ideas are incident to power, and almost inseparable from it.
There was
somewhat in the open countenance and courteous behaviour of Jones which, being
accompanied with much comeliness of person, greatly recommended him at first
sight to every beholder. These were, perhaps, a little heightened in the
present instance, by that profound respect which he paid to the king of the
gypsies, the moment he was acquainted with his dignity, and which was the
sweeter to his gypseian majesty, as he was not used to receive such homage from
any but his own subjects.
The king
ordered a table to be spread with the choicest of their provisions for his
accommodation; and, having placed himself at his right hand, his majesty began
to discourse with our heroe in the following manner:—
“Me doubt
not, sir, but you have often seen some of my people, who are what you call de
parties detache: for dey go about everywhere; but me fancy you imagine not we
be so considrable body as we be; and may be you will be surprize more when you
hear de gypsy be as orderly and well govern people as any upon face of de
earth.
“Me have
honour, as me say, to be deir king, and no monarch can do boast of more dutiful
subject, ne no more affectionate. How far me deserve deir good-will, me no say;
but dis me can say, dat me never design anyting but to do dem good. Me sall no
do boast of dat neider: for what can me do oderwise dan consider of de good of
dose poor people who go about all day to give me always de best of what dey
get. Dey love and honour me darefore, because me do love and take care of dem;
dat is all, me know no oder reason.
“About a
tousand or two tousand year ago, me cannot tell to a year or two, as can neider
write nor read, dere was a great what you call—a volution among de gypsy; for
dere was de lord gypsy in dose days; and dese lord did quarrel vid one anoder
about de place; but de king of de gypsy did demolish dem all, and made all his subject
equal vid each oder; and since dat time dey have agree very well; for dey no
tink of being king, and may be it be better for dem as dey be; for me assure
you it be ver troublesome ting to be king, and always to do justice; me have
often wish to be de private gypsy when me have been forced to punish my dear
friend and relation; for dough we never put to death, our punishments be ver
severe. Dey make de gypsy ashamed of demselves, and dat be ver terrible
punishment; me ave scarce ever known de gypsy so punish do harm any more.”
The king
then proceeded to express some wonder that there was no such punishment as
shame in other governments. Upon which Jones assured him to the contrary; for
that there were many crimes for which shame was inflicted by the English laws,
and that it was indeed one consequence of all punishment. “Dat be ver strange,”
said the king; “for me know and hears good deal of your people, dough me no
live among dem; and me have often hear dat sham is de consequence and de cause
too of many of your rewards. Are your rewards and punishments den de same
ting?”
While his
majesty was thus discoursing with Jones, a sudden uproar arose in the barn, and
as it seems upon this occasion:—the courtesy of these people had by degrees
removed all the apprehensions of Partridge, and he was prevailed upon not only
to stuff himself with their food, but to taste some of their liquors, which by
degrees entirely expelled all fear from his composition, and in its stead
introduced much more agreeable sensations.
A young
female gypsy, more remarkable for her wit than her beauty, had decoyed the
honest fellow aside, pretending to tell his fortune. Now, when they were alone
together in a remote part of the barn, whether it proceeded from the strong
liquor, which is never so apt to inflame inordinate desire as after moderate
fatigue; or whether the fair gypsy herself threw aside the delicacy and decency
of her sex, and tempted the youth Partridge with express solicitations; but
they were discovered in a very improper manner by the husband of the gypsy,
who, from jealousy it seems, had kept a watchful eye over his wife, and had
dogged her to the place, where he found her in the arms of her gallant.
To the
great confusion of Jones, Partridge was now hurried before the king; who heard
the accusation, and likewise the culprit’s defence, which was indeed very
trifling; for the poor fellow was confounded by the plain evidence which
appeared against him, and had very little to say for himself. His majesty, then
turning towards Jones, said, “Sir, you have hear what dey say; what punishment
do you tink your man deserve?”
Jones
answered, “He was sorry for what had happened, and that Partridge should make
the husband all the amends in his power: he said, he had very little money
about him at that time;” and, putting his hand into his pocket, offered the
fellow a guinea. To which he immediately answered, “He hoped his honour would
not think of giving him less than five.”
This sum,
after some altercation, was reduced to two; and Jones, having stipulated for
the full forgiveness of both Partridge and the wife, was going to pay the
money; when his majesty, restraining his hand, turned to the witness and asked
him, “At what time he had discovered the criminals?” To which he answered,
“That he had been desired by the husband to watch the motions of his wife from
her first speaking to the stranger, and that he had never lost sight of her
afterwards till the crime had been committed.” The king then asked, “if the
husband was with him all that time in his lurking-place?” To which he answered
in the affirmative. His Egyptian majesty then addressed himself to the husband
as follows: “Me be sorry to see any gypsy dat have no more honour dan to sell
de honour of his wife for money. If you had de love for your wife, you would
have prevented dis matter, and not endeavour to make her de whore dat you might
discover her. Me do order dat you have no money given you, for you deserve
punishment, not reward; me do order derefore, dat you be de infamous gypsy, and
do wear pair of horns upon your forehead for one month, and dat your wife be
called de whore, and pointed at all dat time; for you be de infamous gypsy, but
she be no less de infamous whore.”
The
gypsies immediately proceeded to execute the sentence, and left Jones and
Partridge alone with his majesty.
Jones
greatly applauded the justice of the sentence: upon which the king, turning to
him, said, “Me believe you be surprize: for me suppose you have ver bad opinion
of my people; me suppose you tink us all de tieves.”
“I must
confess, sir,” said Jones, “I have not heard so favourable an account of them
as they seem to deserve.”
“Me vil
tell you,” said the king, “how the difference is between you and us. My people
rob your people, and your people rob one anoder.”
Jones
afterwards proceeded very gravely to sing forth the happiness of those subjects
who live under such a magistrate.
Indeed
their happiness appears to have been so compleat, that we are aware lest some
advocate for arbitrary power should hereafter quote the case of those people,
as an instance of the great advantages which attend that government above all
others.
And here we will make a concession, which would not perhaps have been expected from us, that no limited form of government is capable of rising to the same degree of perfection, or of producing the
same benefits to society, with this. Mankind have never been so happy, as when the greatest part of the then known world was under the dominion of a single master; and this state of their felicity
continued during the reigns of five successive princes.[*] This was the true aera of the golden age, and the only golden age which ever had any existence, unless in the warm imaginations of the poets,
from the expulsion from Eden down to this day.
In reality, I know but of one solid objection to absolute monarchy. The only defect in which excellent constitution seems to be, the difficulty of finding any man adequate to the office of an absolute
monarch: for this indispensably requires three qualities very difficult, as it appears from history, to be found in princely natures: first, a sufficient quantity of moderation in the prince, to be contented with all the power which is possible for him to have. 2ndly, Enough of wisdom to know his own happiness. And, 3rdly, Goodness sufficient to support the happiness of others, when not only compatible with, but instrumental to his own.
Now if an
absolute monarch, with all these great and rare qualifications, should be
allowed capable of conferring the greatest good on society; it must be surely
granted, on the contrary, that absolute power, vested in the hands of one who
is deficient in them all, is likely to be attended with no less a degree of
evil.
In short,
our own religion furnishes us with adequate ideas of the blessing, as well as
curse, which may attend absolute power. The pictures of heaven and of hell will
place a very lively image of both before our eyes; for though the prince of the
latter can have no power but what he originally derives from the omnipotent
Sovereign in the former, yet it plainly appears from Scripture that absolute
power in his infernal dominions is granted to their diabolical ruler. This is
indeed the only absolute power which can by Scripture be derived from heaven.
If, therefore, the several tyrannies upon earth can prove any title to a Divine
authority, it must be derived from this original grant to the prince of
darkness; and these subordinate deputations must consequently come immediately
from him whose stamp they so expressly bear.
To
conclude, as the examples of all ages shew us that mankind in general desire
power only to do harm, and, when they obtain it, use it for no other purpose;
it is not consonant with even the least degree of prudence to hazard an
alteration, where our hopes are poorly kept in countenance by only two or three
exceptions out of a thousand instances to alarm our fears. In this case it will
be much wiser to submit to a few inconveniencies arising from the dispassionate
deafness of laws, than to remedy them by applying to the passionate open ears
of a tyrant.
Nor can
the example of the gypsies, though possibly they may have long been happy under
this form of government, be here urged; since we must remember the very
material respect in which they differ from all other people, and to which
perhaps this their happiness is entirely owing, namely, that they have no false
honours among them, and that they look on shame as the most grievous punishment
in the world.
Chapter xiii. — A dialogue between Jones and Partridge.
The honest
lovers of liberty will, we doubt not, pardon that long digression into which we
were led at the close of the last chapter, to prevent our history from being
applied to the use of the most pernicious doctrine which priestcraft had ever
the wickedness or the impudence to preach.
We will
now proceed with Mr Jones, who, when the storm was over, took leave of his
Egyptian majesty, after many thanks for his courteous behaviour and kind
entertainment, and set out for Coventry; to which place (for it was still dark)
a gypsy was ordered to conduct him.
Jones
having, by reason of his deviation, travelled eleven miles instead of six, and
most of those through very execrable roads, where no expedition could have been
made in quest of a midwife, did not arrive at Coventry till near twelve. Nor
could he possibly get again into the saddle till past two; for post-horses were
now not easy to get; nor were the hostler or post-boy in half so great a hurry
as himself, but chose rather to imitate the tranquil disposition of Partridge;
who, being denied the nourishment of sleep, took all opportunities to supply
its place with every other kind of nourishment, and was never better pleased
than when he arrived at an inn, nor ever more dissatisfied than when he was
again forced to leave it.
Jones now
travelled post; we will follow him, therefore, according to our custom, and to
the rules of Longinus, in the same manner. From Coventry he arrived at
Daventry, from Daventry at Stratford, and from Stratford at Dunstable, whither
he came the next day a little after noon, and within a few hours after Sophia
had left it; and though he was obliged to stay here longer than he wished,
while a smith, with great deliberation, shoed the post-horse he was to ride, he
doubted not but to overtake his Sophia before she should set out from St
Albans; at which place he concluded, and very reasonably, that his lordship
would stop and dine.
And had he
been right in this conjecture, he most probably would have overtaken his angel
at the aforesaid place; but unluckily my lord had appointed a dinner to be
prepared for him at his own house in London, and, in order to enable him to
reach that place in proper time, he had ordered a relay of horses to meet him
at St Albans. When Jones therefore arrived there, he was informed that the
coach-and-six had set out two hours before.
If fresh
post-horses had been now ready, as they were not, it seemed so apparently
impossible to overtake the coach before it reached London, that Partridge
thought he had now a proper opportunity to remind his friend of a matter which
he seemed entirely to have forgotten; what this was the reader will guess, when
we inform him that Jones had eat nothing more than one poached egg since he had
left the alehouse where he had first met the guide returning from Sophia; for
with the gypsies he had feasted only his understanding.
The
landlord so entirely agreed with the opinion of Mr Partridge, that he no sooner
heard the latter desire his friend to stay and dine, than he very readily put
in his word, and retracting his promise before given of furnishing the horses
immediately, he assured Mr Jones he would lose no time in bespeaking a dinner,
which, he said, could be got ready sooner than it was possible to get the
horses up from grass, and to prepare them for their journey by a feed of corn.
Jones was
at length prevailed on, chiefly by the latter argument of the landlord; and now
a joint of mutton was put down to the fire. While this was preparing,
Partridge, being admitted into the same apartment with his friend or master,
began to harangue in the following manner.
“Certainly,
sir, if ever man deserved a young lady, you deserve young Madam Western; for
what a vast quantity of love must a man have, to be able to live upon it
without any other food, as you do? I am positive I have eat thirty times as
much within these last twenty-four hours as your honour, and yet I am almost
famished; for nothing makes a man so hungry as travelling, especially in this
cold raw weather. And yet I can’t tell how it is, but your honour is seemingly
in perfect good health, and you never looked better nor fresher in your life.
It must be certainly love that you live upon.”
“And a
very rich diet too, Partridge,” answered Jones. “But did not fortune send me an
excellent dainty yesterday? Dost thou imagine I cannot live more than
twenty-four hours on this dear pocket-book?”
“Undoubtedly,”
cries Partridge, “there is enough in that pocket-book to purchase many a good
meal. Fortune sent it to your honour very opportunely for present use, as your
honour’s money must be almost out by this time.”
“What do
you mean?” answered Jones; “I hope you don’t imagine that I should be dishonest
enough, even if it belonged to any other person, besides Miss Western——”
“Dishonest!”
replied Partridge, “heaven forbid I should wrong your honour so much! but
where’s the dishonesty in borrowing a little for present spending, since you
will be so well able to pay the lady hereafter? No, indeed, I would have your
honour pay it again, as soon as it is convenient, by all means; but where can
be the harm in making use of it now you want it? Indeed, if it belonged to a
poor body, it would be another thing; but so great a lady, to be sure, can
never want it, especially now as she is along with a lord, who, it can’t be
doubted, will let her have whatever she hath need of. Besides, if she should
want a little, she can’t want the whole, therefore I would give her a little;
but I would be hanged before I mentioned the having found it at first, and
before I got some money of my own; for London, I have heard, is the very worst
of places to be in without money. Indeed, if I had not known to whom it
belonged, I might have thought it was the devil’s money, and have been afraid
to use it; but as you know otherwise, and came honestly by it, it would be an
affront to fortune to part with it all again, at the very time when you want it
most; you can hardly expect she should ever do you such another good turn; for fortuna
nunquam perpetuo est bona. You will do as you please, notwithstanding all I
say; but for my part, I would be hanged before I mentioned a word of the
matter.”
“By what I
can see, Partridge,” cries Jones, “hanging is a matter non longe alienum a
Scaevolae studiis.” “You should say alienus,” says Partridge,—“I
remember the passage; it is an example under communis, alienus, immunis,
variis casibus serviunt.” “If you do remember it,” cries Jones, “I find you
don’t understand it; but I tell thee, friend, in plain English, that he who
finds another’s property, and wilfully detains it from the known owner,
deserves, in foro conscientiae, to be hanged, no less than if he had
stolen it. And as for this very identical bill, which is the property of my
angel, and was once in her dear possession, I will not deliver it into any
hands but her own, upon any consideration whatever, no, though I was as hungry
as thou art, and had no other means to satisfy my craving appetite; this I hope
to do before I sleep; but if it should happen otherwise, I charge thee, if thou
would’st not incur my displeasure for ever, not to shock me any more by the bare
mention of such detestable baseness.”
“I should
not have mentioned it now,” cries Partridge, “if it had appeared so to me; for
I’m sure I scorn any wickedness as much as another; but perhaps you know
better; and yet I might have imagined that I should not have lived so many
years, and have taught school so long, without being able to distinguish
between fas et nefas; but it seems we are all to live and learn. I
remember my old schoolmaster, who was a prodigious great scholar, used often to
say, Polly matete cry town is my daskalon. The English of which, he told
us, was, That a child may sometimes teach his grandmother to suck eggs. I have
lived to a fine purpose, truly, if I am to be taught my grammar at this time of
day. Perhaps, young gentleman, you may change your opinion, if you live to my
years: for I remember I thought myself as wise when I was a stripling of one or
two and twenty as I am now. I am sure I always taught alienus, and my
master read it so before me.”
There were
not many instances in which Partridge could provoke Jones, nor were there many
in which Partridge himself could have been hurried out of his respect.
Unluckily, however, they had both hit on one of these. We have already seen
Partridge could not bear to have his learning attacked, nor could Jones bear
some passage or other in the foregoing speech. And now, looking upon his
companion with a contemptuous and disdainful air (a thing not usual with him),
he cried, “Partridge, I see thou art a conceited old fool, and I wish thou art
not likewise an old rogue. Indeed, if I was as well convinced of the latter as
I am of the former, thou should’st travel no farther in my company.”
The sage
pedagogue was contented with the vent which he had already given to his
indignation; and, as the vulgar phrase is, immediately drew in his horns. He
said, he was sorry he had uttered anything which might give offence, for that
he had never intended it; but Nemo omnibus horis sapit.
As Jones
had the vices of a warm disposition, he was entirely free from those of a cold
one; and if his friends must have confest his temper to have been a little too
easily ruffled, his enemies must at the same time have confest, that it as soon
subsided; nor did it at all resemble the sea, whose swelling is more violent
and dangerous after a storm is over than while the storm itself subsists. He
instantly accepted the submission of Partridge, shook him by the hand, and with
the most benign aspect imaginable, said twenty kind things, and at the same
time very severely condemned himself, though not half so severely as he will
most probably be condemned by many of our good readers.
Partridge
was now highly comforted, as his fears of having offended were at once
abolished, and his pride completely satisfied by Jones having owned himself in
the wrong, which submission he instantly applied to what had principally
nettled him, and repeated in a muttering voice, “To be sure, sir, your
knowledge may be superior to mine in some things; but as to the grammar, I
think I may challenge any man living. I think, at least, I have that at my
finger’s end.”
If
anything could add to the satisfaction which the poor man now enjoyed, he
received this addition by the arrival of an excellent shoulder of mutton, that
at this instant came smoaking to the table. On which, having both plentifully
feasted, they again mounted their horses, and set forward for London.
Chapter xiv. — What happened to Mr Jones in his journey from St Albans.
They were
got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the dusk of the evening, when
a genteel-looking man, but upon a very shabby horse, rode up to Jones, and
asked him whether he was going to London; to which Jones answered in the
affirmative. The gentleman replied, “I should be obliged to you, sir, if you
will accept of my company; for it is very late, and I am a stranger to the
road.” Jones readily complied with the request; and on they travelled together,
holding that sort of discourse which is usual on such occasions.
Of this,
indeed, robbery was the principal topic: upon which subject the stranger
expressed great apprehensions; but Jones declared he had very little to lose,
and consequently as little to fear. Here Partridge could not forbear putting in
his word. “Your honour,” said he, “may think it a little, but I am sure, if I
had a hundred-pound bank-note in my pocket, as you have, I should be very sorry
to lose it; but, for my part, I never was less afraid in my life; for we are
four of us, and if we all stand by one another, the best man in England can’t
rob us. Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but one of us, and a man
can die but once.—That’s my comfort, a man can die but once.”
Besides
the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valour which hath raised a certain
nation among the moderns to a high pitch of glory, there was another reason for
the extraordinary courage which Partridge now discovered; for he had at present
as much of that quality as was in the power of liquor to bestow.
Our
company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, when the stranger turned
short upon Jones, and pulling out a pistol, demanded that little bank-note
which Partridge had mentioned.
Jones was
at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected demand; however, he presently
recollected himself, and told the highwayman, all the money he had in his
pocket was entirely at his service; and so saying, he pulled out upwards of
three guineas, and offered to deliver it; but the other answered with an oath,
That would not do. Jones answered coolly, he was very sorry for it, and returned
the money into his pocket.
The
highwayman then threatened, if he did not deliver the bank-note that moment, he
must shoot him; holding his pistol at the same time very near to his breast.
Jones instantly caught hold of the fellow’s hand, which trembled so that he
could scarce hold the pistol in it, and turned the muzzle from him. A struggle
then ensued, in which the former wrested the pistol from the hand of his
antagonist, and both came from their horses on the ground together, the
highwayman upon his back, and the victorious Jones upon him.
The poor
fellow now began to implore mercy of the conqueror: for, to say the truth, he
was in strength by no means a match for Jones. “Indeed, sir,” says he, “I could
have had no intention to shoot you; for you will find the pistol was not
loaded. This is the first robbery I ever attempted, and I have been driven by
distress to this.”
At this
instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards’ distance, lay another person on
the ground, roaring for mercy in a much louder voice than the highwayman. This
was no other than Partridge himself, who, endeavouring to make his escape from
the engagement, had been thrown from his horse, and lay flat on his face, not
daring to look up, and expecting every minute to be shot.
In this
posture he lay, till the guide, who was no otherwise concerned than for his
horses, having secured the stumbling beast, came up to him, and told him his
master had got the better of the highwayman.
Partridge
leapt up at this news, and ran back to the place where Jones stood with his
sword drawn in his hand to guard the poor fellow; which Partridge no sooner saw
than he cried out, “Kill the villain, sir, run him through the body, kill him
this instant!”
Luckily,
however, for the poor wretch, he had fallen into more merciful hands; for Jones
having examined the pistol, and found it to be really unloaded, began to
believe all the man had told him, before Partridge came up: namely, that he was
a novice in the trade, and that he had been driven to it by the distress he
mentioned, the greatest indeed imaginable, that of five hungry children, and a
wife lying in of the sixth, in the utmost want and misery. The truth of all
which the highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered to convince Mr Jones
of it, if he would take the trouble to go to his house, which was not above two
miles off; saying, “That he desired no favour, but upon condition of proving
all he had all alledged.”
Jones at
first pretended that he would take the fellow at his word, and go with him,
declaring that his fate should depend entirely on the truth of his story. Upon
this the poor fellow immediately expressed so much alacrity, that Jones was
perfectly satisfied with his veracity, and began now to entertain sentiments of
compassion for him. He returned the fellow his empty pistol, advised him to
think of honester means of relieving his distress, and gave him a couple of
guineas for the immediate support of his wife and his family; adding, “he
wished he had more for his sake, for the hundred pound that had been mentioned
was not his own.”
Our
readers will probably be divided in their opinions concerning this action; some
may applaud it perhaps as an act of extraordinary humanity, while those of a
more saturnine temper will consider it as a want of regard to that justice
which every man owes his country. Partridge certainly saw it in that light; for
he testified much dissatisfaction on the occasion, quoted an old proverb, and
said, he should not wonder if the rogue attacked them again before they reached
London.
The
highwayman was full of expressions of thankfulness and gratitude. He actually
dropt tears, or pretended so to do. He vowed he would immediately return home,
and would never afterwards commit such a transgression: whether he kept his
word or no, perhaps may appear hereafter.
Our
travellers having remounted their horses, arrived in town without encountering
any new mishap. On the road much pleasant discourse passed between Jones and
Partridge, on the subject of their last adventure: in which Jones exprest a
great compassion for those highwaymen who are, by unavoidable distress, driven,
as it were, to such illegal courses, as generally bring them to a shameful
death: “I mean,” said he, “those only whose highest guilt extends no farther
than to robbery, and who are never guilty of cruelty nor insult to any person,
which is a circumstance that, I must say, to the honour of our country,
distinguishes the robbers of England from those of all other nations; for
murder is, amongst those, almost inseparably incident to robbery.”
“No
doubt,” answered Partridge, “it is better to take away one’s money than one’s
life; and yet it is very hard upon honest men, that they can’t travel about
their business without being in danger of these villains. And to be sure it
would be better that all rogues were hanged out of the way, than that one
honest man should suffer. For my own part, indeed, I should not care to have the
blood of any of them on my own hands; but it is very proper for the law to hang
them all. What right hath any man to take sixpence from me, unless I give it
him? Is there any honesty in such a man?”
“No,
surely,” cries Jones, “no more than there is in him who takes the horses out of
another man’s stable, or who applies to his own use the money which he finds,
when he knows the right owner.”
These
hints stopt the mouth of Partridge; nor did he open it again till Jones, having
thrown some sarcastical jokes on his cowardice, he offered to excuse himself on
the inequality of fire-arms, saying, “A thousand naked men are nothing to one
pistol; for though it is true it will kill but one at a single discharge, yet
who can tell but that one may be himself?”
To be continued
