TOM JONES
PART 32
BOOK XII. — CONTAINING THE SAME INDIVIDUAL TIME WITH THE FORMER.
Chapter i. — Showing what is to be deemed plagiarism in a modern author, and what is to be considered as lawful prize.
The
learned reader must have observed that in the course of this mighty work, I
have often translated passages out of the best antient authors, without quoting
the original, or without taking the least notice of the book from whence they
were borrowed.
This
conduct in writing is placed in a very proper light by the ingenious Abbé
Bannier, in his preface to his Mythology, a work of great erudition and of
equal judgment. “It will be easy,” says he, “for the reader to observe that I
have frequently had greater regard to him than to my own reputation: for an
author certainly pays him a considerable compliment, when, for his sake, he
suppresses learned quotations that come in his way, and which would have cost
him but the bare trouble of transcribing.”
To fill up
a work with these scraps may, indeed, be considered as a downright cheat on the
learned world, who are by such means imposed upon to buy a second time, in
fragments and by retail, what they have already in gross, if not in their
memories, upon their shelves; and it is still more cruel upon the illiterate,
who are drawn in to pay for what is of no manner of use to them. A writer who
intermixes great quantity of Greek and Latin with his works, deals by the
ladies and fine gentlemen in the same paultry manner with which they are
treated by the auctioneers, who often endeavour so to confound and mix up their
lots, that, in order to purchase the commodity you want, you are obliged at the
same time to purchase that which will do you no service.
And yet,
as there is no conduct so fair and disinterested but that it may be
misunderstood by ignorance, and misrepresented by malice, I have been sometimes
tempted to preserve my own reputation at the expense of my reader, and to
transcribe the original, or at least to quote chapter and verse, whenever I
have made use either of the thought or expression of another. I am, indeed, in
some doubt that I have often suffered by the contrary method; and that, by
suppressing the original author’s name, I have been rather suspected of
plagiarism than reputed to act from the amiable motive assigned by that justly
celebrated Frenchman.
Now, to
obviate all such imputations for the future, I do here confess and justify the
fact. The antients may be considered as a rich common, where every person who
hath the smallest tenement in Parnassus hath a free right to fatten his muse.
Or, to place it in a clearer light, we moderns are to the antients what the
poor are to the rich. By the poor here I mean that large and venerable body
which, in English, we call the mob. Now, whoever hath had the honour to be
admitted to any degree of intimacy with this mob, must well know that it is one
of their established maxims to plunder and pillage their rich neighbours
without any reluctance; and that this is held to be neither sin nor shame among
them. And so constantly do they abide and act by this maxim, that, in every
parish almost in the kingdom, there is a kind of confederacy ever carrying on
against a certain person of opulence called the squire, whose property is
considered as free-booty by all his poor neighbours; who, as they conclude that
there is no manner of guilt in such depredations, look upon it as a point of
honour and moral obligation to conceal, and to preserve each other from
punishment on all such occasions.
In like
manner are the antients, such as Homer, Virgil, Horace, Cicero, and the rest,
to be esteemed among us writers, as so many wealthy squires, from whom we, the
poor of Parnassus, claim an immemorial custom of taking whatever we can come
at. This liberty I demand, and this I am as ready to allow again to my poor
neighbours in their turn. All I profess, and all I require of my brethren, is
to maintain the same strict honesty among ourselves which the mob show to one
another. To steal from one another is indeed highly criminal and indecent; for
this may be strictly stiled defrauding the poor (sometimes perhaps those who
are poorer than ourselves), or, to set it under the most opprobrious colours,
robbing the spittal.
Since,
therefore, upon the strictest examination, my own conscience cannot lay any
such pitiful theft to my charge, I am contented to plead guilty to the former
accusation; nor shall I ever scruple to take to myself any passage which I
shall find in an antient author to my purpose, without setting down the name of
the author from whence it was taken. Nay, I absolutely claim a property in all
such sentiments the moment they are transcribed into my writings, and I expect
all readers henceforwards to regard them as purely and entirely my own. This
claim, however, I desire to be allowed me only on condition that I preserve
strict honesty towards my poor brethren, from whom, if ever I borrow any of
that little of which they are possessed, I shall never fail to put their mark upon
it, that it may be at all times ready to be restored to the right owner.
The
omission of this was highly blameable in one Mr Moore, who, having formerly
borrowed some lines of Pope and company, took the liberty to transcribe six of
them into his play of the Rival Modes. Mr Pope, however, very luckily found
them in the said play, and, laying violent hands on his own property,
transferred it back again into his own works; and, for a further punishment,
imprisoned the said Moore in the loathsome dungeon of the Dunciad, where his
unhappy memory now remains, and eternally will remain, as a proper punishment
for such his unjust dealings in the poetical trade.
Chapter ii. — In which, though the squire doth not find his daughter, something is found which puts an end to his pursuit.
The
history now returns to the inn at Upton, whence we shall first trace the
footsteps of Squire Western; for, as he will soon arrive at an end of his
journey, we shall have then full leisure to attend our heroe.
The reader
may be pleased to remember that the said squire departed from the inn in great
fury, and in that fury he pursued his daughter. The hostler having informed him
that she had crossed the Severn, he likewise past that river with his equipage,
and rode full speed, vowing the utmost vengeance against poor Sophia, if he
should but overtake her.
He had not
gone far before he arrived at a crossway. Here he called a short council of
war, in which, after hearing different opinions, he at last gave the direction
of his pursuit to fortune, and struck directly into the Worcester road.
In this
road he proceeded about two miles, when he began to bemoan himself most
bitterly, frequently crying out, “What pity is it! Sure never was so unlucky a
dog as myself!” And then burst forth a volley of oaths and execrations.
The parson
attempted to administer comfort to him on this occasion. “Sorrow not, sir,”
says he, “like those without hope. Howbeit we have not yet been able to
overtake young madam, we may account it some good fortune that we have hitherto
traced her course aright. Peradventure she will soon be fatigated with her
journey, and will tarry in some inn, in order to renovate her corporeal
functions; and in that case, in all moral certainty, you will very briefly be compos
voti.”
“Pogh! d—n
the slut!” answered the squire, “I am lamenting the loss of so fine a morning
for hunting. It is confounded hard to lose one of the best scenting days, in
all appearance, which hath been this season, and especially after so long a
frost.”
Whether
Fortune, who now and then shows some compassion in her wantonest tricks, might
not take pity of the squire; and, as she had determined not to let him overtake
his daughter, might not resolve to make him amends some other way, I will not
assert; but he had hardly uttered the words just before commemorated, and two
or three oaths at their heels, when a pack of hounds began to open their
melodious throats at a small distance from them, which the squire’s horse and
his rider both perceiving, both immediately pricked up their ears, and the
squire, crying, “She’s gone, she’s gone! Damn me if she is not gone!” instantly
clapped spurs to the beast, who little needed it, having indeed the same
inclination with his master; and now the whole company, crossing into a
corn-field, rode directly towards the hounds, with much hallowing and whooping,
while the poor parson, blessing himself, brought up the rear.
Thus fable
reports that the fair Grimalkin, whom Venus, at the desire of a passionate
lover, converted from a cat into a fine woman, no sooner perceived a mouse
than, mindful of her former sport, and still retaining her pristine nature, she
leaped from the bed of her husband to pursue the little animal.
What are
we to understand by this? Not that the bride was displeased with the embraces
of her amorous bridegroom; for, though some have remarked that cats are subject
to ingratitude, yet women and cats too will be pleased and purr on certain
occasions. The truth is, as the sagacious Sir Roger L’Estrange observes, in his
deep reflections, that, “if we shut Nature out at the door, she will come in at
the window; and that puss, though a madam, will be a mouser still.” In the same
manner we are not to arraign the squire of any want of love for his daughter;
for in reality he had a great deal; we are only to consider that he was a
squire and a sportsman, and then we may apply the fable to him, and the
judicious reflections likewise.
The hounds
ran very hard, as it is called, and the squire pursued over hedge and ditch,
with all his usual vociferation and alacrity, and with all his usual pleasure;
nor did the thoughts of Sophia ever once intrude themselves to allay the
satisfaction he enjoyed in the chace, which, he said, was one of the finest he
ever saw, and which he swore was very well worth going fifty miles for. As the
squire forgot his daughter, the servants, we may easily believe, forgot their
mistress; and the parson, after having expressed much astonishment, in Latin,
to himself, at length likewise abandoned all farther thoughts of the young
lady, and, jogging on at a distance behind, began to meditate a portion of
doctrine for the ensuing Sunday.
The squire
who owned the hounds was highly pleased with the arrival of his brother squire
and sportsman; for all men approve merit in their own way, and no man was more
expert in the field than Mr Western, nor did any other better know how to
encourage the dogs with his voice, and to animate the hunt with his holla.
Sportsmen,
in the warmth of a chace, are too much engaged to attend to any manner of
ceremony, nay, even to the offices of humanity: for, if any of them meet with
an accident by tumbling into a ditch, or into a river, the rest pass on
regardless, and generally leave him to his fate: during this time, therefore,
the two squires, though often close to each other, interchanged not a single
word. The master of the hunt, however, often saw and approved the great
judgment of the stranger in drawing the dogs when they were at a fault, and
hence conceived a very high opinion of his understanding, as the number of his
attendants inspired no small reverence to his quality. As soon, therefore, as
the sport was ended by the death of the little animal which had occasioned it,
the two squires met, and in all squire-like greeting saluted each other.
The
conversation was entertaining enough, and what we may perhaps relate in an
appendix, or on some other occasion; but as it nowise concerns this history, we
cannot prevail on ourselves to give it a place here. It concluded with a second
chace, and that with an invitation to dinner. This being accepted, was followed
by a hearty bout of drinking, which ended in as hearty a nap on the part of Squire
Western.
Our squire
was by no means a match either for his host, or for parson Supple, at his cups
that evening; for which the violent fatigue of mind as well as body that he had
undergone, may very well account, without the least derogation from his honour.
He was indeed, according to the vulgar phrase, whistle drunk; for before he had
swallowed the third bottle, he became so entirely overpowered that though he
was not carried off to bed till long after, the parson considered him as
absent, and having acquainted the other squire with all relating to Sophia, he
obtained his promise of seconding those arguments which he intended to urge the
next morning for Mr Western’s return.
No sooner,
therefore, had the good squire shaken off his evening, and began to call for
his morning draught, and to summon his horses in order to renew his pursuit,
than Mr Supple began his dissuasives, which the host so strongly seconded, that
they at length prevailed, and Mr Western agreed to return home; being
principally moved by one argument, viz., that he knew not which way to go, and
might probably be riding farther from his daughter instead of towards her. He
then took leave of his brother sportsman, and expressing great joy that the
frost was broken (which might perhaps be no small motive to his hastening
home), set forwards, or rather backwards, for Somersetshire; but not before he
had first despatched part of his retinue in quest of his daughter, after whom
he likewise sent a volley of the most bitter execrations which he could invent.
Chapter iii. — The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed between him and Partridge on the road.
At length
we are once more come to our heroe; and, to say truth, we have been obliged to
part with him so long, that, considering the condition in which we left him, I
apprehend many of our readers have concluded we intended to abandon him for
ever; he being at present in that situation in which prudent people usually
desist from enquiring any farther after their friends, lest they should be
shocked by hearing such friends had hanged themselves.
But, in
reality, if we have not all the virtues, I will boldly say, neither have we all
the vices of a prudent character; and though it is not easy to conceive
circumstances much more miserable than those of poor Jones at present, we shall
return to him, and attend upon him with the same diligence as if he was
wantoning in the brightest beams of fortune.
Mr Jones,
then, and his companion Partridge, left the inn a few minutes after the departure
of Squire Western, and pursued the same road on foot, for the hostler told them
that no horses were by any means to be at that time procured at Upton. On they
marched with heavy hearts; for though their disquiet proceeded from very
different reasons, yet displeased they were both; and if Jones sighed bitterly,
Partridge grunted altogether as sadly at every step.
When they
came to the cross-roads where the squire had stopt to take counsel, Jones stopt
likewise, and turning to Partridge, asked his opinion which track they should
pursue. “Ah, sir,” answered Partridge, “I wish your honour would follow my
advice.” “Why should I not?” replied Jones; “for it is now indifferent to me
whither I go, or what becomes of me.” “My advice, then,” said Partridge, “is,
that you immediately face about and return home; for who that hath such a home
to return to as your honour, would travel thus about the country like a
vagabond? I ask pardon, sed vox ea sola reperta est.”
“Alas!”
cries Jones, “I have no home to return to;—but if my friend, my father, would
receive me, could I bear the country from which Sophia is flown? Cruel Sophia!
Cruel! No; let me blame myself!—No; let me blame thee. D—nation seize
thee—fool—blockhead! thou hast undone me, and I will tear thy soul from thy
body.”—At which words he laid violent hands on the collar of poor Partridge,
and shook him more heartily than an ague-fit, or his own fears had ever done
before.
Partridge
fell trembling on his knees, and begged for mercy, vowing he had meant no harm—when
Jones, after staring wildly on him for a moment, quitted his hold, and
discharged a rage on himself, that, had it fallen on the other, would certainly
have put an end to his being, which indeed the very apprehension of it had
almost effected.
We would
bestow some pains here in minutely describing all the mad pranks which Jones
played on this occasion, could we be well assured that the reader would take
the same pains in perusing them; but as we are apprehensive that, after all the
labour which we should employ in painting this scene, the said reader would be
very apt to skip it entirely over, we have saved ourselves that trouble. To say
the truth, we have, from this reason alone, often done great violence to the
luxuriance of our genius, and have left many excellent descriptions out of our
work, which would otherwise have been in it. And this suspicion, to be honest,
arises, as is generally the case, from our own wicked heart; for we have,
ourselves, been very often most horridly given to jumping, as we have run
through the pages of voluminous historians.
Suffice it
then simply to say, that Jones, after having played the part of a madman for
many minutes, came, by degrees, to himself; which no sooner happened, than,
turning to Partridge, he very earnestly begged his pardon for the attack he had
made on him in the violence of his passion; but concluded, by desiring him
never to mention his return again; for he was resolved never to see that
country any more.
Partridge
easily forgave, and faithfully promised to obey the injunction now laid upon
him. And then Jones very briskly cried out, “Since it is absolutely impossible
for me to pursue any farther the steps of my angel—I will pursue those of
glory. Come on, my brave lad, now for the army:—it is a glorious cause, and I
would willingly sacrifice my life in it, even though it was worth my
preserving.” And so saying, he immediately struck into the different road from
that which the squire had taken, and, by mere chance, pursued the very same
through which Sophia had before passed.
Our
travellers now marched a full mile, without speaking a syllable to each other,
though Jones, indeed, muttered many things to himself. As to Partridge, he was
profoundly silent; for he was not, perhaps, perfectly recovered from his former
fright; besides, he had apprehensions of provoking his friend to a second fit
of wrath, especially as he now began to entertain a conceit, which may not,
perhaps, create any great wonder in the reader. In short, he began now to
suspect that Jones was absolutely out of his senses.
At length,
Jones, being weary of soliloquy, addressed himself to his companion, and blamed
him for his taciturnity; for which the poor man very honestly accounted, from
his fear of giving offence. And now this fear being pretty well removed, by the
most absolute promises of indemnity, Partridge again took the bridle from his
tongue; which, perhaps, rejoiced no less at regaining its liberty, than a young
colt, when the bridle is slipt from his neck, and he is turned loose into the
pastures.
As
Partridge was inhibited from that topic which would have first suggested
itself, he fell upon that which was next uppermost in his mind, namely, the Man
of the Hill. “Certainly, sir,” says he, “that could never be a man, who dresses
himself and lives after such a strange manner, and so unlike other folks.
Besides, his diet, as the old woman told me, is chiefly upon herbs, which is a
fitter food for a horse than a Christian: nay, landlord at Upton says that the
neighbours thereabouts have very fearful notions about him. It runs strangely
in my head that it must have been some spirit, who, perhaps, might be sent to
forewarn us: and who knows but all that matter which he told us, of his going
to fight, and of his being taken prisoner, and of the great danger he was in of
being hanged, might be intended as a warning to us, considering what we are
going about? besides, I dreamt of nothing all last night but of fighting; and
methought the blood ran out of my nose, as liquor out of a tap. Indeed, sir, infandum,
regina, jubes renovare dolorem.”
“Thy
story, Partridge,” answered Jones, “is almost as ill applied as thy Latin.
Nothing can be more likely to happen than death to men who go into battle.
Perhaps we shall both fall in it—and what then?” “What then?” replied
Partridge; “why then there is an end of us, is there not? when I am gone, all
is over with me. What matters the cause to me, or who gets the victory, if I am
killed? I shall never enjoy any advantage from it. What are all the ringing of
bells, and bonfires, to one that is six foot under ground? there will be an end
of poor Partridge.” “And an end of poor Partridge,” cries Jones, “there must
be, one time or other. If you love Latin, I will repeat you some fine lines out
of Horace, which would inspire courage into a coward.
`Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
Mors et fugacem persequitur virum
Nec parcit imbellis juventae
Poplitibus, timidoque tergo.’”
“I wish
you would construe them,” cries Partridge; “for Horace is a hard author, and I
cannot understand as you repeat them.”
“I will
repeat you a bad imitation, or rather paraphrase, of my own,” said Jones; “for
I am but an indifferent poet:
`Who would
not die in his dear country’s cause? Since, if base fear his dastard step
withdraws, From death he cannot fly:—One common grave Receives, at last, the
coward and the brave.’”
“That’s
very certain,” cries Partridge. “Ay, sure, Mors omnibus communis: but there
is a great difference between dying in one’s bed a great many years hence, like
a good Christian, with all our friends crying about us, and being shot to-day
or to-morrow, like a mad dog; or, perhaps, hacked in twenty pieces with the
sword, and that too before we have repented of all our sins. O Lord, have mercy
upon us! to be sure the soldiers are a wicked kind of people. I never loved to
have anything to do with them. I could hardly bring myself ever to look upon
them as Christians. There is nothing but cursing and swearing among them. I
wish your honour would repent: I heartily wish you would repent before it is
too late; and not think of going among them.—Evil communication corrupts good
manners. That is my principal reason. For as for that matter, I am no more
afraid than another man, not I; as to matter of that. I know all human flesh
must die; but yet a man may live many years, for all that. Why, I am a
middle-aged man now, and yet I may live a great number of years. I have read of
several who have lived to be above a hundred, and some a great deal above a
hundred. Not that I hope, I mean that I promise myself, to live to any such age
as that, neither.—But if it be only to eighty or ninety. Heaven be praised,
that is a great ways off yet; and I am not afraid of dying then, no more than
another man; but, surely, to tempt death before a man’s time is come seems to
me downright wickedness and presumption. Besides, if it was to do any good
indeed; but, let the cause be what it will, what mighty matter of good can two
people do? and, for my part, I understand nothing of it. I never fired off a
gun above ten times in my life; and then it was not charged with bullets. And
for the sword, I never learned to fence, and know nothing of the matter. And
then there are those cannons, which certainly it must be thought the highest
presumption to go in the way of; and nobody but a madman—I ask pardon; upon my
soul I meant no harm; I beg I may not throw your honour into another passion.”
“Be under
no apprehension, Partridge,” cries Jones; “I am now so well convinced of thy
cowardice, that thou couldst not provoke me on any account.” “Your honour,”
answered he, “may call me coward, or anything else you please. If loving to
sleep in a whole skin makes a man a coward, non immunes ab illis malis sumus.
I never read in my grammar that a man can’t be a good man without fighting. Vir
bonus est quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat. Not a word
of fighting; and I am sure the scripture is so much against it, that a man
shall never persuade me he is a good Christian while he sheds Christian blood.”
Chapter iv. — The adventure of a beggar-man.
Just as
Partridge had uttered that good and pious doctrine, with which the last chapter
concluded, they arrived at another cross-way, when a lame fellow in rags asked
them for alms; upon which Partridge gave him a severe rebuke, saying, “Every
parish ought to keep their own poor.” Jones then fell a-laughing, and asked
Partridge, “if he was not ashamed, with so much charity in his mouth, to have
no charity in his heart. Your religion,” says he, “serves you only for an
excuse for your faults, but is no incentive to your virtue. Can any man who is
really a Christian abstain from relieving one of his brethren in such a
miserable condition?” And at the same time, putting his hand in his pocket, he
gave the poor object a shilling.
“Master,”
cries the fellow, after thanking him, “I have a curious thing here in my
pocket, which I found about two miles off, if your worship will please to buy
it. I should not venture to pull it out to every one; but, as you are so good a
gentleman, and so kind to the poor, you won’t suspect a man of being a thief
only because he is poor.” He then pulled out a little gilt pocket-book, and
delivered it into the hands of Jones.
Jones
presently opened it, and (guess, reader, what he felt) saw in the first page
the words Sophia Western, written by her own fair hand. He no sooner read the
name than he prest it close to his lips; nor could he avoid falling into some
very frantic raptures, notwithstanding his company; but, perhaps, these very
raptures made him forget he was not alone.
While
Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had an excellent brown
buttered crust in his mouth or as if he had really been a book-worm, or an
author who had nothing to eat but his own works, a piece of paper fell from its
leaves to the ground, which Partridge took up, and delivered to Jones, who
presently perceived it to be a bank-bill. It was, indeed, the very bill which Western
had given his daughter the night before her departure; and a Jew would have
jumped to purchase it at five shillings less than £100.
The eyes
of Partridge sparkled at this news, which Jones now proclaimed aloud; and so
did (though with somewhat a different aspect) those of the poor fellow who had
found the book; and who (I hope from a principle of honesty) had never opened
it: but we should not deal honestly by the reader if we omitted to inform him
of a circumstance which may be here a little material, viz. that the fellow
could not read.
Jones, who
had felt nothing but pure joy and transport from the finding the book, was
affected with a mixture of concern at this new discovery; for his imagination
instantly suggested to him that the owner of the bill might possibly want it
before he should be able to convey it to her. He then acquainted the finder
that he knew the lady to whom the book belonged, and would endeavour to find
her out as soon as possible, and return it her.
The
pocket-book was a late present from Mrs Western to her niece; it had cost
five-and-twenty shillings, having been bought of a celebrated toyman; but the
real value of the silver which it contained in its clasp was about
eighteen-pence; and that price the said toyman, as it was altogether as good as
when it first issued from his shop, would now have given for it. A prudent
person would, however, have taken proper advantage of the ignorance of this
fellow, and would not have offered more than a shilling, or perhaps sixpence,
for it; nay, some perhaps would have given nothing, and left the fellow to his
action of trover, which some learned serjeants may doubt whether he could,
under these circumstances, have maintained.
Jones, on
the contrary, whose character was on the outside of generosity, and may perhaps
not very unjustly have been suspected of extravagance, without any hesitation
gave a guinea in exchange for the book. The poor man, who had not for a long
time before been possessed of so much treasure, gave Mr Jones a thousand thanks,
and discovered little less of transport in his muscles than Jones had before
shown when he had first read the name of Sophia Western.
The fellow
very readily agreed to attend our travellers to the place where he had found
the pocket-book. Together, therefore, they proceeded directly thither; but not
so fast as Mr Jones desired; for his guide unfortunately happened to be lame,
and could not possibly travel faster than a mile an hour. As this place,
therefore, was at above three miles’ distance, though the fellow had said
otherwise, the reader need not be acquainted how long they were in walking it.
Jones
opened the book a hundred times during their walk, kissed it as often, talked
much to himself, and very little to his companions. At all which the guide
exprest some signs of astonishment to Partridge; who more than once shook his
head, and cryed, Poor gentleman! orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore
sano.
At length
they arrived at the very spot where Sophia unhappily dropt the pocket-book, and
where the fellow had as happily found it. Here Jones offered to take leave of
his guide, and to improve his pace; but the fellow, in whom that violent
surprize and joy which the first receipt of the guinea had occasioned was now
considerably abated, and who had now had sufficient time to recollect himself,
put on a discontented look, and, scratching his head, said, “He hoped his
worship would give him something more. Your worship,” said he, “will, I hope,
take it into your consideration that if I had not been honest I might have kept
the whole.” And, indeed, this the reader must confess to have been true. “If
the paper there,” said he, “be worth £100, I am sure the finding it deserves
more than a guinea. Besides, suppose your worship should never see the lady, nor
give it her—and, though your worship looks and talks very much like a
gentleman, yet I have only your worship’s bare word; and, certainly, if the
right owner ben’t to be found, it all belongs to the first finder. I hope your
worship will consider of all these matters: I am but a poor man, and therefore
don’t desire to have all; but it is but reasonable I should have my share. Your
worship looks like a good man, and, I hope, will consider my honesty; for I
might have kept every farthing, and nobody ever the wiser.” “I promise thee,
upon my honour,” cries Jones, “that I know the right owner, and will restore it
her.” “Nay, your worship,” answered the fellow, “may do as you please as to
that; if you will but give me my share, that is, one-half of the money, your
honour may keep the rest yourself if you please;” and concluded with swearing,
by a very vehement oath, “that he would never mention a syllable of it to any
man living.”
“Lookee,
friend,” cries Jones, “the right owner shall certainly have again all that she
lost; and as for any farther gratuity, I really cannot give it you at present;
but let me know your name, and where you live, and it is more than possible you
may hereafter have further reason to rejoice at this morning’s adventure.”
“I don’t
know what you mean by venture,” cries the fellow; “it seems I must venture
whether you will return the lady her money or no; but I hope your worship will
consider—” “Come, come,” said Partridge, “tell his honour your name, and where
you may be found; I warrant you will never repent having put the money into his
hands.” The fellow, seeing no hopes of recovering the possession of the
pocket-book, at last complied in giving in his name and place of abode, which
Jones writ upon a piece of paper with the pencil of Sophia; and then, placing
the paper in the same page where she had writ her name, he cried out, “There,
friend, you are the happiest man alive; I have joined your name to that of an
angel.” “I don’t know anything about angels,” answered the fellow; “but I wish
you would give me a little more money, or else return me the pocket-book.”
Partridge now waxed wrath: he called the poor cripple by several vile and
opprobrious names, and was absolutely proceeding to beat him, but Jones would
not suffer any such thing: and now, telling the fellow he would certainly find
some opportunity of serving him, Mr Jones departed as fast as his heels would
carry him; and Partridge, into whom the thoughts of the hundred pound had
infused new spirits, followed his leader; while the man, who was obliged to
stay behind, fell to cursing them both, as well as his parents; “for had they,”
says he, “sent me to charity-school to learn to write and read and cast
accounts, I should have known the value of these matters as well as other people.”
To be continued
