TOM JONES
PART 33
Chapter v. — Containing more adventures which Mr Jones and his companion met on the road.
Our
travellers now walked so fast, that they had very little time or breath for
conversation; Jones meditating all the way on Sophia, and Partridge on the
bank-bill, which, though it gave him some pleasure, caused him at the same time
to repine at fortune, which, in all his walks, had never given him such an
opportunity of showing his honesty. They had proceeded above three miles, when
Partridge, being unable any longer to keep up with Jones, called to him, and
begged him a little to slacken his pace: with this he was the more ready to
comply, as he had for some time lost the footsteps of the horses, which the
thaw had enabled him to trace for several miles, and he was now upon a wide
common, where were several roads.
He here
therefore stopt to consider which of these roads he should pursue; when on a
sudden they heard the noise of a drum, that seemed at no great distance. This
sound presently alarmed the fears of Partridge, and he cried out, “Lord have
mercy upon us all; they are certainly a coming!” “Who is coming?” cries Jones;
for fear had long since given place to softer ideas in his mind; and since his
adventure with the lame man, he had been totally intent on pursuing Sophia,
without entertaining one thought of an enemy. “Who?” cries Partridge, “why, the
rebels: but why should I call them rebels? they may be very honest gentlemen,
for anything I know to the contrary. The devil take him that affronts them, I
say; I am sure, if they have nothing to say to me, I will have nothing to say
to them, but in a civil way. For Heaven’s sake, sir, don’t affront them if they
should come, and perhaps they may do us no harm; but would it not be the wiser
way to creep into some of yonder bushes, till they are gone by? What can two
unarmed men do perhaps against fifty thousand? Certainly nobody but a madman; I
hope your honour is not offended; but certainly no man who hath mens sana in
corpore sano——” Here Jones interrupted this torrent of eloquence, which
fear had inspired, saying, “That by the drum he perceived they were near some
town.” He then made directly towards the place whence the noise proceeded,
bidding Partridge “take courage, for that he would lead him into no danger;”
and adding, “it was impossible the rebels should be so near.”
Partridge
was a little comforted with this last assurance; and though he would more
gladly have gone the contrary way, he followed his leader, his heart beating
time, but not after the manner of heroes, to the music of the drum, which
ceased not till they had traversed the common, and were come into a narrow
lane.
And now
Partridge, who kept even pace with Jones, discovered something painted flying
in the air, a very few yards before him, which fancying to be the colours of
the enemy, he fell a bellowing, “Oh Lord, sir, here they are; there is the
crown and coffin. Oh Lord! I never saw anything so terrible; and we are within
gun-shot of them already.”
Jones no
sooner looked up, than he plainly perceived what it was which Partridge had
thus mistaken. “Partridge,” says he, “I fancy you will be able to engage this
whole army yourself; for by the colours I guess what the drum was which we
heard before, and which beats up for recruits to a puppet-show.”
“A
puppet-show!” answered Partridge, with most eager transport. “And is it really
no more than that? I love a puppet-show of all the pastimes upon earth. Do,
good sir, let us tarry and see it. Besides, I am quite famished to death; for
it is now almost dark, and I have not eat a morsel since three o’clock in the
morning.”
They now
arrived at an inn, or indeed an ale-house, where Jones was prevailed upon to
stop, the rather as he had no longer any assurance of being in the road he
desired. They walked both directly into the kitchen, where Jones began to
enquire if no ladies had passed that way in the morning, and Partridge as
eagerly examined into the state of their provisions; and indeed his enquiry met
with the better success; for Jones could not hear news of Sophia; but
Partridge, to his great satisfaction, found good reason to expect very shortly
the agreeable sight of an excellent smoaking dish of eggs and bacon.
In strong
and healthy constitutions love hath a very different effect from what it causes
in the puny part of the species. In the latter it generally destroys all that
appetite which tends towards the conservation of the individual; but in the
former, though it often induces forgetfulness, and a neglect of food, as well
as of everything else; yet place a good piece of well-powdered buttock before a
hungry lover, and he seldom fails very handsomely to play his part. Thus it
happened in the present case; for though Jones perhaps wanted a prompter, and
might have travelled much farther, had he been alone, with an empty stomach;
yet no sooner did he sit down to the bacon and eggs, than he fell to as
heartily and voraciously as Partridge himself.
Before our
travellers had finished their dinner, night came on, and as the moon was now
past the full, it was extremely dark. Partridge therefore prevailed on Jones to
stay and see the puppet-show, which was just going to begin, and to which they
were very eagerly invited by the master of the said show, who declared that his
figures were the finest which the world had ever produced, and that they had
given great satisfaction to all the quality in every town in England.
The
puppet-show was performed with great regularity and decency. It was called the
fine and serious part of the Provoked Husband; and it was indeed a very grave
and solemn entertainment, without any low wit or humour, or jests; or, to do it
no more than justice, without anything which could provoke a laugh. The
audience were all highly pleased. A grave matron told the master she would
bring her two daughters the next night, as he did not show any stuff; and an
attorney’s clerk and an exciseman both declared, that the characters of Lord
and Lady Townley were well preserved, and highly in nature. Partridge likewise
concurred with this opinion.
The master
was so highly elated with these encomiums, that he could not refrain from adding
some more of his own. He said, “The present age was not improved in anything so
much as in their puppet-shows; which, by throwing out Punch and his wife Joan,
and such idle trumpery, were at last brought to be a rational entertainment. I
remember,” said he, “when I first took to the business, there was a great deal
of low stuff that did very well to make folks laugh; but was never calculated
to improve the morals of young people, which certainly ought to be principally
aimed at in every puppet-show: for why may not good and instructive lessons be
conveyed this way, as well as any other? My figures are as big as the life, and
they represent the life in every particular; and I question not but people rise
from my little drama as much improved as they do from the great.” “I would by
no means degrade the ingenuity of your profession,” answered Jones, “but I
should have been glad to have seen my old acquaintance master Punch, for all
that; and so far from improving, I think, by leaving out him and his merry wife
Joan, you have spoiled your puppet-show.”
The dancer
of wires conceived an immediate and high contempt for Jones, from these words.
And with much disdain in his countenance, he replied, “Very probably, sir, that
may be your opinion; but I have the satisfaction to know the best judges differ
from you, and it is impossible to please every taste. I confess, indeed, some
of the quality at Bath, two or three years ago, wanted mightily to bring Punch
again upon the stage. I believe I lost some money for not agreeing to it; but
let others do as they will; a little matter shall never bribe me to degrade my
own profession, nor will I ever willingly consent to the spoiling the decency
and regularity of my stage, by introducing any such low stuff upon it.”
“Right,
friend,” cries the clerk, “you are very right. Always avoid what is low. There
are several of my acquaintance in London, who are resolved to drive everything
which is low from the stage.” “Nothing can be more proper,” cries the
exciseman, pulling his pipe from his mouth. “I remember,” added he, “(for I
then lived with my lord) I was in the footman’s gallery, the night when this
play of the Provoked Husband was acted first. There was a great deal of low
stuff in it about a country gentleman come up to town to stand for
parliament-man; and there they brought a parcel of his servants upon the stage,
his coachman I remember particularly; but the gentlemen in our gallery could
not bear anything so low, and they damned it. I observe, friend, you have left
all that matter out, and you are to be commended for it.”
“Nay,
gentlemen,” cries Jones, “I can never maintain my opinion against so many;
indeed, if the generality of his audience dislike him, the learned gentleman
who conducts the show might have done very right in dismissing Punch from his
service.”
The master
of the show then began a second harangue, and said much of the great force of
example, and how much the inferior part of mankind would be deterred from vice,
by observing how odious it was in their superiors; when he was unluckily
interrupted by an incident, which, though perhaps we might have omitted it at
another time, we cannot help relating at present, but not in this chapter.
Chapter vi. — From which it may be inferred that the best things are liable to be misunderstood and misinterpreted.
A violent
uproar now arose in the entry, where my landlady was well cuffing her maid both
with her fist and tongue. She had indeed missed the wench from her employment,
and, after a little search, had found her on the puppet-show stage in company
with the Merry Andrew, and in a situation not very proper to be described.
Though
Grace (for that was her name) had forfeited all title to modesty; yet had she
not impudence enough to deny a fact in which she was actually surprized; she,
therefore, took another turn, and attempted to mitigate the offence. “Why do
you beat me in this manner, mistress?” cries the wench. “If you don’t like my
doings, you may turn me away. If I am a w—e” (for the other had liberally bestowed
that appellation on her), “my betters are so as well as I. What was the fine
lady in the puppet-show just now? I suppose she did not lie all night out from
her husband for nothing.”
The
landlady now burst into the kitchen, and fell foul on both her husband and the
poor puppet-mover. “Here, husband,” says she, “you see the consequence of
harbouring these people in your house. If one doth draw a little drink the more
for them, one is hardly made amends for the litter they make; and then to have
one’s house made a bawdy-house of by such lousy vermin. In short, I desire you
would be gone to-morrow morning; for I will tolerate no more such doings. It is
only the way to teach our servants idleness and nonsense; for to be sure
nothing better can be learned by such idle shows as these. I remember when
puppet-shows were made of good scripture stories, as Jephthah’s Rash Vow, and
such good things, and when wicked people were carried away by the devil. There
was some sense in those matters; but as the parson told us last Sunday, nobody
believes in the devil now-a-days; and here you bring about a parcel of puppets
drest up like lords and ladies, only to turn the heads of poor country wenches;
and when their heads are once turned topsy-turvy, no wonder everything else is
so.”
Virgil, I
think, tells us, that when the mob are assembled in a riotous and tumultuous
manner, and all sorts of missile weapons fly about, if a man of gravity and
authority appears amongst them, the tumult is presently appeased, and the mob,
which when collected into one body, may be well compared to an ass, erect their
long ears at the grave man’s discourse.
On the
contrary, when a set of grave men and philosophers are disputing; when wisdom
herself may in a manner be considered as present, and administering arguments
to the disputants; should a tumult arise among the mob, or should one scold,
who is herself equal in noise to a mighty mob, appear among the said
philosophers; their disputes cease in a moment, wisdom no longer performs her
ministerial office, and the attention of every one is immediately attracted by
the scold alone.
Thus the
uproar aforesaid, and the arrival of the landlady, silenced the master of the
puppet-show, and put a speedy and final end to that grave and solemn harangue,
of which we have given the reader a sufficient taste already. Nothing indeed
could have happened so very inopportune as this accident; the most wanton
malice of fortune could not have contrived such another stratagem to confound
the poor fellow, while he was so triumphantly descanting on the good morals
inculcated by his exhibitions. His mouth was now as effectually stopt, as that
of quack must be, if, in the midst of a declamation on the great virtues of his
pills and powders, the corpse of one of his martyrs should be brought forth,
and deposited before the stage, as a testimony of his skill.
Instead,
therefore, of answering my landlady, the puppet-show man ran out to punish his
Merry Andrew; and now the moon beginning to put forth her silver light, as the
poets call it (though she looked at that time more like a piece of copper),
Jones called for his reckoning, and ordered Partridge, whom my landlady had
just awaked from a profound nap, to prepare for his journey; but Partridge,
having lately carried two points, as my reader hath seen before, was emboldened
to attempt a third, which was to prevail with Jones to take up a lodging that
evening in the house where he then was. He introduced this with an affected
surprize at the intention which Mr Jones declared of removing; and, after
urging many excellent arguments against it, he at last insisted strongly that
it could be to no manner of purpose whatever; for that, unless Jones knew which
way the lady was gone, every step he took might very possibly lead him the
farther from her; “for you find, sir,” said he, “by all the people in the
house, that she is not gone this way. How much better, therefore, would it be
to stay till the morning, when we may expect to meet with somebody to enquire
of?”
This last
argument had indeed some effect on Jones, and while he was weighing it the
landlord threw all the rhetoric of which he was master into the same scale.
“Sure, sir,” said he, “your servant gives you most excellent advice; for who
would travel by night at this time of the year?” He then began in the usual
stile to trumpet forth the excellent accommodation which his house afforded;
and my landlady likewise opened on the occasion——But, not to detain the reader
with what is common to every host and hostess, it is sufficient to tell him
Jones was at last prevailed on to stay and refresh himself with a few hours’
rest, which indeed he very much wanted; for he had hardly shut his eyes since
he had left the inn where the accident of the broken head had happened.
As soon as
Jones had taken a resolution to proceed no farther that night, he presently
retired to rest, with his two bedfellows, the pocket-book and the muff; but
Partridge, who at several times had refreshed himself with several naps, was
more inclined to eating than to sleeping, and more to drinking than to either.
And now
the storm which Grace had raised being at an end, and my landlady being again
reconciled to the puppet-man, who on his side forgave the indecent reflections
which the good woman in her passion had cast on his performances, a face of
perfect peace and tranquillity reigned in the kitchen; where sat assembled
round the fire the landlord and landlady of the house, the master of the
puppet-show, the attorney’s clerk, the exciseman, and the ingenious Mr
Partridge; in which company past the agreeable conversation which will be found
in the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — Containing a remark or two of our own and many more of the good company assembled in the kitchen.
Though the
pride of Partridge did not submit to acknowledge himself a servant, yet he
condescended in most particulars to imitate the manners of that rank. One
instance of this was, his greatly magnifying the fortune of his companion, as
he called Jones: such is a general custom with all servants among strangers, as
none of them would willingly be thought the attendant on a beggar: for, the
higher the situation of the master is, the higher consequently is that of the
man in his own opinion; the truth of which observation appears from the
behaviour of all the footmen of the nobility.
But,
though title and fortune communicate a splendor all around them, and the
footmen of men of quality and of estate think themselves entitled to a part of
that respect which is paid to the quality and estate of their masters, it is
clearly otherwise with regard to virtue and understanding. These advantages are
strictly personal, and swallow themselves all the respect which is paid to
them. To say the truth, this is so very little, that they cannot well afford to
let any others partake with them. As these therefore reflect no honour on the
domestic, so neither is he at all dishonoured by the most deplorable want of
both in his master. Indeed it is otherwise in the want of what is called virtue
in a mistress, the consequence of which we have before seen: for in this
dishonour there is a kind of contagion, which, like that of poverty,
communicates itself to all who approach it.
Now for
these reasons we are not to wonder that servants (I mean among the men only)
should have so great regard for the reputation of the wealth of their masters,
and little or none at all for their character in other points, and that, though
they would be ashamed to be the footman of a beggar, they are not so to attend
upon a rogue or a blockhead; and do consequently make no scruple to spread the
fame of the iniquities and follies of their said masters as far as possible,
and this often with great humour and merriment. In reality, a footman is often
a wit as well as a beau, at the expence of the gentleman whose livery he wears.
After
Partridge, therefore, had enlarged greatly on the vast fortune to which Mr
Jones was heir, he very freely communicated an apprehension, which he had begun
to conceive the day before, and for which, as we hinted at that very time, the
behaviour of Jones seemed to have furnished a sufficient foundation. In short,
he was now pretty well confirmed in an opinion that his master was out of his
wits, with which opinion he very bluntly acquainted the good company round the
fire.
With this
sentiment the puppet-show man immediately coincided. “I own,” said he, “the
gentleman surprized me very much, when he talked so absurdly about
puppet-shows. It is indeed hardly to be conceived that any man in his senses
should be so much mistaken; what you say now accounts very well for all his
monstrous notions. Poor gentleman! I am heartily concerned for him; indeed he
hath a strange wildness about his eyes, which I took notice of before, though I
did not mention it.”
The
landlord agreed with this last assertion, and likewise claimed the sagacity of
having observed it. “And certainly,” added he, “it must be so; for no one but a
madman would have thought of leaving so good a house to ramble about the
country at that time of night.”
The
exciseman, pulling his pipe from his mouth, said, “He thought the gentleman
looked and talked a little wildly;” and then turning to Partridge, “if he be a
madman,” says he, “he should not be suffered to travel thus about the country;
for possibly he may do some mischief. It is a pity he was not secured and sent
home to his relations.”
Now some
conceits of this kind were likewise lurking in the mind of Partridge; for, as
he was now persuaded that Jones had run away from Mr Allworthy, he promised
himself the highest rewards if he could by any means convey him back. But fear
of Jones, of whose fierceness and strength he had seen, and indeed felt, some
instances, had however represented any such scheme as impossible to be
executed, and had discouraged him from applying himself to form any regular
plan for the purpose. But no sooner did he hear the sentiments of the exciseman
than he embraced that opportunity of declaring his own, and expressed a hearty
wish that such a matter could be brought about.
“Could be
brought about!” says the exciseman: “why, there is nothing easier.”
“Ah! sir,”
answered Partridge, “you don’t know what a devil of a fellow he is. He can take
me up with one hand, and throw me out at window; and he would, too, if he did
but imagine—”
“Pogh!”
says the exciseman, “I believe I am as good a man as he. Besides, here are five
of us.”
“I don’t
know what five,” cries the landlady, “my husband shall have nothing to do in
it. Nor shall any violent hands be laid upon anybody in my house. The young
gentleman is as pretty a young gentleman as ever I saw in my life, and I
believe he is no more mad than any of us. What do you tell of his having a wild
look with his eyes? they are the prettiest eyes I ever saw, and he hath the
prettiest look with them; and a very modest civil young man he is. I am sure I
have bepitied him heartily ever since the gentleman there in the corner told us
he was crost in love. Certainly that is enough to make any man, especially such
a sweet young gentleman as he is, to look a little otherwise than he did
before. Lady, indeed! what the devil would the lady have better than such a
handsome man with a great estate? I suppose she is one of your quality folks,
one of your Townly ladies that we saw last night in the puppet-show, who don’t
know what they would be at.”
The
attorney’s clerk likewise declared he would have no concern in the business
without the advice of counsel. “Suppose,” says he, “an action of false
imprisonment should be brought against us, what defence could we make? Who
knows what may be sufficient evidence of madness to a jury? But I only speak
upon my own account; for it don’t look well for a lawyer to be concerned in
these matters, unless it be as a lawyer. Juries are always less favourable to
us than to other people. I don’t therefore dissuade you, Mr Thomson (to the
exciseman), nor the gentleman, nor anybody else.”
The
exciseman shook his head at this speech, and the puppet-show man said, “Madness
was sometimes a difficult matter for a jury to decide: for I remember,” says
he, “I was once present at a tryal of madness, where twenty witnesses swore that
the person was as mad as a March hare; and twenty others, that he was as much
in his senses as any man in England.—And indeed it was the opinion of most
people, that it was only a trick of his relations to rob the poor man of his
right.”
“Very
likely!” cries the landlady. “I myself knew a poor gentleman who was kept in a
mad-house all his life by his family, and they enjoyed his estate, but it did
them no good; for though the law gave it them, it was the right of another.”
“Pogh!”
cries the clerk, with great contempt, “who hath any right but what the law
gives them? If the law gave me the best estate in the country, I should never
trouble myself much who had the right.”
“If it be
so,” says Partridge, “Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum.”
My landlord,
who had been called out by the arrival of a horseman at the gate, now returned
into the kitchen, and with an affrighted countenance cried out, “What do you
think, gentlemen? The rebels have given the duke the slip, and are got almost
to London. It is certainly true, for a man on horseback just now told me so.”
“I am glad
of it with all my heart,” cries Partridge; “then there will be no fighting in
these parts.”
“I am
glad,” cries the clerk, “for a better reason; for I would always have right
take place.”
“Ay, but,”
answered the landlord, “I have heard some people say this man hath no right.”
“I will
prove the contrary in a moment,” cries the clerk: “if my father dies seized of
a right; do you mind me, seized of a right, I say; doth not that right descend
to his son; and doth not one right descend as well as another?”
“But how
can he have any right to make us papishes?” says the landlord.
“Never
fear that,” cries Partridge. “As to the matter of right, the gentleman there
hath proved it as clear as the sun; and as to the matter of religion, it is
quite out of the case. The papists themselves don’t expect any such thing. A
popish priest, whom I know very well, and who is a very honest man, told me
upon his word and honour they had no such design.”
“And
another priest, of my acquaintance,” said the landlady, “hath told me the same
thing; but my husband is always so afraid of papishes. I know a great many
papishes that are very honest sort of people, and spend their money very
freely; and it is always a maxim with me, that one man’s money is as good as
another’s.”
“Very
true, mistress,” said the puppet-show man, “I don’t care what religion comes;
provided the Presbyterians are not uppermost; for they are enemies to
puppet-shows.”
“And so
you would sacrifice your religion to your interest,” cries the exciseman; “and
are desirous to see popery brought in, are you?”
“Not I,
truly,” answered the other; “I hate popery as much as any man; but yet it is a
comfort to one, that one should be able to live under it, which I could not do
among Presbyterians. To be sure, every man values his livelihood first; that
must be granted; and I warrant, if you would confess the truth, you are more
afraid of losing your place than anything else; but never fear, friend, there
will be an excise under another government as well as under this.”
“Why,
certainly,” replied the exciseman, “I should be a very ill man if I did not
honour the king, whose bread I eat. That is no more than natural, as a man may
say: for what signifies it to me that there would be an excise-office under
another government, since my friends would be out, and I could expect no better
than to follow them? No, no, friend, I shall never be bubbled out of my
religion in hopes only of keeping my place under another government; for I
should certainly be no better, and very probably might be worse.”
“Why, that
is what I say,” cries the landlord, “whenever folks say who knows what may
happen! Odsooks! should not I be a blockhead to lend my money to I know not
who, because mayhap he may return it again? I am sure it is safe in my own
bureau, and there I will keep it.”
The
attorney’s clerk had taken a great fancy to the sagacity of Partridge. Whether
this proceeded from the great discernment which the former had into men, as
well as things, or whether it arose from the sympathy between their minds; for
they were both truly Jacobites in principle; they now shook hands heartily, and
drank bumpers of strong beer to healths which we think proper to bury in
oblivion.
These
healths were afterwards pledged by all present, and even by my landlord
himself, though reluctantly; but he could not withstand the menaces of the
clerk, who swore he would never set his foot within his house again, if he
refused. The bumpers which were swallowed on this occasion soon put an end to
the conversation. Here, therefore, we will put an end to the chapter.
Chapter viii. — In which fortune seems to have been in a better humour with Jones than we have hitherto seen her.
As there
is no wholesomer, so perhaps there are few stronger, sleeping potions than
fatigue. Of this Jones might be said to have taken a very large dose, and it
operated very forcibly upon him. He had already slept nine hours, and might
perhaps have slept longer, had he not been awakened by a most violent noise at
his chamber-door, where the sound of many heavy blows was accompanied with many
exclamations of murder. Jones presently leapt from his bed, where he found the
master of the puppet-show belabouring the back and ribs of his poor
Merry-Andrew, without either mercy or moderation.
Jones
instantly interposed on behalf of the suffering party, and pinned the insulting
conqueror up to the wall: for the puppet-show man was no more able to contend
with Jones than the poor party-coloured jester had been to contend with this
puppet-man.
But though
the Merry-Andrew was a little fellow, and not very strong, he had nevertheless
some choler about him. He therefore no sooner found himself delivered from the
enemy, than he began to attack him with the only weapon at which he was his
equal. From this he first discharged a volley of general abusive words, and
thence proceeded to some particular accusations—“D—n your bl—d, you rascal,”
says he, “I have not only supported you (for to me you owe all the money you
get), but I have saved you from the gallows. Did you not want to rob the lady
of her fine riding-habit, no longer ago than yesterday, in the back-lane here?
Can you deny that you wished to have her alone in a wood to strip her—to strip
one of the prettiest ladies that ever was seen in the world? and here you have
fallen upon me, and have almost murdered me, for doing no harm to a girl as
willing as myself, only because she likes me better than you.”
Jones no
sooner heard this than he quitted the master, laying on him at the same time
the most violent injunctions of forbearance from any further insult on the
Merry-Andrew; and then taking the poor wretch with him into his own apartment,
he soon learned tidings of his Sophia, whom the fellow, as he was attending his
master with his drum the day before, had seen pass by. He easily prevailed with
the lad to show him the exact place, and then having summoned Partridge, he
departed with the utmost expedition.
It was
almost eight of the clock before all matters could be got ready for his
departure: for Partridge was not in any haste, nor could the reckoning be
presently adjusted; and when both these were settled and over, Jones would not
quit the place before he had perfectly reconciled all differences between the
master and the man.
When this
was happily accomplished, he set forwards, and was by the trusty Merry-Andrew
conducted to the spot by which Sophia had past; and then having handsomely
rewarded his conductor, he again pushed on with the utmost eagerness, being
highly delighted with the extraordinary manner in which he received his
intelligence. Of this Partridge was no sooner acquainted, than he, with great
earnestness, began to prophesy, and assured Jones that he would certainly have
good success in the end: for, he said, “two such accidents could never have
happened to direct him after his mistress, if Providence had not designed to
bring them together at last.” And this was the first time that Jones lent any
attention to the superstitious doctrines of his companion.
They had
not gone above two miles when a violent storm of rain overtook them; and, as
they happened to be at the same time in sight of an ale-house, Partridge, with
much earnest entreaty, prevailed with Jones to enter, and weather the storm.
Hunger is an enemy (if indeed it may be called one) which partakes more of the
English than of the French disposition; for, though you subdue this never so
often, it will always rally again in time; and so it did with Partridge, who
was no sooner arrived within the kitchen, than he began to ask the same
questions which he had asked the night before. The consequence of this was an
excellent cold chine being produced upon the table, upon which not only
Partridge, but Jones himself, made a very hearty breakfast, though the latter
began to grow again uneasy, as the people of the house could give him no fresh
information concerning Sophia.
Their meal
being over, Jones was again preparing to sally, notwithstanding the violence of
the storm still continued; but Partridge begged heartily for another mug; and
at last casting his eyes on a lad at the fire, who had entered into the
kitchen, and who at that instant was looking as earnestly at him, he turned
suddenly to Jones, and cried, “Master, give me your hand, a single mug shan’t
serve the turn this bout. Why, here’s more news of Madam Sophia come to town.
The boy there standing by the fire is the very lad that rode before her. I can
swear to my own plaister on his face.”—“Heavens bless you, sir,” cries the boy,
“it is your own plaister sure enough; I shall have always reason to remember
your goodness; for it hath almost cured me.”
At these
words Jones started from his chair, and, bidding the boy follow him
immediately, departed from the kitchen into a private apartment; for, so
delicate was he with regard to Sophia, that he never willingly mentioned her
name in the presence of many people; and, though he had, as it were, from the
overflowings of his heart, given Sophia as a toast among the officers, where he
thought it was impossible she should be known; yet, even there, the reader may
remember how difficultly he was prevailed upon to mention her surname.
Hard therefore
was it, and perhaps, in the opinion of many sagacious readers, very absurd and
monstrous, that he should principally owe his present misfortune to the
supposed want of that delicacy with which he so abounded; for, in reality,
Sophia was much more offended at the freedoms which she thought (and not
without good reason) he had taken with her name and character, than at any
freedoms, in which, under his present circumstances, he had indulged himself
with the person of another woman; and to say truth, I believe Honour could
never have prevailed on her to leave Upton without her seeing Jones, had it not
been for those two strong instances of a levity in his behaviour, so void of
respect, and indeed so highly inconsistent with any degree of love and tenderness
in great and delicate minds.
But so
matters fell out, and so I must relate them; and if any reader is shocked at
their appearing unnatural, I cannot help it. I must remind such persons that I
am not writing a system, but a history, and I am not obliged to reconcile every
matter to the received notions concerning truth and nature. But if this was
never so easy to do, perhaps it might be more prudent in me to avoid it. For
instance, as the fact at present before us now stands, without any comment of
mine upon it, though it may at first sight offend some readers, yet, upon more
mature consideration, it must please all; for wise and good men may consider
what happened to Jones at Upton as a just punishment for his wickedness with
regard to women, of which it was indeed the immediate consequence; and silly
and bad persons may comfort themselves in their vices by flattering their own
hearts that the characters of men are rather owing to accident than to virtue.
Now, perhaps the reflections which we should be here inclined to draw would
alike contradict both these conclusions, and would show that these incidents
contribute only to confirm the great, useful, and uncommon doctrine, which it
is the purpose of this whole work to inculcate, and which we must not fill up
our pages by frequently repeating, as an ordinary parson fills his sermon by
repeating his text at the end of every paragraph.
We are
contented that it must appear, however unhappily Sophia had erred in her
opinion of Jones, she had sufficient reason for her opinion; since, I believe,
every other young lady would, in her situation, have erred in the same manner.
Nay, had she followed her lover at this very time, and had entered this very
alehouse the moment he was departed from it, she would have found the landlord
as well acquainted with her name and person as the wench at Upton had appeared
to be. For while Jones was examining his boy in whispers in an inner room,
Partridge, who had no such delicacy in his disposition, was in the kitchen very
openly catechising the other guide who had attended Mrs Fitzpatrick; by which
means the landlord, whose ears were open on all such occasions, became
perfectly well acquainted with the tumble of Sophia from her horse, &c.,
with the mistake concerning Jenny Cameron, with the many consequences of the
punch, and, in short, with almost everything which had happened at the inn
whence we despatched our ladies in a coach-and-six when we last took our leaves
of them.
Chapter ix. — Containing little more than a few odd observations.
Jones had
been absent a full half-hour, when he returned into the kitchen in a hurry,
desiring the landlord to let him know that instant what was to pay. And now the
concern which Partridge felt at being obliged to quit the warm chimney-corner,
and a cup of excellent liquor, was somewhat compensated by hearing that he was
to proceed no farther on foot, for Jones, by golden arguments, had prevailed
with the boy to attend him back to the inn whither he had before conducted
Sophia; but to this however the lad consented, upon condition that the other
guide would wait for him at the alehouse; because, as the landlord at Upton was
an intimate acquaintance of the landlord at Gloucester, it might some time or
other come to the ears of the latter that his horses had been let to more than
one person; and so the boy might be brought to account for money which he
wisely intended to put in his own pocket.
We were
obliged to mention this circumstance, trifling as it may seem, since it
retarded Mr Jones a considerable time in his setting out; for the honesty of
this latter boy was somewhat high—that is, somewhat high-priced, and would indeed
have cost Jones very dear, had not Partridge, who, as we have said, was a very
cunning fellow, artfully thrown in half-a-crown to be spent at that very
alehouse, while the boy was waiting for his companion. This half-crown the
landlord no sooner got scent of, than he opened after it with such vehement and
persuasive outcry, that the boy was soon overcome, and consented to take
half-a-crown more for his stay. Here we cannot help observing, that as there is
so much of policy in the lowest life, great men often overvalue themselves on
those refinements in imposture, in which they are frequently excelled by some
of the lowest of the human species.
The horses
being now produced, Jones directly leapt into the side-saddle, on which his
dear Sophia had rid. The lad, indeed, very civilly offered him the use of his;
but he chose the side-saddle, probably because it was softer. Partridge,
however, though full as effeminate as Jones, could not bear the thoughts of
degrading his manhood; he therefore accepted the boy’s offer: and now, Jones
being mounted on the side-saddle of his Sophia, the boy on that of Mrs Honour,
and Partridge bestriding the third horse, they set forwards on their journey,
and within four hours arrived at the inn where the reader hath already spent so
much time. Partridge was in very high spirits during the whole way, and often
mentioned to Jones the many good omens of his future success which had lately
befriended him; and which the reader, without being the least superstitious,
must allow to have been particularly fortunate. Partridge was moreover better
pleased with the present pursuit of his companion than he had been with his
pursuit of glory; and from these very omens, which assured the pedagogue of
success, he likewise first acquired a clear idea of the amour between Jones and
Sophia; to which he had before given very little attention, as he had
originally taken a wrong scent concerning the reasons of Jones’s departure; and
as to what happened at Upton, he was too much frightened just before and after
his leaving that place to draw any other conclusions from thence than that poor
Jones was a downright madman: a conceit which was not at all disagreeable to
the opinion he before had of his extraordinary wildness, of which, he thought,
his behaviour on their quitting Gloucester so well justified all the accounts
he had formerly received. He was now, however, pretty well satisfied with his
present expedition, and henceforth began to conceive much worthier sentiments
of his friend’s understanding.
The clock
had just struck three when they arrived, and Jones immediately bespoke
post-horses; but unluckily there was not a horse to be procured in the whole
place; which the reader will not wonder at when he considers the hurry in which
the whole nation, and especially this part of it, was at this time engaged,
when expresses were passing and repassing every hour of the day and night.
Jones
endeavoured all he could to prevail with his former guide to escorte him to
Coventry; but he was inexorable. While he was arguing with the boy in the
inn-yard, a person came up to him, and saluting him by his name, enquired how
all the good family did in Somersetshire; and now Jones casting his eyes upon
this person, presently discovered him to be Mr Dowling, the lawyer, with whom
he had dined at Gloucester, and with much courtesy returned the salutation.
Dowling
very earnestly pressed Mr Jones to go no further that night; and backed his
solicitations with many unanswerable arguments, such as, that it was almost
dark, that the roads were very dirty, and that he would be able to travel much
better by day-light, with many others equally good, some of which Jones had
probably suggested to himself before; but as they were then ineffectual, so
they were still: and he continued resolute in his design, even though he should
be obliged to set out on foot.
When the
good attorney found he could not prevail on Jones to stay, he as strenuously
applied himself to persuade the guide to accompany him. He urged many motives
to induce him to undertake this short journey, and at last concluded with
saying, “Do you think the gentleman won’t very well reward you for your
trouble?”
Two to one
are odds at every other thing as well as at foot-ball. But the advantage which
this united force hath in persuasion or entreaty must have been visible to a
curious observer; for he must have often seen, that when a father, a master, a
wife, or any other person in authority, have stoutly adhered to a denial
against all the reasons which a single man could produce, they have afterwards
yielded to the repetition of the same sentiments by a second or third person,
who hath undertaken the cause, without attempting to advance anything new in
its behalf. And hence, perhaps, proceeds the phrase of seconding an argument or
a motion, and the great consequence this is of in all assemblies of public
debate. Hence, likewise, probably it is, that in our courts of law we often
hear a learned gentleman (generally a serjeant) repeating for an hour together
what another learned gentleman, who spoke just before him, had been saying.
Instead of
accounting for this, we shall proceed in our usual manner to exemplify it in
the conduct of the lad above mentioned, who submitted to the persuasions of Mr
Dowling, and promised once more to admit Jones into his side-saddle; but
insisted on first giving the poor creatures a good bait, saying, they had
travelled a great way, and been rid very hard. Indeed this caution of the boy
was needless; for Jones, notwithstanding his hurry and impatience, would have
ordered this of himself; for he by no means agreed with the opinion of those
who consider animals as mere machines, and when they bury their spurs in the
belly of their horse, imagine the spur and the horse to have an equal capacity
of feeling pain.
While the
beasts were eating their corn, or rather were supposed to eat it (for, as the
boy was taking care of himself in the kitchen, the ostler took great care that
his corn should not be consumed in the stable), Mr Jones, at the earnest desire
of Mr Dowling, accompanied that gentleman into his room, where they sat down
together over a bottle of wine.
Chapter x. — In which Mr Jones and Mr Dowling drink a bottle together.
Mr
Dowling, pouring out a glass of wine, named the health of the good Squire
Allworthy; adding, “If you please, sir, we will likewise remember his nephew
and heir, the young squire: Come, sir, here’s Mr Blifil to you, a very pretty
young gentleman; and who, I dare swear, will hereafter make a very considerable
figure in his country. I have a borough for him myself in my eye.”
“Sir,”
answered Jones, “I am convinced you don’t intend to affront me, so I shall not
resent it; but I promise you, you have joined two persons very improperly
together; for one is the glory of the human species, and the other is a rascal
who dishonours the name of man.”
Dowling
stared at this. He said, “He thought both the gentlemen had a very
unexceptionable character. As for Squire Allworthy himself,” says he, “I never
had the happiness to see him; but all the world talks of his goodness. And,
indeed, as to the young gentleman, I never saw him but once, when I carried him
the news of the loss of his mother; and then I was so hurried, and drove, and
tore with the multiplicity of business, that I had hardly time to converse with
him; but he looked so like a very honest gentleman, and behaved himself so
prettily, that I protest I never was more delighted with any gentleman since I
was born.”
“I don’t
wonder,” answered Jones, “that he should impose upon you in so short an
acquaintance; for he hath the cunning of the devil himself, and you may live
with him many years, without discovering him. I was bred up with him from my
infancy, and we were hardly ever asunder; but it is very lately only that I
have discovered half the villany which is in him. I own I never greatly liked
him. I thought he wanted that generosity of spirit, which is the sure
foundation of all that is great and noble in human nature. I saw a selfishness
in him long ago which I despised; but it is lately, very lately, that I have
found him capable of the basest and blackest designs; for, indeed, I have at
last found out, that he hath taken an advantage of the openness of my own
temper, and hath concerted the deepest project, by a long train of wicked
artifice, to work my ruin, which at last he hath effected.”
“Ay! ay!”
cries Dowling; “I protest, then, it is a pity such a person should inherit the
great estate of your uncle Allworthy.”
“Alas,
sir,” cries Jones, “you do me an honour to which I have no title. It is true,
indeed, his goodness once allowed me the liberty of calling him by a much
nearer name; but as this was only a voluntary act of goodness, I can complain
of no injustice when he thinks proper to deprive me of this honour; since the
loss cannot be more unmerited than the gift originally was. I assure you, sir,
I am no relation of Mr Allworthy; and if the world, who are incapable of
setting a true value on his virtue, should think, in his behaviour to me, he
hath dealt hardly by a relation, they do an injustice to the best of men: for
I—but I ask your pardon, I shall trouble you with no particulars relating to
myself; only as you seemed to think me a relation of Mr Allworthy, I thought
proper to set you right in a matter that might draw some censures upon him,
which I promise you I would rather lose my life than give occasion to.”
“I
protest, sir,” cried Dowling, “you talk very much like a man of honour; but
instead of giving me any trouble, I protest it would give me great pleasure to
know how you came to be thought a relation of Mr Allworthy’s, if you are not.
Your horses won’t be ready this half-hour, and as you have sufficient
opportunity, I wish you would tell me how all that happened; for I protest it
seems very surprizing that you should pass for a relation of a gentleman,
without being so.”
Jones, who
in the compliance of his disposition (though not in his prudence) a little
resembled his lovely Sophia, was easily prevailed on to satisfy Mr Dowling’s
curiosity, by relating the history of his birth and education, which he did,
like Othello.
———Even from his boyish years,
To th’ very moment he was bad to tell:
the which
to hear, Dowling, like Desdemona, did seriously incline;
He swore ‘twas strange, ‘twas passing strange;
‘Twas pitiful, ‘twas wonderous pitiful.
Mr Dowling
was indeed very greatly affected with this relation; for he had not divested
himself of humanity by being an attorney. Indeed, nothing is more unjust than
to carry our prejudices against a profession into private life, and to borrow
our idea of a man from our opinion of his calling. Habit, it is true, lessens
the horror of those actions which the profession makes necessary, and
consequently habitual; but in all other instances, Nature works in men of all
professions alike; nay, perhaps, even more strongly with those who give her, as
it were, a holiday, when they are following their ordinary business. A butcher,
I make no doubt, would feel compunction at the slaughter of a fine horse; and
though a surgeon can feel no pain in cutting off a limb, I have known him
compassionate a man in a fit of the gout. The common hangman, who hath
stretched the necks of hundreds, is known to have trembled at his first
operation on a head: and the very professors of human blood-shedding, who, in
their trade of war, butcher thousands, not only of their fellow-professors, but
often of women and children, without remorse; even these, I say, in times of
peace, when drums and trumpets are laid aside, often lay aside all their
ferocity, and become very gentle members of civil society. In the same manner
an attorney may feel all the miseries and distresses of his fellow-creatures,
provided he happens not to be concerned against them.
Jones, as
the reader knows, was yet unacquainted with the very black colours in which he
had been represented to Mr Allworthy; and as to other matters, he did not shew
them in the most disadvantageous light; for though he was unwilling to cast any
blame on his former friend and patron; yet he was not very desirous of heaping
too much upon himself. Dowling therefore observed, and not without reason, that
very ill offices must have been done him by somebody: “For certainly,” cries
he, “the squire would never have disinherited you only for a few faults, which
any young gentleman might have committed. Indeed, I cannot properly say
disinherited: for to be sure by law you cannot claim as heir. That’s certain;
that nobody need go to counsel for. Yet when a gentleman had in a manner
adopted you thus as his own son, you might reasonably have expected some very considerable
part, if not the whole; nay, if you had expected the whole, I should not have
blamed you: for certainly all men are for getting as much as they can, and they
are not to be blamed on that account.”
“Indeed
you wrong me,” said Jones; “I should have been contented with very little: I
never had any view upon Mr Allworthy’s fortune; nay, I believe I may truly say,
I never once considered what he could or might give me. This I solemnly
declare, if he had done a prejudice to his nephew in my favour, I would have
undone it again. I had rather enjoy my own mind than the fortune of another
man. What is the poor pride arising from a magnificent house, a numerous
equipage, a splendid table, and from all the other advantages or appearances of
fortune, compared to the warm, solid content, the swelling satisfaction, the
thrilling transports, and the exulting triumphs, which a good mind enjoys, in
the contemplation of a generous, virtuous, noble, benevolent action? I envy not
Blifil in the prospect of his wealth; nor shall I envy him in the possession of
it. I would not think myself a rascal half an hour, to exchange situations. I
believe, indeed, Mr Blifil suspected me of the views you mention; and I suppose
these suspicions, as they arose from the baseness of his own heart, so they
occasioned his baseness to me. But, I thank Heaven, I know, I feel—I feel my
innocence, my friend; and I would not part with that feeling for the world. For
as long as I know I have never done, nor even designed, an injury to any being
whatever,
Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor aestiva recreatur aura,
Quod latus mundi nebulae, malusque
Jupiter urget.
Pone sub curru nimium propinqui
Solis in terra dominibus negata;
Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulce loquentem.[*]
[*] Place me where never summer breeze
Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees:
Where ever-lowering clouds appear,
And angry Jove deforms th’ inclement year.
Place me beneath the burning ray,
Where rolls the rapid car of day;
Love and the nymph shall charm my toils,
The nymph who sweetly speaks, and sweetly smiles.
MR FRANCIS.
He then
filled a bumper of wine, and drunk it off to the health of his dear Lalage;
and, filling Dowling’s glass likewise up to the brim, insisted on his pledging
him. “Why, then, here’s Miss Lalage’s health with all my heart,” cries Dowling.
“I have heard her toasted often, I protest, though I never saw her; but they
say she’s extremely handsome.”
Though the
Latin was not the only part of this speech which Dowling did not perfectly
understand; yet there was somewhat in it that made a very strong impression
upon him. And though he endeavoured by winking, nodding, sneering, and grinning,
to hide the impression from Jones (for we are as often ashamed of thinking
right as of thinking wrong), it is certain he secretly approved as much of his
sentiments as he understood, and really felt a very strong impulse of
compassion for him. But we may possibly take some other opportunity of
commenting upon this, especially if we should happen to meet Mr Dowling any
more in the course of our history. At present we are obliged to take our leave
of that gentleman a little abruptly, in imitation of Mr Jones; who was no
sooner informed, by Partridge, that his horses were ready, than he deposited
his reckoning, wished his companion a good night, mounted, and set forward
towards Coventry, though the night was dark, and it just then began to rain
very hard.
To be continued
