 CHAPTER XII. 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 ancient 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 Abé 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 or by retail, what they have already engross, if not in their memories, upon their shells. But 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 paltry manner with which they are treated by the auctioneers, who often endeavor 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. To obviate all such imputations for the future, I do here confess and justify the fact. The ancients 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 ancients 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 honor 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 neighbors 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 neighbors, who as they conclude that there is no manner of guilt in such depredations look upon it as a point of honor and moral obligation to conceal and to preserve each other from punishment on all such occasions. In like manner are the ancients such as Homer, Virgil, Horus, 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 neighbors 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 styled defrauding the poor, sometimes perhaps those who are poorer than ourselves, or to set it under the most appropriate colors robbing the spittle. 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 ancient 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, unconditioned 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 rightful owner. The omission of this was highly blameable in one Mr. Moore, who having formally 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 D'Anciade, 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, once 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 hero. 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 hustler, having informed him that she had crossed the Severn, he likewise passed 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 cross-way. 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? For 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. How be it 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. Per adventure she will soon be fatigued 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 compost voti. Bah! damn 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 sentient days, in all appearance, which hath been this season, and especially after so long a frost. Another fortune, who now and then shows some compassion in her wantoness 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, damned me if she is not gone, instantly clapped his spurs to the beast, who little needed it, having indeed the same inclination with his master, and now the whole company, crossing into a cornfield, 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 Grimalcon, 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 Lestrange observes in his deep reflections, that if we shut nature out at the door, she will come in at the window, and that puss through 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 chase, which, he said, was one of the finest he ever saw, in 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 ever 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 halah. Sportsmen in the warmth of a chase 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 no wise concerns this history we cannot prevail on ourselves to give it a place here. It concluded with a second chase, 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 Parsons 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 honor. 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-draft, and to summon his horses in order to renew his pursuit, then Mr. supple began his discusives, 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 dispatched 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 hero, 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 forever. He being at present in that situation in which prudent people usually desist from inquiring 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 hustler told them that no horses were by any means to be, at that time, procured at Upton. One 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 crossroads where the Squire had stopped to take counsel, Jones stopped likewise, and, turning to Partridge, asked his opinion which track they should pursue. Ah, sir, answered Partridge, I wish your honor 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 honor, would travel thus about the country like a vagabond? I ask pardon, said Vox, et asola, reperte est. Alas, Christ 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. When nation sees 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 agu-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 affected. 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 labor 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 had 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 horribly 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 travelers 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 offense. 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 slipped 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 the 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 neighbors 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 manner 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. I dreamt of nothing all last night but of fighting, and me thought the blood ran out of my nose as liquor out of a tap. Indeed, sir, infundum regina jubes renovare dolorum. 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 underground? There will be an end of poor Partridge. And an end of poor Partridge, cries Jones, there must be, one time or another, if you love Latin, I will repeat you some fine verses out of Horus, which would inspire courage into a coward. Dulce et de Torib es propatria mori. Mores et fugadgem persecutor virum. Neck parcit imbellis juvenite. Pope Lidibus domideche tergo. I wish you would construe them, cries Partridge, for Horus 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, 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. I, sure, mores omnibus comunis. 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 today or tomorrow, like a mad dog, or perhaps hacked up 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 love 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 honor 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 principle 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, in 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 defense, 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 met no harm, I beg that I may not throw your honor into another passion. We 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 honor, answered he, they call me a coward, or anything else you please. If loving to sleep in a whole skin makes a man a coward, none immunus ab illus malus sumus. I never read in my grammar that a man can't be a good man without fighting. Vir bonus est quis, chi consuta patrim, che legis d'urache selvat. Not a word of fighting, and I am sure that the scripture is so much against it, that a man shall never persuade me. He is a good Christian, while he sheds Christian blood. End of Section 41. Read by Dennis Ayers and Modesto California for LibriVox. Spring, 2008. Section 42 of Tom Jones. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Dennis Ayers. Tom Jones. By Henry Fielding. Book 12. Chapters 4 through 6. Chapter 4. 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 everyone, 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 guilt 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 pressed it close to his lips, nor could he avoid falling into some very frantic raptures, not withstanding 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 bookworm, 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 one hundred pounds. The eyes of Partridge sparkled at this news which Jones now proclaimed aloud, and so did, although 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, vis 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 reader that he knew the lady to whom the book belonged, and would endeavor to find her out as soon as possible and return it to her. The pocketbook was a lake 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 the 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 six pence, for it. Nay, some perhaps would have given nothing and left the fellow to his action of trover, which some learned sergeants made out 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 genny an 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 travelers 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 expressed some signs of astonishment to Partridge, who more than once shook his head, and cried, Poor gentleman, o' random est utsit men's sana incopore sana. At length they arrived at the very spot where Sophia unhappily dropped 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 surprise 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 one hundred pounds, 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 beant 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 honor, 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, for honor may keep the rest, 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. Lookie friend, cries Jones, the right owner shall certainly have again all that she lost, and as for any further 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 that 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 to me I must venture whether you will return the lady her money, or know, but I hope your worship will consider. Come, come, said Partridge, tell his honor your name, and where you may be found, I warrant you will never repent having put the money into his hands. The fellow, seen no hopes of recovering, the possession of the pocketbook, 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 written 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 pocketbook. Partridge now waxed wrath. He called the poor cripple by several vile and approprious 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. CHAPTER V Containing more adventures, which Mr. Jones and his companion met on the road. Our travelers now walked so fast that they had varied 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, stopped 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 him 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 sakes her, 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 honor is not offended, but certainly no man who hath men's sana in copore sana. 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 that 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 colors of the enemy, he fell a bellowing, O Lord, sir, here they are. There is the crown and coffin. O 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 colors 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 eaten 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 inquire if no ladies had passed that way in the morning, and Partridge as eagerly examined into the state of their provisions, and indeed his inquiry 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 smoking 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 traveled 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 hardily and voraciously as Partridge himself. Before our travelers 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 humor 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 excise man 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 elated with these incomiums 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 and 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 excise man, 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 coachmen, I remember, particularly, but the gentleman 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 Mary 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 surprised. 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 do not like my doings, you may turn me away. If I am a whore, for the other had liberally bestowed that appellation on her, my betters are so 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 must see the consequence of harboring these people in your house. If one doth draw a little drink the more for them, one has hardly made amends for the litter they make, and, then, to have one's house made a body-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 Jeffna's rash vow, and such good things, and when wicked people were carried away by the devil. There were some scents in those matters, but, as the parson told us last Sunday, nobody believes in the devil nowadays, and here you bring about a parcel of puppets, dressed 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 among 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 from 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. The slum no longer performs her ministerial office, and the attention of every one is immediately attracted by the scold alone. Thus the uproar, a forcehead, 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. The slum, 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 discounting on the good morals inculcated by his exhibitions. His mouth was now as effectually stopped as that of quack must be if, in the midst of a declamation of the great virtues of his pills and powders, the corpse of one of his margers should be brought forth, and deposited before the stage as a testimony of his skill. Instead, therefore, of answering my lady, the puppet showman ran out to punish his merry Andrew, and now the moon beginning to put forth her silverlight, 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 had 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 surprise 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 of 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 morning where we may expect to meet with somebody to inquire 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 style 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 pocketbook 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 tranquility 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 excise-man, and the ingenious Mr. Partridge, in which company passed 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 as 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 behavior of all the footmen of the nobility. But though title and fortune communicate a splendor all around them, and the footmen of quality and of his state 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 honor on the domestic, so neither is he at all dishonored 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 dishonor 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 and other points, and that, though they would be ashamed to be the footmen 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 humor and merriment. In reality a footman is often a wit as well as a bow, at the expense 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 behavior 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 showman immediately coincided. I own, said he, the gentleman surprised 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 had the 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 excise man, 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 excise man, 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 excise man, 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— Pah, says the excise man, 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 bepittied him hardly ever since the gentleman there in the corner told us he was crossed 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 I 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. Thompson, to the excise man, nor the gentleman, nor anybody else. The excise man 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 trial 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 madhouse all his life by his family, and they enjoyed his estate, but it did them no good, for though the law gave it to them, it was the right of another. Puh! 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 aliana 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, when 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. I, 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, said 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 papas themselves don't expect any such thing. A popish priest whom I know very well, and who was a very honest man, told me upon his word and honor 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 of 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 excise-man, and are desirous to see Popory brought in, are you? Not I, truly, answered the other. I hate Popory 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 neither fear, friend, there will be an excise under another government as well as under this. Why, certainly, replied the excise-man. 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? Ah, it soaks! Should I not be a blockhead to lend my money to who I know not who, because may happy 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. After 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 and 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 humor 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 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 belaboring the back and ribs of his poor Mary 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 showman was no more able to contend with Jones than the poor party-colored jester had been to contend with this puppet man. But though the Mary Andrew was a little fellow, and not very strong, he had nevertheless some collar about him. He therefore no sooner found himself delivered from his enemy, than he began to attack him with the only weapon at which was his equal. From this he first discharged a volley of general abusive words, and then proceeded to some particular accusations. Damn your blood, 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 there? Can you deny that you wish 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 Mary 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 o'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 could 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 trustee Mary Andrew conducted to the spot by which Sophia had passed, 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 prophecy, 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 inside of an alehouse, 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 shine 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 man of Sophia come to town. The boy standing by the fire is the very lad that rode before her. I can swear to my own plaster on his face. Heaven's bless you, sir, cries the boy. It is your own plaster 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 to 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 overflowing's of his heart, given Sophia as a toast among the officers, where he thought it was impossible she should have been 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 was 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 honor could never have prevailed on her to leave Upton without her seeing Jones, had it not been for those two strong instances of love-ity in his behavior 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 that they're 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 that 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 hearing client-a-draw would alight contradict both of 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 ale-house the moment he was departed from it, she would have found the landlord as well acquainted with her name in person as the wench at Upton had appeared to be. For while Jones was examining his boy and whispers in an inner room, Partridge, who had no such delicacy in this disposition, was in the kitchen very openly catechizing 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, etc., 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 sex when we last took our leaves of them. CHAPTER IX CONTAINING LITTLE MORE THAN A FEW AWD 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 whether he had before conducted Sophia. But to this, however, the lad consented, upon condition that the other guide would wait for him at the ale-house, 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 ale-house, while the boy was waiting for his companion. This half-crown the landlord no sooner got sent 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. Honor, and Partridge bestriding the third horse, they set forwards on their journey, and within four hours arrived at the inn where the reader had 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' 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 behavior on their quitting glossars so well justified all the accounts he had formally received. He was now, however, pretty well satisfied with this 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 expressses were passing and repassing every hour of the day and night. Jones endeavored all he could to prevail with his former guide to escort him to Coventry, but he was inexorable. While he was arguing with the boy in the in-yard, a person came up to him, and saluting him by name, inquired 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 Glouster, 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 daylight, and 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 has 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? True to one are odds at every other thing as well as at football, but the advantage which this united force hath in persuasion or in treaty 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 precedes 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 sergeant, 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 sidesaddle, but insisted on first giving the poor creatures a good bait, saying, they had traveled a great way and had been rid very hard. Despite this caution of the boy was needless, for Jones, not with standing 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 in 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 Osler 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 help of the good squire all worthy, adding, If you please, sir, we will likewise remember his nephew and heir, the young squire. Come, sir. Here is Mr. Bliffle 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 burrow 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 gentleman had a very unexceptionable character. As for squire all worthy 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 in 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 villainy 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 affected. I, I, cries Dowling, I protest then, it is a pity such a person should inherit the greatest state of your uncle all worthy. 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 to 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 seem to think me a relation to Mr. Allworthy, I have thought it proper to set you right in a matter that might draw some censors upon him, which I promise you I would rather lose my life than give occasion to. I protest, sir, cried Dalin, 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 surprising that you should pass for a relation of a gentleman without being so. John's, 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. Dalin's curiosity by relating the history of his birth and education which he did like a fellow. Even from his boyish years to the very moment he was bad to tell, the witch to hear a Dalin like Desdemona did seriously incline, he swore to us strange, to us passing strange, to us pitiful, to us wondrous pitiful. Mr. Dalin 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 gout. The common hangman, who hath stretched the necks of hundreds, is known to have trembled at his first operation on ahead, 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 colors in which he had been represented to Mr. Allworthy, and as to other matters he did not show 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, Christy, 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 to 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 forgetting 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 favor, 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 Blifville in the prospect of his wealth, nor shall I envy him in the position of it. I would not think myself a rascal half an hour to exchange situations. I believe, indeed, Mr. Blifville 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. 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 nula campis, arbor esteva recreator aura, quodlatus mundi nebulei maluskei, niputur urgit. Pone subcuru nemium propinkui solis intera dominibus negata, dulce ridentem la lagen amabo dulce loquentem. Place me where never summer breeze unbinds the glib or warms the trees, where ever lowering clouds appear, and angry jove deforms the 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 toast it 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 on him. And though he endeavored 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 that 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, then 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. End of section 43, recording by Kalinda in Raymond, New Hampshire on November 30th, 2007.