serve you; and so I am convinced he will. Betray you, indeed! why, I
question whether you have a better friend than George upon earth,
except myself, or one that would go farther to serve you."
"Well," says Jones, a little pacified, "you say this fellow, who,
I believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my friend, lives in the
same house with Sophia?"
"In the same house!" answered Partridge; "why, sir, he is one of the
servants of the family, and very well drest I promise you he is; if it
was not for black beard you would hardly know him."
"One service then at least he may do me," says Jones: "sure he can
certainly convey a letter to my Sophia."
"You have hit the nail ad unguem," cries Partridge; "how came I
not to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon the very first
mentioning."
"Well, then," said Jones, "do you leave me at present, and I will
write a letter, which you shall deliver to him to-morrow morning;
for I suppose you know where to find him." "O yes, sir," answered
Partridge, "I shall certainly find him again; there is no fear of
that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away long. I make no
doubt but he will be there every day he stays in town."
"So you don't know the street then where my Sophia is lodged?" cries
Jones.
"Indeed, sir, I do," says Partridge.
"What is the name of the street?" cries Jones.
"The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by," answered Partridge, "not
above a street or two off. I don't, indeed, know the very name; for,
as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put
some suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am
too cunning for that, I promise you."
"Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed," replied Jones;
"however, I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will be
cunning enough to find him to-morrow at the alehouse."
And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr. Jones sat
himself down to write, in which employment we shall leave him for a
time. And here we put an end to the fifteenth book.
BOOK XVI
CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS
Chapter 1
Of prologues
I have heard of a dramatic writer who used to say, he would rather
write a play than a prologue; in like manner, I think, I can with less
pains write one of the books of this history, than the prefatory
chapter to each of them.
To say the truth, I believe many a hearty curse hath been devoted on
the head of that author who first instituted the method of prefixing
to his play that portion of matter which is called the prologue; and
which at first was part of the piece itself, but of latter years
hath had usually so little connexion with the drama before which it
stands, that the prologue to one play might as well serve for any
other. Those indeed of more modern date, seem all to be written on the
same three topics, viz., an abuse of the taste of the town, a
condemnation of all contemporary authors, and an eulogium on the
performance just about to be represented. The sentiments in all
these are very little varied, nor is it possible they should; and
indeed I have often wondered at the great invention of authors, who
have been capable of finding such various phrases to express the
same thing.
In like manner, I apprehend, some future historian (if any one shall
do me the honour of imitating my manner) will, after much scratching
his pate, bestow some good wishes on my memory, for having first
established these several initial chapters; most of which, like modern
prologues, may as properly be prefixed to any other book in this
history as to that which they introduce, or indeed to any other
history as to this.
But however authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the
reader will find sufficient emolument in the one as the spectator hath
long found in the other.
First, it is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an
opportunity to try his faculty of hissing, and to tune his catcall
to the best advantage; by which means, I have known those musical
instruments so well prepared, that they have been able to play in full
concert at the first rising of the curtain.
The same advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the
critic will be always sure of meeting with something that may serve as
a whetstone to his noble spirit; so that he may fall with a more
hungry appetite for censure on the history itself. And here his
sagacity must make it needless to observe how artfully these
chapters are calculated for that excellent purpose; for in these we
have always taken care to intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid
kind, in order to sharpen and stimulate the said spirit of criticism.
Again, the indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great
advantage from both these; for, as they are not obliged either to
see the one or read the others, and both the play and the book are
thus protracted, by the former they have a quarter of an hour longer
allowed them to sit at dinner, and by the latter they have the
advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth page instead
of the first, a matter by no means of trivial consequence to persons
who read books with no other view than to say they have read them, a
more general motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from
which not only law books, and good books, but the pages of Homer and
Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes, have been often turned over.
Many other are the emoluments which arise from both these, but
they are for the most part so obvious, that we shall not at present
stay to enumerate them; especially since it occurs to us that the
principal merit of both the prologue and the preface is that they be
short.
Chapter 2
A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the distressed
situation of Sophia
We must now convey the reader to Mr. Western's lodgings, which
were in Piccadilly, where he was placed by the recommendation of the
landlord at the Hercules Pillars at Hyde Park Corner; for at the
inn, which was the first he saw on his arrival in town, he placed
his horses, and in those lodgings, which were the first he heard of,
he deposited himself.
Here, when Sophia alighted from the hackney-coach, which brought her
from the house of Lady Bellaston, she desired to retire to the
apartment provided for her; to which her father very readily agreed,
and whither he attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very
material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then passed between them, in
which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to the marriage
with Blifil, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town in a few
days; but, instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and
resolute refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed her
father, that after many bitter vows, that he would force her to have
him whether she would or no, he departed from her with many hard words
and curses, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket.
While Sophia was left with no other company than what attend the
closest state prisoner, namely, fire and candle, the squire sat down
to regale himself over a bottle of wine, with his parson and the
landlord of the Hercules Pillars, who, as the squire said, would
make an excellent third man, and could inform them of the news of
the town, and how affairs went; for to be sure, says he, he knows a
great deal, since the horses of many of the quality stand at his
house.
In this agreeable society Mr. Western past that evening and great
part of the succeeding day, during which period nothing happened of
sufficient consequence to find a place in this history. All this
time Sophia past by herself; for her father swore she should never
come out of her chamber alive, unless she first consented to marry
Blifil; nor did he ever suffer the door to be unlocked, unless to
convey her food, on which occasions he always attended himself.
The second morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were
at breakfast together on a toast and tankard, he was informed that a
gentleman was below to wait on him.
"A gentleman!" quoth the squire, "who the devil can he be? Do,
doctor, go down and see who 'tis. Mr. Blifil can hardly be come to
town yet.- Go down, do, and know what his business is."
The doctor returned with an account that it was a very well-drest
man, and by the ribbon in his hat he took him for an officer of the
army; that he said he had some particular business, which he could
deliver to none but Mr. Western himself.
"An officer!" cries the squire; "what can any such fellow have to do
with me? If he wants an order for baggage-waggons, I am no justice
of peace here, nor can I grant a warrant.- Let un come up then, if he
must speak to me."
A very genteel man now entered the room; who, having made his
compliments to the squire, and desired the favour of being alone
with him, delivered himself as follows:-
"Sir, I come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fellamar;
but with a very different message from what I suppose you expect,
after what past the other night."
"My lord who?" cries the squire; "I never heard the name o' un."
"His lordship," said the gentleman, "is willing to impute everything
to the effect of liquor, and the most trifling acknowledgment of
that kind will set everything right; for as he hath the most violent
attachment to your daughter, you, sir, are the last person upon
earth from whom he would resent an affront; and happy is it for you
both that he hath given such public demonstrations of his courage as
to be able to put up an affair of this kind without danger of any
imputation on his honour. All he desires, therefore, is, that you will
before me make some acknowledgment; the slightest in the world will be
sufficient; and he intends this afternoon to pay his respects to
you, in order to obtain your leave of visiting the young lady on the
footing of a lover."
"I don't understand much of what you say, sir," said the squire;
"but I suppose, by what you talk about my daughter, that this is the
lord which my cousin, Lady Bellaston, mentioned to me, and said
something about his courting my daughter. If so be that how that be
the case-you may give my service to his lordship, and tell un the girl
is disposed of already."
"Perhaps, sir," said the gentleman, "you are not sufficiently
apprized of the greatness of this offer. I believe such a person,
title, and fortune would be nowhere refused."
"Lookee, sir," answered the squire; "to be very plain, my daughter
is bespoke already; but if she was not, I would not marry her to a
lord upon any account; I hate all lords; they are a parcel of
courtiers and Hanoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them."
"Well, sir," said the gentleman, "if that is your resolution, the
message I am to deliver to you is, that my lord desires the favour
of your company this morning in Hyde Park."
"You may tell my lord, answered the squire, "that I am busy and
cannot come. I have enough to look after at home, and can't stir
abroad on any account."
"I am sure, sir," quoth the other, "you are too much a gentleman
to send such a message; you will not, I am convinced, have it said
of you, that, after having affronted a noble peer, you refuse him
satisfaction. His lordship would have been willing, from his great
regard to the young lady, to have made up matters in another way;
but unless he is to look on you as a father, his honour will not
suffer his putting up such an indignity as you must be sensible you
offered him."
"I offered him!" cries the squire; "it is a d--n'd lie! I never
offered him anything."
Upon these words the gentleman returned a very short verbal
rebuke, and this he accompanied at the same time with some manual
remonstrances, which no sooner reached the ears of Mr. Western, than
that worthy squire began to caper very briskly about the room,
bellowing at the same time with all his might, as if desirous to
summon a greater number of spectators to behold his agility.
The parson, who had left great part of the tankard unfinished, was
not retired far; he immediately attended, therefore, on the squire's
vociferation, crying, "Bless me! sir, what's the matter?"- "Matter!"
quoth the squire, "here's a highwayman, I believe, who wants to rob
and murder me-for he hath fallen upon me with that stick there in
his hand, when I wish I may be d--n'd if I gid un the least
provocation."
"How, sir," said the captain, "did you not tell me I lyed?"
"No, as I hope to be saved," answered the squire, "-I believe I
might say, 'Twas a lie that I had offered any affront to my lord- but
I never said the word, 'you lie.'- I understand myself better, and you
might have understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked man.
If I had a stick in my hand, you would not have dared strike me. I'd
have knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears. Come down into yard this
minute, and I'll take a bout with thee at single stick for a broken
head, that I will; or I will go into naked room and box thee for a
belly-full. At unt half a man, at unt, I'm sure."
The captain, with some indignation, replied, "I see, sir, you are
below my notice, and I shall inform his lordship you are below his.
I am sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you." At which words he
withdrew, the parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping
