arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am all at present, and with
whom I enjoy all the liberty I can desire. One promise my aunt hath
insisted on my making, which is, that I will not see or converse
with any person without her knowledge and consent. This promise I have
most solemnly given, and shall most inviolably keep: and though she
hath not expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an
omission from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the word
conversing. However, as I cannot but consider this as a breach of
her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that I
shall, after this, continue to write myself or to receive letters,
without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred thing, and
to be extended to everything understood from it, as well as to what is
expressed by it; and this consideration may, perhaps, on reflection,
afford you some comfort. But why should I mention a comfort to you
of this kind; for though there is one thing in which I can never
comply with the best of fathers, yet am I firmly resolved never to act
in defiance of him, or to take any step of consequence without his
consent. A firm persuasion of this must teach you to divert your
thoughts from what fortune hath (perhaps) made impossible. This your
own interest persuades you. This may reconcile, I hope, Allworthy to
you; and if it will, you have my injunctions to pursue it. Accidents
have laid some obligations on me, and your good intentions probably
more. Fortune may, perhaps, be some time kinder to us both than at
present. you as Believe this, that I shall always think of you as I
think you deserve, and am,
Sir,
Your obliged humble servant,
SOPHIA WESTERN
I charge you write to me no more- at present at least; and accept
this, which is now of no service to me, which I know you must want,
and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune by which you found
it.*
*Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for L100.
A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this
letter out in less time than Jones took in reading it. The
sensations it occasioned were a mixture of joy and grief; somewhat
like what divide the mind of a good man when he peruses the will of
his deceased friend, in which a large legacy, which his distresses
make the more welcome, is bequeathed to him. Upon the whole,
however, he was more pleased than displeased; and, indeed, the
reader may probably wonder that he was displeased at all; but the
reader is not quite so much in love as was poor Jones; and love is a
disease which, though it may, in some instances, resemble a
consumption (which it sometimes causes), in others proceeds in
direct opposition to it, and particularly in this, that it never
flatters itself, or sees any one symptom in a favourable light.
One thing gave him complete satisfaction, which was, that his
mistress had regained her liberty, and was now with a lady where she
might at least assure herself of a decent treatment. Another
comfortable circumstance was the reference which she made to her
promise of never marrying any other man; for however disinterested
he might imagine his passion, and notwithstanding all the generous
overtures made in his letter, I very much question whether he could
have heard a more afflicting piece of news than that Sophia was
married to another, though the match had been never so great, and
never so likely to end in making her completely happy. That refined
degree of Platonic affection which is absolutely detached from the
flesh, and is, indeed, entirely and purely spiritual, is a gif t
confined to the female part of the creation; many of whom I have heard
declare (and, doubtless, with great truth), that they would, with
the utmost readiness, resign a lover to a rival, when such resignation
was proved to be necessary for the temporal interest of such lover.
Hence, therefore, I conclude that this affection is in nature,
though I cannot pretend to say I have ever seen an instance of it.
Mr. Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the
aforesaid letter, and being, at last, in a state of good spirits, from
the last-mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an
appointment, which he had before made, into execution. This was, to
attend Mrs. Miller, and her younger daughter, into the gallery at
the play-house, and to admit Mr. Partridge as one of the company.
For as Jones had really that taste for humour which many affect, he
expected to enjoy much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge,
from whom he expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved,
indeed, but likewise unadulterated, by art.
In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs.
Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places.
Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever
been in. When the first music was played, he said, "It was a wonder
how so many fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one
another out." While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he
cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, look, madam, the very picture of
the man in the end of the common-prayer book before the
gunpowder-treason service." Nor could he help observing, with a
sigh, when all the candles were lighted, "That here were candles
enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest poor family for a whole
twelvemonth."
As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began,
Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the
entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What man that was
in the strange dress; something," said he, "like what I have seen in a
picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?" Jones answered, "That is the
ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, "Persuade me to that,
sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in
my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than
that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as
that, neither." In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the
neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the
scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to
Mr. Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent
a trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked
him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon
the stage? "O la! sir," said he, "I perceive now it is what you told
me. I am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if
it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and
in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only
person." "Why, who," cries Jones, "dost thou take to be such a
coward here besides thyself?" "Nay, may call me coward if you will;
but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never
saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to
be sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such
fool-hardiness!- Whatever happens, it is good enough for you.-- Follow
you? I'd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil-- for
they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.- Oh! here he is
again.-- No farther! No, you have gone far enough already; farther
than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to
speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush, hush! dear sir, don't you hear
him?" And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes
fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth
open; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet,
succeeding likewise in him.
When the scene was over, Jones said, "Why, Partridge, you exceed
my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible."
"Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "if you are not afraid of the devil, I
can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprized at such
things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that it was the
ghost that surprized me, neither; for I should have known that to have
been only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little man so
frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me." "And dost thou
imagine, then, Partridge," cries Jones, "that he was really
frightened?" "Nay, sir," said Partridge, "did not you yourself observe
afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he
was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and
he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have
been, had it been my own case?- But hush! O la! what noise is that?
There he is again.-- Well to be certain, though I know there is
nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those
men are." Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, "Ay, you may draw
your sword; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil?"
During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly
admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing
upon the king's countenance. "Well," said he, "how people may be
deceived by faces! Nulla fides fronti is, I find, a true saying. Who
would think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed
a murder?" He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended
he should be surprized, gave him no other satisfaction, than, "that he
might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire."
Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the
ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, "There, sir, now;
what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as
you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I would not
be in so bad a condition as what's his name, squire Hamlet, is
there, for all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit? As
I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth." "Indeed,
you saw right," answered Jones. "Well, well," cries Partridge, "I know
it is only a play: and besides, if there was anything in all this,
Madam Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not
be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person.- There,
there- Ay, no wonder you are in such a passion, shake the vile wicked
wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To
be sure, all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked
doings.-- Ay, go about your business, I hate the sight of you."
Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet
introduces before the king. This he did not at first understand,
till Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the
spirit of it, than he began to bless himself that he had never
committed murder. Then turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her, "If she
did not imagine the king looked as if he was touched; though he is,"
said he, "a good actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I
would not have so much to answer for, as that wicked man there hath,
to sit upon a much higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he run
away; for your sake I'll never trust an innocent face again."
The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who
expressed much surprize at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage.
To which Jones answered, "That it was one of the most famous
burial-places about town." "No wonder then," cries Partridge, "that
the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger.
I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three graves
while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the
first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing.
You had rather sing than work, I believe."- Upon Hamlet's taking up
the skull, he cried out, "Well! it is strange to see how fearless some
men are: I never could bring myself to touch anything belonging to a
dead man, on any account.- He seemed frightened enough too at the
ghost, I thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit."
Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end
of which Jones asked him, "Which of the players he had liked best?" To
this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question,
"The king, without doubt." "Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs.
Miller, "you are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are
all agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on
the stage." "He the best player!" cries Partridge, with a contemptuous
sneer, "why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had
seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done
just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it,
between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why,
Lord help me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a
mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking
with me; but indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London,
yet I have seen acting before in the country; and the king for my
money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the
other.- Anybody may see he is an actor."
While Mrs. Miller was thus engaged in conversation with Partridge, a
lady came up to Mr. Jones, whom he immediately knew to be Mrs.
Fitzpatrick. She said, she had seen him from the other part of the
gallery, and had taken that opportunity of speaking to him, as she had
something to say, which might be of great service to himself. She then
acquainted him with her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next
day in the morning; which, upon recollection, she presently changed to
