and, though the property of others, convey it to their own use. In the
company of these ladies it is impossible to say anything handsome of
another woman which they will not apply to themselves; nay, they often
improve the praise they seize; as, for instance, if her beauty, her
wit, her gentility, her good humour deserve so much commendation, what
do I deserve, who possess those qualities in so much more eminent a
degree?
To these ladies a man often recommends himself while he is
commending another woman; and, while he is expressing ardour and
generous sentiments for his mistress, they are considering what a
charming lover this man would make to them, who can feel all this
tenderness for an inferior degree of merit. Of this, strange as it may
seem, I have seen many instances besides Mrs. Fitzpatrick, to whom all
this really happened, and who now began to feel a somewhat for Mr.
Jones, the symptoms of which she much sooner understood than poor
Sophia had formerly done.
To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more
irresistible object than it is generally thought; for, notwithstanding
some of us are contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote
(as children to repeat what gives them no idea) to despise outside,
and to value more solid charms; yet I have always observed, at the
approach of consummate beauty, that these more solid charms only shine
with that kind of lustre which the stars have after the rising of
the sun.
When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which would have
become the mouth of Oroondates himself, Mrs. Fitzpatrick heaved a deep
sigh, and, taking her eyes off from Jones, on whom they had been
some time fixed, and dropping them on the ground, she cried,
"Indeed, Mr. Jones, I pity you; but it is the curse of such tenderness
to be thrown away on those who are insensible of it. I know my
cousin better than you, Mr. Jones, and I must say, any woman who makes
no return to such a passion, and such a person, is unworthy of both."
"Sure, madam," said Jones, "you can't mean-" "Mean!" cries Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, "I know not what I mean; there is something, I think,
in true tenderness bewitching; few women ever meet it in men, and
fewer still know how to value it when they do. I never heard such
truly noble sentiments, and I can't tell how it is, but you force
one to believe you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of women
who can overlook such merit."
The manner and look with which all this was spoke, infused a
suspicion into Jones, which we don't care to convey in direct words to
the reader. Instead of making any answer, he said, "I am afraid,
madam, I have made too tiresome a visit;" and offered to take his
leave.
"Not at all, sir," answered Mrs. Fitzpatrick.- "Indeed I pity you,
Mr. Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going, consider of the scheme I
have mentioned- I am convinced you will approve it- and let me see you
again as soon as you can.- To-morrow morning if you will, or at least
some time to-morrow. I shall be at home all day."
Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respectfully
retired; nor could Mrs. Fitzpatrick forbear making him a present of
a look at parting, by which if he had understood nothing, he must have
had no understanding in the language of the eyes. In reality, it
confirmed his resolution of returning to her no more; for, faulty as
he hath hitherto appeared in this history, his whole thoughts were now
so confined to his Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could
have now drawn him into an act of inconstancy.
Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he intended
to give her no second opportunity, to make the best of this; and
accordingly produced the tragical incident which we are now in
sorrowful notes to record.
Chapter 10
The consequence of the preceding visit
Mr. Fitzpatrick having received the letter before mentioned from
Mrs. Western, and being by that means acquainted with the place to
which his wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence
the day after set forward to London.
The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of
this gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the suspicion
which he had conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in
the room with Mrs. Waters; and, though sufficient reasons had
afterwards appeared entirely to clear up that suspicion, yet now the
reading so handsome a character of Mr. Jones from his wife, caused him
to reflect that she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and
jumbled together such a confusion of circumstances in a head which was
naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that
green-eyed monster mentioned by Shakespear in his tragedy of Othello.
And now, as he was inquiring in the street after his wife, and had
just received directions to the door, unfortunately Mr. Jones was
issuing from it.
Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however, seeing
a young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he made directly
up to him, and asked him what he had been doing in that house? "for
I am sure," said he, "you must have been in it, as I saw you come
out of it."
Jones answered very modestly, "That he had been visiting a lady
there." To which Fitzpatrick replied, "What business have you with the
lady?" Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the voice,
features, and indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out- "Ha, my good
friend! give me your hand; I hope there is no ill blood remaining
between us, upon a small mistake which happened so long ago."
"Upon my soul, sir," said Fitzpatrick, "I don't know your name nor
your face." "Indeed, sir," said Jones, "neither have I the pleasure of
knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to have seen
before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened between us, which,
if it is not made up yet, we will now make up over a bottle."
"At Upton!" cried the other;-- "Ha! upon my soul, I believe your
name is Jones?" "Indeed," answered he, "it is."- "O! upon my soul,"
cries Fitzpatrick, "you are the very man I wanted to meet.- Upon my
soul I will drink a bottle with you presently; but first I will give
you a great knock over the pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my
soul, if you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give
you another." And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of
defence, which was the only science he understood.
Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat
unexpectedly; but presently recovering himself, he also drew, and
though he understood nothing of fencing, prest on so boldly upon
Fitzpatrick, that he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his
sword in the body of the said gentleman, who had no sooner received
it, than he stept backwards, dropped the point of his sword, and
leaning upon it, cried, "I have satisfaction enough: I am a dead man."
"I hope not," cries Jones, "but whatever be the consequence, you
must be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself." At this instant a
number of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, who told them he
should make no resistance, and begged some of them at least would take
care of the wounded gentleman.
"Ay," cries one of the fellows, "the wounded gentleman will be taken
care enough of; for I suppose he hath not many hours to live. As for
you, sir, you have a month at least good yet." "D--n me, Jack," said
another, "he hath prevented his voyage; he's bound to another port
now;" and many other such jests was our poor Jones made the subject of
by these fellows, who were indeed the gang employed by Lord
Fellamar, and had dogged him into the house of Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
waiting for him at the corner of the street when this unfortunate
accident happened.
The officer who commanded this gang very wisely concluded, that
his business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands of the
civil magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried to a
public-house, where, having sent for a constable, he delivered him
to his custody.
The constable, seeing Mr. Jones very well drest, and hearing that
the accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner with great
civility, and at his request dispatched a messenger to inquire after
the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon's
hands. The report brought back was, that the wound was certainly
mortal, and there were no hopes of life. Upon which the constable
informed Jones, that he must go before a justice. He answered,
"Whenever you please; I am indifferent as to what happens to me; for
though I am convinced I am not guilty of murder in the eye of the law,
yet the weight of blood I find intolerable upon my mind."
Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who
dressed Mr. Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that he believed the
wound to be mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the
Gatehouse. It was very late at night, so that Jones would not send for
Partridge till the next morning; and, as he never shut his eyes till
seven, so it was near twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly
frightened at not hearing from his master so long, received a
message which almost deprived him of his being when he heard it.
He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart,
and was no sooner arrived in the presence of Jones, than he lamented
the misfortune that had befallen him with many tears, looking all
the while frequently about him in great terror; for as the news now
arrived that Mr. Fitzpatrick was dead, the poor fellow apprehended
every minute that his ghost would enter the room. At last he delivered
him a letter, which he had like to have forgot, and which came from
Sophia by the hands of Black George.
Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, having
eagerly broke open the letter, read as follows:-
You owe the hearing from me again to an accident which I own
surprizes me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter from you to Lady
Bellaston, which contains a proposal of marriage. I am convinced it is
your own hand; and what more surprizes me is, that it is dated at
the very time when would have me imagine you was under such concern on
my account.- I leave you to comment on this fact. All I desire is,
that your name may never more be mentioned to
S. W.
Of the present situation of Mr. Jones's mind, and of the pangs
with which he was now tormented, we cannot give the roader a better
idea than by saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would
almost have pitied him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave
him in it, as his good genius (if he really had any) seems to have
done. And here we put an end to the sixteenth book of our history.
BOOK XVII
CONTAINING THREE DAYS
Chapter 1
Containing a portion of introductory writing
When a comic writer hath made his principal characters as happy as
he can, or when a tragic writer hath brought them to the highest pitch
of human misery, they both conclude their business to be done, and
that their work is come to a period.
Had we been of the tragic complexion, the reader must now allow we
were nearly arrived at this period, since it would be difficult for
the devil, or any of his representatives on earth, to have contrived
much greater torments for poor Jones than those in which we left him
in the last chapter; and as for Sophia, a good-natured woman would
hardly wish more uneasiness to a rival than what she must at present
be supposed to feel. What then remains to complete the tragedy but a
murder or two, and a few moral sentences!
But to bring our favourites out of their present anguish and
distress, and to land them at last on the shore of happiness, seems
a much harder task; a task, indeed, so hard that we do not undertake
to execute it. In regard to Sophia, it is more than probable that we
shall somewhere or other provide a good husband for her in the end-
either Blifil, or my lord, or somebody else; but as to poor Jones,
such are the calamities in which he is at present involved, owing to
his imprudence, by which, if a man doth not become felon to the world,
he is at least a felo de se*; so destitute is he now of friends, and
so persecuted by enemies, that we almost despair of bringing him to
any good; and if our reader delights in seeing executions, I think
he ought not to lose any time in taking a first row at Tyburn.
*A suicide.
This I faithfully promise, that, notwithstanding any affection which
we may be supposed to have for this rogue, whom we have
unfortunately made our heroe, we will lend him none of that
supernatural assistance with which we are entrusted, upon condition
that we use it only on very important occasions. If he doth not,
therefore, find some natural means of fairly extricating himself
from all his distresses, we will do no violence to the truth and
dignity of history for his sake; for we had rather relate that he
was hanged at Tyburn (which may very probably be the case) than
forfeit our integrity, or shock the faith of our reader.
In this the antients had a great advantage over the moderns. Their
mythology, which was at that time more firmly believed by the vulgar
than any religion is at present, gave them always an opportunity of
delivering a favourite heroe. Their deities were always ready at the
writer's elbow, to execute any of his purposes; and the more
extraordinary the invention was, the greater was the surprize and
delight of the credulous reader. Those writers could with greater ease
