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
parson 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 honour. 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 draught, and to summon his horses in
order to renew his pursuit, than Mr. Supple began his dissuasives,
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 despatched 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 3
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 heroe; 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 for ever; he being at present
in that situation in which prudent people usually desist from
enquiring 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 hostler told them that no horses were by any
means to be at that time procured at Upton. On 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 cross-roads where the squire had stopt to take
counsel, Jones stopt likewise, and turning to Partridge, asked his
opinion which track they should pursue. "Ah, sir," answered Partridge,
"I wish your honour 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 honour, would travel thus about the
country like a vagabond? I ask pardon, sed vox ea sola reperta est."
"Alas!" cries 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. D--nation seize 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 ague-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
effected.
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 labour 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 have 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 horridly 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 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 travellers 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 offence. 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 slipt 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 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
neighbours 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 matter
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?
besides, I dreamt of nothing all last night but of fighting; and
methought the blood ran out of my nose, as liquor out of a tap.
Indeed, sir, infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem."
"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 under ground? there will be an end
of poor Partridge." "And an end of poor Partridge," cries Jones,
"there must be, one time or other. If you love Latin, I will repeat
you some fine lines out of Horace, which would inspire courage into
a coward.
'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori:
Mors et fugacem persequitur virum,
Nec parcit imbellis juventae
Poplitibus, timidoque tergo.'"
"I wish you would construe them," cries Partridge; "for Horace 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," said Jones; "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. "Ay, sure, Mors omnibus
communis: 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 to-day or to-morrow, like a mad dog;
or, perhaps, hacked 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 loved
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 honour 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
principal 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, and 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 attempt 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 minutes in my life; and then
it was not charged with bullets. And for the sword, I never learned to
fence, 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 meant no harm; I beg I may not throw your honor into another
passion."
"Be 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 honour," answered he, "may call me coward, or
anything else you please. If loving to sleep in a whole skin makes a
man a coward, non immunes ab illis malis sumus.* I never read in my
grammar that a man can't be a good man without fighting. Vir bonus est
quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat.*(2) Not a word of
fighting; and I am sure the scripture is so much against it, that a
man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian while he sheds
Christian blood."
*We are not free from these ills.
*(2) Who is the good man? He who obeys the decrees of the conscript
fathers and the laws.
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 every one; but, as you are so good a gentleman, and so kind to
