Chapter ix.

Containing several dialogues between Jones and Partridge, concerning

love, cold, hunger, and other matters; with the lucky and narrow

escape of Partridge, as he was on the very brink of making a fatal

discovery to his friend.

The shadows began now to descend larger from the high mountains; the

feathered creation had betaken themselves to their rest. Now the

highest order of mortals were sitting down to their dinners, and the

lowest order to their suppers. In a word, the clock struck five just

as Mr Jones took his leave of Gloucester; an hour at which (as it was

now mid-winter) the dirty fingers of Night would have drawn her sable

curtain over the universe, had not the moon forbid her, who now, with

a face as broad and as red as those of some jolly mortals, who, like

her, turn night into day, began to rise from her bed, where she had

slumbered away the day, in order to sit up all night. Jones had not

travelled far before he paid his compliments to that beautiful planet,

and, turning to his companion, asked him if he had ever beheld so

delicious an evening? Partridge making no ready answer to his

question, he proceeded to comment on the beauty of the moon, and

repeated some passages from Milton, who hath certainly excelled all

other poets in his description of the heavenly luminaries. He then

told Partridge the story from the Spectator, of two lovers who had

agreed to entertain themselves when they were at a great distance from

each other, by repairing, at a certain fixed hour, to look at the

moon; thus pleasing themselves with the thought that they were both

employed in contemplating the same object at the same time. “Those

lovers,” added he, “must have had souls truly capable of feeling all

the tenderness of the sublimest of all human passions.”--“Very

probably,” cries Partridge: “but I envy them more, if they had bodies

incapable of feeling cold; for I am almost frozen to death, and am

very much afraid I shall lose a piece of my nose before we get to

another house of entertainment. Nay, truly, we may well expect some

judgment should happen to us for our folly in running away so by night

from one of the most excellent inns I ever set my foot into. I am sure

I never saw more good things in my life, and the greatest lord in the

land cannot live better in his own house than he may there. And to

forsake such a house, and go a rambling about the country, the Lord

knows whither, _per devia rura viarum_, I say nothing for my part; but

some people might not have charity enough to conclude we were in our

sober senses.”--“Fie upon it, Mr Partridge!” says Jones, “have a

better heart; consider you are going to face an enemy; and are you

afraid of facing a little cold? I wish, indeed, we had a guide to

advise which of these roads we should take.”--“May I be so bold,” says

Partridge, “to offer my advice? _Interdum stultus opportuna

loquitur_”--“Why, which of them,” cries Jones, “would you

recommend?”--“Truly neither of them,” answered Partridge. “The only

road we can be certain of finding, is the road we came. A good hearty

pace will bring us back to Gloucester in an hour; but if we go

forward, the Lord Harry knows when we shall arrive at any place; for I

see at least fifty miles before me, and no house in all the

way.”--“You see, indeed, a very fair prospect,” says Jones, “which

receives great additional beauty from the extreme lustre of the moon.

However, I will keep the left-hand track, as that seems to lead

directly to those hills, which we were informed lie not far from

Worcester. And here, if you are inclined to quit me, you may, and

return back again; but for my part, I am resolved to go forward.”

“It is unkind in you, sir,” says Partridge, “to suspect me of any such

intention. What I have advised hath been as much on your account as on

my own: but since you are determined to go on, I am as much determined

to follow. _I prae sequar te_.”

They now travelled some miles without speaking to each other, during

which suspense of discourse Jones often sighed, and Benjamin groaned

as bitterly, though from a very different reason. At length Jones made

a full stop, and turning about, cries, “Who knows, Partridge, but the

loveliest creature in the universe may have her eyes now fixed on that

very moon which I behold at this instant?” “Very likely, sir,”

answered Partridge; “and if my eyes were fixed on a good surloin of

roast beef, the devil might take the moon and her horns into the

bargain.” “Did ever Tramontane make such an answer?” cries Jones.

“Prithee, Partridge, wast thou ever susceptible of love in thy life,

or hath time worn away all the traces of it from thy memory?”

“Alack-a-day!” cries Partridge, “well would it have been for me if I

had never known what love was. _Infandum regina jubes renovare

dolorem_. I am sure I have tasted all the tenderness, and sublimities,

and bitternesses of the passion.” “Was your mistress unkind, then?”

says Jones. “Very unkind, indeed, sir,” answered Partridge; “for she

married me, and made one of the most confounded wives in the world.

However, heaven be praised, she's gone; and if I believed she was in

the moon, according to a book I once read, which teaches that to be

the receptacle of departed spirits, I would never look at it for fear

of seeing her; but I wish, sir, that the moon was a looking-glass for

your sake, and that Miss Sophia Western was now placed before it.” “My

dear Partridge,” cries Jones, “what a thought was there! A thought

which I am certain could never have entered into any mind but that of

a lover. O Partridge! could I hope once again to see that face; but,

alas! all those golden dreams are vanished for ever, and my only

refuge from future misery is to forget the object of all my former

happiness.” “And do you really despair of ever seeing Miss Western

again?” answered Partridge; “if you will follow my advice I will

engage you shall not only see her but have her in your arms.” “Ha! do

not awaken a thought of that nature,” cries Jones: “I have struggled

sufficiently to conquer all such wishes already.” “Nay,” answered

Partridge, “if you do not wish to have your mistress in your arms you

are a most extraordinary lover indeed.” “Well, well,” says Jones, “let

us avoid this subject; but pray what is your advice?” “To give it you

in the military phrase, then,” says Partridge, “as we are soldiers,

`To the right about.' Let us return the way we came; we may yet reach

Gloucester to-night, though late; whereas, if we proceed, we are

likely, for aught I see, to ramble about for ever without coming

either to house or home.” “I have already told you my resolution is to

go on,” answered Jones; “but I would have you go back. I am obliged to

you for your company hither; and I beg you to accept a guinea as a

small instance of my gratitude. Nay, it would be cruel in me to suffer

you to go any farther; for, to deal plainly with you, my chief end and

desire is a glorious death in the service of my king and country.” “As

for your money,” replied Partridge, “I beg, sir, you will put it up; I

will receive none of you at this time; for at present I am, I believe,

the richer man of the two. And as your resolution is to go on, so mine

is to follow you if you do. Nay, now my presence appears absolutely

necessary to take care of you, since your intentions are so desperate;

for I promise you my views are much more prudent; as you are resolved

to fall in battle if you can, so I am resolved as firmly to come to no

hurt if I can help it. And, indeed, I have the comfort to think there

will be but little danger; for a popish priest told me the other day

the business would soon be over, and he believed without a battle.” “A

popish priest!” cries Jones, “I have heard is not always to be

believed when he speaks in behalf of his religion.” “Yes, but so far,”

answered the other, “from speaking in behalf of his religion, he

assured me the Catholicks did not expect to be any gainers by the

change; for that Prince Charles was as good a Protestant as any in

England; and that nothing but regard to right made him and the rest of

the popish party to be Jacobites.”--“I believe him to be as much a

Protestant as I believe he hath any right,” says Jones; “and I make no

doubt of our success, but not without a battle. So that I am not so

sanguine as your friend the popish priest.” “Nay, to be sure, sir,”

answered Partridge, “all the prophecies I have ever read speak of a

great deal of blood to be spilt in the quarrel, and the miller with

three thumbs, who is now alive, is to hold the horses of three kings,

up to his knees in blood. Lord, have mercy upon us all, and send

better times!” “With what stuff and nonsense hast thou filled thy

head!” answered Jones: “this too, I suppose, comes from the popish

priest. Monsters and prodigies are the proper arguments to support

monstrous and absurd doctrines. The cause of King George is the cause

of liberty and true religion. In other words, it is the cause of

common sense, my boy, and I warrant you will succeed, though Briarius

himself was to rise again with his hundred thumbs, and to turn

miller.” Partridge made no reply to this. He was, indeed, cast into

the utmost confusion by this declaration of Jones. For, to inform the

reader of a secret, which he had no proper opportunity of revealing

before, Partridge was in truth a Jacobite, and had concluded that

Jones was of the same party, and was now proceeding to join the

rebels. An opinion which was not without foundation. For the tall,

long-sided dame, mentioned by Hudibras--that many-eyed, many-tongued,

many-mouthed, many-eared monster of Virgil, had related the story of

the quarrel between Jones and the officer, with the usual regard to

truth. She had, indeed, changed the name of Sophia into that of the

Pretender, and had reported, that drinking his health was the cause

for which Jones was knocked down. This Partridge had heard, and most

firmly believed. 'Tis no wonder, therefore, that he had thence

entertained the above-mentioned opinion of Jones; and which he had

almost discovered to him before he found out his own mistake. And at

this the reader will be the less inclined to wonder, if he pleases to

recollect the doubtful phrase in which Jones first communicated his

resolution to Mr Partridge; and, indeed, had the words been less

ambiguous, Partridge might very well have construed them as he did;

being persuaded as he was that the whole nation were of the same

inclination in their hearts; nor did it stagger him that Jones had

travelled in the company of soldiers; for he had the same opinion of

the army which he had of the rest of the people.

But however well affected he might be to James or Charles, he was

still much more attached to Little Benjamin than to either; for which

reason he no sooner discovered the principles of his fellow-traveller

than he thought proper to conceal and outwardly give up his own to the

man on whom he depended for the making his fortune, since he by no

means believed the affairs of Jones to be so desperate as they really

were with Mr Allworthy; for as he had kept a constant correspondence

with some of his neighbours since he left that country, he had heard

much, indeed more than was true, of the great affection Mr Allworthy

bore this young man, who, as Partridge had been instructed, was to be

that gentleman's heir, and whom, as we have said, he did not in the

least doubt to be his son.

He imagined therefore that whatever quarrel was between them, it would

be certainly made up at the return of Mr Jones; an event from which he

promised great advantages, if he could take this opportunity of

ingratiating himself with that young gentleman; and if he could by any

means be instrumental in procuring his return, he doubted not, as we

have before said, but it would as highly advance him in the favour of

Mr Allworthy.

We have already observed, that he was a very good-natured fellow, and

he hath himself declared the violent attachment he had to the person

and character of Jones; but possibly the views which I have just

before mentioned, might likewise have some little share in prompting

him to undertake this expedition, at least in urging him to continue

it, after he had discovered that his master and himself, like some

prudent fathers and sons, though they travelled together in great

friendship, had embraced opposite parties. I am led into this

conjecture, by having remarked, that though love, friendship, esteem,

and such like, have very powerful operations in the human mind;

interest, however, is an ingredient seldom omitted by wise men, when

they would work others to their own purposes. This is indeed a most

excellent medicine, and, like Ward's pill, flies at once to the

particular part of the body on which you desire to operate, whether it

be the tongue, the hand, or any other member, where it scarce ever

fails of immediately producing the desired effect.