Chapter viii.

In which fortune seems to have been in a better humour with Jones than

we have hitherto seen her.

As there is no wholesomer, so perhaps there are few stronger, sleeping

potions than fatigue. Of this Jones might be said to have taken a very

large dose, and it operated very forcibly upon him. He had already

slept nine hours, and might perhaps have slept longer, had he not been

awakened by a most violent noise at his chamber-door, where the sound

of many heavy blows was accompanied with many exclamations of murder.

Jones presently leapt from his bed, where he found the master of the

puppet-show belabouring the back and ribs of his poor Merry-Andrew,

without either mercy or moderation.

Jones instantly interposed on behalf of the suffering party, and

pinned the insulting conqueror up to the wall: for the puppet-show man

was no more able to contend with Jones than the poor party-coloured

jester had been to contend with this puppet-man.

But though the Merry-Andrew was a little fellow, and not very strong,

he had nevertheless some choler about him. He therefore no sooner

found himself delivered from the enemy, than he began to attack him

with the only weapon at which he was his equal. From this he first

discharged a volley of general abusive words, and thence proceeded to

some particular accusations--“D--n your bl--d, you rascal,” says he,

“I have not only supported you (for to me you owe all the money you

get), but I have saved you from the gallows. Did you not want to rob

the lady of her fine riding-habit, no longer ago than yesterday, in

the back-lane here? Can you deny that you wished to have her alone in

a wood to strip her--to strip one of the prettiest ladies that ever

was seen in the world? and here you have fallen upon me, and have

almost murdered me, for doing no harm to a girl as willing as myself,

only because she likes me better than you.”

Jones no sooner heard this than he quitted the master, laying on him

at the same time the most violent injunctions of forbearance from any

further insult on the Merry-Andrew; and then taking the poor wretch

with him into his own apartment, he soon learned tidings of his

Sophia, whom the fellow, as he was attending his master with his drum

the day before, had seen pass by. He easily prevailed with the lad to

show him the exact place, and then having summoned Partridge, he

departed with the utmost expedition.

It was almost eight of the clock before all matters could be got ready

for his departure: for Partridge was not in any haste, nor could the

reckoning be presently adjusted; and when both these were settled and

over, Jones would not quit the place before he had perfectly

reconciled all differences between the master and the man.

When this was happily accomplished, he set forwards, and was by the

trusty Merry-Andrew conducted to the spot by which Sophia had past;

and then having handsomely rewarded his conductor, he again pushed on

with the utmost eagerness, being highly delighted with the

extraordinary manner in which he received his intelligence. Of this

Partridge was no sooner acquainted, than he, with great earnestness,

began to prophesy, and assured Jones that he would certainly have good

success in the end: for, he said, “two such accidents could never have

happened to direct him after his mistress, if Providence had not

designed to bring them together at last.” And this was the first time

that Jones lent any attention to the superstitious doctrines of his

companion.

They had not gone above two miles when a violent storm of rain

overtook them; and, as they happened to be at the same time in sight

of an ale-house, Partridge, with much earnest entreaty, prevailed with

Jones to enter, and weather the storm. Hunger is an enemy (if indeed

it may be called one) which partakes more of the English than of the

French disposition; for, though you subdue this never so often, it

will always rally again in time; and so it did with Partridge, who was

no sooner arrived within the kitchen, than he began to ask the same

questions which he had asked the night before. The consequence of this

was an excellent cold chine being produced upon the table, upon which

not only Partridge, but Jones himself, made a very hearty breakfast,

though the latter began to grow again uneasy, as the people of the

house could give him no fresh information concerning Sophia.

Their meal being over, Jones was again preparing to sally,

notwithstanding the violence of the storm still continued; but

Partridge begged heartily for another mug; and at last casting his

eyes on a lad at the fire, who had entered into the kitchen, and who

at that instant was looking as earnestly at him, he turned suddenly to

Jones, and cried, “Master, give me your hand, a single mug shan't

serve the turn this bout. Why, here's more news of Madam Sophia come

to town. The boy there standing by the fire is the very lad that rode

before her. I can swear to my own plaister on his face.”--“Heavens

bless you, sir,” cries the boy, “it is your own plaister sure enough;

I shall have always reason to remember your goodness; for it hath

almost cured me.”

At these words Jones started from his chair, and, bidding the boy

follow him immediately, departed from the kitchen into a private

apartment; for, so delicate was he with regard to Sophia, that he

never willingly mentioned her name in the presence of many people;

and, though he had, as it were, from the overflowings of his heart,

given Sophia as a toast among the officers, where he thought it was

impossible she should be known; yet, even there, the reader may

remember how difficultly he was prevailed upon to mention her surname.

Hard therefore was it, and perhaps, in the opinion of many sagacious

readers, very absurd and monstrous, that he should principally owe his

present misfortune to the supposed want of that delicacy with which he

so abounded; for, in reality, Sophia was much more offended at the

freedoms which she thought (and not without good reason) he had taken

with her name and character, than at any freedoms, in which, under his

present circumstances, he had indulged himself with the person of

another woman; and to say truth, I believe Honour could never have

prevailed on her to leave Upton without her seeing Jones, had it not

been for those two strong instances of a levity in his behaviour, so

void of respect, and indeed so highly inconsistent with any degree of

love and tenderness in great and delicate minds.

But so matters fell out, and so I must relate them; and if any reader

is shocked at their appearing unnatural, I cannot help it. I must

remind such persons that I am not writing a system, but a history, and

I am not obliged to reconcile every matter to the received notions

concerning truth and nature. But if this was never so easy to do,

perhaps it might be more prudent in me to avoid it. For instance, as

the fact at present before us now stands, without any comment of mine

upon it, though it may at first sight offend some readers, yet, upon

more mature consideration, it must please all; for wise and good men

may consider what happened to Jones at Upton as a just punishment for

his wickedness with regard to women, of which it was indeed the

immediate consequence; and silly and bad persons may comfort

themselves in their vices by flattering their own hearts that the

characters of men are rather owing to accident than to virtue. Now,

perhaps the reflections which we should be here inclined to draw would

alike contradict both these conclusions, and would show that these

incidents contribute only to confirm the great, useful, and uncommon

doctrine, which it is the purpose of this whole work to inculcate, and

which we must not fill up our pages by frequently repeating, as an

ordinary parson fills his sermon by repeating his text at the end of

every paragraph.

We are contented that it must appear, however unhappily Sophia had

erred in her opinion of Jones, she had sufficient reason for her

opinion; since, I believe, every other young lady would, in her

situation, have erred in the same manner. Nay, had she followed her

lover at this very time, and had entered this very alehouse the moment

he was departed from it, she would have found the landlord as well

acquainted with her name and person as the wench at Upton had appeared

to be. For while Jones was examining his boy in whispers in an inner

room, Partridge, who had no such delicacy in his disposition, was in

the kitchen very openly catechising the other guide who had attended

Mrs Fitzpatrick; by which means the landlord, whose ears were open on

all such occasions, became perfectly well acquainted with the tumble

of Sophia from her horse, &c., with the mistake concerning Jenny

Cameron, with the many consequences of the punch, and, in short, with

almost everything which had happened at the inn whence we despatched

our ladies in a coach-and-six when we last took our leaves of them.