History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
any manner of ceremony, nay, even to the offices of humanity: for, if
any of them meet with an accident by tumbling into a ditch, or into a
river, the rest pass on regardless, and generally leave him to his
fate: during this time, therefore, the two squires, though often close
to each other, interchanged not a single word. The master of the hunt,
however, often saw and approved the great judgment of the stranger in
drawing the dogs when they were at a fault, and hence conceived a very
high opinion of his understanding, as the number of his attendants
inspired no small reverence to his quality. As soon, therefore, as the
sport was ended by the death of the little animal which had occasioned
it, the two squires met, and in all squire-like greeting saluted each
other.
The conversation was entertaining enough, and what we may perhaps
relate in an appendix, or on some other occasion; but as it nowise
concerns this history, we cannot prevail on ourselves to give it a
place here. It concluded with a second chace, and that with an
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 iii.
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 was 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