CHAPTER I. A FAREWELL TO THE READER. WE are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey. As we have, therefore, travelled together through so many pages, let us behave to one another like fellowtravellers in a stage coach, who have passed several days in the company of each other; and who, notwithstanding any bickerings or little animosities which may have occurred on the road, generally make all up at last, and mount, for the last time, into their vehicle with cheerfulness and good-humour; since after this one stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it commonly happens to them, never to meet more. As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a little farther. I intend then in this last book to imitate the good company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well known that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid aside; whatever characters any of the passengers have for the jest-sake personated on the road, are now thrown off, and the conversation is usually plain and serious. In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here lay it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged to cram into this book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous observations which I have elsewhere made, and which may sometimes, perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was beginning to steal upon thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only; and, indeed, when thou hast perused the many great events which this book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages contained in it scarce sufficient to tell the story. And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no other) of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in any thing I have offended, it was really without any intention. Some things, perhaps, here said may have hit thee or thy friends; but I do most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them. I question not but thou hast been told, among other stories of me, that thou wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever told thee so, did me an injury. No man detests and despises scurrility more than myself; nor hath any man more reason; for none hath ever been treated with more ; and what is a very severe fate, I have had some of the abusive writings of those very men fathered upon me, who, in other of their works, have abused me themselves with the utmost virulence. All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for, however short the period may be of my own performances, they will most probably outlive their own infirm Author, and the weekly productions of his abusive cotemporaries. CHAPTER II. CONTAINING A VERY TRAGICAL INCIDENT. WHILE Jones was employed in these unpleasant meditations, with which we left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair standing on end, and every limb trembling. have done had he seen a spectre himself. In short, he looked as he would a spectre, or had he indeed been He Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat shocked with this sudden appearance. did indeed himself change colour, and his voice a little faltered, while he asked him, What was the matter? was "I hope, sir," said Partridge, "you will not be angry with me. Indeed I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward room. I am sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than have heard what I have heard." "Why, what is the matter?" said Jones. "The matter, sir? O good heaven!" answered Partridge; that woman who is just gone out, the woman who was with you at Upton?" "She was, Partridge," cries Jones. "And did you really, sir, go to bed with that woman?" said he, trembling. "I am afraid what past between us is no secret," said Jones." Nay, but pray, sir, for heaven's sake, sir, answer me," cries Partridge. "You know I did," cries Jones.'Why, then, the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you," cries Partridge; "but as sure as I stand here alive, you have been a-bed with your own mother." Upon these words, Jones became in a moment a greater picture of horror than Partridge himself. He was indeed, for some time, struck dumb with amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At last his words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said-" How! How! What's this you tell me?" "Nay, sir," cries Partridge, "I have not breath enough left to tell you now-but what I have said is most certainly true.-That woman who now went out is your own mother. How unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at that time, to have prevented it? Sure the devil himself must have contrived to bring about this wickedness." "Sure," cries Jones, "fortune will never have done with me, till she hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame fortune? I am myself the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which have befallen me are the VOL. II. 3 P |