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duel, that's all.' Jones exprest some indignation at this levity, and spoke with the utmost contrition for what had happened. To which she answered, “Well then, Sir, if you take it so much to ' heart, I will relieve you; the gentleman is not · dead; and, I am pretty confident, is in no danger of dying. The surgeon, indeed, who first
dressed him was a young fellow, and seemed de* sirous of representing his case to be as bad as
possible, that he might have the more honour ' from curing him: but the king's surgeon hath 'seen him since, and says, unless from a fever, of · which there are at present no symptoms, be ap
prehends not the least danger of life.' Jones shewed great satisfaction in his countenance at this report; upon which she affirmed the truth of it, adding, “By the most extraordinary accident
in the world. I lodge at the same house; and ' have seen the gentleman; and I promise you he 'doth you justice, and says, whatever be the consequence, that he was entirely the aggressor, and
, that you was not in the least to blame.'
Jones expressed the utmost satisfaction at the account which Mrs. Waters brought him. He then informed her of many things which she well knew before, as who Mr. Fitzpatrick was, the occasion of his resentment, &c. He likewise told her several facts of which she was ignorant, as the adventure of the muff, and other particulars, concealing only the name of Sophia. He then lamented the follies and vices of which he had been guilty; every one of which, he said, had been attended with such ill consequences, that he should be unpardonable if he did not take warning, and quit those vicious courses for the future. He lastly concluded with assuring her of his resolution to sin no more, lest a worse thing should happen to him.
Mrs. Waters with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the effects of low spirits and confinement, She repeated some witticisms about the devil when
he was sick, and told him, “She doubted not but
shortly to see him at liberty, and as lively a fellow as ever; and then,' says she, 'I don't question but your conscience will be safely delivered of all these qualms that it is now so sick in breeding.'
Many more things of this kind she uttered, some of which it would do her no great honour, in the opinion of some readers, to remember; nor are we quite certain but that the answers made by Jones would be ticated witi ridicule by others. We shall therefore suppress the rest of this conversation, and only observe, that it ende atoast with perfect innocence, and much more to the satisfaction of Jones than of the lady; for the former was greatly transported wiil the news she had brought him; but the latter was not altogether so pleased with the penitential behaviour of a man, whom she had, at her first interview, conceived a very different opinion of from what she now entertained of him.
Thus the melancholy occasioned by the report of Mr. Nightingale was pretty well effaced ; but the dejection into which Mrs. Miller had thrown him still continued. The account she gave, so well tallied with the words of Sophia herself in her letter, that he made not the least doubt but that she had disclosed his letter to her aunt, and had tahen a fixed resolution to abandon him. The torments this thought gave him, were to be equalled only by a piece of news which fortune had yet in store for him, and which we shall communicate in the second chapter of the ensuing book,
Containing about Six Days.
A Farewel 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 fellow-travellers 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 ali 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 pas. sengers 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 bath any man more reason; for pone 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 outsive theirown infirm Author, and the weekly productions of his abusive cotemporaries.
CHAP. II. Containing a very tragical Incident. WIILE Jones was employed in those 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 an end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as he would have done had he seen a spectre, or had he indeed been a spectre himselt.
Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat shocked with this sudden appearance. He did indeed himself change colour, and his voice a little faltered, while he asked him, What was the matter?
'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. 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,
was 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 Í 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.'