Chapter L: Letter III

“I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings.
The moment you receive this let me see you;--I shall not stir out;
nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain
you long.”

Jones had just read over these three billets when Mr Nightingale came into the room. “Well, Tom,” said he, “any news from Lady Bellaston, after last night's adventure?” (for it was now no secret to any one in that house who the lady was). “The Lady Bellaston?” answered Jones very gravely.----“Nay, dear Tom,” cries Nightingale, “don't be so reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant who the queen of the fairies is?” “And did you really then know the lady at the masquerade?” said Jones. “Yes, upon my soul, did I,” said Nightingale, “and have given you twenty hints of it since, though you seemed always so tender on that point, that I would not speak plainly. I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter, you are not so well acquainted with the character of the lady as with her person. Don't be angry, Tom, but upon my honour, you are not the first young fellow she hath debauched. Her reputation is in no danger, believe me.”

Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the vestal kind when his amour began; yet, as he was thoroughly ignorant of the town, and had very little acquaintance in it, he had no knowledge of that character which is vulgarly called a demirep; that is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man she likes, under the name and appearance of virtue; and who, though some over-nice ladies will not be seen with her, is visited (as they term it) by the whole town, in short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her.

When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted with his intrigue, and began to suspect that so scrupulous a delicacy as he had hitherto observed was not quite necessary on the occasion, he gave a latitude to his friend's tongue, and desired him to speak plainly what he knew, or had ever heard of the lady.

Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate in his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to tittle-tattle. He had no sooner, therefore, received a full liberty of speaking from Jones, than he entered upon a long narrative concerning the lady; which, as it contained many particulars highly to her dishonour, we have too great a tenderness for all women of condition to repeat. We would cautiously avoid giving an opportunity to the future commentators on our works, of making any malicious application and of forcing us to be, against our will, the author of scandal, which never entered into our head.

Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say, fetched a deep sigh; which the other, observing, cried, “Heyday! why, thou art not in love, I hope! Had I imagined my stories would have affected you, I promise you should never have heard them.” “O my dear friend!” cries Jones, “I am so entangled with this woman, that I know not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed! no, my friend, but I am under obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you know so much, I will be very explicit with you. It is owing, perhaps, solely to her, that I have not, before this, wanted a bit of bread. How can I possibly desert such a woman? and yet I must desert her, or be guilty of the blackest treachery to one who deserves infinitely better of me than she can; a woman, my Nightingale, for whom I have a passion which few can have an idea of. I am half distracted with doubts how to act.” “And is this other, pray, an honourable mistress?” cries Nightingale. “Honourable!” answered Jones; “no breath ever yet durst sully her reputation. The sweetest air is not purer, the limpid stream not clearer, than her honour. She is all over, both in mind and body, consummate perfection. She is the most beautiful creature in the universe: and yet she is mistress of such noble elevated qualities, that, though she is never from my thoughts, I scarce ever think of her beauty but when I see it.”--“And can you, my good friend,” cries Nightingale, “with such an engagement as this upon your hands, hesitate a moment about quitting such a--” “Hold,” said Jones, “no more abuse of her: I detest the thought of ingratitude.” “Pooh!” answered the other, “you are not the first upon whom she hath conferred obligations of this kind. She is remarkably liberal where she likes; though, let me tell you, her favours are so prudently bestowed, that they should rather raise a man's vanity than his gratitude.” In short, Nightingale proceeded so far on this head, and told his friend so many stories of the lady, which he swore to the truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem for her from the breast of Jones; and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. Indeed, he began to look on all the favours he had received rather as wages than benefits, which depreciated not only her, but himself too in his own conceit, and put him quite out of humour with both. From this disgust, his mind, by a natural transition, turned towards Sophia; her virtue, her purity, her love to him, her sufferings on his account, filled all his thoughts, and made his commerce with Lady Bellaston appear still more odious. The result of all was, that, though his turning himself out of her service, in which light he now saw his affair with her, would be the loss of his bread; yet he determined to quit her, if he could but find a handsome pretence: which being communicated to his friend, Nightingale considered a little, and then said, “I have it, my boy! I have found out a sure method; propose marriage to her, and I would venture hanging upon the success.” “Marriage?” cries Jones. “Ay, propose marriage,” answered Nightingale, “and she will declare off in a moment. I knew a young fellow whom she kept formerly, who made the offer to her in earnest, and was presently turned off for his pains.”

Jones declared he could not venture the experiment. “Perhaps,” said he, “she may be less shocked at this proposal from one man than from another. And if she should take me at my word, where am I then? caught, in my own trap, and undone for ever.” “No;” answered Nightingale, “not if I can give you an expedient by which you may at any time get out of the trap.”----“What expedient can that be?” replied Jones. “This,” answered Nightingale. “The young fellow I mentioned, who is one of the most intimate acquaintances I have in the world, is so angry with her for some ill offices she hath since done him, that I am sure he would, without any difficulty, give you a sight of her letters; upon which you may decently break with her; and declare off before the knot is tyed, if she should really be willing to tie it, which I am convinced she will not.”

After some hesitation, Jones, upon the strength of this assurance, consented; but, as he swore he wanted the confidence to propose the matter to her face, he wrote the following letter, which Nightingale dictated:--

“MADAM,

“I am extremely concerned, that, by an unfortunate engagement
abroad, I should have missed receiving the honour of your ladyship's
commands the moment they came; and the delay which I must now suffer
of vindicating myself to your ladyship greatly adds to this
misfortune. O, Lady Bellaston! what a terror have I been in for fear
your reputation should be exposed by these perverse accidents! There
is one only way to secure it. I need not name what that is. Only
permit me to say, that as your honour is as dear to me as my own, so
my sole ambition is to have the glory of laying my liberty at your
feet; and believe me when I assure you, I can never be made
completely happy without you generously bestow on me a legal right
of calling you mine for ever.--I am,

madam,
with most profound respect,
your ladyship's most obliged,
obedient, humble servant,
THOMAS JONES.”

To this she presently returned the following answer:

“SIR,

“When I read over your serious epistle, I could, from its coldness
and formality, have sworn that you already had the legal right you
mention; nay, that we had for many years composed that monstrous
animal a husband and wife. Do you really then imagine me a fool? or
do you fancy yourself capable of so entirely persuading me out of my
senses, that I should deliver my whole fortune into your power, in
order to enable you to support your pleasures at my expense? Are
these the proofs of love which I expected? Is this the return for--?
but I scorn to upbraid you, and am in great admiration of your
profound respect.

“P.S. I am prevented from revising:----Perhaps I have said more than
I meant.----Come to me at eight this evening.”

Jones, by the advice of his privy-council, replied:

“MADAM,

“It is impossible to express how much I am shocked at the suspicion
you entertain of me. Can Lady Bellaston have conferred favours on a
man whom she could believe capable of so base a design? or can she
treat the most solemn tie of love with contempt? Can you imagine,
madam, that if the violence of my passion, in an unguarded moment,
overcame the tenderness which I have for your honour, I would think
of indulging myself in the continuance of an intercourse which could
not possibly escape long the notice of the world; and which, when
discovered, must prove so fatal to your reputation? If such be your
opinion of me, I must pray for a sudden opportunity of returning
those pecuniary obligations, which I have been so unfortunate to
receive at your hands; and for those of a more tender kind, I shall
ever remain, &c.” And so concluded in the very words with which he
had concluded the former letter.

The lady answered as follows:

“I see you are a villain! and I despise you from my soul. If you
come here I shall not be at home.”

Though Jones was well satisfied with his deliverance from a thraldom which those who have ever experienced it will, I apprehend, allow to be none of the lightest, he was not, however, perfectly easy in his mind. There was in this scheme too much of fallacy to satisfy one who utterly detested every species of falshood or dishonesty: nor would he, indeed, have submitted to put it in practice, had he not been involved in a distressful situation, where he was obliged to be guilty of some dishonour, either to the one lady or the other; and surely the reader will allow, that every good principle, as well as love, pleaded strongly in favour of Sophia.

Nightingale highly exulted in the success of his stratagem, upon which he received many thanks and much applause from his friend. He answered, “Dear Tom, we have conferred very different obligations on each other. To me you owe the regaining your liberty; to you I owe the loss of mine. But if you are as happy in the one instance as I am in the other, I promise you we are the two happiest fellows in England.”

The two gentlemen were now summoned down to dinner, where Mrs Miller, who performed herself the office of cook, had exerted her best talents to celebrate the wedding of her daughter. This joyful circumstance she ascribed principally to the friendly behaviour of Jones, her whole soul was fired with gratitude towards him, and all her looks, words, and actions, were so busied in expressing it, that her daughter, and even her new son-in-law, were very little objects of her consideration.

Dinner was just ended when Mrs Miller received a letter; but as we have had letters enow in this chapter, we shall communicate its contents in our next.

Chapter x.

Consisting partly of facts, and partly of observations upon them.

The letter then which arrived at the end of the preceding chapter was from Mr Allworthy, and the purport of it was, his intention to come immediately to town, with his nephew Blifil, and a desire to be accommodated with his usual lodgings, which were the first floor for himself, and the second for his nephew.

The chearfulness which had before displayed itself in the countenance of the poor woman was a little clouded on this occasion. This news did indeed a good deal disconcert her. To requite so disinterested a match with her daughter, by presently turning her new son-in-law out of doors, appeared to her very unjustifiable on the one hand; and on the other, she could scarce bear the thoughts of making any excuse to Mr Allworthy, after all the obligations received from him, for depriving him of lodgings which were indeed strictly his due; for that gentleman, in conferring all his numberless benefits on others, acted by a rule diametrically opposite to what is practised by most generous people. He contrived, on all occasions, to hide his beneficence, not only from the world, but even from the object of it. He constantly used the words Lend and Pay, instead of Give; and by every other method he could invent, always lessened with his tongue the favours he conferred, while he was heaping them with both his hands. When he settled the annuity of £50 a year therefore on Mrs Miller, he told her, “it was in consideration of always having her first-floor when he was in town (which he scarce ever intended to be), but that she might let it at any other time, for that he would always send her a month's warning.” He was now, however, hurried to town so suddenly, that he had no opportunity of giving such notice; and this hurry probably prevented him, when he wrote for his lodgings, adding, if they were then empty; for he would most certainly have been well satisfied to have relinquished them, on a less sufficient excuse than what Mrs Miller could now have made.

But there are a sort of persons, who, as Prior excellently well remarks, direct their conduct by something

Beyond the fix'd and settled rules
Of vice and virtue in the schools,
Beyond the letter of the law.

To these it is so far from being sufficient that their defence would acquit them at the Old Bailey, that they are not even contented, though conscience, the severest of all judges, should discharge them. Nothing short of the fair and honourable will satisfy the delicacy of their minds; and if any of their actions fall short of this mark, they mope and pine, are as uneasy and restless as a murderer, who is afraid of a ghost, or of the hangman.

Mrs Miller was one of these. She could not conceal her uneasiness at this letter; with the contents of which she had no sooner acquainted the company, and given some hints of her distress, than Jones, her good angel, presently relieved her anxiety. “As for myself, madam,” said he, “my lodging is at your service at a moment's warning; and Mr Nightingale, I am sure, as he cannot yet prepare a house fit to receive his lady, will consent to return to his new lodging, whither Mrs Nightingale will certainly consent to go.” With which proposal both husband and wife instantly agreed.

The reader will easily believe, that the cheeks of Mrs Miller began again to glow with additional gratitude to Jones; but, perhaps, it may be more difficult to persuade him, that Mr Jones having in his last speech called her daughter Mrs Nightingale (it being the first time that agreeable sound had ever reached her ears), gave the fond mother more satisfaction, and warmed her heart more towards Jones, than his having dissipated her present anxiety.

The next day was then appointed for the removal of the new-married couple, and of Mr Jones, who was likewise to be provided for in the same house with his friend. And now the serenity of the company was again restored, and they past the day in the utmost chearfulness, all except Jones, who, though he outwardly accompanied the rest in their mirth, felt many a bitter pang on the account of his Sophia, which were not a little heightened by the news of Mr Blifil's coming to town (for he clearly saw the intention of his journey); and what greatly aggravated his concern was, that Mrs Honour, who had promised to inquire after Sophia, and to make her report to him early the next evening, had disappointed him.

In the situation that he and his mistress were in at this time, there were scarce any grounds for him to hope that he should hear any good news; yet he was as impatient to see Mrs Honour as if he had expected she would bring him a letter with an assignation in it from Sophia, and bore the disappointment as ill. Whether this impatience arose from that natural weakness of the human mind, which makes it desirous to know the worst, and renders uncertainty the most intolerable of pains; or whether he still flattered himself with some secret hopes, we will not determine. But that it might be the last, whoever has loved cannot but know. For of all the powers exercised by this passion over our minds, one of the most wonderful is that of supporting hope in the midst of despair. Difficulties, improbabilities, nay, impossibilities, are quite overlooked by it; so that to any man extremely in love, may be applied what Addison says of Caesar,

“The Alps, and Pyrenaeans, sink before him!”

Yet it is equally true, that the same passion will sometimes make mountains of molehills, and produce despair in the midst of hope; but these cold fits last not long in good constitutions. Which temper Jones was now in, we leave the reader to guess, having no exact information about it; but this is certain, that he had spent two hours in expectation, when, being unable any longer to conceal his uneasiness, he retired to his room; where his anxiety had almost made him frantick, when the following letter was brought him from Mrs Honour, with which we shall present the reader _verbatim et literatim._

“SIR,

“I shud sartenly haf kaled on you a cordin too mi prommiss haddunt
itt bin that hur lashipp prevent mee; for to bee sur, Sir, you nose
very well that evere persun must luk furst at ome, and sartenly such
anuther offar mite not have ever hapned, so as I shud ave bin justly
to blam, had I not excepted of it when her lashipp was so veri kind
as to offar to mak mee hur one uman without mi ever askin any such
thing, to be sur shee is won of thee best ladis in thee wurld, and
pepil who sase to the kontrari must bee veri wiket pepil in thare
harts. To bee sur if ever I ave sad any thing of that kine it as bin
thru ignorens, and I am hartili sorri for it. I nose your onur to be
a genteelman of more onur and onesty, if I ever said ani such thing,
to repete it to hurt a pore servant that as alwais add thee gratest
respect in thee wurld for ure onur. To be sur won shud kepe wons
tung within wons teeth, for no boddi nose what may hapen; and to bee
sur if ani boddi ad tolde mee yesterday, that I shud haf bin in so
gud a plase to day, I shud not haf beleeved it; for to be sur I
never was a dremd of any such thing, nor shud I ever have soft after
ani other bodi's plase; but as her lashipp wass so kine of her one a
cord too give it mee without askin, to be sur Mrs Etoff herself, nor
no other boddi can blam mee for exceptin such a thing when it fals
in mi waye. I beg ure Onur not to menshion ani thing of what I haf
sad, for I wish ure Onur all thee gud luk in the wurld; and I don't
cuestion butt thatt u will haf Madam Sofia in the end; butt ass to
miself ure onur nose I kant bee of ani farder sarvis to u in that
matar, nou bein under thee cumand off anuther parson, and nott mi
one mistress, I begg ure Onur to say nothing of what past, and
belive me to be, sir, ure Onur's umble servant to cumand till deth,

“HONOUR BLACKMORE.”

Various were the conjectures which Jones entertained on this step of Lady Bellaston; who, in reality, had little farther design than to secure within her own house the repository of a secret, which she chose should make no farther progress than it had made already; but mostly, she desired to keep it from the ears of Sophia; for though that young lady was almost the only one who would never have repeated it again, her ladyship could not persuade herself of this; since, as she now hated poor Sophia with most implacable hatred, she conceived a reciprocal hatred to herself to be lodged in the tender breast of our heroine, where no such passion had ever yet found an entrance.

While Jones was terrifying himself with the apprehension of a thousand dreadful machinations, and deep political designs, which he imagined to be at the bottom of the promotion of Honour, Fortune, who hitherto seems to have been an utter enemy to his match with Sophia, tried a new method to put a final end to it, by throwing a temptation in his way, which in his present desperate situation it seemed unlikely he should be able to resist.

Chapter xi.

Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter.

There was a lady, one Mrs Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the house where he lodged, being intimately acquainted with the women there, and indeed a very great friend to Mrs Miller. Her age was about thirty, for she owned six-and-twenty; her face and person very good, only inclining a little too much to be fat. She had been married young by her relations to an old Turkey merchant, who, having got a great fortune, had left off trade. With him she lived without reproach, but not without pain, in a state of great self-denial, for about twelve years; and her virtue was rewarded by his dying and leaving her very rich. The first year of her widowhood was just at an end, and she had past it in a good deal of retirement, seeing only a few particular friends, and dividing her time between her devotions and novels, of which she was always extremely fond. Very good health, a very warm constitution, and a good deal of religion, made it absolutely necessary for her to marry again; and she resolved to please herself in her second husband, as she had done her friends in the first. From her the following billet was brought to Jones:--

“SIR,

“From the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too
plainly that you were not indifferent to me; but neither my tongue
nor my hand should have ever avowed it, had not the ladies of the
family where you are lodged given me such a character of you, and
told me such proofs of your virtue and goodness, as convince me you
are not only the most agreeable, but the most worthy of men. I have
also the satisfaction to hear from them, that neither my person,
understanding, or character, are disagreeable to you. I have a
fortune sufficient to make us both happy, but which cannot make me
so without you. In thus disposing of myself, I know I shall incur
the censure of the world; but if I did not love you more than I fear
the world, I should not be worthy of you. One only difficulty stops
me: I am informed you are engaged in a commerce of gallantry with a
woman of fashion. If you think it worth while to sacrifice that to
the possession of me, I am yours; if not, forget my weakness, and
let this remain an eternal secret between you and

“ARABELLA HUNT.”

At the reading of this, Jones was put into a violent flutter. His fortune was then at a very low ebb, the source being stopt from which hitherto he had been supplied. Of all he had received from Lady Bellaston, not above five guineas remained; and that very morning he had been dunned by a tradesman for twice that sum. His honourable mistress was in the hands of her father, and he had scarce any hopes ever to get her out of them again. To be subsisted at her expense, from that little fortune she had independent of her father, went much against the delicacy both of his pride and his love. This lady's fortune would have been exceeding convenient to him, and he could have no objection to her in any respect. On the contrary, he liked her as well as he did any woman except Sophia. But to abandon Sophia, and marry another, that was impossible; he could not think of it upon any account, Yet why should he not, since it was plain she could not be his? Would it not be kinder to her, than to continue her longer engaged in a hopeless passion for him? Ought he not to do so in friendship to her? This notion prevailed some moments, and he had almost determined to be false to her from a high point of honour: but that refinement was not able to stand very long against the voice of nature, which cried in his heart that such friendship was treason to love. At last he called for pen, ink, and paper, and writ as follows to Mrs Hunt:--

“MADAM,

“It would be but a poor return to the favour you have done me to
sacrifice any gallantry to the possession of you, and I would
certainly do it, though I were not disengaged, as at present I am,
from any affair of that kind. But I should not be the honest man you
think me, if I did not tell you that my affections are engaged to
another, who is a woman of virtue, and one that I never can leave,
though it is probable I shall never possess her. God forbid that, in
return of your kindness to me, I should do you such an injury as to
give you my hand when I cannot give my heart. No; I had much rather
starve than be guilty of that. Even though my mistress were married
to another, I would not marry you unless my heart had entirely
effaced all impressions of her. Be assured that your secret was not
more safe in your own breast, than in that of your most obliged, and
grateful humble servant,

“T. JONES.”

When our heroe had finished and sent this letter, he went to his scrutore, took out Miss Western's muff, kissed it several times, and then strutted some turns about his room, with more satisfaction of mind than ever any Irishman felt in carrying off a fortune of fifty thousand pounds.

Chapter xii.

A discovery made by Partridge.

While Jones was exulting in the consciousness of his integrity, Partridge came capering into the room, as was his custom when he brought, or fancied he brought, any good tidings. He had been despatched that morning by his master, with orders to endeavour, by the servants of Lady Bellaston, or by any other means, to discover whither Sophia had been conveyed; and he now returned, and with a joyful countenance told our heroe that he had found the lost bird. “I have seen, sir,” says he, “Black George, the gamekeeper, who is one of the servants whom the squire hath brought with him to town. I knew him presently, though I have not seen him these several years; but you know, sir, he is a very remarkable man, or, to use a purer phrase, he hath a most remarkable beard, the largest and blackest I ever saw. It was some time, however, before Black George could recollect me.” “Well, but what is your good news?” cries Jones; “what do you know of my Sophia?” “You shall know presently, sir,” answered Partridge, “I am coming to it as fast as I can. You are so impatient, sir, you would come at the infinitive mood before you can get to the imperative. As I was saying, sir, it was some time before he recollected my face.”--“Confound your face!” cries Jones, “what of my Sophia?” “Nay, sir,” answered Partridge, “I know nothing more of Madam Sophia than what I am going to tell you; and I should have told you all before this if you had not interrupted me; but if you look so angry at me you will frighten all of it out of my head, or, to use a purer phrase, out of my memory. I never saw you look so angry since the day we left Upton, which I shall remember if I was to live a thousand years.”--“Well, pray go on your own way,” said Jones: “you are resolved to make me mad I find.” “Not for the world,” answered Partridge, “I have suffered enough for that already; which, as I said, I shall bear in my remembrance the longest day I have to live.” “Well, but Black George?” cries Jones. “Well, sir, as I was saying, it was a long time before he could recollect me; for, indeed, I am very much altered since I saw him. _Non sum qualis eram._ I have had troubles in the world, and nothing alters a man so much as grief. I have heard it will change the colour of a man's hair in a night. However, at last, know me he did, that's sure enough; for we are both of an age, and were at the same charity school. George was a great dunce, but no matter for that; all men do not thrive in the world according to their learning. I am sure I have reason to say so; but it will be all one a thousand years hence. Well, sir, where was I?--O--well, we no sooner knew each other, than, after many hearty shakes by the hand, we agreed to go to an alehouse and take a pot, and by good luck the beer was some of the best I have met with since I have been in town. Now, sir, I am coming to the point; for no sooner did I name you, and told him that you and I came to town together, and had lived together ever since, than he called for another pot, and swore he would drink to your health; and indeed he drank your health so heartily that I was overjoyed to see there was so much gratitude left in the world; and after we had emptied that pot I said I would buy my pot too, and so we drank another to your health; and then I made haste home to tell you the news.”

“What news?” cries Jones, “you have not mentioned a word of my Sophia!” “Bless me! I had like to have forgot that. Indeed, we mentioned a great deal about young Madam Western, and George told me all; that Mr Blifil is coming to town in order to be married to her. He had best make haste then, says I, or somebody will have her before he comes; and, indeed, says I, Mr Seagrim, it is a thousand pities somebody should not have her; for he certainly loves her above all the women in the world. I would have both you and she know, that it is not for her fortune he follows her; for I can assure you, as to matter of that, there is another lady, one of much greater quality and fortune than she can pretend to, who is so fond of somebody that she comes after him day and night.”

Here Jones fell into a passion with Partridge, for having, as he said, betrayed him; but the poor fellow answered, he had mentioned no name: “Besides, sir,” said he, “I can assure you George is sincerely your friend, and wished Mr Blifil at the devil more than once; nay, he said he would do anything in his power upon earth to serve you; and so I am convinced he will. Betray you, indeed! why, I question whether you have a better friend than George upon earth, except myself, or one that would go farther to serve you.”

“Well,” says Jones, a little pacified, “you say this fellow, who, I believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my friend, lives in the same house with Sophia?”

“In the same house!” answered Partridge; “why, sir, he is one of the servants of the family, and very well drest I promise you he is; if it was not for his black beard you would hardly know him.”

“One service then at least he may do me,” says Jones: “sure he can certainly convey a letter to my Sophia.”

“You have hit the nail _ad unguem_” cries Partridge; “how came I not to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon the very first mentioning.”

“Well, then,” said Jones, “do you leave me at present, and I will write a letter, which you shall deliver to him to-morrow morning; for I suppose you know where to find him.”

“O yes, sir,” answered Partridge, “I shall certainly find him again; there is no fear of that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away long. I make no doubt but he will be there every day he stays in town.”

“So you don't know the street then where my Sophia is lodged?” cries Jones.

“Indeed, sir, I do,” says Partridge.

“What is the name of the street?” cries Jones.

“The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by,” answered Partridge, “not above a street or two off. I don't, indeed, know the very name; for, as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put some suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am too cunning for that, I promise you.”

“Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed,” replied Jones; “however, I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will be cunning enough to find him to-morrow at the alehouse.”

And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr Jones sat himself down to write, in which employment we shall leave him for a time. And here we put an end to the fifteenth book.