A FOUNDLING. and Latin with his works, deals by the ladies and fine gentlemen in the same paltry manner with which they are treated by the auctioneers, who often endeavour so to confound and mix up their lots, that, in order to purchase the commodity you want, you are obliged at the same time to purchase that which will do you no service. And yet, as there is no conduct so fair and disinterested, but that it may be misunderstood by ignorance, and misrepresented by malice, I have been sometimes tempted to preserve my own reputation at the expence of my reader, and to transcribe the original, or at least to quote chapter and verse, whenever I have made use either of the thought or expression of another. I am indeed in some doubt that I have often suffered by the contrary method; and that, by suppressing the original author's name, I have been rather suspected of plagiarism, than reputed to act from the amiable motive above assigned by that justly celebrated Frenchman. Now, to obviate all such imputations for the future, I do here confess and justify the fact. The Ancients may be considered as a rich common, where every person who hath the smallest tenement in Parnassus hath a free right to fatten his muse. Or, to place it in a clearer light, we Moderns are to the Ancients what the poor are to the rich. By the poor here, I mean that large and venerable body, which, in English, we call the mob. Now, whoever hath had the honour to be admitted to any degree of intimacy with this mob, must well know, that it is one of their established maxims to plunder and pillage their rich neighbours without any reluctance; and that this is held to be neither sin nor shame among them. And so constantly do they abide and act by this maxim, that in every parish almost in the kingdom, there is a kind of confederacy ever carrying on against a certain person of opulence called the squire, whose property is considered as a free booty by all his poor neighbours; who, as they conclude that there is no manner of guilt in such depredations, look upon it as a point of honour and moral obligation to conceal and preserve each other from punishment on all such occasions. In like manner are the ancients, such as Homer, Virgil, Horace, Cicero, and the rest, to be esteemed among us writers, as so many wealthy squires, from whom we, the poor of Parnassus, claim an immemorial custom of taking whatever we can come at. This liberty I demand, and this I am as ready to allow again to my poor neighbours in their turn.. All I profess, and all I require of my brethren, is to maintain the same strict honesty among ourselves which the mob shew to one another. To steal from one another is indeed highly criminal and indecent ; for this may be strictly styled defrauding the poor, (sometimes, perhaps, those who are poorer than ourselves; or, to see it under the most opprobrious colours, robbing the spital. Since, therefore, upon the strictest examination, my own conscience cannot lay any such pitiful theft to my charge, I am contented to plead guilty to the former accusation; nor shall I ever scruple to take to myself any passage which I shall find in an ancient author to my purpose, without setting down the name of the author from whence it was taken. Nay, I absolutely claim a property in all such sentiments the moment they are transcribed into my writings, and I expect all readers henceforward to regard them as purely and entirely my own. This claim, however, I desire to be allowed me only on condition that I preserve strict honesty towards my poor brethren, from whom, if ever I borrow any of that little of which they are possessed, I shall never fail to put their mark upon it, that it may be at all times ready to be restored to the right owner. The omission of this was highly blameable in one Mr Moore, who having formerly borrowed some lines of Pope and company, took the liberty to transcribe six of them into his play of the Rival Modes. Mr Pope, however, very luckily found them in the said play, and laying violent hands on his own property, transferred it back again into his own works; and, for a further punishment, imprisoned the said Moore in the loathsome dungeon of the Dunciad, where his unhappy memory now remains, and eternally will remain, as a proper punishment for such his unjust dealings in the poetical trade. CHAP. II. In which, though the Squire doth not find his daughter, something is found which puts an end to his pursuit. THE history now returns to the inn at Upton, whence we shall first trace the footsteps of Squire Western; for as he will soon arrive at the end of his journey, we shall have then full leisure to attend our hero. The reader may be pleased to remember, that the said squire departed from the inn in great fury, and in that fury he pursued his daughter. The hostler having informed him that she had crossed the Severn, he likewise passed that river with his equipage, and rode full speed, vowing the utmost vengeance against poor Sophia if he should but overtake her. He had not gone far before he arrived at a cross way. Here he called a short council of war, in which, after hearing different opinions, he at last gave the direction of his pursuit to fortune, and struck directly into the Worcester road. In this road he proceeded about two miles, "What pity is it! Sure when he began to bemoan himself most bitterly, frequently crying out, never was so unlucky a dog as myself!" and then burst forth a volley of oaths and execrations. The parson attempted to administer comfort to him on this occasion. "Sorrow not, sir," says he, "like those without hope. Howbeit we have not been able to overtake young madam, we may account it some good fortune that we have hitherto traced her course aright. Peradventure she will soon be fatigued with her journey, and will tarry in some inn, in order to renovate her corporeal functions; and in that case, in all moral certainty, you will very briefly be compos voti." "Pooh! D-n the slut," answered the squire, "I am lamenting the loss of so fine a morning for hunting. It is confounded hard to lose one of the best scenting days, in all appearance, which hath been this season, and especially after so long a frost." Whether fortune, who now and then shews some compassion in her wantonest tricks, might not take pity of the squire; and as she had determined not to let him overtake his daughter, might not resolve to make him amends some other way, I will not assert; but he had hardly uttered the words just before commemorated, and two or three oaths at their heels, when a pack of hounds began to open their melodious throats at a small distance from them, which the squire's horse and his rider both perceiving, both immediately pricked up their ears, and the squire crying, "She's gone, she's gone! Damn me if she is not gone!" instantly clapped spurs to the beast, who little needed it, having indeed the same inclination with his master; and now the whole company crossing into a corn-field, rode directly towards the hounds, with much halloo ing and whooping, while the poor parson, blessing himself, brought up the rear. Thus fable reports that the fair Grimalkin, whom Venus, at the desire of a passionate lover, converted from a cat into a fine woman, no sooner perceived a mouse, than, mindful of her former sport, and still retaining her pristine nature, she leapt from the bed of her husband to pursue the little animal. What are we to understand by this? Not that the bride was displeased with the embraces of her amorous bridegroom; for though some have remarked that cats are subject to ingratitude, yet women and cats too will be pleased and purr on certain occasions. The truth is, as the sagacious Sir Roger L'Estrange observes, in his deep reflections, that, "if we shut Nature out at the door, she will come in at the window; and that puss, though a madam, will be a mouser still." In the same manner we are not to arraign the squire of any want of love for his daughter, for in reality he had a great deal: we are only to consider that he was a squire and a sportsman, and then we may apply the fable to him, and the judicious reflections likewise. The hounds ran very hard, as it is called, and the squire pursued over hedge and ditch, with all his usual vociferation and alacrity, and with all his usual pleasure; nor did the thoughts of Sophia ever once intrude themselves to allay the satisfaction he enjoyed in the chace, which he said was one of the finest he ever saw, and which he swore was very well worth going fifty miles for. As the squire forgot his daughter, the servants, we may easily believe, forgot their mistress; and the parson, after having expressed much astonishment in Latin to himself, at length likewise abandoned all farther thoughts of the young lady, and jogging on at a distance behind, began to meditate a portion of doctrine for the ensuing Sunday. The squire who owned the hounds was highly pleased with the arrival of his brother squire and sportsman: for all men approve merit in their own way, and no man was more expert in the field than Mr Western, nor did any other better know how to encourage the dogs with his voice, and to animate the hunt with his holla. Sportsmen, in the warmth of a chace, are too much engaged to attend to 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 the appendix, or on some other occasion; but as it no ways 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, ac cording 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 these 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 dispatched 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. CHAP. III. The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed between him and Partridge on the road. Ar length we are once more come to our hero; and, to say the 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 him, 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 further 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 at first have 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 Uptor savs, 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 a prisoner, and of the great danger he was in of being hanged, might be intended as a warning to us, considering what we were 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's 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 ring ing 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 juvento 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 a 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 any thing 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 a man may live many years for all that. Why, I am a middle-aged man now, and yet I may live a great number of years. I have read of several who have lived to be above a hundred, and some a great deal above a hundred. Not that I hope, I mean that I promise myself, to live to any such age as that neither. But if it be only to eighty or ninety; Heaven be praised, that is a great way off yet; and I am not afraid of dying then no more than another man: but surely, to tempt death before a man's time is come, seems to me downright wickedness and presumption. Besides, if it was to do any good indeed-but let the cause be what it will, what mighty matter of good can two people do? and, for my part, I understand nothing of it. I never fired off a gun above ten times in my life; and then it was not charged with bullets. And for the sword, I never learned to fence, and know nothing of the matter. And then there are those cannons, which certainly it must be thought the highest presumption to go in the way of'; and A FOUNDLING. nobody but a madman-I ask pardon; upon my soul, I meant no harm; I beg I may not throw your honour into another passion." "Be under no apprehension, Partridge," cries Jones; "I am now so well convinced of thy cowardice, that thou couldst not provoke me on any account."-" Your honour," answered he, may call me a coward, or any thing else you please. If loving to sleep in a whole skin makes a man a coward, non immunes ab illis malis sumus. I never read in my grammar, that a man Vir bocan't be a good man without fighting. nus est quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat. Not a word of fighting; and I am sure the Scripture is so much against it, that & man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian, while he sheds Christian blood.' CHAP. IV. The Adventure of a Beggar-Man. JUST as Partridge had uttered that good and pious doctrine with which the last chapter concluded, they arrived at another cross way, when a lame fellow in rags asked them for alms; upon which Partridge gave him a severe rebuke, saying, "Every parish ought to keep their own poor." Jones then fell a laughing, and asked Partridge, if he was not ashamed, with so much charity in his mouth, to have no charity in his 66 serves you heart?" Your religion," says he, only for an excuse for your faults, but is no incentive to your virtue. Can any man who is really a Christian abstain from relieving one of his brethren in such a miserable condition?" And, at the same time, putting his hand in his pocket, he gave the poor object a shilling. "Master," cries the fellow, after thanking him, "I have a curious thing here in my pocket, which I found about two miles off, if your worship will please to buy it. I should not venture to pull it out to every one; but as you are so good a gentleman, and so kind to the poor, you won't suspect a man of being a thief only be cause he is poor." He then pulled out a little gilt pocket-book, and delivered it into the hand of Jones. Jones presently opened it, and (guess, reader, what he felt), saw, in the first page, the words Sophia Western, written by her own fair hand. He no sooner read the name, than he pressed it close to his lips; nor could he avoid falling into some very frantic raptures, notwithstanding his company; but, perhaps, those very raptures made him forget he was not alone. While Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had an excellent brown buttered crust in his mouth, or as if he had really been a bookworm, or an author, who had nothing to eat but his own works, a piece of paper fell from its leaves to the ground, which Partridge took The eyes of Partridge sparkled at this news, read. Jones, who had felt nothing but pure joy and transport from the finding the book, was affected with a mixture of concern at this new discovery; for his imagination instantly suggested to him, that the owner of the bill might possibly want it, before he should be able to convey it to her. He then acquainted the finder, that he knew the lady to whom the book belonged, and would endeavour to find her out as soon as possible, and return it to her. The pocket-book was a late present from Mrs Western to her niece; it had cost five-andtwenty shillings, having been bought of a celebrated toyman; but the real value of the silver, which it contained in its clasp, was about 18d.; and that price the said toyman, as it was altogether as good as when it first issued from his shop, would now have given for it. A prudent person would, however, have taken proper vantage of the ignorance of this fellow, and would not have offered more than a shilling, or perhaps sixpence, for it; nay, some perhaps would have given nothing, and left the fellow to his action of trover, which some learned serjeants may doubt whether he could, under these circumstances, have maintained. ad Jones, on the contrary, whose character was on the outside of generosity, and may, perhaps, not very unjustly have been suspected of extravagance, without any hesitation, gave a guinea in exchange for the book. The poor man, who had not, for a long time before, been possessed of so much treasure, gave Mr Jones a thousand thanks, and discovered little less of transport in his muscles, than Jones had before shewn, Western. when he had first read the name of Sophia The fellow very readily agreed to attend our travellers to the place where he had found the pocket-book. Together, therefore, they proceeded directly thither; but not so fast as Mr Jones desired; for his guide unfortunately hapAs this place, pened to be lame, and could not possibly travel faster than a mile an hour. therefore, was at above three miles distance, |