HENRY FIELDING 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 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 renovate dolorem." are "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. cause to me, or who gets the victory, if I am killed? I What matters the 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 ett pro patria mori Nec pareit imbellil invent* Poptitibut, 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 hii dear country'! cause? "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 6ins. 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 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 ways 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 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 coward, or anything 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 can't be a good man without fighting. Vir bonus est quis? Vir bonus est quis? Qui consults patrum, qui leges juraque servat. Not a word of fighting; and I am sure the scripture is so much against it, that a man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian while he sheds Christian blood." CHAPTER IV The Adventure Of A Beggar-man UST as Partridge had uttered that good and pious doctrine, with which the last chapter concluded, they JR 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 heart. Your religion," says he, "serves you 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 because he is poor." He then pulled out a little gilt pocket-book, and delivered it into the hands 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 prest it close to his lips; nor could he avoid falling into some very frantic raptures, notwithstanding his company; but, perhaps, these 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 book-worm, 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 up, and delivered to Jones, who presently perceived it to be a bank-bill. It was, indeed, the very bill which Western had given his daughter the night before her departure; and a Jew would have jumped to purchase it at five shillings less than fioo. The eyes of Partridge Sparkled at this news, which Jones now proclaimed aloud; and so did (though with somewhat a different aspect) those of the poor fellow who had found the book; and who (I hope from a principle of honesty) had never Opened It but we Should not deal honestly by the reader If we omitted to Inform him of a circumstance which may be here a little material, viz. that the fellow. could not read. Jones, who had felt hOthlng 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 her. The pocket-book was a late present from Mrs. Western to her niece; it had cost five-and-twenty shillings, having been bought of a Celebrated toyman; but the real value of the silver Which it contained lh Its clasp was about elghteen-pence; 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 advantage Of the Ignorance of this fellow, and would hot 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. 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 |