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by Henry Fielding
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Title: The History of Tom Jones, a foundling
Author: Henry Fielding
Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6593]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on December 29, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING ***
Carlo Traverso, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
The present edition, produced by Distributed Proofreaders, has been
cross-checked with 2 other different editions available on-line.
Henry Fielding
The History of Tom Jones, a foundling.
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
BOOK I -- CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS
NECESSARY OR PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF
THIS HISTORY.
Chapter i -- The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the
feast.
Chapter ii -- A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller
account of Miss Bridget Allworthy, his sister.
Chapter iii -- An odd accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his return
home. The decent behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper
animadversions on bastards.
Chapter iv -- The reader's neck brought into danger by a description;
his escape; and the great condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy.
Chapter v -- Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon
observation upon them.
Chapter vi -- Mrs Deborah is introduced into the parish with a
simile. A short account of Jenny Jones, with the difficulties and
discouragements which may attend young women in the pursuit of
learning.
Chapter vii -- Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot
laugh once through the whole chapter, unless peradventure he should
laugh at the author.
Chapter viii -- A dialogue between Mesdames Bridget and Deborah;
containing more amusement, but less instruction, than the former.
Chapter ix -- Containing matters which will surprize the reader.
Chapter x -- The hospitality of Allworthy; with a short sketch of the
characters of two brothers, a doctor and a captain, who were
entertained by that gentleman.
Chapter xi -- Containing many rules, and some examples, concerning
falling in love: descriptions of beauty, and other more prudential
inducements to matrimony.
Chapter xii -- Containing what the reader may, perhaps, expect to find
in it.
Chapter xiii -- Which concludes the first book; with an instance of
ingratitude, which, we hope, will appear unnatural.
BOOK II -- CONTAINING SCENES OF MATRIMONIAL FELICITY IN DIFFERENT
DEGREES OF LIFE; AND VARIOUS OTHER TRANSACTIONS DURING THE FIRST TWO
YEARS AFTER THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN CAPTAIN BLIFIL AND MISS BRIDGET
ALLWORTHY.
Chapter i -- Showing what kind of a history this is; what it is like,
and what it is not like.
Chapter ii -- Religious cautions against showing too much favour to
bastards; and a great discovery made by Mrs Deborah Wilkins.
Chapter iii -- The description of a domestic government founded upon
rules directly contrary to those of Aristotle.
Chapter iv -- Containing one of the most bloody battles, or rather
duels, that were ever recorded in domestic history.
Chapter v -- Containing much matter to exercise the judgment and
reflection of the reader.
Chapter vi -- The trial of Partridge, the schoolmaster, for
incontinency; the evidence of his wife; a short reflection on the
wisdom of our law; with other grave matters, which those will like
best who understand them most.
Chapter vii -- A short sketch of that felicity which prudent couples
may extract from hatred: with a short apology for those people who
overlook imperfections in their friends.
Chapter viii -- A receipt to regain the lost affections of a wife,
which hath never been known to fail in the most desperate cases.
Chapter ix -- A proof of the infallibility of the foregoing receipt,
in the lamentations of the widow; with other suitable decorations of
death, such as physicians, &c., and an epitaph in the true stile.
BOOK III -- CONTAINING THE MOST MEMORABLE TRANSACTIONS WHICH PASSED IN
THE FAMILY OF MR ALLWORTHY, FROM THE TIME WHEN TOMMY JONES ARRIVED AT
THE AGE OF FOURTEEN, TILL HE ATTAINED THE AGE OF NINETEEN. IN THIS
BOOK THE READER MAY PICK UP SOME HINTS CONCERNING THE EDUCATION OF
CHILDREN.
Chapter i -- Containing little or nothing.
Chapter ii -- The heroe of this great history appears with very bad
omens. A little tale of so LOW a kind that some may think it not worth
their notice. A word or two concerning a squire, and more relating to
a gamekeeper and a schoolmaster.
Chapter iii -- The character of Mr Square the philosopher, and of Mr
Thwackum the divine; with a dispute concerning----
Chapter iv.
Containing a necessary apology for the author; and a childish
incident, which perhaps requires an apology likewise --
Chapter v. -- The opinions of the divine and the philosopher
concerning the two boys; with some reasons for their opinions, and
other matters.
Chapter vi -- Containing a better reason still for the
before-mentioned opinions.
Chapter vii -- In which the author himself makes his appearance on the
stage.
Chapter viii -- A childish incident, in which, however, is seen a
good-natured disposition in Tom Jones.
Chapter ix -- Containing an incident of a more heinous kind, with the
comments of Thwackum and Square.
Chapter x -- In which Master Blifil and Jones appear in different
lights.
BOOK IV -- CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR.
Chapter i -- Containing five pages of paper.
Chapter ii -- A short hint of what we can do in the sublime, and a
description of Miss Sophia Western.
Chapter iii -- Wherein the history goes back to commemorate a trifling
incident that happened some years since; but which, trifling as it
was, had some future consequences.
Chapter iv -- Containing such very deep and grave matters, that some
readers, perhaps, may not relish it.
Chapter v -- Containing matter accommodated to every taste.
Chapter vi -- An apology for the insensibility of Mr Jones to all the
charms of the lovely Sophia; in which possibly we may, in a
considerable degree, lower his character in the estimation of those
men of wit and gallantry who approve the heroes in most of our modern
comedies.
Chapter vii -- Being the shortest chapter in this book.
Chapter viii -- A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican style, and
which none but the classical reader can taste.
Chapter ix -- Containing matter of no very peaceable colour.
Chapter x -- A story told by Mr Supple, the curate. The penetration of
Squire Western. His great love for his daughter, and the return to it
made by her.
Chapter xi -- The narrow escape of Molly Seagrim, with some
observations for which we have been forced to dive pretty deep into
nature.
Chapter xii -- Containing much clearer matters; but which flowed from
the same fountain with those in the preceding chapter.
Chapter xiii -- A dreadful accident which befel Sophia. The gallant
behaviour of Jones, and the more dreadful consequence of that
behaviour to the young lady; with a short digression in favour of the
female sex.
Chapter xiv -- The arrival of a surgeon.--His operations, and a long
dialogue between Sophia and her maid.
BOOK V -- CONTAINING A PORTION OF TIME SOMEWHAT LONGER THAN HALF A
YEAR.
Chapter i -- Of the SERIOUS in writing, and for what purpose it is
introduced.
Chapter ii -- In which Mr Jones receives many friendly visits during
his confinement; with some fine touches of the passion of love, scarce
visible to the naked eye.
Chapter iii -- Which all who have no heart will think to contain much
ado about nothing.
Chapter iv -- A little chapter, in which is contained a little
incident.
Chapter v -- A very long chapter, containing a very great incident.
Chapter vi -- By comparing which with the former, the reader may
possibly correct some abuse which he hath formerly been guilty of in
the application of the word love.
Chapter vii -- In which Mr Allworthy appears on a sick-bed.
Chapter viii -- Containing matter rather natural than pleasing.
Chapter ix -- Which, among other things, may serve as a comment on
that saying of Aeschines, that "drunkenness shows the mind of a man,
as a mirrour reflects his person."
Chapter x -- Showing the truth of many observations of Ovid, and of
other more grave writers, who have proved beyond contradiction, that
wine is often the forerunner of incontinency.
Chapter xi -- In which a simile in Mr Pope's period of a mile
introduces as bloody a battle as can possibly be fought without the
assistance of steel or cold iron.
Chapter xii -- In which is seen a more moving spectacle than all the
blood in the bodies of Thwackum and Blifil, and of twenty other such,
is capable of producing.
BOOK VI -- CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS.
Chapter i -- Of love.
Chapter ii -- The character of Mrs Western. Her great learning and
knowledge of the world, and an instance of the deep penetration which
she derived from those advantages.
Chapter iii -- Containing two defiances to the critics.
Chapter iv -- Containing sundry curious matters.
Chapter v -- In which is related what passed between Sophia and her
aunt.
Chapter vi -- Containing a dialogue between Sophia and Mrs Honour,
which may a little relieve those tender affections which the foregoing
scene may have raised in the mind of a good-natured reader.
Chapter vii -- A picture of formal courtship in miniature, as it
always ought to be drawn, and a scene of a tenderer kind painted at
full length.
Chapter viii -- The meeting between Jones and Sophia.
Chapter ix -- Being of a much more tempestuous kind than the former.
Chapter x -- In which Mr Western visits Mr Allworthy.
Chapter xi -- A short chapter; but which contains sufficient matter to
affect the good-natured reader.
Chapter xii -- Containing love-letters, &c.
Chapter xiii -- The behaviour of Sophia on the present occasion; which
none of her sex will blame, who are capable of behaving in the same
manner. And the discussion of a knotty point in the court of
conscience.
Chapter xiv -- A short chapter, containing a short dialogue between
Squire Western and his sister.
BOOK VII -- CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i -- A comparison between the world and the stage.
Chapter ii -- Containing a conversation which Mr Jones had with
himself.
Chapter iii -- Containing several dialogues.
Chapter iv -- A picture of a country gentlewoman taken from the life.
Chapter v -- The generous behaviour of Sophia towards her aunt.
Chapter vi -- Containing great variety of matter.
Chapter vii -- A strange resolution of Sophia, and a more strange
stratagem of Mrs Honour.
Chapter viii -- Containing scenes of altercation, of no very uncommon
kind.
Chapter ix -- The wise demeanour of Mr Western in the character of a
magistrate. A hint to justices of peace, concerning the necessary
qualifications of a clerk; with extraordinary instances of paternal
madness and filial affection.
Chapter x -- Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but
low.
Chapter xi -- The adventure of a company of soldiers.
Chapter xii -- The adventure of a company of officers.
Chapter xiii -- Containing the great address of the landlady, the
great learning of a surgeon, and the solid skill in casuistry of the
worthy lieutenant.
Chapter xiv -- A most dreadful chapter indeed; and which few readers
ought to venture upon in an evening, especially when alone.
Chapter xv -- The conclusion of the foregoing adventure.
BOOK VIII -- CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i -- A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being
much the longest of all our introductory chapters.
Chapter ii -- In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones.
Chapter iii -- In which the surgeon makes his second appearance.
Chapter iv -- In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers
that was ever recorded in history, the barber of Bagdad, or he in Don
Quixote, not excepted.
Chapter v -- A dialogue between Mr Jones and the barber.
Chapter vi -- In which more of the talents of Mr Benjamin will appear,
as well as who this extraordinary person was.
Chapter vii -- Containing better reasons than any which have yet
appeared for the conduct of Partridge; an apology for the weakness of
Jones; and some further anecdotes concerning my landlady.
Chapter viii -- Jones arrives at Gloucester, and goes to the Bell; the
character of that house, and of a petty-fogger which he there meets
with.
Chapter ix -- Containing several dialogues between Jones and
Partridge, concerning love, cold, hunger, and other matters; with the
lucky and narrow escape of Partridge, as he was on the very brink of
making a fatal discovery to his friend.
Chapter x -- In which our travellers meet with a very extraordinary
adventure.
Chapter xi -- In which the Man of the Hill begins to relate his
history.
Chapter xii -- In which the Man of the Hill continues his history.
Chapter xiii -- In which the foregoing story is farther continued.
Chapter xiv -- In which the Man of the Hill concludes his history.
Chapter xv -- A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse
between Mr Jones and the Man of the Hill.
BOOK IX -- CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i -- Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not,
write such histories as this.
Chapter ii -- Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed, which Mr
Jones met with in his walk with the Man of the Hill.
Chapter iii -- The arrival of Mr Jones with his lady at the inn; with
a very full description of the battle of Upton.
Chapter iv -- In which the arrival of a man of war puts a final end to
hostilities, and causes the conclusion of a firm and lasting peace
between all parties.
Chapter v -- An apology for all heroes who have good stomachs, with a
description of a battle of the amorous kind.
Chapter vi -- A friendly conversation in the kitchen, which had a very
common, though not very friendly, conclusion.
Chapter vii -- Containing a fuller account of Mrs Waters, and by what
means she came into that distressful situation from which she was
rescued by Jones.
BOOK X -- IN WHICH THE HISTORY GOES FORWARD ABOUT TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i -- Containing instructions very necessary to be perused by
modern critics.
Chapter ii -- Containing the arrival of an Irish gentleman, with very
extraordinary adventures which ensued at the inn.
Chapter iii -- A dialogue between the landlady and Susan the
chamber-maid, proper to be read by all inn-keepers and their servants;
with the arrival, and affable behaviour of a beautiful young lady;
which may teach persons of condition how they may acquire the love of
the whole world.
Chapter iv -- Containing infallible nostrums for procuring universal
disesteem and hatred.
Chapter v -- Showing who the amiable lady, and her unamiable maid,
were.
Chapter vi -- Containing, among other things, the ingenuity of
Partridge, the madness of Jones, and the folly of Fitzpatrick.
Chapter vii -- In which are concluded the adventures that happened at
the inn at Upton.
Chapter viii -- In which the history goes backward.
Chapter ix -- The escape of Sophia.
BOOK XI -- CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS.
Chapter i -- A crust for the critics.
Chapter ii -- The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving
Upton.
Chapter iii -- A very short chapter, in which however is a sun, a
moon, a star, and an angel.
Chapter iv -- The history of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Chapter v -- In which the history of Mrs Fitzpatrick is continued.
Chapter vi -- In which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia into
a dreadful consternation.
Chapter vii -- In which Mrs Fitzpatrick concludes her history.
Chapter viii -- A dreadful alarm in the inn, with the arrival of an
unexpected friend of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Chapter ix -- The morning introduced in some pretty writing. A
stagecoach. The civility of chambermaids. The heroic temper of
Sophia. Her generosity. The return to it. The departure of the
company, and their arrival at London; with some remarks for the use of
travellers.
Chapter x -- Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few
more concerning suspicion.
BOOK XII -- CONTAINING THE SAME INDIVIDUAL TIME WITH THE FORMER.
Chapter i -- Showing what is to be deemed plagiarism in a modern
author, and what is to be considered as lawful prize.
Chapter ii -- In which, though the squire doth not find his daughter,
something is found which puts an end to his pursuit.
Chapter iii -- The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed
between him and Partridge on the road.
Chapter iv -- The adventure of a beggar-man.
Chapter v -- Containing more adventures which Mr Jones and his
companion met on the road.
Chapter vi -- From which it may be inferred that the best things are
liable to be misunderstood and misinterpreted.
Chapter vii -- Containing a remark or two of our own and many more of
the good company assembled in the kitchen.
Chapter viii -- In which fortune seems to have been in a better humour
with Jones than we have hitherto seen her.
Chapter ix -- Containing little more than a few odd observations.
Chapter x -- In which Mr Jones and Mr Dowling drink a bottle together.
Chapter xi -- The disasters which befel Jones on his departure for
Coventry; with the sage remarks of Partridge.
Chapter xii -- Relates that Mr Jones continued his journey, contrary
to the advice of Partridge, with what happened on that occasion.
Chapter xiii -- A dialogue between Jones and Partridge.
Chapter xiv -- What happened to Mr Jones in his journey from St
Albans.
BOOK XIII -- CONTAINING THE SPACE OF TWELVE DAYS.
Chapter i -- An Invocation.
Chapter ii -- What befel Mr Jones on his arrival in London.
Chapter iii -- A project of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and her visit to Lady
Bellaston.
Chapter iv -- Which consists of visiting.
Chapter v -- An adventure which happened to Mr Jones at his lodgings,
with some account of a young gentleman who lodged there, and of the
mistress of the house, and her two daughters.
Chapter vi -- What arrived while the company were at breakfast, with
some hints concerning the government of daughters.
Chapter vii -- Containing the whole humours of a masquerade.
Chapter viii -- Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very
extraordinary to most of our readers.
Chapter ix -- Which treats of matters of a very different kind from
those in the preceding chapter.
Chapter x -- A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some
eyes.
Chapter xi -- In which the reader will be surprized.
Chapter xii -- In which the thirteenth book is concluded.
BOOK XIV -- CONTAINING TWO DAYS.
Chapter i -- An essay to prove that an author will write the better
for having some knowledge of the subject on which he writes.
Chapter ii -- Containing letters and other matters which attend
amours.
Chapter iii -- Containing various matters.
Chapter iv -- Which we hope will be very attentively perused by young
people of both sexes.
Chapter v -- A short account of the history of Mrs Miller.
Chapter vi -- Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all
our readers.
Chapter vii -- The interview between Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale.
Chapter viii -- What passed between Jones and old Mr Nightingale; with
the arrival of a person not yet mentioned in this history.
Chapter ix -- Containing strange matters.
Chapter x -- A short chapter, which concludes the book.
BOOK XV -- IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i -- Too short to need a preface.
Chapter ii -- In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.
Chapter iii -- A further explanation of the foregoing design.
Chapter iv -- By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a lady
is when she applies her eloquence to an ill purpose.
Chapter v -- Containing some matters which may affect, and others
which may surprize, the reader.
Chapter vi -- By what means the squire came to discover his daughter.
Chapter vii -- In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.
Chapter viii -- Short and sweet.
Chapter ix -- Containing love-letters of several sorts.
Chapter x -- Consisting partly of facts, and partly of observations
upon them.
Chapter xi -- Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter.
Chapter xii -- A discovery made by Partridge.
BOOK XVI -- CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS.
Chapter i -- Of prologues.
Chapter ii -- A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the
distressed situation of Sophia.
Chapter iii -- What happened to Sophia during her confinement.
Chapter iv -- In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement.
Chapter v -- In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to
a play with Mrs Miller and Partridge.
Chapter vi -- In which the history is obliged to look back.
Chapter vii -- In which Mr Western pays a visit to his sister, in
company with Mr Blifil.
Chapter viii -- Schemes of Lady Bellaston for the ruin of Jones.
Chapter ix -- In which Jones pays a visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Chapter x -- The consequence of the preceding visit.
BOOK XVII -- CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i -- Containing a portion of introductory writing.
Chapter ii -- The generous and grateful behaviour of Mrs Miller.
Chapter iii -- The arrival of Mr Western, with some matters concerning
the paternal authority.
Chapter iv -- An extraordinary scene between Sophia and her aunt.
Chapter v -- Mrs Miller and Mr Nightingale visit Jones in the prison.
Chapter vi -- In which Mrs Miller pays a visit to Sophia.
Chapter vii -- A pathetic scene between Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller.
Chapter viii -- Containing various matters.
Chapter ix -- What happened to Mr Jones in the prison.
BOOK XVIII -- CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS.
Chapter i -- A farewel to the reader.
Chapter ii -- Containing a very tragical incident.
Chapter iii -- Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange
discovery that he made on that occasion.
Chapter iv -- Containing two letters in very different stiles.
Chapter v -- In which the history is continued.
Chapter vi -- In which the history is farther continued.
Chapter vii -- Continuation of the history.
Chapter viii -- Further continuation.
Chapter ix -- A further continuation.
Chapter x -- Wherein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion.
Chapter xi -- The history draws nearer to a conclusion.
Chapter xii -- Approaching still nearer to the end.
Chapter the last -- In which the history is concluded.
To the Honourable
GEORGE LYTTLETON, ESQ;
One of the Lords Commissioners of the Treasury.
Sir,
Notwithstanding your constant refusal, when I have asked leave to
prefix your name to this dedication, I must still insist on my right
to desire your protection of this work.
To you, Sir, it is owing that this history was ever begun. It was by
your desire that I first thought of such a composition. So many years
have since past, that you may have, perhaps, forgotten this
circumstance: but your desires are to me in the nature of commands;
and the impression of them is never to be erased from my memory.
Again, Sir, without your assistance this history had never been
completed. Be not startled at the assertion. I do not intend to draw
on you the suspicion of being a romance writer. I mean no more than
that I partly owe to you my existence during great part of the time
which I have employed in composing it: another matter which it may be
necessary to remind you of; since there are certain actions of which
you are apt to be extremely forgetful; but of these I hope I shall
always have a better memory than yourself.
Lastly, It is owing to you that the history appears what it now is. If
there be in this work, as some have been pleased to say, a stronger
picture of a truly benevolent mind than is to be found in any other,
who that knows you, and a particular acquaintance of yours, will doubt
whence that benevolence hath been copied? The world will not, I
believe, make me the compliment of thinking I took it from myself. I
care not: this they shall own, that the two persons from whom I have
taken it, that is to say, two of the best and worthiest men in the
world, are strongly and zealously my friends. I might be contented
with this, and yet my vanity will add a third to the number; and him
one of the greatest and noblest, not only in his rank, but in every
public and private virtue. But here, whilst my gratitude for the
princely benefactions of the Duke of Bedford bursts from my heart, you
must forgive my reminding you that it was you who first recommended me
to the notice of my benefactor.
And what are your objections to the allowance of the honour which I
have sollicited? Why, you have commended the book so warmly, that you
should be ashamed of reading your name before the dedication. Indeed,
sir, if the book itself doth not make you ashamed of your
commendations, nothing that I can here write will, or ought. I am not
to give up my right to your protection and patronage, because you have
commended my book: for though I acknowledge so many obligations to
you, I do not add this to the number; in which friendship, I am
convinced, hath so little share: since that can neither biass your
judgment, nor pervert your integrity. An enemy may at any time obtain
your commendation by only deserving it; and the utmost which the
faults of your friends can hope for, is your silence; or, perhaps, if
too severely accused, your gentle palliation.
In short, sir, I suspect, that your dislike of public praise is your
true objection to granting my request. I have observed that you have,
in common with my two other friends, an unwillingness to hear the
least mention of your own virtues; that, as a great poet says of one
of you, (he might justly have said it of all three), you
_Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame_.
If men of this disposition are as careful to shun applause, as others
are to escape censure, how just must be your apprehension of your
character falling into my hands; since what would not a man have
reason to dread, if attacked by an author who had received from him
injuries equal to my obligations to you!
And will not this dread of censure increase in proportion to the
matter which a man is conscious of having afforded for it? If his
whole life, for instance, should have been one continued subject of
satire, he may well tremble when an incensed satirist takes him in
hand. Now, sir, if we apply this to your modest aversion to panegyric,
how reasonable will your fears of me appear!
Yet surely you might have gratified my ambition, from this single
confidence, that I shall always prefer the indulgence of your
inclinations to the satisfaction of my own. A very strong instance of
which I shall give you in this address, in which I am determined to
follow the example of all other dedicators, and will consider not what
my patron really deserves to have written, but what he will be best
pleased to read.
Without further preface then, I here present you with the labours of
some years of my life. What merit these labours have is already known
to yourself. If, from your favourable judgment, I have conceived some
esteem for them, it cannot be imputed to vanity; since I should have
agreed as implicitly to your opinion, had it been given in favour of
any other man's production. Negatively, at least, I may be allowed to
say, that had I been sensible of any great demerit in the work, you
are the last person to whose protection I would have ventured to
recommend it.
From the name of my patron, indeed, I hope my reader will be
convinced, at his very entrance on this work, that he will find in the
whole course of it nothing prejudicial to the cause of religion and
virtue, nothing inconsistent with the strictest rules of decency, nor
which can offend even the chastest eye in the perusal. On the
contrary, I declare, that to recommend goodness and innocence hath
been my sincere endeavour in this history. This honest purpose you
have been pleased to think I have attained: and to say the truth, it
is likeliest to be attained in books of this kind; for an example is a
kind of picture, in which virtue becomes, as it were, an object of
sight, and strikes us with an idea of that loveliness, which Plato
asserts there is in her naked charms.
Besides displaying that beauty of virtue which may attract the
admiration of mankind, I have attempted to engage a stronger motive to
human action in her favour, by convincing men, that their true
interest directs them to a pursuit of her. For this purpose I have
shown that no acquisitions of guilt can compensate the loss of that
solid inward comfort of mind, which is the sure companion of innocence
and virtue; nor can in the least balance the evil of that horror and
anxiety which, in their room, guilt introduces into our bosoms. And
again, that as these acquisitions are in themselves generally
worthless, so are the means to attain them not only base and infamous,
but at best incertain, and always full of danger. Lastly, I have
endeavoured strongly to inculcate, that virtue and innocence can
scarce ever be injured but by indiscretion; and that it is this alone
which often betrays them into the snares that deceit and villainy
spread for them. A moral which I have the more industriously laboured,
as the teaching it is, of all others, the likeliest to be attended
with success; since, I believe, it is much easier to make good men
wise, than to make bad men good.
For these purposes I have employed all the wit and humour of which I
am master in the following history; wherein I have endeavoured to
laugh mankind out of their favourite follies and vices. How far I have
succeeded in this good attempt, I shall submit to the candid reader,
with only two requests: First, that he will not expect to find
perfection in this work; and Secondly, that he will excuse some parts
of it, if they fall short of that little merit which I hope may appear
in others.
I will detain you, sir, no longer. Indeed I have run into a preface,
while I professed to write a dedication. But how can it be otherwise?
I dare not praise you; and the only means I know of to avoid it, when
you are in my thoughts, are either to be entirely silent, or to turn
my thoughts to some other subject.
Pardon, therefore, what I have said in this epistle, not only without
your consent, but absolutely against it; and give me at least leave,
in this public manner, to declare that I am, with the highest respect
and gratitude,--
Sir,
Your most obliged,
Obedient, humble servant,
HENRY FIELDING.
The History of Tom Jones, A FOUNDLING.
BOOK I.
CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS NECESSARY OR
PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS HISTORY.
Chapter i.
The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast.
An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a
private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public
ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. In the
former case, it is well known that the entertainer provides what fare
he pleases; and though this should be very indifferent, and utterly
disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not find any
fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to
approve and to commend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary
of this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what
they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and
whimsical these may prove; and if everything is not agreeable to their
taste, will challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to d--n their
dinner without controul.
To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such
disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and well-meaning
host to provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse at their
first entrance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves
with the entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and
regale with what is provided for them, or may depart to some other
ordinary better accommodated to their taste.
As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is
capable of lending us either, we have condescended to take a hint from
these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a general bill of
fare to our whole entertainment, but shall likewise give the reader
particular bills to every course which is to be served up in this and
the ensuing volumes.
The provision, then, which we have here made is no other than _Human
Nature_. Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, though most luxurious
in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, because I have named
but one article. The tortoise--as the alderman of Bristol, well
learned in eating, knows by much experience--besides the delicious
calipash and calipee, contains many different kinds of food; nor can
the learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here
collected under one general name, is such prodigious variety, that a
cook will have sooner gone through all the several species of animal
and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to
exhaust so extensive a subject.
An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more delicate, that
this dish is too common and vulgar; for what else is the subject of
all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with which the stalls
abound? Many exquisite viands might be rejected by the epicure, if it
was a sufficient cause for his contemning of them as common and
vulgar, that something was to be found in the most paltry alleys under
the same name. In reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with
in authors, as the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be found in
the shops.
But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the cookery
of the author; for, as Mr Pope tells us--
"True wit is nature to advantage drest;
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest."
The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh
eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part,
and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in
town. Where, then, lies the difference between the food of the
nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf,
but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garnishing, and the setting
forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite,
and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest.
In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment consists
less in the subject than in the author's skill in well dressing it up.
How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to find that we have, in
the following work, adhered closely to one of the highest principles
of the best cook which the present age, or perhaps that of
Heliogabalus, hath produced. This great man, as is well known to all
lovers of polite eating, begins at first by setting plain things
before his hungry guests, rising afterwards by degrees as their
stomachs may be supposed to decrease, to the very quintessence of
sauce and spices. In like manner, we shall represent human nature at
first to the keen appetite of our reader, in that more plain and
simple manner in which it is found in the country, and shall hereafter
hash and ragoo it with all the high French and Italian seasoning of
affectation and vice which courts and cities afford. By these means,
we doubt not but our reader may be rendered desirous to read on for
ever, as the great person just above-mentioned is supposed to have
made some persons eat.
Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who like our bill
of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed directly to serve
up the first course of our history for their entertainment.
Chapter ii.
A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller account of Miss
Bridget Allworthy, his sister.
In that part of the western division of this kingdom which is commonly
called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and perhaps lives still, a
gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and who might well be called the
favourite of both nature and fortune; for both of these seem to have
contended which should bless and enrich him most. In this contention,
nature may seem to some to have come off victorious, as she bestowed
on him many gifts, while fortune had only one gift in her power; but
in pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others perhaps
may think this single endowment to have been more than equivalent to
all the various blessings which he enjoyed from nature. From the
former of these, he derived an agreeable person, a sound constitution,
a solid understanding, and a benevolent heart; by the latter, he was
decreed to the inheritance of one of the largest estates in the
county.
This gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and beautiful
woman, of whom he had been extremely fond: by her he had three
children, all of whom died in their infancy. He had likewise had the
misfortune of burying this beloved wife herself, about five years
before the time in which this history chuses to set out. This loss,
however great, he bore like a man of sense and constancy, though it
must be confest he would often talk a little whimsically on this head;
for he sometimes said he looked on himself as still married, and
considered his wife as only gone a little before him, a journey which
he should most certainly, sooner or later, take after her; and that he
had not the least doubt of meeting her again in a place where he
should never part with her more--sentiments for which his sense was
arraigned by one part of his neighbours, his religion by a second, and
his sincerity by a third.
He now lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with one
sister, for whom he had a very tender affection. This lady was now
somewhat past the age of thirty, an aera at which, in the opinion of
the malicious, the title of old maid may with no impropriety be
assumed. She was of that species of women whom you commend rather for
good qualities than beauty, and who are generally called, by their own
sex, very good sort of women--as good a sort of woman, madam, as you
would wish to know. Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of
beauty, that she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be called
one, without contempt; and would often thank God she was not as
handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty had led into errors
which she might have otherwise avoided. Miss Bridget Allworthy (for
that was the name of this lady) very rightly conceived the charms of
person in a woman to be no better than snares for herself, as well as
for others; and yet so discreet was she in her conduct, that her
prudence was as much on the guard as if she had all the snares to
apprehend which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have
observed, though it may seem unaccountable to the reader, that this
guard of prudence, like the trained bands, is always readiest to go on
duty where there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly
deserts those paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sighing,
dying, and spreading, every net in their power; and constantly attends
at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the other sex have
a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from despair, I suppose,
of success) they never venture to attack.
Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to
acquaint thee that I intend to digress, through this whole history, as
often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better judge than any
pitiful critic whatever; and here I must desire all those critics to
mind their own business, and not to intermeddle with affairs or works
which no ways concern them; for till they produce the authority by
which they are constituted judges, I shall not plead to their
jurisdiction.
Chapter iii.
An odd accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his return home. The
decent behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper
animadversions on bastards.
I have told my reader, in the preceding chapter, that Mr Allworthy
inherited a large fortune; that he had a good heart, and no family.
Hence, doubtless, it will be concluded by many that he lived like an
honest man, owed no one a shilling, took nothing but what was his own,
kept a good house, entertained his neighbours with a hearty welcome at
his table, and was charitable to the poor, i.e. to those who had
rather beg than work, by giving them the offals from it; that he died
immensely rich and built an hospital.
And true it is that he did many of these things; but had he done
nothing more I should have left him to have recorded his own merit on
some fair freestone over the door of that hospital. Matters of a much
more extraordinary kind are to be the subject of this history, or I
should grossly mis-spend my time in writing so voluminous a work; and
you, my sagacious friend, might with equal profit and pleasure travel
through some pages which certain droll authors have been facetiously
pleased to call _The History of England_.
Mr Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on
some very particular business, though I know not what it was; but
judge of its importance by its having detained him so long from home,
whence he had not been absent a month at a time during the space of
many years. He came to his house very late in the evening, and after a
short supper with his sister, retired much fatigued to his chamber.
Here, having spent some minutes on his knees--a custom which he never
broke through on any account--he was preparing to step into bed, when,
upon opening the cloathes, to his great surprize he beheld an infant,
wrapt up in some coarse linen, in a sweet and profound sleep, between
his sheets. He stood some time lost in astonishment at this sight;
but, as good nature had always the ascendant in his mind, he soon
began to be touched with sentiments of compassion for the little
wretch before him. He then rang his bell, and ordered an elderly
woman-servant to rise immediately, and come to him; and in the
meantime was so eager in contemplating the beauty of innocence,
appearing in those lively colours with which infancy and sleep always
display it, that his thoughts were too much engaged to reflect that he
was in his shirt when the matron came in. She had indeed given her
master sufficient time to dress himself; for out of respect to him,
and regard to decency, she had spent many minutes in adjusting her
hair at the looking-glass, notwithstanding all the hurry in which she
had been summoned by the servant, and though her master, for aught she
knew, lay expiring in an apoplexy, or in some other fit.
It will not be wondered at that a creature who had so strict a regard
to decency in her own person, should be shocked at the least deviation
from it in another. She therefore no sooner opened the door, and saw
her master standing by the bedside in his shirt, with a candle in his
hand, than she started back in a most terrible fright, and might
perhaps have swooned away, had he not now recollected his being
undrest, and put an end to her terrors by desiring her to stay without
the door till he had thrown some cloathes over his back, and was
become incapable of shocking the pure eyes of Mrs Deborah Wilkins,
who, though in the fifty-second year of her age, vowed she had never
beheld a man without his coat. Sneerers and prophane wits may perhaps
laugh at her first fright; yet my graver reader, when he considers the
time of night, the summons from her bed, and the situation in which
she found her master, will highly justify and applaud her conduct,
unless the prudence which must be supposed to attend maidens at that
period of life at which Mrs Deborah had arrived, should a little
lessen his admiration.
When Mrs Deborah returned into the room, and was acquainted by her
master with the finding the little infant, her consternation was
rather greater than his had been; nor could she refrain from crying
out, with great horror of accent as well as look, "My good sir! what's
to be done?" Mr Allworthy answered, she must take care of the child
that evening, and in the morning he would give orders to provide it a
nurse. "Yes, sir," says she; "and I hope your worship will send out
your warrant to take up the hussy its mother, for she must be one of
the neighbourhood; and I should be glad to see her committed to
Bridewell, and whipt at the cart's tail. Indeed, such wicked sluts
cannot be too severely punished. I'll warrant 'tis not her first, by
her impudence in laying it to your worship." "In laying it to me,
Deborah!" answered Allworthy: "I can't think she hath any such design.
I suppose she hath only taken this method to provide for her child;
and truly I am glad she hath not done worse." "I don't know what is
worse," cries Deborah, "than for such wicked strumpets to lay their
sins at honest men's doors; and though your worship knows your own
innocence, yet the world is censorious; and it hath been many an
honest man's hap to pass for the father of children he never begot;
and if your worship should provide for the child, it may make the
people the apter to believe; besides, why should your worship provide
for what the parish is obliged to maintain? For my own part, if it was
an honest man's child, indeed--but for my own part, it goes against me
to touch these misbegotten wretches, whom I don't look upon as my
fellow-creatures. Faugh! how it stinks! It doth not smell like a
Christian. If I might be so bold to give my advice, I would have it
put in a basket, and sent out and laid at the churchwarden's door. It
is a good night, only a little rainy and windy; and if it was well
wrapt up, and put in a warm basket, it is two to one but it lives till
it is found in the morning. But if it should not, we have discharged
our duty in taking proper care of it; and it is, perhaps, better for
such creatures to die in a state of innocence, than to grow up and
imitate their mothers; for nothing better can be expected of them."
There were some strokes in this speech which perhaps would have
offended Mr Allworthy, had he strictly attended to it; but he had now
got one of his fingers into the infant's hand, which, by its gentle
pressure, seeming to implore his assistance, had certainly out-pleaded
the eloquence of Mrs Deborah, had it been ten times greater than it
was. He now gave Mrs Deborah positive orders to take the child to her
own bed, and to call up a maid-servant to provide it pap, and other
things, against it waked. He likewise ordered that proper cloathes
should be procured for it early in the morning, and that it should be
brought to himself as soon as he was stirring.
Such was the discernment of Mrs Wilkins, and such the respect she bore
her master, under whom she enjoyed a most excellent place, that her
scruples gave way to his peremptory commands; and she took the child
under her arms, without any apparent disgust at the illegality of its
birth; and declaring it was a sweet little infant, walked off with it
to her own chamber.
Allworthy here betook himself to those pleasing slumbers which a heart
that hungers after goodness is apt to enjoy when thoroughly satisfied.
As these are possibly sweeter than what are occasioned by any other
hearty meal, I should take more pains to display them to the reader,
if I knew any air to recommend him to for the procuring such an
appetite.
Chapter iv.
The reader's neck brought into danger by a description; his escape;
and the great condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy.
The Gothic stile of building could produce nothing nobler than Mr
Allworthy's house. There was an air of grandeur in it that struck you
with awe, and rivalled the beauties of the best Grecian architecture;
and it was as commodious within as venerable without.
It stood on the south-east side of a hill, but nearer the bottom than
the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the north-east by a grove of
old oaks which rose above it in a gradual ascent of near half a mile,
and yet high enough to enjoy a most charming prospect of the valley
beneath.
In the midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down towards the
house, near the summit of which rose a plentiful spring, gushing out
of a rock covered with firs, and forming a constant cascade of about
thirty feet, not carried down a regular flight of steps, but tumbling
in a natural fall over the broken and mossy stones till it came to the
bottom of the rock, then running off in a pebly channel, that with
many lesser falls winded along, till it fell into a lake at the foot
of the hill, about a quarter of a mile below the house on the south
side, and which was seen from every room in the front. Out of this
lake, which filled the center of a beautiful plain, embellished with
groups of beeches and elms, and fed with sheep, issued a river, that
for several miles was seen to meander through an amazing variety of
meadows and woods till it emptied itself into the sea, with a large
arm of which, and an island beyond it, the prospect was closed.
On the right of this valley opened another of less extent, adorned
with several villages, and terminated by one of the towers of an old
ruined abby, grown over with ivy, and part of the front, which
remained still entire.
The left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, composed
of very unequal ground, and agreeably varied with all the diversity
that hills, lawns, wood, and water, laid out with admirable taste, but
owing less to art than to nature, could give. Beyond this, the country
gradually rose into a ridge of wild mountains, the tops of which were
above the clouds.
It was now the middle of May, and the morning was remarkably serene,
when Mr Allworthy walked forth on the terrace, where the dawn opened
every minute that lovely prospect we have before described to his eye;
and now having sent forth streams of light, which ascended the blue
firmament before him, as harbingers preceding his pomp, in the full
blaze of his majesty rose the sun, than which one object alone in this
lower creation could be more glorious, and that Mr Allworthy himself
presented--a human being replete with benevolence, meditating in what
manner he might render himself most acceptable to his Creator, by
doing most good to his creatures.
Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of as high a
hill as Mr Allworthy's, and how to get thee down without breaking thy
neck, I do not well know. However, let us e'en venture to slide down
together; for Miss Bridget rings her bell, and Mr Allworthy is
summoned to breakfast, where I must attend, and, if you please, shall
be glad of your company.
The usual compliments having past between Mr Allworthy and Miss
Bridget, and the tea being poured out, he summoned Mrs Wilkins, and
told his sister he had a present for her, for which she thanked
him--imagining, I suppose, it had been a gown, or some ornament for
her person. Indeed, he very often made her such presents; and she, in
complacence to him, spent much time in adorning herself. I say in
complacence to him, because she always exprest the greatest contempt
for dress, and for those ladies who made it their study.
But if such was her expectation, how was she disappointed when Mrs
Wilkins, according to the order she had received from her master,
produced the little infant? Great surprizes, as hath been observed,
are apt to be silent; and so was Miss Bridget, till her brother began,
and told her the whole story, which, as the reader knows it already,
we shall not repeat.
Miss Bridget had always exprest so great a regard for what the ladies
are pleased to call virtue, and had herself maintained such a severity
of character, that it was expected, especially by Wilkins, that she
would have vented much bitterness on this occasion, and would have
voted for sending the child, as a kind of noxious animal, immediately
out of the house; but, on the contrary, she rather took the
good-natured side of the question, intimated some compassion for the
helpless little creature, and commended her brother's charity in what
he had done.
Perhaps the reader may account for this behaviour from her
condescension to Mr Allworthy, when we have informed him that the good
man had ended his narrative with owning a resolution to take care of
the child, and to breed him up as his own; for, to acknowledge the
truth, she was always ready to oblige her brother, and very seldom, if
ever, contradicted his sentiments. She would, indeed, sometimes make a
few observations, as that men were headstrong, and must have their own
way, and would wish she had been blest with an independent fortune;
but these were always vented in a low voice, and at the most amounted
only to what is called muttering.
However, what she withheld from the infant, she bestowed with the
utmost profuseness on the poor unknown mother, whom she called an
impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a
vile strumpet, with every other appellation with which the tongue of
virtue never fails to lash those who bring a disgrace on the sex.
A consultation was now entered into how to proceed in order to
discover the mother. A scrutiny was first made into the characters of
the female servants of the house, who were all acquitted by Mrs
Wilkins, and with apparent merit; for she had collected them herself,
and perhaps it would be difficult to find such another set of
scarecrows.
The next step was to examine among the inhabitants of the parish; and
this was referred to Mrs Wilkins, who was to enquire with all
imaginable diligence, and to make her report in the afternoon.
Matters being thus settled, Mr Allworthy withdrew to his study, as was
his custom, and left the child to his sister, who, at his desire, had
undertaken the care of it.
Chapter v.
Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon observation upon
them.
When her master was departed, Mrs Deborah stood silent, expecting her
cue from Miss Bridget; for as to what had past before her master, the
prudent housekeeper by no means relied upon it, as she had often known
the sentiments of the lady in her brother's absence to differ greatly
from those which she had expressed in his presence. Miss Bridget did
not, however, suffer her to continue long in this doubtful situation;
for having looked some time earnestly at the child, as it lay asleep
in the lap of Mrs Deborah, the good lady could not forbear giving it a
hearty kiss, at the same time declaring herself wonderfully pleased
with its beauty and innocence. Mrs Deborah no sooner observed this
than she fell to squeezing and kissing, with as great raptures as
sometimes inspire the sage dame of forty and five towards a youthful
and vigorous bridegroom, crying out, in a shrill voice, "O, the dear
little creature!--The dear, sweet, pretty creature! Well, I vow it is
as fine a boy as ever was seen!"
These exclamations continued till they were interrupted by the lady,
who now proceeded to execute the commission given her by her brother,
and gave orders for providing all necessaries for the child,
appointing a very good room in the house for his nursery. Her orders
were indeed so liberal, that, had it been a child of her own, she
could not have exceeded them; but, lest the virtuous reader may
condemn her for showing too great regard to a base-born infant, to
which all charity is condemned by law as irreligious, we think proper
to observe that she concluded the whole with saying, "Since it was her
brother's whim to adopt the little brat, she supposed little master
must be treated with great tenderness. For her part, she could not
help thinking it was an encouragement to vice; but that she knew too
much of the obstinacy of mankind to oppose any of their ridiculous
humours."
With reflections of this nature she usually, as has been hinted,
accompanied every act of compliance with her brother's inclinations;
and surely nothing could more contribute to heighten the merit of this
compliance than a declaration that she knew, at the same time, the
folly and unreasonableness of those inclinations to which she
submitted. Tacit obedience implies no force upon the will, and
consequently may be easily, and without any pains, preserved; but when
a wife, a child, a relation, or a friend, performs what we desire,
with grumbling and reluctance, with expressions of dislike and
dissatisfaction, the manifest difficulty which they undergo must
greatly enhance the obligation.
As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can
be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to
lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in
the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him,
unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration
with which we writers are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make
the discovery.
Chapter vi.
Mrs Deborah is introduced into the parish with a simile. A short
account of Jenny Jones, with the difficulties and discouragements
which may attend young women in the pursuit of learning.
Mrs Deborah, having disposed of the child according to the will of her
master, now prepared to visit those habitations which were supposed to
conceal its mother.
Not otherwise than when a kite, tremendous bird, is beheld by the
feathered generation soaring aloft, and hovering over their heads, the
amorous dove, and every innocent little bird, spread wide the alarm,
and fly trembling to their hiding-places. He proudly beats the air,
conscious of his dignity, and meditates intended mischief.
So when the approach of Mrs Deborah was proclaimed through the street,
all the inhabitants ran trembling into their houses, each matron
dreading lest the visit should fall to her lot. She with stately steps
proudly advances over the field: aloft she bears her towering head,
filled with conceit of her own pre-eminence, and schemes to effect her
intended discovery.
The sagacious reader will not from this simile imagine these poor
people had any apprehension of the design with which Mrs Wilkins was
now coming towards them; but as the great beauty of the simile may
possibly sleep these hundred years, till some future commentator shall
take this work in hand, I think proper to lend the reader a little
assistance in this place.
It is my intention, therefore, to signify, that, as it is the nature
of a kite to devour little birds, so is it the nature of such persons
as Mrs Wilkins to insult and tyrannize over little people. This being
indeed the means which they use to recompense to themselves their
extreme servility and condescension to their superiors; for nothing
can be more reasonable, than that slaves and flatterers should exact
the same taxes on all below them, which they themselves pay to all
above them.
Whenever Mrs Deborah had occasion to exert any extraordinary
condescension to Mrs Bridget, and by that means had a little soured
her natural disposition, it was usual with her to walk forth among
these people, in order to refine her temper, by venting, and, as it
were, purging off all ill humours; on which account she was by no
means a welcome visitant: to say the truth, she was universally
dreaded and hated by them all.
On her arrival in this place, she went immediately to the habitation
of an elderly matron; to whom, as this matron had the good fortune to
resemble herself in the comeliness of her person, as well as in her
age, she had generally been more favourable than to any of the rest.
To this woman she imparted what had happened, and the design upon
which she was come thither that morning. These two began presently to
scrutinize the characters of the several young girls who lived in any
of those houses, and at last fixed their strongest suspicion on one
Jenny Jones, who, they both agreed, was the likeliest person to have
committed this fact.
This Jenny Jones was no very comely girl, either in her face or
person; but nature had somewhat compensated the want of beauty with
what is generally more esteemed by those ladies whose judgment is
arrived at years of perfect maturity, for she had given her a very
uncommon share of understanding. This gift Jenny had a good deal
improved by erudition. She had lived several years a servant with a
schoolmaster, who, discovering a great quickness of parts in the girl,
and an extraordinary desire of learning--for every leisure hour she
was always found reading in the books of the scholars--had the
good-nature, or folly--just as the reader pleases to call it--to
instruct her so far, that she obtained a competent skill in the Latin
language, and was, perhaps, as good a scholar as most of the young men
of quality of the age. This advantage, however, like most others of an
extraordinary kind, was attended with some small inconveniences: for
as it is not to be wondered at, that a young woman so well
accomplished should have little relish for the society of those whom
fortune had made her equals, but whom education had rendered so much
her inferiors; so is it matter of no greater astonishment, that this
superiority in Jenny, together with that behaviour which is its
certain consequence, should produce among the rest some little envy
and ill-will towards her; and these had, perhaps, secretly burnt in
the bosoms of her neighbours ever since her return from her service.
Their envy did not, however, display itself openly, till poor Jenny,
to the surprize of everybody, and to the vexation of all the young
women in these parts, had publickly shone forth on a Sunday in a new
silk gown, with a laced cap, and other proper appendages to these.
The flame, which had before lain in embryo, now burst forth. Jenny
had, by her learning, increased her own pride, which none of her
neighbours were kind enough to feed with the honour she seemed to
demand; and now, instead of respect and adoration, she gained nothing
but hatred and abuse by her finery. The whole parish declared she
could not come honestly by such things; and parents, instead of
wishing their daughters the same, felicitated themselves that their
children had them not.
Hence, perhaps, it was, that the good woman first mentioned the name
of this poor girl to Mrs Wilkins; but there was another circumstance
that confirmed the latter in her suspicion; for Jenny had lately been
often at Mr Allworthy's house. She had officiated as nurse to Miss
Bridget, in a violent fit of illness, and had sat up many nights with
that lady; besides which, she had been seen there the very day before
Mr Allworthy's return, by Mrs Wilkins herself, though that sagacious
person had not at first conceived any suspicion of her on that
account: for, as she herself said, "She had always esteemed Jenny as a
very sober girl (though indeed she knew very little of her), and had
rather suspected some of those wanton trollops, who gave themselves
airs, because, forsooth, they thought themselves handsome."
Jenny was now summoned to appear in person before Mrs Deborah, which
she immediately did. When Mrs Deborah, putting on the gravity of a
judge, with somewhat more than his austerity, began an oration with
the words, "You audacious strumpet!" in which she proceeded rather to
pass sentence on the prisoner than to accuse her.
Though Mrs Deborah was fully satisfied of the guilt of Jenny, from the
reasons above shewn, it is possible Mr Allworthy might have required
some stronger evidence to have convicted her; but she saved her
accusers any such trouble, by freely confessing the whole fact with
which she was charged.
This confession, though delivered rather in terms of contrition, as it
appeared, did not at all mollify Mrs Deborah, who now pronounced a
second judgment against her, in more opprobrious language than before;
nor had it any better success with the bystanders, who were now grown
very numerous. Many of them cried out, "They thought what madam's silk
gown would end in;" others spoke sarcastically of her learning. Not a
single female was present but found some means of expressing her
abhorrence of poor Jenny, who bore all very patiently, except the
malice of one woman, who reflected upon her person, and tossing up her
nose, said, "The man must have a good stomach who would give silk
gowns for such sort of trumpery!" Jenny replied to this with a
bitterness which might have surprized a judicious person, who had
observed the tranquillity with which she bore all the affronts to her
chastity; but her patience was perhaps tired out, for this is a virtue
which is very apt to be fatigued by exercise.
Mrs Deborah having succeeded beyond her hopes in her inquiry, returned
with much triumph, and, at the appointed hour, made a faithful report
to Mr Allworthy, who was much surprized at the relation; for he had
heard of the extraordinary parts and improvements of this girl, whom
he intended to have given in marriage, together with a small living,
to a neighbouring curate. His concern, therefore, on this occasion,
was at least equal to the satisfaction which appeared in Mrs Deborah,
and to many readers may seem much more reasonable.
Miss Bridget blessed herself, and said, "For her part, she should
never hereafter entertain a good opinion of any woman." For Jenny
before this had the happiness of being much in her good graces also.
The prudent housekeeper was again dispatched to bring the unhappy
culprit before Mr Allworthy, in order, not as it was hoped by some,
and expected by all, to be sent to the house of correction, but to
receive wholesome admonition and reproof; which those who relish that
kind of instructive writing may peruse in the next chapter.
Chapter vii.
Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot laugh once
through the whole chapter, unless peradventure he should laugh at the
author.
When Jenny appeared, Mr Allworthy took her into his study, and spoke
to her as follows: "You know, child, it is in my power as a
magistrate, to punish you very rigorously for what you have done; and
you will, perhaps, be the more apt to fear I should execute that
power, because you have in a manner laid your sins at my door.
"But, perhaps, this is one reason which hath determined me to act in a
milder manner with you: for, as no private resentment should ever
influence a magistrate, I will be so far from considering your having
deposited the infant in my house as an aggravation of your offence,
that I will suppose, in your favour, this to have proceeded from a
natural affection to your child, since you might have some hopes to
see it thus better provided for than was in the power of yourself, or
its wicked father, to provide for it. I should indeed have been highly
offended with you had you exposed the little wretch in the manner of
some inhuman mothers, who seem no less to have abandoned their
humanity, than to have parted with their chastity. It is the other
part of your offence, therefore, upon which I intend to admonish you,
I mean the violation of your chastity;--a crime, however lightly it
may be treated by debauched persons, very heinous in itself, and very
dreadful in its consequences.
"The heinous nature of this offence must be sufficiently apparent to
every Christian, inasmuch as it is committed in defiance of the laws
of our religion, and of the express commands of Him who founded that
religion.
"And here its consequences may well be argued to be dreadful; for what
can be more so, than to incur the divine displeasure, by the breach of
the divine commands; and that in an instance against which the highest
vengeance is specifically denounced?
"But these things, though too little, I am afraid, regarded, are so
plain, that mankind, however they may want to be reminded, can never
need information on this head. A hint, therefore, to awaken your sense
of this matter, shall suffice; for I would inspire you with
repentance, and not drive you to desperation.
"There are other consequences, not indeed so dreadful or replete with
horror as this; and yet such, as, if attentively considered, must, one
would think, deter all of your sex at least from the commission of
this crime.
"For by it you are rendered infamous, and driven, like lepers of old,
out of society; at least, from the society of all but wicked and
reprobate persons; for no others will associate with you.
"If you have fortunes, you are hereby rendered incapable of enjoying
them; if you have none, you are disabled from acquiring any, nay
almost of procuring your sustenance; for no persons of character will
receive you into their houses. Thus you are often driven by necessity
itself into a state of shame and misery, which unavoidably ends in the
destruction of both body and soul.
"Can any pleasure compensate these evils? Can any temptation have
sophistry and delusion strong enough to persuade you to so simple a
bargain? Or can any carnal appetite so overpower your reason, or so
totally lay it asleep, as to prevent your flying with affright and
terror from a crime which carries such punishment always with it?
"How base and mean must that woman be, how void of that dignity of
mind, and decent pride, without which we are not worthy the name of
human creatures, who can bear to level herself with the lowest animal,
and to sacrifice all that is great and noble in her, all her heavenly
part, to an appetite which she hath in common with the vilest branch
of the creation! For no woman, sure, will plead the passion of love
for an excuse. This would be to own herself the mere tool and bubble
of the man. Love, however barbarously we may corrupt and pervert its
meaning, as it is a laudable, is a rational passion, and can never be
violent but when reciprocal; for though the Scripture bids us love our
enemies, it means not with that fervent love which we naturally bear
towards our friends; much less that we should sacrifice to them our
lives, and what ought to be dearer to us, our innocence. Now in what
light, but that of an enemy, can a reasonable woman regard the man who
solicits her to entail on herself all the misery I have described to
you, and who would purchase to himself a short, trivial, contemptible
pleasure, so greatly at her expense! For, by the laws of custom, the
whole shame, with all its dreadful consequences, falls intirely upon
her. Can love, which always seeks the good of its object, attempt to
betray a woman into a bargain where she is so greatly to be the loser?
If such corrupter, therefore, should have the impudence to pretend a
real affection for her, ought not the woman to regard him not only as
an enemy, but as the worst of all enemies, a false, designing,
treacherous, pretended friend, who intends not only to debauch her
body, but her understanding at the same time?"
Here Jenny expressing great concern, Allworthy paused a moment, and
then proceeded: "I have talked thus to you, child, not to insult you
for what is past and irrevocable, but to caution and strengthen you
for the future. Nor should I have taken this trouble, but from some
opinion of your good sense, notwithstanding the dreadful slip you have
made; and from some hopes of your hearty repentance, which are founded
on the openness and sincerity of your confession. If these do not
deceive me, I will take care to convey you from this scene of your
shame, where you shall, by being unknown, avoid the punishment which,
as I have said, is allotted to your crime in this world; and I hope,
by repentance, you will avoid the much heavier sentence denounced
against it in the other. Be a good girl the rest of your days, and
want shall be no motive to your going astray; and, believe me, there
is more pleasure, even in this world, in an innocent and virtuous
life, than in one debauched and vicious.
"As to your child, let no thoughts concerning it molest you; I will
provide for it in a better manner than you can ever hope. And now
nothing remains but that you inform me who was the wicked man that
seduced you; for my anger against him will be much greater than you
have experienced on this occasion."
Jenny now lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a modest look and
decent voice thus began:--
"To know you, sir, and not love your goodness, would be an argument of
total want of sense or goodness in any one. In me it would amount to
the highest ingratitude, not to feel, in the most sensible manner, the
great degree of goodness you have been pleased to exert on this
occasion. As to my concern for what is past, I know you will spare my
blushes the repetition. My future conduct will much better declare my
sentiments than any professions I can now make. I beg leave to assure
you, sir, that I take your advice much kinder than your generous offer
with which you concluded it; for, as you are pleased to say, sir, it
is an instance of your opinion of my understanding."--Here her tears
flowing apace, she stopped a few moments, and then proceeded
thus:--"Indeed, sir, your kindness overcomes me; but I will endeavour
to deserve this good opinion: for if I have the understanding you are
so kindly pleased to allow me, such advice cannot be thrown away upon
me. I thank you, sir, heartily, for your intended kindness to my poor
helpless child: he is innocent, and I hope will live to be grateful
for all the favours you shall show him. But now, sir, I must on my
knees entreat you not to persist in asking me to declare the father of
my infant. I promise you faithfully you shall one day know; but I am
under the most solemn ties and engagements of honour, as well as the
most religious vows and protestations, to conceal his name at this
time. And I know you too well, to think you would desire I should
sacrifice either my honour or my religion."
Mr Allworthy, whom the least mention of those sacred words was
sufficient to stagger, hesitated a moment before he replied, and then
told her, she had done wrong to enter into such engagements to a
villain; but since she had, he could not insist on her breaking them.
He said, it was not from a motive of vain curiosity he had inquired,
but in order to punish the fellow; at least, that he might not
ignorantly confer favours on the undeserving.
As to these points, Jenny satisfied him by the most solemn assurances,
that the man was entirely out of his reach; and was neither subject to
his power, nor in any probability of becoming an object of his
goodness.
The ingenuity of this behaviour had gained Jenny so much credit with
this worthy man, that he easily believed what she told him; for as she
had disdained to excuse herself by a lie, and had hazarded his further
displeasure in her present situation, rather than she would forfeit
her honour or integrity by betraying another, he had but little
apprehensions that she would be guilty of falsehood towards himself.
He therefore dismissed her with assurances that he would very soon
remove her out of the reach of that obloquy she had incurred;
concluding with some additional documents, in which he recommended
repentance, saying, "Consider, child, there is one still to reconcile
yourself to, whose favour is of much greater importance to you than
mine."
Chapter viii.
A dialogue between Mesdames Bridget and Deborah; containing more
amusement, but less instruction, than the former.
When Mr Allworthy had retired to his study with Jenny Jones, as hath
been seen, Mrs Bridget, with the good housekeeper, had betaken
themselves to a post next adjoining to the said study; whence, through
the conveyance of a keyhole, they sucked in at their ears the
instructive lecture delivered by Mr Allworthy, together with the
answers of Jenny, and indeed every other particular which passed in
the last chapter.
This hole in her brother's study-door was indeed as well known to Mrs
Bridget, and had been as frequently applied to by her, as the famous
hole in the wall was by Thisbe of old. This served to many good
purposes. For by such means Mrs Bridget became often acquainted with
her brother's inclinations, without giving him the trouble of
repeating them to her. It is true, some inconveniences attended this
intercourse, and she had sometimes reason to cry out with Thisbe, in
Shakspeare, "O, wicked, wicked wall!" For as Mr Allworthy was a
justice of peace, certain things occurred in examinations concerning
bastards, and such like, which are apt to give great offence to the
chaste ears of virgins, especially when they approach the age of
forty, as was the case of Mrs Bridget. However, she had, on such
occasions, the advantage of concealing her blushes from the eyes of
men; and _De non apparentibus, et non existentibus eadem est
ratio_--in English, "When a woman is not seen to blush, she doth not
blush at all."
Both the good women kept strict silence during the whole scene between
Mr Allworthy and the girl; but as soon as it was ended, and that
gentleman was out of hearing, Mrs Deborah could not help exclaiming
against the clemency of her master, and especially against his
suffering her to conceal the father of the child, which she swore she
would have out of her before the sun set.
At these words Mrs Bridget discomposed her features with a smile (a
thing very unusual to her). Not that I would have my reader imagine,
that this was one of those wanton smiles which Homer would have you
conceive came from Venus, when he calls her the laughter-loving
goddess; nor was it one of those smiles which Lady Seraphina shoots
from the stage-box, and which Venus would quit her immortality to be
able to equal. No, this was rather one of those smiles which might be
supposed to have come from the dimpled cheeks of the august Tisiphone,
or from one of the misses, her sisters.
With such a smile then, and with a voice sweet as the evening breeze
of Boreas in the pleasant month of November, Mrs Bridget gently
reproved the curiosity of Mrs Deborah; a vice with which it seems the
latter was too much tainted, and which the former inveighed against
with great bitterness, adding, "That, among all her faults, she
thanked Heaven her enemies could not accuse her of prying into the
affairs of other people."
She then proceeded to commend the honour and spirit with which Jenny
had acted. She said, she could not help agreeing with her brother,
that there was some merit in the sincerity of her confession, and in
her integrity to her lover: that she had always thought her a very
good girl, and doubted not but she had been seduced by some rascal,
who had been infinitely more to blame than herself, and very probably
had prevailed with her by a promise of marriage, or some other
treacherous proceeding.
This behaviour of Mrs Bridget greatly surprised Mrs Deborah; for this
well-bred woman seldom opened her lips, either to her master or his
sister, till she had first sounded their inclinations, with which her
sentiments were always consonant. Here, however, she thought she might
have launched forth with safety; and the sagacious reader will not
perhaps accuse her of want of sufficient forecast in so doing, but
will rather admire with what wonderful celerity she tacked about, when
she found herself steering a wrong course.
"Nay, madam," said this able woman, and truly great politician, "I
must own I cannot help admiring the girl's spirit, as well as your
ladyship. And, as your ladyship says, if she was deceived by some
wicked man, the poor wretch is to be pitied. And to be sure, as your
ladyship says, the girl hath always appeared like a good, honest,
plain girl, and not vain of her face, forsooth, as some wanton husseys
in the neighbourhood are."
"You say true, Deborah," said Miss Bridget. "If the girl had been one
of those vain trollops, of which we have too many in the parish, I
should have condemned my brother for his lenity towards her. I saw two
farmers' daughters at church, the other day, with bare necks. I
protest they shocked me. If wenches will hang out lures for fellows,
it is no matter what they suffer. I detest such creatures; and it
would be much better for them that their faces had been seamed with
the smallpox; but I must confess, I never saw any of this wanton
behaviour in poor Jenny: some artful villain, I am convinced, hath
betrayed, nay perhaps forced her; and I pity the poor wretch with all
my heart."
Mrs Deborah approved all these sentiments, and the dialogue concluded
with a general and bitter invective against beauty, and with many
compassionate considerations for all honest plain girls who are
deluded by the wicked arts of deceitful men.
Chapter ix.
Containing matters which will surprize the reader.
Jenny returned home well pleased with the reception she had met with
from Mr Allworthy, whose indulgence to her she industriously made
public; partly perhaps as a sacrifice to her own pride, and partly
from the more prudent motive of reconciling her neighbours to her, and
silencing their clamours.
But though this latter view, if she indeed had it, may appear
reasonable enough, yet the event did not answer her expectation; for
when she was convened before the justice, and it was universally
apprehended that the house of correction would have been her fate,
though some of the young women cryed out "It was good enough for her,"
and diverted themselves with the thoughts of her beating hemp in a
silk gown; yet there were many others who began to pity her condition:
but when it was known in what manner Mr Allworthy had behaved, the
tide turned against her. One said, "I'll assure you, madam hath had
good luck." A second cryed, "See what it is to be a favourite!" A
third, "Ay, this comes of her learning." Every person made some
malicious comment or other on the occasion, and reflected on the
partiality of the justice.
The behaviour of these people may appear impolitic and ungrateful to
the reader, who considers the power and benevolence of Mr Allworthy.
But as to his power, he never used it; and as to his benevolence, he
exerted so much, that he had thereby disobliged all his neighbours;
for it is a secret well known to great men, that, by conferring an
obligation, they do not always procure a friend, but are certain of
creating many enemies.
Jenny was, however, by the care and goodness of Mr Allworthy, soon
removed out of the reach of reproach; when malice being no longer able
to vent its rage on her, began to seek another object of its
bitterness, and this was no less than Mr Allworthy, himself; for a
whisper soon went abroad, that he himself was the father of the
foundling child.
This supposition so well reconciled his conduct to the general
opinion, that it met with universal assent; and the outcry against his
lenity soon began to take another turn, and was changed into an
invective against his cruelty to the poor girl. Very grave and good
women exclaimed against men who begot children, and then disowned
them. Nor were there wanting some, who, after the departure of Jenny,
insinuated that she was spirited away with a design too black to be
mentioned, and who gave frequent hints that a legal inquiry ought to
be made into the whole matter, and that some people should be forced
to produce the girl.
These calumnies might have probably produced ill consequences, at the
least might have occasioned some trouble, to a person of a more
doubtful and suspicious character than Mr Allworthy was blessed with;
but in his case they had no such effect; and, being heartily despised
by him, they served only to afford an innocent amusement to the good
gossips of the neighbourhood.
But as we cannot possibly divine what complection our reader may be
of, and as it will be some time before he will hear any more of Jenny,
we think proper to give him a very early intimation, that Mr Allworthy
was, and will hereafter appear to be, absolutely innocent of any
criminal intention whatever. He had indeed committed no other than an
error in politics, by tempering justice with mercy, and by refusing to
gratify the good-natured disposition of the mob,[*] with an object for
their compassion to work on in the person of poor Jenny, whom, in
order to pity, they desired to have seen sacrificed to ruin and
infamy, by a shameful correction in Bridewell.
[*]Whenever this word occurs in our writings, it intends persons
without virtue or sense, in all stations; and many of the highest
rank are often meant by it.
So far from complying with this their inclination, by which all hopes
of reformation would have been abolished, and even the gate shut
against her if her own inclinations should ever hereafter lead her to
chuse the road of virtue, Mr Allworthy rather chose to encourage the
girl to return thither by the only possible means; for too true I am
afraid it is, that many women have become abandoned, and have sunk to
the last degree of vice, by being unable to retrieve the first slip.
This will be, I am afraid, always the case while they remain among
their former acquaintance; it was therefore wisely done by Mr
Allworthy, to remove Jenny to a place where she might enjoy the
pleasure of reputation, after having tasted the ill consequences of
losing it.
To this place therefore, wherever it was, we will wish her a good
journey, and for the present take leave of her, and of the little
foundling her child, having matters of much higher importance to
communicate to the reader.
Chapter x.
The hospitality of Allworthy; with a short sketch of the characters of
two brothers, a doctor and a captain, who were entertained by that
gentleman.
Neither Mr Allworthy's house, nor his heart, were shut against any
part of mankind, but they were both more particularly open to men of
merit. To say the truth, this was the only house in the kingdom where
you was sure to gain a dinner by deserving it.
Above all others, men of genius and learning shared the principal
place in his favour; and in these he had much discernment: for though
he had missed the advantage of a learned education, yet, being blest
with vast natural abilities, he had so well profited by a vigorous
though late application to letters, and by much conversation with men
of eminence in this way, that he was himself a very competent judge in
most kinds of literature.
It is no wonder that in an age when this kind of merit is so little in
fashion, and so slenderly provided for, persons possessed of it should
very eagerly flock to a place where they were sure of being received
with great complaisance; indeed, where they might enjoy almost the
same advantages of a liberal fortune as if they were entitled to it in
their own right; for Mr Allworthy was not one of those generous
persons who are ready most bountifully to bestow meat, drink, and
lodging on men of wit and learning, for which they expect no other
return but entertainment, instruction, flattery, and subserviency; in
a word, that such persons should be enrolled in the number of
domestics, without wearing their master's cloathes, or receiving
wages.
On the contrary, every person in this house was perfect master of his
own time: and as he might at his pleasure satisfy all his appetites
within the restrictions only of law, virtue, and religion; so he
might, if his health required, or his inclination prompted him to
temperance, or even to abstinence, absent himself from any meals, or
retire from them, whenever he was so disposed, without even a
sollicitation to the contrary: for, indeed, such sollicitations from
superiors always savour very strongly of commands. But all here were
free from such impertinence, not only those whose company is in all
other places esteemed a favour from their equality of fortune, but
even those whose indigent circumstances make such an eleemosynary
abode convenient to them, and who are therefore less welcome to a
great man's table because they stand in need of it.
Among others of this kind was Dr Blifil, a gentleman who had the
misfortune of losing the advantage of great talents by the obstinacy
of a father, who would breed him to a profession he disliked. In
obedience to this obstinacy the doctor had in his youth been obliged
to study physic, or rather to say he studied it; for in reality books
of this kind were almost the only ones with which he was unacquainted;
and unfortunately for him, the doctor was master of almost every other
science but that by which he was to get his bread; the consequence of
which was, that the doctor at the age of forty had no bread to eat.
Such a person as this was certain to find a welcome at Mr Allworthy's
table, to whom misfortunes were ever a recommendation, when they were
derived from the folly or villany of others, and not of the
unfortunate person himself. Besides this negative merit, the doctor
had one positive recommendation;--this was a great appearance of
religion. Whether his religion was real, or consisted only in
appearance, I shall not presume to say, as I am not possessed of any
touchstone which can distinguish the true from the false.
If this part of his character pleased Mr Allworthy, it delighted Miss
Bridget. She engaged him in many religious controversies; on which
occasions she constantly expressed great satisfaction in the doctor's
knowledge, and not much less in the compliments which he frequently
bestowed on her own. To say the truth, she had read much English
divinity, and had puzzled more than one of the neighbouring curates.
Indeed, her conversation was so pure, her looks so sage, and her whole
deportment so grave and solemn, that she seemed to deserve the name of
saint equally with her namesake, or with any other female in the Roman
kalendar.
As sympathies of all kinds are apt to beget love, so experience
teaches us that none have a more direct tendency this way than those
of a religious kind between persons of different sexes. The doctor
found himself so agreeable to Miss Bridget, that he now began to
lament an unfortunate accident which had happened to him about ten
years before; namely, his marriage with another woman, who was not
only still alive, but, what was worse, known to be so by Mr Allworthy.
This was a fatal bar to that happiness which he otherwise saw
sufficient probability of obtaining with this young lady; for as to
criminal indulgences, he certainly never thought of them. This was
owing either to his religion, as is most probable, or to the purity of
his passion, which was fixed on those things which matrimony only, and
not criminal correspondence, could put him in possession of, or could
give him any title to.
He had not long ruminated on these matters, before it occurred to his
memory that he had a brother who was under no such unhappy incapacity.
This brother he made no doubt would succeed; for he discerned, as he
thought, an inclination to marriage in the lady; and the reader
perhaps, when he hears the brother's qualifications, will not blame
the confidence which he entertained of his success.
This gentleman was about thirty-five years of age. He was of a middle
size, and what is called well-built. He had a scar on his forehead,
which did not so much injure his beauty as it denoted his valour (for
he was a half-pay officer). He had good teeth, and something affable,
when he pleased, in his smile; though naturally his countenance, as
well as his air and voice, had much of roughness in it: yet he could
at any time deposit this, and appear all gentleness and good-humour.
He was not ungenteel, nor entirely devoid of wit, and in his youth had
abounded in sprightliness, which, though he had lately put on a more
serious character, he could, when he pleased, resume.
He had, as well as the doctor, an academic education; for his father
had, with the same paternal authority we have mentioned before,
decreed him for holy orders; but as the old gentleman died before he
was ordained, he chose the church military, and preferred the king's
commission to the bishop's.
He had purchased the post of lieutenant of dragoons, and afterwards
came to be a captain; but having quarrelled with his colonel, was by
his interest obliged to sell; from which time he had entirely
rusticated himself, had betaken himself to studying the Scriptures,
and was not a little suspected of an inclination to methodism.
It seemed, therefore, not unlikely that such a person should succeed
with a lady of so saint-like a disposition, and whose inclinations
were no otherwise engaged than to the marriage state in general; but
why the doctor, who certainly had no great friendship for his brother,
should for his sake think of making so ill a return to the hospitality
of Allworthy, is a matter not so easy to be accounted for.
Is it that some natures delight in evil, as others are thought to
delight in virtue? Or is there a pleasure in being accessory to a
theft when we cannot commit it ourselves? Or lastly (which experience
seems to make probable), have we a satisfaction in aggrandizing our
families, even though we have not the least love or respect for them?
Whether any of these motives operated on the doctor, we will not
determine; but so the fact was. He sent for his brother, and easily
found means to introduce him at Allworthy's as a person who intended
only a short visit to himself.
The captain had not been in the house a week before the doctor had
reason to felicitate himself on his discernment. The captain was
indeed as great a master of the art of love as Ovid was formerly. He
had besides received proper hints from his brother, which he failed
not to improve to the best advantage.
Chapter xi.
Containing many rules, and some examples, concerning falling in love:
descriptions of beauty, and other more prudential inducements to
matrimony.
It hath been observed, by wise men or women, I forget which, that all
persons are doomed to be in love once in their lives. No particular
season is, as I remember, assigned for this; but the age at which Miss
Bridget was arrived, seems to me as proper a period as any to be fixed
on for this purpose: it often, indeed, happens much earlier; but when
it doth not, I have observed it seldom or never fails about this time.
Moreover, we may remark that at this season love is of a more serious
and steady nature than what sometimes shows itself in the younger
parts of life. The love of girls is uncertain, capricious, and so
foolish that we cannot always discover what the young lady would be
at; nay, it may almost be doubted whether she always knows this
herself.
Now we are never at a loss to discern this in women about forty; for
as such grave, serious, and experienced ladies well know their own
meaning, so it is always very easy for a man of the least sagacity to
discover it with the utmost certainty.
Miss Bridget is an example of all these observations. She had not been
many times in the captain's company before she was seized with this
passion. Nor did she go pining and moping about the house, like a
puny, foolish girl, ignorant of her distemper: she felt, she knew, and
she enjoyed, the pleasing sensation, of which, as she was certain it
was not only innocent but laudable, she was neither afraid nor
ashamed.
And to say the truth, there is, in all points, great difference
between the reasonable passion which women at this age conceive
towards men, and the idle and childish liking of a girl to a boy,
which is often fixed on the outside only, and on things of little
value and no duration; as on cherry-cheeks, small, lily-white hands,
sloe-black eyes, flowing locks, downy chins, dapper shapes; nay,
sometimes on charms more worthless than these, and less the party's
own; such are the outward ornaments of the person, for which men are
beholden to the taylor, the laceman, the periwig-maker, the hatter,
and the milliner, and not to nature. Such a passion girls may well be
ashamed, as they generally are, to own either to themselves or others.
The love of Miss Bridget was of another kind. The captain owed nothing
to any of these fop-makers in his dress, nor was his person much more
beholden to nature. Both his dress and person were such as, had they
appeared in an assembly or a drawing-room, would have been the
contempt and ridicule of all the fine ladies there. The former of
these was indeed neat, but plain, coarse, ill-fancied, and out of
fashion. As for the latter, we have expressly described it above. So
far was the skin on his cheeks from being cherry-coloured, that you
could not discern what the natural colour of his cheeks was, they
being totally overgrown by a black beard, which ascended to his eyes.
His shape and limbs were indeed exactly proportioned, but so large
that they denoted the strength rather of a ploughman than any other.
His shoulders were broad beyond all size, and the calves of his legs
larger than those of a common chairman. In short, his whole person
wanted all that elegance and beauty which is the very reverse of
clumsy strength, and which so agreeably sets off most of our fine
gentlemen; being partly owing to the high blood of their ancestors,
viz., blood made of rich sauces and generous wines, and partly to an
early town education.
Though Miss Bridget was a woman of the greatest delicacy of taste, yet
such were the charms of the captain's conversation, that she totally
overlooked the defects of his person. She imagined, and perhaps very
wisely, that she should enjoy more agreeable minutes with the captain
than with a much prettier fellow; and forewent the consideration of
pleasing her eyes, in order to procure herself much more solid
satisfaction.
The captain no sooner perceived the passion of Miss Bridget, in which
discovery he was very quick-sighted, than he faithfully returned it.
The lady, no more than her lover, was remarkable for beauty. I would
attempt to draw her picture, but that is done already by a more able
master, Mr Hogarth himself, to whom she sat many years ago, and hath
been lately exhibited by that gentleman in his print of a winter's
morning, of which she was no improper emblem, and may be seen walking
(for walk she doth in the print) to Covent Garden church, with a
starved foot-boy behind carrying her prayer-book.
The captain likewise very wisely preferred the more solid enjoyments
he expected with this lady, to the fleeting charms of person. He was
one of those wise men who regard beauty in the other sex as a very
worthless and superficial qualification; or, to speak more truly, who
rather chuse to possess every convenience of life with an ugly woman,
than a handsome one without any of those conveniences. And having a
very good appetite, and but little nicety, he fancied he should play
his part very well at the matrimonial banquet, without the sauce of
beauty.
To deal plainly with the reader, the captain, ever since his arrival,
at least from the moment his brother had proposed the match to him,
long before he had discovered any flattering symptoms in Miss Bridget,
had been greatly enamoured; that is to say, of Mr Allworthy's house
and gardens, and of his lands, tenements, and hereditaments; of all
which the captain was so passionately fond, that he would most
probably have contracted marriage with them, had he been obliged to
have taken the witch of Endor into the bargain.
As Mr Allworthy, therefore, had declared to the doctor that he never
intended to take a second wife, as his sister was his nearest
relation, and as the doctor had fished out that his intentions were to
make any child of hers his heir, which indeed the law, without his
interposition, would have done for him; the doctor and his brother
thought it an act of benevolence to give being to a human creature,
who would be so plentifully provided with the most essential means of
happiness. The whole thoughts, therefore, of both the brothers were
how to engage the affections of this amiable lady.
But fortune, who is a tender parent, and often doth more for her
favourite offspring than either they deserve or wish, had been so
industrious for the captain, that whilst he was laying schemes to
execute his purpose, the lady conceived the same desires with himself,
and was on her side contriving how to give the captain proper
encouragement, without appearing too forward; for she was a strict
observer of all rules of decorum. In this, however, she easily
succeeded; for as the captain was always on the look-out, no glance,
gesture, or word escaped him.
The satisfaction which the captain received from the kind behaviour of
Miss Bridget, was not a little abated by his apprehensions of Mr
Allworthy; for, notwithstanding his disinterested professions, the
captain imagined he would, when he came to act, follow the example of
the rest of the world, and refuse his consent to a match so
disadvantageous, in point of interest, to his sister. From what oracle
he received this opinion, I shall leave the reader to determine: but
however he came by it, it strangely perplexed him how to regulate his
conduct so as at once to convey his affection to the lady, and to
conceal it from her brother. He at length resolved to take all private
opportunities of making his addresses; but in the presence of Mr
Allworthy to be as reserved and as much upon his guard as was
possible; and this conduct was highly approved by the brother.
He soon found means to make his addresses, in express terms, to his
mistress, from whom he received an answer in the proper form, viz.:
the answer which was first made some thousands of years ago, and which
hath been handed down by tradition from mother to daughter ever since.
If I was to translate this into Latin, I should render it by these two
words, _Nolo Episcopari_: a phrase likewise of immemorial use on
another occasion.
The captain, however he came by his knowledge, perfectly well
understood the lady, and very soon after repeated his application with
more warmth and earnestness than before, and was again, according to
due form, rejected; but as he had increased in the eagerness of his
desires, so the lady, with the same propriety, decreased in the
violence of her refusal.
Not to tire the reader, by leading him through every scene of this
courtship (which, though in the opinion of a certain great author, it
is the pleasantest scene of life to the actor, is, perhaps, as dull
and tiresome as any whatever to the audience), the captain made his
advances in form, the citadel was defended in form, and at length, in
proper form, surrendered at discretion.
During this whole time, which filled the space of near a month, the
captain preserved great distance of behaviour to his lady in the
presence of the brother; and the more he succeeded with her in
private, the more reserved was he in public. And as for the lady, she
had no sooner secured her lover than she behaved to him before company
with the highest degree of indifference; so that Mr Allworthy must
have had the insight of the devil (or perhaps some of his worse
qualities) to have entertained the least suspicion of what was going
forward.
Chapter xii.
Containing what the reader may, perhaps, expect to find in it.
In all bargains, whether to fight or to marry, or concerning any other
such business, little previous ceremony is required to bring the
matter to an issue when both parties are really in earnest. This was
the case at present, and in less than a month the captain and his lady
were man and wife.
The great concern now was to break the matter to Mr Allworthy; and
this was undertaken by the doctor.
One day, then, as Allworthy was walking in his garden, the doctor came
to him, and, with great gravity of aspect, and all the concern which
he could possibly affect in his countenance, said, "I am come, sir, to
impart an affair to you of the utmost consequence; but how shall I
mention to you what it almost distracts me to think of!" He then
launched forth into the most bitter invectives both against men and
women; accusing the former of having no attachment but to their
interest, and the latter of being so addicted to vicious inclinations
that they could never be safely trusted with one of the other sex.
"Could I," said he, "sir, have suspected that a lady of such prudence,
such judgment, such learning, should indulge so indiscreet a passion!
or could I have imagined that my brother--why do I call him so? he is
no longer a brother of mine----"
"Indeed but he is," said Allworthy, "and a brother of mine too."
"Bless me, sir!" said the doctor, "do you know the shocking affair?"
"Look'ee, Mr Blifil," answered the good man, "it hath been my constant
maxim in life to make the best of all matters which happen. My sister,
though many years younger than I, is at least old enough to be at the
age of discretion. Had he imposed on a child, I should have been more
averse to have forgiven him; but a woman upwards of thirty must
certainly be supposed to know what will make her most happy. She hath
married a gentleman, though perhaps not quite her equal in fortune;
and if he hath any perfections in her eye which can make up that
deficiency, I see no reason why I should object to her choice of her
own happiness; which I, no more than herself, imagine to consist only
in immense wealth. I might, perhaps, from the many declarations I have
made of complying with almost any proposal, have expected to have been
consulted on this occasion; but these matters are of a very delicate
nature, and the scruples of modesty, perhaps, are not to be overcome.
As to your brother, I have really no anger against him at all. He hath
no obligations to me, nor do I think he was under any necessity of
asking my consent, since the woman is, as I have said, _sui juris_,
and of a proper age to be entirely answerable only, to herself for her
conduct."
The doctor accused Mr Allworthy of too great lenity, repeated his
accusations against his brother, and declared that he should never
more be brought either to see, or to own him for his relation. He then
launched forth into a panegyric on Allworthy's goodness; into the
highest encomiums on his friendship; and concluded by saying, he
should never forgive his brother for having put the place which he
bore in that friendship to a hazard.
Allworthy thus answered: "Had I conceived any displeasure against your
brother, I should never have carried that resentment to the innocent:
but I assure you I have no such displeasure. Your brother appears to
me to be a man of sense and honour. I do not disapprove the taste of
my sister; nor will I doubt but that she is equally the object of his
inclinations. I have always thought love the only foundation of
happiness in a married state, as it can only produce that high and
tender friendship which should always be the cement of this union;
and, in my opinion, all those marriages which are contracted from
other motives are greatly criminal; they are a profanation of a most
holy ceremony, and generally end in disquiet and misery: for surely we
may call it a profanation to convert this most sacred institution into
a wicked sacrifice to lust or avarice: and what better can be said of
those matches to which men are induced merely by the consideration of
a beautiful person, or a great fortune?
"To deny that beauty is an agreeable object to the eye, and even
worthy some admiration, would be false and foolish. Beautiful is an
epithet often used in Scripture, and always mentioned with honour. It
was my own fortune to marry a woman whom the world thought handsome,
and I can truly say I liked her the better on that account. But to
make this the sole consideration of marriage, to lust after it so
violently as to overlook all imperfections for its sake, or to require
it so absolutely as to reject and disdain religion, virtue, and sense,
which are qualities in their nature of much higher perfection, only
because an elegance of person is wanting: this is surely inconsistent,
either with a wise man or a good Christian. And it is, perhaps, being
too charitable to conclude that such persons mean anything more by
their marriage than to please their carnal appetites; for the
satisfaction of which, we are taught, it was not ordained.
"In the next place, with respect to fortune. Worldly prudence,
perhaps, exacts some consideration on this head; nor will I absolutely
and altogether condemn it. As the world is constituted, the demands of
a married state, and the care of posterity, require some little regard
to what we call circumstances. Yet this provision is greatly
increased, beyond what is really necessary, by folly and vanity, which
create abundantly more wants than nature. Equipage for the wife, and
large fortunes for the children, are by custom enrolled in the list of
necessaries; and to procure these, everything truly solid and sweet,
and virtuous and religious, are neglected and overlooked.
"And this in many degrees; the last and greatest of which seems scarce
distinguishable from madness;--I mean where persons of immense
fortunes contract themselves to those who are, and must be,
disagreeable to them--to fools and knaves--in order to increase an
estate already larger even than the demands of their pleasures. Surely
such persons, if they will not be thought mad, must own, either that
they are incapable of tasting the sweets of the tenderest friendship,
or that they sacrifice the greatest happiness of which they are
capable to the vain, uncertain, and senseless laws of vulgar opinion,
which owe as well their force as their foundation to folly."
Here Allworthy concluded his sermon, to which Blifil had listened with
the profoundest attention, though it cost him some pains to prevent
now and then a small discomposure of his muscles. He now praised every
period of what he had heard with the warmth of a young divine, who
hath the honour to dine with a bishop the same day in which his
lordship hath mounted the pulpit.
Chapter xiii.
Which concludes the first book; with an instance of ingratitude,
which, we hope, will appear unnatural.
The reader, from what hath been said, may imagine that the
reconciliation (if indeed it could be so called) was only matter of
form; we shall therefore pass it over, and hasten to what must surely
be thought matter of substance.
The doctor had acquainted his brother with what had past between Mr
Allworthy and him; and added with a smile, "I promise you I paid you
off; nay, I absolutely desired the good gentleman not to forgive you:
for you know after he had made a declaration in your favour, I might
with safety venture on such a request with a person of his temper; and
I was willing, as well for your sake as for my own, to prevent the
least possibility of a suspicion."
Captain Blifil took not the least notice of this, at that time; but he
afterwards made a very notable use of it.
One of the maxims which the devil, in a late visit upon earth, left to
his disciples, is, when once you are got up, to kick the stool from
under you. In plain English, when you have made your fortune by the
good offices of a friend, you are advised to discard him as soon as
you can.
Whether the captain acted by this maxim, I will not positively
determine: so far we may confidently say, that his actions may be
fairly derived from this diabolical principle; and indeed it is
difficult to assign any other motive to them: for no sooner was he
possessed of Miss Bridget, and reconciled to Allworthy, than he began
to show a coldness to his brother which increased daily; till at
length it grew into rudeness, and became very visible to every one.
The doctor remonstrated to him privately concerning this behaviour,
but could obtain no other satisfaction than the following plain
declaration: "If you dislike anything in my brother's house, sir, you
know you are at liberty to quit it." This strange, cruel, and almost
unaccountable ingratitude in the captain, absolutely broke the poor
doctor's heart; for ingratitude never so thoroughly pierces the human
breast as when it proceeds from those in whose behalf we have been
guilty of transgressions. Reflections on great and good actions,
however they are received or returned by those in whose favour they
are performed, always administer some comfort to us; but what
consolation shall we receive under so biting a calamity as the
ungrateful behaviour of our friend, when our wounded conscience at the
same time flies in our face, and upbraids us with having spotted it in
the service of one so worthless!
Mr Allworthy himself spoke to the captain in his brother's behalf, and
desired to know what offence the doctor had committed; when the
hard-hearted villain had the baseness to say that he should never
forgive him for the injury which he had endeavoured to do him in his
favour; which, he said, he had pumped out of him, and was such a
cruelty that it ought not to be forgiven.
Allworthy spoke in very high terms upon this declaration, which, he
said, became not a human creature. He expressed, indeed, so much
resentment against an unforgiving temper, that the captain at last
pretended to be convinced by his arguments, and outwardly professed to
be reconciled.
As for the bride, she was now in her honeymoon, and so passionately
fond of her new husband that he never appeared to her to be in the
wrong; and his displeasure against any person was a sufficient reason
for her dislike to the same.
The captain, at Mr Allworthy's instance, was outwardly, as we have
said, reconciled to his brother; yet the same rancour remained in his
heart; and he found so many opportunities of giving him private hints
of this, that the house at last grew insupportable to the poor doctor;
and he chose rather to submit to any inconveniences which he might
encounter in the world, than longer to bear these cruel and ungrateful
insults from a brother for whom he had done so much.
He once intended to acquaint Allworthy with the whole; but he could
not bring himself to submit to the confession, by which he must take
to his share so great a portion of guilt. Besides, by how much the
worse man he represented his brother to be, so much the greater would
his own offence appear to Allworthy, and so much the greater, he had
reason to imagine, would be his resentment.
He feigned, therefore, some excuse of business for his departure, and
promised to return soon again; and took leave of his brother with so
well-dissembled content, that, as the captain played his part to the
same perfection, Allworthy remained well satisfied with the truth of
the reconciliation.
The doctor went directly to London, where he died soon after of a
broken heart; a distemper which kills many more than is generally
imagined, and would have a fair title to a place in the bill of
mortality, did it not differ in one instance from all other
diseases--viz., that no physician can cure it.
Now, upon the most diligent enquiry into the former lives of these two
brothers, I find, besides the cursed and hellish maxim of policy above
mentioned, another reason for the captain's conduct: the captain,
besides what we have before said of him, was a man of great pride and
fierceness, and had always treated his brother, who was of a different
complexion, and greatly deficient in both these qualities, with the
utmost air of superiority. The doctor, however, had much the larger
share of learning, and was by many reputed to have the better
understanding. This the captain knew, and could not bear; for though
envy is at best a very malignant passion, yet is its bitterness
greatly heightened by mixing with contempt towards the same object;
and very much afraid I am, that whenever an obligation is joined to
these two, indignation and not gratitude will be the product of all
three.
BOOK II.
CONTAINING SCENES OF MATRIMONIAL FELICITY IN DIFFERENT DEGREES OF
LIFE; AND VARIOUS OTHER TRANSACTIONS DURING THE FIRST TWO YEARS AFTER
THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN CAPTAIN BLIFIL AND MISS BRIDGET ALLWORTHY.
Chapter i.
Showing what kind of a history this is; what it is like, and what it
is not like.
Though we have properly enough entitled this our work, a history, and
not a life; nor an apology for a life, as is more in fashion; yet we
intend in it rather to pursue the method of those writers, who profess
to disclose the revolutions of countries, than to imitate the painful
and voluminous historian, who, to preserve the regularity of his
series, thinks himself obliged to fill up as much paper with the
detail of months and years in which nothing remarkable happened, as he
employs upon those notable aeras when the greatest scenes have been
transacted on the human stage.
Such histories as these do, in reality, very much resemble a
newspaper, which consists of just the same number of words, whether
there be any news in it or not. They may likewise be compared to a
stage coach, which performs constantly the same course, empty as well
as full. The writer, indeed, seems to think himself obliged to keep
even pace with time, whose amanuensis he is; and, like his master,
travels as slowly through centuries of monkish dulness, when the world
seems to have been asleep, as through that bright and busy age so
nobly distinguished by the excellent Latin poet--
_Ad confligendum venientibus undique poenis,
Omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu
Horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris auris;
In dubioque fuit sub utrorum regna cadendum
Omnibus humanis esset, terraque marique._
Of which we wish we could give our readers a more adequate translation
than that by Mr Creech--
When dreadful Carthage frighted Rome with arms,
And all the world was shook with fierce alarms;
Whilst undecided yet, which part should fall,
Which nation rise the glorious lord of all.
Now it is our purpose, in the ensuing pages, to pursue a contrary
method. When any extraordinary scene presents itself (as we trust will
often be the case), we shall spare no pains nor paper to open it at
large to our reader; but if whole years should pass without producing
anything worthy his notice, we shall not be afraid of a chasm in our
history; but shall hasten on to matters of consequence, and leave such
periods of time totally unobserved.
These are indeed to be considered as blanks in the grand lottery of
time. We therefore, who are the registers of that lottery, shall
imitate those sagacious persons who deal in that which is drawn at
Guildhall, and who never trouble the public with the many blanks they
dispose of; but when a great prize happens to be drawn, the newspapers
are presently filled with it, and the world is sure to be informed at
whose office it was sold: indeed, commonly two or three different
offices lay claim to the honour of having disposed of it; by which, I
suppose, the adventurers are given to understand that certain brokers
are in the secrets of Fortune, and indeed of her cabinet council.
My reader then is not to be surprized, if, in the course of this work,
he shall find some chapters very short, and others altogether as long;
some that contain only the time of a single day, and others that
comprise years; in a word, if my history sometimes seems to stand
still, and sometimes to fly. For all which I shall not look on myself
as accountable to any court of critical jurisdiction whatever: for as
I am, in reality, the founder of a new province of writing, so I am at
liberty to make what laws I please therein. And these laws, my
readers, whom I consider as my subjects, are bound to believe in and
to obey; with which that they may readily and cheerfully comply, I do
hereby assure them that I shall principally regard their ease and
advantage in all such institutions: for I do not, like a _jure divino_
tyrant, imagine that they are my slaves, or my commodity. I am,
indeed, set over them for their own good only, and was created for
their use, and not they for mine. Nor do I doubt, while I make their
interest the great rule of my writings, they will unanimously concur
in supporting my dignity, and in rendering me all the honour I shall
deserve or desire.
Chapter ii.
Religious cautions against showing too much favour to bastards; and a
great discovery made by Mrs Deborah Wilkins.
Eight months after the celebration of the nuptials between Captain
Blifil and Miss Bridget Allworthy, a young lady of great beauty,
merit, and fortune, was Miss Bridget, by reason of a fright, delivered
of a fine boy. The child was indeed to all appearances perfect; but
the midwife discovered it was born a month before its full time.
Though the birth of an heir by his beloved sister was a circumstance
of great joy to Mr Allworthy, yet it did not alienate his affections
from the little foundling, to whom he had been godfather, had given
his own name of Thomas, and whom he had hitherto seldom failed of
visiting, at least once a day, in his nursery.
He told his sister, if she pleased, the new-born infant should be bred
up together with little Tommy; to which she consented, though with
some little reluctance: for she had truly a great complacence for her
brother; and hence she had always behaved towards the foundling with
rather more kindness than ladies of rigid virtue can sometimes bring
themselves to show to these children, who, however innocent, may be
truly called the living monuments of incontinence.
The captain could not so easily bring himself to bear what he
condemned as a fault in Mr Allworthy. He gave him frequent hints, that
to adopt the fruits of sin, was to give countenance to it. He quoted
several texts (for he was well read in Scripture), such as, _He visits
the sins of the fathers upon the children; and the fathers have eaten
sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge_,&c. Whence he
argued the legality of punishing the crime of the parent on the
bastard. He said, "Though the law did not positively allow the
destroying such base-born children, yet it held them to be the
children of nobody; that the Church considered them as the children of
nobody; and that at the best, they ought to be brought up to the
lowest and vilest offices of the commonwealth."
Mr Allworthy answered to all this, and much more, which the captain
had urged on this subject, "That, however guilty the parents might be,
the children were certainly innocent: that as to the texts he had
quoted, the former of them was a particular denunciation against the
Jews, for the sin of idolatry, of relinquishing and hating their
heavenly King; and the latter was parabolically spoken, and rather
intended to denote the certain and necessary consequences of sin, than
any express judgment against it. But to represent the Almighty as
avenging the sins of the guilty on the innocent, was indecent, if not
blasphemous, as it was to represent him acting against the first
principles of natural justice, and against the original notions of
right and wrong, which he himself had implanted in our minds; by which
we were to judge not only in all matters which were not revealed, but
even of the truth of revelation itself. He said he knew many held the
same principles with the captain on this head; but he was himself
firmly convinced to the contrary, and would provide in the same manner
for this poor infant, as if a legitimate child had had fortune to have
been found in the same place."
While the captain was taking all opportunities to press these and such
like arguments, to remove the little foundling from Mr Allworthy's, of
whose fondness for him he began to be jealous, Mrs Deborah had made a
discovery, which, in its event, threatened at least to prove more
fatal to poor Tommy than all the reasonings of the captain.
Whether the insatiable curiosity of this good woman had carried her on
to that business, or whether she did it to confirm herself in the good
graces of Mrs Blifil, who, notwithstanding her outward behaviour to
the foundling, frequently abused the infant in private, and her
brother too, for his fondness to it, I will not determine; but she had
now, as she conceived, fully detected the father of the foundling.
Now, as this was a discovery of great consequence, it may be necessary
to trace it from the fountain-head. We shall therefore very minutely
lay open those previous matters by which it was produced; and for that
purpose we shall be obliged to reveal all the secrets of a little
family with which my reader is at present entirely unacquainted; and
of which the oeconomy was so rare and extraordinary, that I fear it
will shock the utmost credulity of many married persons.
Chapter iii.
The description of a domestic government founded upon rules directly
contrary to those of Aristotle.
My reader may please to remember he hath been informed that Jenny
Jones had lived some years with a certain schoolmaster, who had, at
her earnest desire, instructed her in Latin, in which, to do justice
to her genius, she had so improved herself, that she was become a
better scholar than her master.
Indeed, though this poor man had undertaken a profession to which
learning must be allowed necessary, this was the least of his
commendations. He was one of the best-natured fellows in the world,
and was, at the same time, master of so much pleasantry and humour,
that he was reputed the wit of the country; and all the neighbouring
gentlemen were so desirous of his company, that as denying was not his
talent, he spent much time at their houses, which he might, with more
emolument, have spent in his school.
It may be imagined that a gentleman so qualified and so disposed, was
in no danger of becoming formidable to the learned seminaries of Eton
or Westminster. To speak plainly, his scholars were divided into two
classes: in the upper of which was a young gentleman, the son of a
neighbouring squire, who, at the age of seventeen, was just entered
into his Syntaxis; and in the lower was a second son of the same
gentleman, who, together with seven parish-boys, was learning to read
and write.
The stipend arising hence would hardly have indulged the schoolmaster
in the luxuries of life, had he not added to this office those of
clerk and barber, and had not Mr Allworthy added to the whole an
annuity of ten pounds, which the poor man received every Christmas,
and with which he was enabled to cheer his heart during that sacred
festival.
Among his other treasures, the pedagogue had a wife, whom he had
married out of Mr Allworthy's kitchen for her fortune, viz., twenty
pounds, which she had there amassed.
This woman was not very amiable in her person. Whether she sat to my
friend Hogarth, or no, I will not determine; but she exactly resembled
the young woman who is pouring out her mistress's tea in the third
picture of the Harlot's Progress. She was, besides, a profest follower
of that noble sect founded by Xantippe of old; by means of which she
became more formidable in the school than her husband; for, to confess
the truth, he was never master there, or anywhere else, in her
presence.
Though her countenance did not denote much natural sweetness of
temper, yet this was, perhaps, somewhat soured by a circumstance which
generally poisons matrimonial felicity; for children are rightly
called the pledges of love; and her husband, though they had been
married nine years, had given her no such pledges; a default for which
he had no excuse, either from age or health, being not yet thirty
years old, and what they call a jolly brisk young man.
Hence arose another evil, which produced no little uneasiness to the
poor pedagogue, of whom she maintained so constant a jealousy, that he
durst hardly speak to one woman in the parish; for the least degree of
civility, or even correspondence, with any female, was sure to bring
his wife upon her back, and his own.
In order to guard herself against matrimonial injuries in her own
house, as she kept one maid-servant, she always took care to chuse her
out of that order of females whose faces are taken as a kind of
security for their virtue; of which number Jenny Jones, as the reader
hath been before informed, was one.
As the face of this young woman might be called pretty good security
of the before-mentioned kind, and as her behaviour had been always
extremely modest, which is the certain consequence of understanding in
women; she had passed above four years at Mr Partridge's (for that was
the schoolmaster's name) without creating the least suspicion in her
mistress. Nay, she had been treated with uncommon kindness, and her
mistress had permitted Mr Partridge to give her those instructions
which have been before commemorated.
But it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such distempers are in
the blood, there is never any security against their breaking out; and
that often on the slightest occasions, and when least suspected.
Thus it happened to Mrs Partridge, who had submitted four years to her
husband's teaching this young woman, and had suffered her often to
neglect her work, in order to pursue her learning. For, passing by one
day, as the girl was reading, and her master leaning over her, the
girl, I know not for what reason, suddenly started up from her chair:
and this was the first time that suspicion ever entered into the head
of her mistress. This did not, however, at that time discover itself,
but lay lurking in her mind, like a concealed enemy, who waits for a
reinforcement of additional strength before he openly declares himself
and proceeds upon hostile operations: and such additional strength
soon arrived to corroborate her suspicion; for not long after, the
husband and wife being at dinner, the master said to his maid, _Da
mihi aliquid potum:_ upon which the poor girl smiled, perhaps at the
badness of the Latin, and, when her mistress cast her eyes on her,
blushed, possibly with a consciousness of having laughed at her
master. Mrs Partridge, upon this, immediately fell into a fury, and
discharged the trencher on which she was eating, at the head of poor
Jenny, crying out, "You impudent whore, do you play tricks with my
husband before my face?" and at the same instant rose from her chair
with a knife in her hand, with which, most probably, she would have
executed very tragical vengeance, had not the girl taken the advantage
of being nearer the door than her mistress, and avoided her fury by
running away: for, as to the poor husband, whether surprize had
rendered him motionless, or fear (which is full as probable) had
restrained him from venturing at any opposition, he sat staring and
trembling in his chair; nor did he once offer to move or speak, till
his wife, returning from the pursuit of Jenny, made some defensive
measures necessary for his own preservation; and he likewise was
obliged to retreat, after the example of the maid.
This good woman was, no more than Othello, of a disposition
To make a life of jealousy
And follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions--
With her, as well as him,
--To be once in doubt,
Was once to be resolvd--
she therefore ordered Jenny immediately to pack up her alls and
begone, for that she was determined she should not sleep that night
within her walls.
Mr Partridge had profited too much by experience to interpose in a
matter of this nature. He therefore had recourse to his usual receipt
of patience, for, though he was not a great adept in Latin, he
remembered, and well understood, the advice contained in these words
--_Leve fit quod bene fertur onus_
in English:
A burden becomes lightest when it is well borne--
which he had always in his mouth; and of which, to say the truth, he
had often occasion to experience the truth.
Jenny offered to make protestations of her innocence; but the tempest
was too strong for her to be heard. She then betook herself to the
business of packing, for which a small quantity of brown paper
sufficed, and, having received her small pittance of wages, she
returned home.
The schoolmaster and his consort passed their time unpleasantly enough
that evening, but something or other happened before the next morning,
which a little abated the fury of Mrs Partridge; and she at length
admitted her husband to make his excuses: to which she gave the
readier belief, as he had, instead of desiring her to recall Jenny,
professed a satisfaction in her being dismissed, saying, she was grown
of little use as a servant, spending all her time in reading, and was
become, moreover, very pert and obstinate; for, indeed, she and her
master had lately had frequent disputes in literature; in which, as
hath been said, she was become greatly his superior. This, however, he
would by no means allow; and as he called her persisting in the right,
obstinacy, he began to hate her with no small inveteracy.
Chapter iv.
Containing one of the most bloody battles, or rather duels, that were
ever recorded in domestic history.
For the reasons mentioned in the preceding chapter, and from some
other matrimonial concessions, well known to most husbands, and which,
like the secrets of freemasonry, should be divulged to none who are
not members of that honourable fraternity, Mrs Partridge was pretty
well satisfied that she had condemned her husband without cause, and
endeavoured by acts of kindness to make him amends for her false
suspicion. Her passions were indeed equally violent, whichever way
they inclined; for as she could be extremely angry, so could she be
altogether as fond.
But though these passions ordinarily succeed each other, and scarce
twenty-four hours ever passed in which the pedagogue was not, in some
degree, the object of both; yet, on extraordinary occasions, when the
passion of anger had raged very high, the remission was usually
longer: and so was the case at present; for she continued longer in a
state of affability, after this fit of jealousy was ended, than her
husband had ever known before: and, had it not been for some little
exercises, which all the followers of Xantippe are obliged to perform
daily, Mr Partridge would have enjoyed a perfect serenity of several
months.
Perfect calms at sea are always suspected by the experienced mariner
to be the forerunners of a storm, and I know some persons, who,
without being generally the devotees of superstition, are apt to
apprehend that great and unusual peace or tranquillity will be
attended with its opposite. For which reason the antients used, on
such occasions, to sacrifice to the goddess Nemesis, a deity who was
thought by them to look with an invidious eye on human felicity, and
to have a peculiar delight in overturning it.
As we are very far from believing in any such heathen goddess, or from
encouraging any superstition, so we wish Mr John Fr----, or some other
such philosopher, would bestir himself a little, in order to find out
the real cause of this sudden transition from good to bad fortune,
which hath been so often remarked, and of which we shall proceed to
give an instance; for it is our province to relate facts, and we shall
leave causes to persons of much higher genius.
Mankind have always taken great delight in knowing and descanting on
the actions of others. Hence there have been, in all ages and nations,
certain places set apart for public rendezvous, where the curious
might meet and satisfy their mutual curiosity. Among these, the
barbers' shops have justly borne the pre-eminence. Among the Greeks,
barbers' news was a proverbial expression; and Horace, in one of his
epistles, makes honourable mention of the Roman barbers in the same
light.
Those of England are known to be no wise inferior to their Greek or
Roman predecessors. You there see foreign affairs discussed in a
manner little inferior to that with which they are handled in the
coffee-houses; and domestic occurrences are much more largely and
freely treated in the former than in the latter. But this serves only
for the men. Now, whereas the females of this country, especially
those of the lower order, do associate themselves much more than those
of other nations, our polity would be highly deficient, if they had
not some place set apart likewise for the indulgence of their
curiosity, seeing they are in this no way inferior to the other half
of the species.
In enjoying, therefore, such place of rendezvous, the British fair
ought to esteem themselves more happy than any of their foreign
sisters; as I do not remember either to have read in history, or to
have seen in my travels, anything of the like kind.
This place then is no other than the chandler's shop, the known seat
of all the news; or, as it is vulgarly called, gossiping, in every
parish in England.
Mrs Partridge being one day at this assembly of females, was asked by
one of her neighbours, if she had heard no news lately of Jenny Jones?
To which she answered in the negative. Upon this the other replied,
with a smile, That the parish was very much obliged to her for having
turned Jenny away as she did.
Mrs Partridge, whose jealousy, as the reader well knows, was long
since cured, and who had no other quarrel to her maid, answered
boldly, She did not know any obligation the parish had to her on that
account; for she believed Jenny had scarce left her equal behind her.
"No, truly," said the gossip, "I hope not, though I fancy we have
sluts enow too. Then you have not heard, it seems, that she hath been
brought to bed of two bastards? but as they are not born here, my
husband and the other overseer says we shall not be obliged to keep
them."
"Two bastards!" answered Mrs Partridge hastily: "you surprize me! I
don't know whether we must keep them; but I am sure they must have
been begotten here, for the wench hath not been nine months gone
away."
Nothing can be so quick and sudden as the operations of the mind,
especially when hope, or fear, or jealousy, to which the two others
are but journeymen, set it to work. It occurred instantly to her, that
Jenny had scarce ever been out of her own house while she lived with
her. The leaning over the chair, the sudden starting up, the Latin,
the smile, and many other things, rushed upon her all at once. The
satisfaction her husband expressed in the departure of Jenny, appeared
now to be only dissembled; again, in the same instant, to be real; but
yet to confirm her jealousy, proceeding from satiety, and a hundred
other bad causes. In a word, she was convinced of her husband's guilt,
and immediately left the assembly in confusion.
As fair Grimalkin, who, though the youngest of the feline family,
degenerates not in ferocity from the elder branches of her house, and
though inferior in strength, is equal in fierceness to the noble tiger
himself, when a little mouse, whom it hath long tormented in sport,
escapes from her clutches for a while, frets, scolds, growls, swears;
but if the trunk, or box, behind which the mouse lay hid be again
removed, she flies like lightning on her prey, and, with envenomed
wrath, bites, scratches, mumbles, and tears the little animal.
Not with less fury did Mrs Partridge fly on the poor pedagogue. Her
tongue, teeth, and hands, fell all upon him at once. His wig was in an
instant torn from his head, his shirt from his back, and from his face
descended five streams of blood, denoting the number of claws with
which nature had unhappily armed the enemy.
Mr Partridge acted for some time on the defensive only; indeed he
attempted only to guard his face with his hands; but as he found that
his antagonist abated nothing of her rage, he thought he might, at
least, endeavour to disarm her, or rather to confine her arms; in
doing which her cap fell off in the struggle, and her hair being too
short to reach her shoulders, erected itself on her head; her stays
likewise, which were laced through one single hole at the bottom,
burst open; and her breasts, which were much more redundant than her
hair, hung down below her middle; her face was likewise marked with
the blood of her husband: her teeth gnashed with rage; and fire, such
as sparkles from a smith's forge, darted from her eyes. So that,
altogether, this Amazonian heroine might have been an object of terror
to a much bolder man than Mr Partridge.
He had, at length, the good fortune, by getting possession of her
arms, to render those weapons which she wore at the ends of her
fingers useless; which she no sooner perceived, than the softness of
her sex prevailed over her rage, and she presently dissolved in tears,
which soon after concluded in a fit.
That small share of sense which Mr Partridge had hitherto preserved
through this scene of fury, of the cause of which he was hitherto
ignorant, now utterly abandoned him. He ran instantly into the street,
hallowing out that his wife was in the agonies of death, and
beseeching the neighbours to fly with the utmost haste to her
assistance. Several good women obeyed his summons, who entering his
house, and applying the usual remedies on such occasions, Mrs
Partridge was at length, to the great joy of her husband, brought to
herself.
As soon as she had a little recollected her spirits, and somewhat
composed herself with a cordial, she began to inform the company of
the manifold injuries she had received from her husband; who, she
said, was not contented to injure her in her bed; but, upon her
upbraiding him with it, had treated her in the cruelest manner
imaginable; had tore her cap and hair from her head, and her stays
from her body, giving her, at the same time, several blows, the marks
of which she should carry to the grave.
The poor man, who bore on his face many more visible marks of the
indignation of his wife, stood in silent astonishment at this
accusation; which the reader will, I believe, bear witness for him,
had greatly exceeded the truth; for indeed he had not struck her once;
and this silence being interpreted to be a confession of the charge by
the whole court, they all began at once, _una voce_, to rebuke and
revile him, repeating often, that none but a coward ever struck a
woman.
Mr Partridge bore all this patiently; but when his wife appealed to
the blood on her face, as an evidence of his barbarity, he could not
help laying claim to his own blood, for so it really was; as he
thought it very unnatural, that this should rise up (as we are taught
that of a murdered person often doth) in vengeance against him.
To this the women made no other answer, than that it was a pity it had
not come from his heart, instead of his face; all declaring, that, if
their husbands should lift their hands against them, they would have
their hearts' bloods out of their bodies.
After much admonition for what was past, and much good advice to Mr
Partridge for his future behaviour, the company at length departed,
and left the husband and wife to a personal conference together, in
which Mr Partridge soon learned the cause of all his sufferings.
Chapter v.
Containing much matter to exercise the judgment and reflection of the
reader.
I believe it is a true observation, that few secrets are divulged to
one person only; but certainly, it would be next to a miracle that a
fact of this kind should be known to a whole parish, and not transpire
any farther.
And, indeed, a very few days had past, before the country, to use a
common phrase, rung of the schoolmaster of Little Baddington; who was
said to have beaten his wife in the most cruel manner. Nay, in some
places it was reported he had murdered her; in others, that he had
broke her arms; in others, her legs: in short, there was scarce an
injury which can be done to a human creature, but what Mrs Partridge
was somewhere or other affirmed to have received from her husband.
The cause of this quarrel was likewise variously reported; for as some
people said that Mrs Partridge had caught her husband in bed with his
maid, so many other reasons, of a very different kind, went abroad.
Nay, some transferred the guilt to the wife, and the jealousy to the
husband.
Mrs Wilkins had long ago heard of this quarrel; but, as a different
cause from the true one had reached her ears, she thought proper to
conceal it; and the rather, perhaps, as the blame was universally laid
on Mr Partridge; and his wife, when she was servant to Mr Allworthy,
had in something offended Mrs Wilkins, who was not of a very forgiving
temper.
But Mrs Wilkins, whose eyes could see objects at a distance, and who
could very well look forward a few years into futurity, had perceived
a strong likelihood of Captain Blifil's being hereafter her master;
and as she plainly discerned that the captain bore no great goodwill
to the little foundling, she fancied it would be rendering him an
agreeable service, if she could make any discoveries that might lessen
the affection which Mr Allworthy seemed to have contracted for this
child, and which gave visible uneasiness to the captain, who could not
entirely conceal it even before Allworthy himself; though his wife,
who acted her part much better in public, frequently recommended to
him her own example, of conniving at the folly of her brother, which,
she said, she at least as well perceived, and as much resented, as any
other possibly could.
Mrs Wilkins having therefore, by accident, gotten a true scent of the
above story,--though long after it had happened, failed not to satisfy
herself thoroughly of all the particulars; and then acquainted the
captain, that she had at last discovered the true father of the little
bastard, which she was sorry, she said, to see her master lose his
reputation in the country, by taking so much notice of.
The captain chid her for the conclusion of her speech, as an improper
assurance in judging of her master's actions: for if his honour, or
his understanding, would have suffered the captain to make an alliance
with Mrs Wilkins, his pride would by no means have admitted it. And to
say the truth, there is no conduct less politic, than to enter into
any confederacy with your friend's servants against their master: for
by these means you afterwards become the slave of these very servants;
by whom you are constantly liable to be betrayed. And this
consideration, perhaps it was, which prevented Captain Blifil from
being more explicit with Mrs Wilkins, or from encouraging the abuse
which she had bestowed on Allworthy.
But though he declared no satisfaction to Mrs Wilkins at this
discovery, he enjoyed not a little from it in his own mind, and
resolved to make the best use of it he was able.
He kept this matter a long time concealed within his own breast, in
hopes that Mr Allworthy might hear it from some other person; but Mrs
Wilkins, whether she resented the captain's behaviour, or whether his
cunning was beyond her, and she feared the discovery might displease
him, never afterwards opened her lips about the matter.
I have thought it somewhat strange, upon reflection, that the
housekeeper never acquainted Mrs Blifil with this news, as women are
more inclined to communicate all pieces of intelligence to their own
sex, than to ours. The only way, as it appears to me, of solving this
difficulty, is, by imputing it to that distance which was now grown
between the lady and the housekeeper: whether this arose from a
jealousy in Mrs Blifil, that Wilkins showed too great a respect to the
foundling; for while she was endeavouring to ruin the little infant,
in order to ingratiate herself with the captain, she was every day
more and more commending it before Allworthy, as his fondness for it
every day increased. This, notwithstanding all the care she took at
other times to express the direct contrary to Mrs Blifil, perhaps
offended that delicate lady, who certainly now hated Mrs Wilkins; and
though she did not, or possibly could not, absolutely remove her from
her place, she found, however, the means of making her life very
uneasy. This Mrs Wilkins, at length, so resented, that she very openly
showed all manner of respect and fondness to little Tommy, in
opposition to Mrs Blifil.
The captain, therefore, finding the story in danger of perishing, at
last took an opportunity to reveal it himself.
He was one day engaged with Mr Allworthy in a discourse on charity: in
which the captain, with great learning, proved to Mr Allworthy, that
the word charity in Scripture nowhere means beneficence or generosity.
"The Christian religion," he said, "was instituted for much nobler
purposes, than to enforce a lesson which many heathen philosophers had
taught us long before, and which, though it might perhaps be called a
moral virtue, savoured but little of that sublime, Christian-like
disposition, that vast elevation of thought, in purity approaching to
angelic perfection, to be attained, expressed, and felt only by grace.
Those," he said, "came nearer to the Scripture meaning, who understood
by it candour, or the forming of a benevolent opinion of our brethren,
and passing a favourable judgment on their actions; a virtue much
higher, and more extensive in its nature, than a pitiful distribution
of alms, which, though we would never so much prejudice, or even ruin
our families, could never reach many; whereas charity, in the other
and truer sense, might be extended to all mankind."
He said, "Considering who the disciples were, it would be absurd to
conceive the doctrine of generosity, or giving alms, to have been
preached to them. And, as we could not well imagine this doctrine
should be preached by its Divine Author to men who could not practise
it, much less should we think it understood so by those who can
practise it, and do not.
"But though," continued he, "there is, I am afraid, little merit in
these benefactions, there would, I must confess, be much pleasure in
them to a good mind, if it was not abated by one consideration. I
mean, that we are liable to be imposed upon, and to confer our
choicest favours often on the undeserving, as you must own was your
case in your bounty to that worthless fellow Partridge: for two or
three such examples must greatly lessen the inward satisfaction which
a good man would otherwise find in generosity; nay, may even make him
timorous in bestowing, lest he should be guilty of supporting vice,
and encouraging the wicked; a crime of a very black dye, and for which
it will by no means be a sufficient excuse, that we have not actually
intended such an encouragement; unless we have used the utmost caution
in chusing the objects of our beneficence. A consideration which, I
make no doubt, hath greatly checked the liberality of many a worthy
and pious man."
Mr Allworthy answered, "He could not dispute with the captain in the
Greek language, and therefore could say nothing as to the true sense
of the word which is translated charity; but that he had always
thought it was interpreted to consist in action, and that giving alms
constituted at least one branch of that virtue.
"As to the meritorious part," he said, "he readily agreed with the
captain; for where could be the merit of barely discharging a duty?
which," he said, "let the word charity have what construction it
would, it sufficiently appeared to be from the whole tenor of the New
Testament. And as he thought it an indispensable duty, enjoined both
by the Christian law, and by the law of nature itself; so was it
withal so pleasant, that if any duty could be said to be its own
reward, or to pay us while we are discharging it, it was this.
"To confess the truth," said he, "there is one degree of generosity
(of charity I would have called it), which seems to have some show of
merit, and that is, where, from a principle of benevolence and
Christian love, we bestow on another what we really want ourselves;
where, in order to lessen the distresses of another, we condescend to
share some part of them, by giving what even our own necessities
cannot well spare. This is, I think, meritorious; but to relieve our
brethren only with our superfluities; to be charitable (I must use the
word) rather at the expense of our coffers than ourselves; to save
several families from misery rather than hang up an extraordinary
picture in our houses or gratify any other idle ridiculous
vanity--this seems to be only being human creatures. Nay, I will
venture to go farther, it is being in some degree epicures: for what
could the greatest epicure wish rather than to eat with many mouths
instead of one? which I think may be predicated of any one who knows
that the bread of many is owing to his own largesses.
"As to the apprehension of bestowing bounty on such as may hereafter
prove unworthy objects, because many have proved such; surely it can
never deter a good man from generosity. I do not think a few or many
examples of ingratitude can justify a man's hardening his heart
against the distresses of his fellow-creatures; nor do I believe it
can ever have such effect on a truly benevolent mind. Nothing less
than a persuasion of universal depravity can lock up the charity of a
good man; and this persuasion must lead him, I think, either into
atheism, or enthusiasm; but surely it is unfair to argue such
universal depravity from a few vicious individuals; nor was this, I
believe, ever done by a man, who, upon searching his own mind, found
one certain exception to the general rule." He then concluded by
asking, "who that Partridge was, whom he had called a worthless
fellow?"
"I mean," said the captain, "Partridge the barber, the schoolmaster,
what do you call him? Partridge, the father of the little child which
you found in your bed."
Mr Allworthy exprest great surprize at this account, and the captain
as great at his ignorance of it; for he said he had known it above a
month: and at length recollected with much difficulty that he was told
it by Mrs Wilkins.
Upon this, Wilkins was immediately summoned; who having confirmed what
the captain had said, was by Mr Allworthy, by and with the captain's
advice, dispatched to Little Baddington, to inform herself of the
truth of the fact: for the captain exprest great dislike at all hasty
proceedings in criminal matters, and said he would by no means have Mr
Allworthy take any resolution either to the prejudice of the child or
its father, before he was satisfied that the latter was guilty; for
though he had privately satisfied himself of this from one of
Partridge's neighbours, yet he was too generous to give any such
evidence to Mr Allworthy.
Chapter vi.
The trial of Partridge, the schoolmaster, for incontinency; the
evidence of his wife; a short reflection on the wisdom of our law;
with other grave matters, which those will like best who understand
them most.
It may be wondered that a story so well known, and which had furnished
so much matter of conversation, should never have been mentioned to Mr
Allworthy himself, who was perhaps the only person in that country who
had never heard of it.
To account in some measure for this to the reader, I think proper to
inform him, that there was no one in the kingdom less interested in
opposing that doctrine concerning the meaning of the word charity,
which hath been seen in the preceding chapter, than our good man.
Indeed, he was equally intitled to this virtue in either sense; for as
no man was ever more sensible of the wants, or more ready to relieve
the distresses of others, so none could be more tender of their
characters, or slower to believe anything to their disadvantage.
Scandal, therefore, never found any access to his table; for as it
hath been long since observed that you may know a man by his
companions, so I will venture to say, that, by attending to the
conversation at a great man's table, you may satisfy yourself of his
religion, his politics, his taste, and indeed of his entire
disposition: for though a few odd fellows will utter their own
sentiments in all places, yet much the greater part of mankind have
enough of the courtier to accommodate their conversation to the taste
and inclination of their superiors.
But to return to Mrs Wilkins, who, having executed her commission with
great dispatch, though at fifteen miles distance, brought back such a
confirmation of the schoolmaster's guilt, that Mr Allworthy determined
to send for the criminal, and examine him _viva voce_. Mr Partridge,
therefore, was summoned to attend, in order to his defence (if he
could make any) against this accusation.
At the time appointed, before Mr Allworthy himself, at Paradise-hall,
came as well the said Partridge, with Anne, his wife, as Mrs Wilkins
his accuser.
And now Mr Allworthy being seated in the chair of justice, Mr
Partridge was brought before him. Having heard his accusation from the
mouth of Mrs Wilkins, he pleaded not guilty, making many vehement
protestations of his innocence.
Mrs Partridge was then examined, who, after a modest apology for being
obliged to speak the truth against her husband, related all the
circumstances with which the reader hath already been acquainted; and
at last concluded with her husband's confession of his guilt.
Whether she had forgiven him or no, I will not venture to determine;
but it is certain she was an unwilling witness in this cause; and it
is probable from certain other reasons, would never have been brought
to depose as she did, had not Mrs Wilkins, with great art, fished all
out of her at her own house, and had she not indeed made promises, in
Mr Allworthy's name, that the punishment of her husband should not be
such as might anywise affect his family.
Partridge still persisted in asserting his innocence, though he
admitted he had made the above-mentioned confession; which he however
endeavoured to account for, by protesting that he was forced into it
by the continued importunity she used: who vowed, that, as she was
sure of his guilt, she would never leave tormenting him till he had
owned it; and faithfully promised, that, in such case, she would never
mention it to him more. Hence, he said, he had been induced falsely to
confess himself guilty, though he was innocent; and that he believed
he should have confest a murder from the same motive.
Mrs Partridge could not bear this imputation with patience; and having
no other remedy in the present place but tears, she called forth a
plentiful assistance from them, and then addressing herself to Mr
Allworthy, she said (or rather cried), "May it please your worship,
there never was any poor woman so injured as I am by that base man;
for this is not the only instance of his falsehood to me. No, may it
please your worship, he hath injured my bed many's the good time and
often. I could have put up with his drunkenness and neglect of his
business, if he had not broke one of the sacred commandments. Besides,
if it had been out of doors I had not mattered it so much; but with my
own servant, in my own house, under my own roof, to defile my own
chaste bed, which to be sure he hath, with his beastly stinking
whores. Yes, you villain, you have defiled my own bed, you have; and
then you have charged me with bullocking you into owning the truth. It
is very likely, an't please your worship, that I should bullock him? I
have marks enow about my body to show of his cruelty to me. If you had
been a man, you villain, you would have scorned to injure a woman in
that manner. But you an't half a man, you know it. Nor have you been
half a husband to me. You need run after whores, you need, when I'm
sure--And since he provokes me, I am ready, an't please your worship,
to take my bodily oath that I found them a-bed together. What, you
have forgot, I suppose, when you beat me into a fit, and made the
blood run down my forehead, because I only civilly taxed you with
adultery! but I can prove it by all my neighbours. You have almost
broke my heart, you have, you have."
Here Mr Allworthy interrupted, and begged her to be pacified,
promising her that she should have justice; then turning to Partridge,
who stood aghast, one half of his wits being hurried away by surprize
and the other half by fear, he said he was sorry to see there was so
wicked a man in the world. He assured him that his prevaricating and
lying backward and forward was a great aggravation of his guilt; for
which the only atonement he could make was by confession and
repentance. He exhorted him, therefore, to begin by immediately
confessing the fact, and not to persist in denying what was so plainly
proved against him even by his own wife.
Here, reader, I beg your patience a moment, while I make a just
compliment to the great wisdom and sagacity of our law, which refuses
to admit the evidence of a wife for or against her husband. This, says
a certain learned author, who, I believe, was never quoted before in
any but a law-book, would be the means of creating an eternal
dissension between them. It would, indeed, be the means of much
perjury, and of much whipping, fining, imprisoning, transporting, and
hanging.
Partridge stood a while silent, till, being bid to speak, he said he
had already spoken the truth, and appealed to Heaven for his
innocence, and lastly to the girl herself, whom he desired his worship
immediately to send for; for he was ignorant, or at least pretended to
be so, that she had left that part of the country.
Mr Allworthy, whose natural love of justice, joined to his coolness of
temper, made him always a most patient magistrate in hearing all the
witnesses which an accused person could produce in his defence, agreed
to defer his final determination of this matter till the arrival of
Jenny, for whom he immediately dispatched a messenger; and then having
recommended peace between Partridge and his wife (though he addressed
himself chiefly to the wrong person), he appointed them to attend
again the third day; for he had sent Jenny a whole day's journey from
his own house.
At the appointed time the parties all assembled, when the messenger
returning brought word, that Jenny was not to be found; for that she
had left her habitation a few days before, in company with a
recruiting officer.
Mr Allworthy then declared that the evidence of such a slut as she
appeared to be would have deserved no credit; but he said he could not
help thinking that, had she been present, and would have declared the
truth, she must have confirmed what so many circumstances, together
with his own confession, and the declaration of his wife that she had
caught her husband in the fact, did sufficiently prove. He therefore
once more exhorted Partridge to confess; but he still avowing his
innocence, Mr Allworthy declared himself satisfied of his guilt, and
that he was too bad a man to receive any encouragement from him. He
therefore deprived him of his annuity, and recommended repentance to
him on account of another world, and industry to maintain himself and
his wife in this.
There were not, perhaps, many more unhappy persons than poor
Partridge. He had lost the best part of his income by the evidence of
his wife, and yet was daily upbraided by her for having, among other
things, been the occasion of depriving her of that benefit; but such
was his fortune, and he was obliged to submit to it.
Though I called him poor Partridge in the last paragraph, I would have
the reader rather impute that epithet to the compassion in my temper
than conceive it to be any declaration of his innocence. Whether he
was innocent or not will perhaps appear hereafter; but if the historic
muse hath entrusted me with any secrets, I will by no means be guilty
of discovering them till she shall give me leave.
Here therefore the reader must suspend his curiosity. Certain it is
that, whatever was the truth of the case, there was evidence more than
sufficient to convict him before Allworthy; indeed, much less would
have satisfied a bench of justices on an order of bastardy; and yet,
notwithstanding the positiveness of Mrs Partridge, who would have
taken the sacrament upon the matter, there is a possibility that the
schoolmaster was entirely innocent: for though it appeared clear on
comparing the time when Jenny departed from Little Baddington with
that of her delivery that she had there conceived this infant, yet it
by no means followed of necessity that Partridge must have been its
father; for, to omit other particulars, there was in the same house a
lad near eighteen, between whom and Jenny there had subsisted
sufficient intimacy to found a reasonable suspicion; and yet, so blind
is jealousy, this circumstance never once entered into the head of the
enraged wife.
Whether Partridge repented or not, according to Mr Allworthy's advice,
is not so apparent. Certain it is that his wife repented heartily of
the evidence she had given against him: especially when she found Mrs
Deborah had deceived her, and refused to make any application to Mr
Allworthy on her behalf. She had, however, somewhat better success
with Mrs Blifil, who was, as the reader must have perceived, a much
better-tempered woman, and very kindly undertook to solicit her
brother to restore the annuity; in which, though good-nature might
have some share, yet a stronger and more natural motive will appear in
the next chapter.
These solicitations were nevertheless unsuccessful: for though Mr
Allworthy did not think, with some late writers, that mercy consists
only in punishing offenders; yet he was as far from thinking that it
is proper to this excellent quality to pardon great criminals
wantonly, without any reason whatever. Any doubtfulness of the fact,
or any circumstance of mitigation, was never disregarded: but the
petitions of an offender, or the intercessions of others, did not in
the least affect him. In a word, he never pardoned because the
offender himself, or his friends, were unwilling that he should be
punished.
Partridge and his wife were therefore both obliged to submit to their
fate; which was indeed severe enough: for so far was he from doubling
his industry on the account of his lessened income, that he did in a
manner abandon himself to despair; and as he was by nature indolent,
that vice now increased upon him, by which means he lost the little
school he had; so that neither his wife nor himself would have had any
bread to eat, had not the charity of some good Christian interposed,
and provided them with what was just sufficient for their sustenance.
As this support was conveyed to them by an unknown hand, they
imagined, and so, I doubt not, will the reader, that Mr Allworthy
himself was their secret benefactor; who, though he would not openly
encourage vice, could yet privately relieve the distresses of the
vicious themselves, when these became too exquisite and
disproportionate to their demerit. In which light their wretchedness
appeared now to Fortune herself; for she at length took pity on this
miserable couple, and considerably lessened the wretched state of
Partridge, by putting a final end to that of his wife, who soon after
caught the small-pox, and died.
The justice which Mr Allworthy had executed on Partridge at first met
with universal approbation; but no sooner had he felt its
consequences, than his neighbours began to relent, and to
compassionate his case; and presently after, to blame that as rigour
and severity which they before called justice. They now exclaimed
against punishing in cold blood, and sang forth the praises of mercy
and forgiveness.
These cries were considerably increased by the death of Mrs Partridge,
which, though owing to the distemper above mentioned, which is no
consequence of poverty or distress, many were not ashamed to impute to
Mr Allworthy's severity, or, as they now termed it, cruelty.
Partridge having now lost his wife, his school, and his annuity, and
the unknown person having now discontinued the last-mentioned charity,
resolved to change the scene, and left the country, where he was in
danger of starving, with the universal compassion of all his
neighbours.
Chapter vii.
A short sketch of that felicity which prudent couples may extract from
hatred: with a short apology for those people who overlook
imperfections in their friends.
Though the captain had effectually demolished poor Partridge, yet had
he not reaped the harvest he hoped for, which was to turn the
foundling out of Mr Allworthy's house.
On the contrary, that gentleman grew every day fonder of little Tommy,
as if he intended to counterbalance his severity to the father with
extraordinary fondness and affection towards the son.
This a good deal soured the captain's temper, as did all the other
daily instances of Mr Allworthy's generosity; for he looked on all
such largesses to be diminutions of his own wealth.
In this, we have said, he did not agree with his wife; nor, indeed, in
anything else: for though an affection placed on the understanding is,
by many wise persons, thought more durable than that which is founded
on beauty, yet it happened otherwise in the present case. Nay, the
understandings of this couple were their principal bone of contention,
and one great cause of many quarrels, which from time to time arose
between them; and which at last ended, on the side of the lady, in a
sovereign contempt for her husband; and on the husband's, in an utter
abhorrence of his wife.
As these had both exercised their talents chiefly in the study of
divinity, this was, from their first acquaintance, the most common
topic of conversation between them. The captain, like a well-bred man,
had, before marriage, always given up his opinion to that of the lady;
and this, not in the clumsy awkward manner of a conceited blockhead,
who, while he civilly yields to a superior in an argument, is desirous
of being still known to think himself in the right. The captain, on
the contrary, though one of the proudest fellows in the world, so
absolutely yielded the victory to his antagonist, that she, who had
not the least doubt of his sincerity, retired always from the dispute
with an admiration of her own understanding and a love for his.
But though this complacence to one whom the captain thoroughly
despised, was not so uneasy to him as it would have been had any hopes
of preferment made it necessary to show the same submission to a
Hoadley, or to some other of great reputation in the science, yet even
this cost him too much to be endured without some motive. Matrimony,
therefore, having removed all such motives, he grew weary of this
condescension, and began to treat the opinions of his wife with that
haughtiness and insolence, which none but those who deserve some
contempt themselves can bestow, and those only who deserve no contempt
can bear.
When the first torrent of tenderness was over, and when, in the calm
and long interval between the fits, reason began to open the eyes of
the lady, and she saw this alteration of behaviour in the captain, who
at length answered all her arguments only with pish and pshaw, she was
far from enduring the indignity with a tame submission. Indeed, it at
first so highly provoked her, that it might have produced some
tragical event, had it not taken a more harmless turn, by filling her
with the utmost contempt for her husband's understanding, which
somewhat qualified her hatred towards him; though of this likewise she
had a pretty moderate share.
The captain's hatred to her was of a purer kind: for as to any
imperfections in her knowledge or understanding, he no more despised
her for them, than for her not being six feet high. In his opinion of
the female sex, he exceeded the moroseness of Aristotle himself: he
looked on a woman as on an animal of domestic use, of somewhat higher
consideration than a cat, since her offices were of rather more
importance; but the difference between these two was, in his
estimation, so small, that, in his marriage contracted with Mr
Allworthy's lands and tenements, it would have been pretty equal which
of them he had taken into the bargain. And yet so tender was his
pride, that it felt the contempt which his wife now began to express
towards him; and this, added to the surfeit he had before taken of her
love, created in him a degree of disgust and abhorrence, perhaps
hardly to be exceeded.
One situation only of the married state is excluded from pleasure: and
that is, a state of indifference: but as many of my readers, I hope,
know what an exquisite delight there is in conveying pleasure to a
beloved object, so some few, I am afraid, may have experienced the
satisfaction of tormenting one we hate. It is, I apprehend, to come at
this latter pleasure, that we see both sexes often give up that ease
in marriage which they might otherwise possess, though their mate was
never so disagreeable to them. Hence the wife often puts on fits of
love and jealousy, nay, even denies herself any pleasure, to disturb
and prevent those of her husband; and he again, in return, puts
frequent restraints on himself, and stays at home in company which he
dislikes, in order to confine his wife to what she equally detests.
Hence, too, must flow those tears which a widow sometimes so
plentifully sheds over the ashes of a husband with whom she led a life
of constant disquiet and turbulency, and whom now she can never hope
to torment any more.
But if ever any couple enjoyed this pleasure, it was at present
experienced by the captain and his lady. It was always a sufficient
reason to either of them to be obstinate in any opinion, that the
other had previously asserted the contrary. If the one proposed any
amusement, the other constantly objected to it: they never loved or
hated, commended or abused, the same person. And for this reason, as
the captain looked with an evil eye on the little foundling, his wife
began now to caress it almost equally with her own child.
The reader will be apt to conceive, that this behaviour between the
husband and wife did not greatly contribute to Mr Allworthy's repose,
as it tended so little to that serene happiness which he had designed
for all three from this alliance; but the truth is, though he might be
a little disappointed in his sanguine expectations, yet he was far
from being acquainted with the whole matter; for, as the captain was,
from certain obvious reasons, much on his guard before him, the lady
was obliged, for fear of her brother's displeasure, to pursue the same
conduct. In fact, it is possible for a third person to be very
intimate, nay even to live long in the same house, with a married
couple, who have any tolerable discretion, and not even guess at the
sour sentiments which they bear to each other: for though the whole
day may be sometimes too short for hatred, as well as for love; yet
the many hours which they naturally spend together, apart from all
observers, furnish people of tolerable moderation with such ample
opportunity for the enjoyment of either passion, that, if they love,
they can support being a few hours in company without toying, or if
they hate, without spitting in each other's faces.
It is possible, however, that Mr Allworthy saw enough to render him a
little uneasy; for we are not always to conclude, that a wise man is
not hurt, because he doth not cry out and lament himself, like those
of a childish or effeminate temper. But indeed it is possible he might
see some faults in the captain without any uneasiness at all; for men
of true wisdom and goodness are contented to take persons and things
as they are, without complaining of their imperfections, or attempting
to amend them. They can see a fault in a friend, a relation, or an
acquaintance, without ever mentioning it to the parties themselves, or
to any others; and this often without lessening their affection.
Indeed, unless great discernment be tempered with this overlooking
disposition, we ought never to contract friendship but with a degree
of folly which we can deceive; for I hope my friends will pardon me
when I declare, I know none of them without a fault; and I should be
sorry if I could imagine I had any friend who could not see mine.
Forgiveness of this kind we give and demand in turn. It is an exercise
of friendship, and perhaps none of the least pleasant. And this
forgiveness we must bestow, without desire of amendment. There is,
perhaps, no surer mark of folly, than an attempt to correct the
natural infirmities of those we love. The finest composition of human
nature, as well as the finest china, may have a flaw in it; and this,
I am afraid, in either case, is equally incurable; though,
nevertheless, the pattern may remain of the highest value.
Upon the whole, then, Mr Allworthy certainly saw some imperfections in
the captain; but as this was a very artful man, and eternally upon his
guard before him, these appeared to him no more than blemishes in a
good character, which his goodness made him overlook, and his wisdom
prevented him from discovering to the captain himself. Very different
would have been his sentiments had he discovered the whole; which
perhaps would in time have been the case, had the husband and wife
long continued this kind of behaviour to each other; but this kind
Fortune took effectual means to prevent, by forcing the captain to do
that which rendered him again dear to his wife, and restored all her
tenderness and affection towards him.
Chapter viii.
A receipt to regain the lost affections of a wife, which hath never
been known to fail in the most desperate cases.
The captain was made large amends for the unpleasant minutes which he
passed in the conversation of his wife (and which were as few as he
could contrive to make them), by the pleasant meditations he enjoyed
when alone.
These meditations were entirely employed on Mr Allworthy's fortune;
for, first, he exercised much thought in calculating, as well as he
could, the exact value of the whole: which calculations he often saw
occasion to alter in his own favour: and, secondly and chiefly, he
pleased himself with intended alterations in the house and gardens,
and in projecting many other schemes, as well for the improvement of
the estate as of the grandeur of the place: for this purpose he
applied himself to the studies of architecture and gardening, and read
over many books on both these subjects; for these sciences, indeed,
employed his whole time, and formed his only amusement. He at last
completed a most excellent plan: and very sorry we are, that it is not
in our power to present it to our reader, since even the luxury of the
present age, I believe, would hardly match it. It had, indeed, in a
superlative degree, the two principal ingredients which serve to
recommend all great and noble designs of this nature; for it required
an immoderate expense to execute, and a vast length of time to bring
it to any sort of perfection. The former of these, the immense wealth
of which the captain supposed Mr Allworthy possessed, and which he
thought himself sure of inheriting, promised very effectually to
supply; and the latter, the soundness of his own constitution, and his
time of life, which was only what is called middle-age, removed all
apprehension of his not living to accomplish.
Nothing was wanting to enable him to enter upon the immediate
execution of this plan, but the death of Mr Allworthy; in calculating
which he had employed much of his own algebra, besides purchasing
every book extant that treats of the value of lives, reversions, &c.
From all which he satisfied himself, that as he had every day a chance
of this happening, so had he more than an even chance of its happening
within a few years.
But while the captain was one day busied in deep contemplations of
this kind, one of the most unlucky as well as unseasonable accidents
happened to him. The utmost malice of Fortune could, indeed, have
contrived nothing so cruel, so mal-a-propos, so absolutely destructive
to all his schemes. In short, not to keep the reader in long suspense,
just at the very instant when his heart was exulting in meditations on
the happiness which would accrue to him by Mr Allworthy's death, he
himself--died of an apoplexy.
This unfortunately befel the captain as he was taking his evening walk
by himself, so that nobody was present to lend him any assistance, if
indeed, any assistance could have preserved him. He took, therefore,
measure of that proportion of soil which was now become adequate to
all his future purposes, and he lay dead on the ground, a great
(though not a living) example of the truth of that observation of
Horace:
_Tu secanda marmora
Locas sub ipsum funus; et sepulchri
Immemor, struis domos._
Which sentiment I shall thus give to the English reader: "You provide
the noblest materials for building, when a pickaxe and a spade are
only necessary: and build houses of five hundred by a hundred feet,
forgetting that of six by two."
Chapter ix.
A proof of the infallibility of the foregoing receipt, in the
lamentations of the widow; with other suitable decorations of death,
such as physicians, &c., and an epitaph in the true stile.
Mr Allworthy, his sister, and another lady, were assembled at the
accustomed hour in the supper-room, where, having waited a
considerable time longer than usual, Mr Allworthy first declared he
began to grow uneasy at the captain's stay (for he was always most
punctual at his meals); and gave orders that the bell should be rung
without the doors, and especially towards those walks which the
captain was wont to use.
All these summons proving ineffectual (for the captain had, by
perverse accident, betaken himself to a new walk that evening), Mrs
Blifil declared she was seriously frightened. Upon which the other
lady, who was one of her most intimate acquaintance, and who well knew
the true state of her affections, endeavoured all she could to pacify
her, telling her--To be sure she could not help being uneasy; but that
she should hope the best. That, perhaps the sweetness of the evening
had inticed the captain to go farther than his usual walk: or he might
be detained at some neighbour's. Mrs Blifil answered, No; she was sure
some accident had befallen him; for that he would never stay out
without sending her word, as he must know how uneasy it would make
her. The other lady, having no other arguments to use, betook herself
to the entreaties usual on such occasions, and begged her not to
frighten herself, for it might be of very ill consequence to her own
health; and, filling out a very large glass of wine, advised, and at
last prevailed with her to drink it.
Mr Allworthy now returned into the parlour; for he had been himself in
search after the captain. His countenance sufficiently showed the
consternation he was under, which, indeed, had a good deal deprived
him of speech; but as grief operates variously on different minds, so
the same apprehension which depressed his voice, elevated that of Mrs
Blifil. She now began to bewail herself in very bitter terms, and
floods of tears accompanied her lamentations; which the lady, her
companion, declared she could not blame, but at the same time
dissuaded her from indulging; attempting to moderate the grief of her
friend by philosophical observations on the many disappointments to
which human life is daily subject, which, she said, was a sufficient
consideration to fortify our minds against any accidents, how sudden
or terrible soever. She said her brother's example ought to teach her
patience, who, though indeed he could not be supposed as much
concerned as herself, yet was, doubtless, very uneasy, though his
resignation to the Divine will had restrained his grief within due
bounds.
"Mention not my brother," said Mrs Blifil; "I alone am the object of
your pity. What are the terrors of friendship to what a wife feels on
these occasions? Oh, he is lost! Somebody hath murdered him--I shall
never see him more!"--Here a torrent of tears had the same consequence
with what the suppression had occasioned to Mr Allworthy, and she
remained silent.
At this interval a servant came running in, out of breath, and cried
out, The captain was found; and, before he could proceed farther, he
was followed by two more, bearing the dead body between them.
Here the curious reader may observe another diversity in the
operations of grief: for as Mr Allworthy had been before silent, from
the same cause which had made his sister vociferous; so did the
present sight, which drew tears from the gentleman, put an entire stop
to those of the lady; who first gave a violent scream, and presently
after fell into a fit.
The room was soon full of servants, some of whom, with the lady
visitant, were employed in care of the wife; and others, with Mr
Allworthy, assisted in carrying off the captain to a warm bed; where
every method was tried, in order to restore him to life.
And glad should we be, could we inform the reader that both these
bodies had been attended with equal success; for those who undertook
the care of the lady succeeded so well, that, after the fit had
continued a decent time, she again revived, to their great
satisfaction: but as to the captain, all experiments of bleeding,
chafing, dropping, &c., proved ineffectual. Death, that inexorable
judge, had passed sentence on him, and refused to grant him a
reprieve, though two doctors who arrived, and were fee'd at one and
the same instant, were his counsel.
These two doctors, whom, to avoid any malicious applications, we shall
distinguish by the names of Dr Y. and Dr Z., having felt his pulse; to
wit, Dr Y. his right arm, and Dr Z. his left; both agreed that he was
absolutely dead; but as to the distemper, or cause of his death, they
differed; Dr Y. holding that he died of an apoplexy, and Dr Z. of an
epilepsy.
Hence arose a dispute between the learned men, in which each delivered
the reasons of their several opinions. These were of such equal force,
that they served both to confirm either doctor in his own sentiments,
and made not the least impression on his adversary.
To say the truth, every physician almost hath his favourite disease,
to which he ascribes all the victories obtained over human nature. The
gout, the rheumatism, the stone, the gravel, and the consumption, have
all their several patrons in the faculty; and none more than the
nervous fever, or the fever on the spirits. And here we may account
for those disagreements in opinion, concerning the cause of a
patient's death, which sometimes occur, between the most learned of
the college; and which have greatly surprized that part of the world
who have been ignorant of the fact we have above asserted.
The reader may perhaps be surprized, that, instead of endeavouring to
revive the patient, the learned gentlemen should fall immediately into
a dispute on the occasion of his death; but in reality all such
experiments had been made before their arrival: for the captain was
put into a warm bed, had his veins scarified, his forehead chafed, and
all sorts of strong drops applied to his lips and nostrils.
The physicians, therefore, finding themselves anticipated in
everything they ordered, were at a loss how to apply that portion of
time which it is usual and decent to remain for their fee, and were
therefore necessitated to find some subject or other for discourse;
and what could more naturally present itself than that before
mentioned?
Our doctors were about to take their leave, when Mr Allworthy, having
given over the captain, and acquiesced in the Divine will, began to
enquire after his sister, whom he desired them to visit before their
departure.
This lady was now recovered of her fit, and, to use the common phrase,
as well as could be expected for one in her condition. The doctors,
therefore, all previous ceremonies being complied with, as this was a
new patient, attended, according to desire, and laid hold on each of
her hands, as they had before done on those of the corpse.
The case of the lady was in the other extreme from that of her
husband: for as he was past all the assistance of physic, so in
reality she required none.
There is nothing more unjust than the vulgar opinion, by which
physicians are misrepresented, as friends to death. On the contrary, I
believe, if the number of those who recover by physic could be opposed
to that of the martyrs to it, the former would rather exceed the
latter. Nay, some are so cautious on this head, that, to avoid a
possibility of killing the patient, they abstain from all methods of
curing, and prescribe nothing but what can neither do good nor harm. I
have heard some of these, with great gravity, deliver it as a maxim,
"That Nature should be left to do her own work, while the physician
stands by as it were to clap her on the back, and encourage her when
she doth well."
So little then did our doctors delight in death, that they discharged
the corpse after a single fee; but they were not so disgusted with
their living patient; concerning whose case they immediately agreed,
and fell to prescribing with great diligence.
Whether, as the lady had at first persuaded her physicians to believe
her ill, they had now, in return, persuaded her to believe herself so,
I will not determine; but she continued a whole month with all the
decorations of sickness. During this time she was visited by
physicians, attended by nurses, and received constant messages from
her acquaintance to enquire after her health.
At length the decent time for sickness and immoderate grief being
expired, the doctors were discharged, and the lady began to see
company; being altered only from what she was before, by that colour
of sadness in which she had dressed her person and countenance.
The captain was now interred, and might, perhaps, have already made a
large progress towards oblivion, had not the friendship of Mr
Allworthy taken care to preserve his memory, by the following epitaph,
which was written by a man of as great genius as integrity, and one
who perfectly well knew the captain.
HERE LIES,
IN EXPECTATION OF A JOYFUL RISING,
THE BODY OF
CAPTAIN JOHN BLIFIL.
LONDON
HAD THE HONOUR OF HIS BIRTH,
OXFORD
OF HIS EDUCATION.
HIS PARTS
WERE AN HONOUR TO HIS PROFESSION
AND TO HIS COUNTRY:
HIS LIFE, TO HIS RELIGION
AND HUMAN NATURE.
HE WAS A DUTIFUL SON,
A TENDER HUSBAND,
AN AFFECTIONATE FATHER,
A MOST KIND BROTHER,
A SINCERE FRIEND,
A DEVOUT CHRISTIAN,
AND A GOOD MAN.
HIS INCONSOLABLE WIDOW
HATH ERECTED THIS STONE,
THE MONUMENT OF
HIS VIRTUES
AND OF HER AFFECTION.
BOOK III.
CONTAINING THE MOST MEMORABLE TRANSACTIONS WHICH PASSED IN THE FAMILY
OF MR ALLWORTHY, FROM THE TIME WHEN TOMMY JONES ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF
FOURTEEN, TILL HE ATTAINED THE AGE OF NINETEEN. IN THIS BOOK THE
READER MAY PICK UP SOME HINTS CONCERNING THE EDUCATION OF CHILDREN.
Chapter i.
Containing little or nothing.
The reader will be pleased to remember, that, at the beginning of the
second book of this history, we gave him a hint of our intention to
pass over several large periods of time, in which nothing happened
worthy of being recorded in a chronicle of this kind.
In so doing, we do not only consult our own dignity and ease, but the
good and advantage of the reader: for besides that by these means we
prevent him from throwing away his time, in reading without either
pleasure or emolument, we give him, at all such seasons, an
opportunity of employing that wonderful sagacity, of which he is
master, by filling up these vacant spaces of time with his own
conjectures; for which purpose we have taken care to qualify him in
the preceding pages.
For instance, what reader but knows that Mr Allworthy felt, at first,
for the loss of his friend, those emotions of grief, which on such
occasions enter into all men whose hearts are not composed of flint,
or their heads of as solid materials? Again, what reader doth not know
that philosophy and religion in time moderated, and at last
extinguished, this grief? The former of these teaching the folly and
vanity of it, and the latter correcting it as unlawful, and at the
same time assuaging it, by raising future hopes and assurances, which
enable a strong and religious mind to take leave of a friend, on his
deathbed, with little less indifference than if he was preparing for a
long journey; and, indeed, with little less hope of seeing him again.
Nor can the judicious reader be at a greater loss on account of Mrs
Bridget Blifil, who, he may be assured, conducted herself through the
whole season in which grief is to make its appearance on the outside
of the body, with the strictest regard to all the rules of custom and
decency, suiting the alterations of her countenance to the several
alterations of her habit: for as this changed from weeds to black,
from black to grey, from grey to white, so did her countenance change
from dismal to sorrowful, from sorrowful to sad, and from sad to
serious, till the day came in which she was allowed to return to her
former serenity.
We have mentioned these two, as examples only of the task which may be
imposed on readers of the lowest class. Much higher and harder
exercises of judgment and penetration may reasonably be expected from
the upper graduates in criticism. Many notable discoveries will, I
doubt not, be made by such, of the transactions which happened in the
family of our worthy man, during all the years which we have thought
proper to pass over: for though nothing worthy of a place in this
history occurred within that period, yet did several incidents happen
of equal importance with those reported by the daily and weekly
historians of the age; in reading which great numbers of persons
consume a considerable part of their time, very little, I am afraid,
to their emolument. Now, in the conjectures here proposed, some of the
most excellent faculties of the mind may be employed to much
advantage, since it is a more useful capacity to be able to foretel
the actions of men, in any circumstance, from their characters, than
to judge of their characters from their actions. The former, I own,
requires the greater penetration; but may be accomplished by true
sagacity with no less certainty than the latter.
As we are sensible that much the greatest part of our readers are very
eminently possessed of this quality, we have left them a space of
twelve years to exert it in; and shall now bring forth our heroe, at
about fourteen years of age, not questioning that many have been long
impatient to be introduced to his acquaintance.
Chapter ii.
The heroe of this great history appears with very bad omens. A little
tale of so LOW a kind that some may think it not worth their notice. A
word or two concerning a squire, and more relating to a gamekeeper and
a schoolmaster.
As we determined, when we first sat down to write this history, to
flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout by the directions of
truth, we are obliged to bring our heroe on the stage in a much more
disadvantageous manner than we could wish; and to declare honestly,
even at his first appearance, that it was the universal opinion of all
Mr Allworthy's family that he was certainly born to be hanged.
Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this
conjecture; the lad having from his earliest years discovered a
propensity to many vices, and especially to one which hath as direct a
tendency as any other to that fate which we have just now observed to
have been prophetically denounced against him: he had been already
convicted of three robberies, viz., of robbing an orchard, of stealing
a duck out of a farmer's yard, and of picking Master Blifil's pocket
of a ball.
The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by the
disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed to the
virtues of Master Blifil, his companion; a youth of so different a
cast from little Jones, that not only the family but all the
neighbourhood resounded his praises. He was, indeed, a lad of a
remarkable disposition; sober, discreet, and pious beyond his age;
qualities which gained him the love of every one who knew him: while
Tom Jones was universally disliked; and many expressed their wonder
that Mr Allworthy would suffer such a lad to be educated with his
nephew, lest the morals of the latter should be corrupted by his
example.
An incident which happened about this time will set the characters of
these two lads more fairly before the discerning reader than is in the
power of the longest dissertation.
Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, must serve for the heroe of this
history, had only one friend among all the servants of the family; for
as to Mrs Wilkins, she had long since given him up, and was perfectly
reconciled to her mistress. This friend was the gamekeeper, a fellow
of a loose kind of disposition, and who was thought not to entertain
much stricter notions concerning the difference of _meum_ and _tuum_
than the young gentleman himself. And hence this friendship gave
occasion to many sarcastical remarks among the domestics, most of
which were either proverbs before, or at least are become so now; and,
indeed, the wit of them all may be comprised in that short Latin
proverb, "_Noscitur a socio;_" which, I think, is thus expressed in
English, "You may know him by the company he keeps."
To say the truth, some of that atrocious wickedness in Jones, of which
we have just mentioned three examples, might perhaps be derived from
the encouragement he had received from this fellow, who, in two or
three instances, had been what the law calls an accessary after the
fact: for the whole duck, and great part of the apples, were converted
to the use of the gamekeeper and his family; though, as Jones alone
was discovered, the poor lad bore not only the whole smart, but the
whole blame; both which fell again to his lot on the following
occasion.
Contiguous to Mr Allworthy's estate was the manor of one of those
gentlemen who are called preservers of the game. This species of men,
from the great severity with which they revenge the death of a hare or
partridge, might be thought to cultivate the same superstition with
the Bannians in India; many of whom, we are told, dedicate their whole
lives to the preservation and protection of certain animals; was it
not that our English Bannians, while they preserve them from other
enemies, will most unmercifully slaughter whole horse-loads
themselves; so that they stand clearly acquitted of any such
heathenish superstition.
I have, indeed, a much better opinion of this kind of men than is
entertained by some, as I take them to answer the order of Nature, and
the good purposes for which they were ordained, in a more ample manner
than many others. Now, as Horace tells us that there are a set of
human beings
_Fruges consumere nati,_
"Born to consume the fruits of the earth;" so I make no manner of
doubt but that there are others
_Feras consumere nati,_
"Born to consume the beasts of the field;" or, as it is commonly
called, the game; and none, I believe, will deny but that those
squires fulfil this end of their creation.
Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper; when
happening to spring a covey of partridges near the border of that
manor over which Fortune, to fulfil the wise purposes of Nature, had
planted one of the game consumers, the birds flew into it, and were
marked (as it is called) by the two sportsmen, in some furze bushes,
about two or three hundred paces beyond Mr Allworthy's dominions.
Mr Allworthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of forfeiting
his place, never to trespass on any of his neighbours; no more on
those who were less rigid in this matter than on the lord of this
manor. With regard to others, indeed, these orders had not been always
very scrupulously kept; but as the disposition of the gentleman with
whom the partridges had taken sanctuary was well known, the gamekeeper
had never yet attempted to invade his territories. Nor had he done it
now, had not the younger sportsman, who was excessively eager to
pursue the flying game, over-persuaded him; but Jones being very
importunate, the other, who was himself keen enough after the sport,
yielded to his persuasions, entered the manor, and shot one of the
partridges.
The gentleman himself was at that time on horse-back, at a little
distance from them; and hearing the gun go off, he immediately made
towards the place, and discovered poor Tom; for the gamekeeper had
leapt into the thickest part of the furze-brake, where he had happily
concealed himself.
The gentleman having searched the lad, and found the partridge upon
him, denounced great vengeance, swearing he would acquaint Mr
Allworthy. He was as good as his word: for he rode immediately to his
house, and complained of the trespass on his manor in as high terms
and as bitter language as if his house had been broken open, and the
most valuable furniture stole out of it. He added, that some other
person was in his company, though he could not discover him; for that
two guns had been discharged almost in the same instant. And, says he,
"We have found only this partridge, but the Lord knows what mischief
they have done."
At his return home, Tom was presently convened before Mr Allworthy. He
owned the fact, and alledged no other excuse but what was really true,
viz., that the covey was originally sprung in Mr Allworthy's own
manor.
Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr Allworthy
declared he was resolved to know, acquainting the culprit with the
circumstance of the two guns, which had been deposed by the squire and
both his servants; but Tom stoutly persisted in asserting that he was
alone; yet, to say the truth, he hesitated a little at first, which
would have confirmed Mr Allworthy's belief, had what the squire and
his servants said wanted any further confirmation.
The gamekeeper, being a suspected person, was now sent for, and the
question put to him; but he, relying on the promise which Tom had made
him, to take all upon himself, very resolutely denied being in company
with the young gentleman, or indeed having seen him the whole
afternoon.
Mr Allworthy then turned towards Tom, with more than usual anger in
his countenance, and advised him to confess who was with him;
repeating, that he was resolved to know. The lad, however, still
maintained his resolution, and was dismissed with much wrath by Mr
Allworthy, who told him he should have to the next morning to consider
of it, when he should be questioned by another person, and in another
manner.
Poor Jones spent a very melancholy night; and the more so, as he was
without his usual companion; for Master Blifil was gone abroad on a
visit with his mother. Fear of the punishment he was to suffer was on
this occasion his least evil; his chief anxiety being, lest his
constancy should fail him, and he should be brought to betray the
gamekeeper, whose ruin he knew must now be the consequence.
Nor did the gamekeeper pass his time much better. He had the same
apprehensions with the youth; for whose honour he had likewise a much
tenderer regard than for his skin.
In the morning, when Tom attended the reverend Mr Thwackum, the person
to whom Mr Allworthy had committed the instruction of the two boys, he
had the same questions put to him by that gentleman which he had been
asked the evening before, to which he returned the same answers. The
consequence of this was, so severe a whipping, that it possibly fell
little short of the torture with which confessions are in some
countries extorted from criminals.
Tom bore his punishment with great resolution; and though his master
asked him, between every stroke, whether he would not confess, he was
contented to be flead rather than betray his friend, or break the
promise he had made.
The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr Allworthy
himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings: for besides that Mr
Thwackum, being highly enraged that he was not able to make the boy
say what he himself pleased, had carried his severity much beyond the
good man's intention, this latter began now to suspect that the squire
had been mistaken; which his extreme eagerness and anger seemed to
make probable; and as for what the servants had said in confirmation
of their master's account, he laid no great stress upon that. Now, as
cruelty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr Allworthy could by no
means support the consciousness a single moment, he sent for Tom, and
after many kind and friendly exhortations, said, "I am convinced, my
dear child, that my suspicions have wronged you; I am sorry that you
have been so severely punished on this account." And at last gave him
a little horse to make him amends; again repeating his sorrow for what
had past.
Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could make it.
He could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum, than the generosity
of Allworthy. The tears burst from his eyes, and he fell upon his
knees, crying, "Oh, sir, you are too good to me. Indeed you are.
Indeed I don't deserve it." And at that very instant, from the fulness
of his heart, had almost betrayed the secret; but the good genius of
the gamekeeper suggested to him what might be the consequence to the
poor fellow, and this consideration sealed his lips.
Thwackum did all he could to persuade Allworthy from showing any
compassion or kindness to the boy, saying, "He had persisted in an
untruth;" and gave some hints, that a second whipping might probably
bring the matter to light.
But Mr Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the experiment. He
said, the boy had suffered enough already for concealing the truth,
even if he was guilty, seeing that he could have no motive but a
mistaken point of honour for so doing.
"Honour!" cryed Thwackum, with some warmth, "mere stubbornness and
obstinacy! Can honour teach any one to tell a lie, or can any honour
exist independent of religion?"
This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended; and there
were present Mr Allworthy, Mr Thwackum, and a third gentleman, who now
entered into the debate, and whom, before we proceed any further, we
shall briefly introduce to our reader's acquaintance.
Chapter iii.
The character of Mr Square the philosopher, and of Mr Thwackum the
divine; with a dispute concerning----
The name of this gentleman, who had then resided some time at Mr
Allworthy's house, was Mr Square. His natural parts were not of the
first rate, but he had greatly improved them by a learned education.
He was deeply read in the antients, and a profest master of all the
works of Plato and Aristotle. Upon which great models he had
principally formed himself; sometimes according with the opinion of
the one, and sometimes with that of the other. In morals he was a
profest Platonist, and in religion he inclined to be an Aristotelian.
But though he had, as we have said, formed his morals on the Platonic
model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of Aristotle, in
considering that great man rather in the quality of a philosopher or a
speculatist, than as a legislator. This sentiment he carried a great
way; indeed, so far, as to regard all virtue as matter of theory only.
This, it is true, he never affirmed, as I have heard, to any one; and
yet upon the least attention to his conduct, I cannot help thinking it
was his real opinion, as it will perfectly reconcile some
contradictions which might otherwise appear in his character.
This gentleman and Mr Thwackum scarce ever met without a disputation;
for their tenets were indeed diametrically opposite to each other.
Square held human nature to be the perfection of all virtue, and that
vice was a deviation from our nature, in the same manner as deformity
of body is. Thwackum, on the contrary, maintained that the human mind,
since the fall, was nothing but a sink of iniquity, till purified and
redeemed by grace. In one point only they agreed, which was, in all
their discourses on morality never to mention the word goodness. The
favourite phrase of the former, was the natural beauty of virtue; that
of the latter, was the divine power of grace. The former measured all
actions by the unalterable rule of right, and the eternal fitness of
things; the latter decided all matters by authority; but in doing
this, he always used the scriptures and their commentators, as the
lawyer doth his Coke upon Lyttleton, where the comment is of equal
authority with the text.
After this short introduction, the reader will be pleased to remember,
that the parson had concluded his speech with a triumphant question,
to which he had apprehended no answer; viz., Can any honour exist
independent on religion?
To this Square answered; that it was impossible to discourse
philosophically concerning words, till their meaning was first
established: that there were scarce any two words of a more vague and
uncertain signification, than the two he had mentioned; for that there
were almost as many different opinions concerning honour, as
concerning religion. "But," says he, "if by honour you mean the true
natural beauty of virtue, I will maintain it may exist independent of
any religion whatever. Nay," added he, "you yourself will allow it may
exist independent of all but one: so will a Mahometan, a Jew, and all
the maintainers of all the different sects in the world."
Thwackum replied, this was arguing with the usual malice of all the
enemies to the true Church. He said, he doubted not but that all the
infidels and hereticks in the world would, if they could, confine
honour to their own absurd errors and damnable deceptions; "but
honour," says he, "is not therefore manifold, because there are many
absurd opinions about it; nor is religion manifold, because there are
various sects and heresies in the world. When I mention religion, I
mean the Christian religion; and not only the Christian religion, but
the Protestant religion; and not only the Protestant religion, but the
Church of England. And when I mention honour, I mean that mode of
Divine grace which is not only consistent with, but dependent upon,
this religion; and is consistent with and dependent upon no other. Now
to say that the honour I here mean, and which was, I thought, all the
honour I could be supposed to mean, will uphold, much less dictate an
untruth, is to assert an absurdity too shocking to be conceived."
"I purposely avoided," says Square, "drawing a conclusion which I
thought evident from what I have said; but if you perceived it, I am
sure you have not attempted to answer it. However, to drop the article
of religion, I think it is plain, from what you have said, that we
have different ideas of honour; or why do we not agree in the same
terms of its explanation? I have asserted, that true honour and true
virtue are almost synonymous terms, and they are both founded on the
unalterable rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; to which
an untruth being absolutely repugnant and contrary, it is certain that
true honour cannot support an untruth. In this, therefore, I think we
are agreed; but that this honour can be said to be founded on
religion, to which it is antecedent, if by religion be meant any
positive law--"
"I agree," answered Thwackum, with great warmth, "with a man who
asserts honour to be antecedent to religion! Mr Allworthy, did I
agree--?"
He was proceeding when Mr Allworthy interposed, telling them very
coldly, they had both mistaken his meaning; for that he had said
nothing of true honour.--It is possible, however, he would not have
easily quieted the disputants, who were growing equally warm, had not
another matter now fallen out, which put a final end to the
conversation at present.
Chapter iv.
Containing a necessary apology for the author; and a childish
incident, which perhaps requires an apology likewise.
Before I proceed farther, I shall beg leave to obviate some
misconstructions into which the zeal of some few readers may lead
them; for I would not willingly give offence to any, especially to men
who are warm in the cause of virtue or religion.
I hope, therefore, no man will, by the grossest misunderstanding or
perversion of my meaning, misrepresent me, as endeavouring to cast any
ridicule on the greatest perfections of human nature; and which do,
indeed, alone purify and ennoble the heart of man, and raise him above
the brute creation. This, reader, I will venture to say (and by how
much the better man you are yourself, by so much the more will you be
inclined to believe me), that I would rather have buried the
sentiments of these two persons in eternal oblivion, than have done
any injury to either of these glorious causes.
On the contrary, it is with a view to their service, that I have taken
upon me to record the lives and actions of two of their false and
pretended champions. A treacherous friend is the most dangerous enemy;
and I will say boldly, that both religion and virtue have received
more real discredit from hypocrites than the wittiest profligates or
infidels could ever cast upon them: nay, farther, as these two, in
their purity, are rightly called the bands of civil society, and are
indeed the greatest of blessings; so when poisoned and corrupted with
fraud, pretence, and affectation, they have become the worst of civil
curses, and have enabled men to perpetrate the most cruel mischiefs to
their own species.
Indeed, I doubt not but this ridicule will in general be allowed: my
chief apprehension is, as many true and just sentiments often came
from the mouths of these persons, lest the whole should be taken
together, and I should be conceived to ridicule all alike. Now the
reader will be pleased to consider, that, as neither of these men were
fools, they could not be supposed to have holden none but wrong
principles, and to have uttered nothing but absurdities; what
injustice, therefore, must I have done to their characters, had I
selected only what was bad! And how horribly wretched and maimed must
their arguments have appeared!
Upon the whole, it is not religion or virtue, but the want of them,
which is here exposed. Had not Thwackum too much neglected virtue, and
Square, religion, in the composition of their several systems, and had
not both utterly discarded all natural goodness of heart, they had
never been represented as the objects of derision in this history; in
which we will now proceed.
This matter then, which put an end to the debate mentioned in the last
chapter, was no other than a quarrel between Master Blifil and Tom
Jones, the consequence of which had been a bloody nose to the former;
for though Master Blifil, notwithstanding he was the younger, was in
size above the other's match, yet Tom was much his superior at the
noble art of boxing.
Tom, however, cautiously avoided all engagements with that youth; for
besides that Tommy Jones was an inoffensive lad amidst all his
roguery, and really loved Blifil, Mr Thwackum being always the second
of the latter, would have been sufficient to deter him.
But well says a certain author, No man is wise at all hours; it is
therefore no wonder that a boy is not so. A difference arising at play
between the two lads, Master Blifil called Tom a beggarly bastard.
Upon which the latter, who was somewhat passionate in his disposition,
immediately caused that phenomenon in the face of the former, which we
have above remembered.
Master Blifil now, with his blood running from his nose, and the tears
galloping after from his eyes, appeared before his uncle and the
tremendous Thwackum. In which court an indictment of assault, battery,
and wounding, was instantly preferred against Tom; who in his excuse
only pleaded the provocation, which was indeed all the matter that
Master Blifil had omitted.
It is indeed possible that this circumstance might have escaped his
memory; for, in his reply, he positively insisted, that he had made
use of no such appellation; adding, "Heaven forbid such naughty words
should ever come out of his mouth!"
Tom, though against all form of law, rejoined in affirmance of the
words. Upon which Master Blifil said, "It is no wonder. Those who will
tell one fib, will hardly stick at another. If I had told my master
such a wicked fib as you have done, I should be ashamed to show my
face."
"What fib, child?" cries Thwackum pretty eagerly.
"Why, he told you that nobody was with him a shooting when he killed
the partridge; but he knows" (here he burst into a flood of tears),
"yes, he knows, for he confessed it to me, that Black George the
gamekeeper was there. Nay, he said--yes you did--deny it if you can,
that you would not have confest the truth, though master had cut you
to pieces."
At this the fire flashed from Thwackum's eyes, and he cried out in
triumph--"Oh! ho! this is your mistaken notion of honour! This is the
boy who was not to be whipped again!" But Mr Allworthy, with a more
gentle aspect, turned towards the lad, and said, "Is this true, child?
How came you to persist so obstinately in a falsehood?"
Tom said, "He scorned a lie as much as any one: but he thought his
honour engaged him to act as he did; for he had promised the poor
fellow to conceal him: which," he said, "he thought himself farther
obliged to, as the gamekeeper had begged him not to go into the
gentleman's manor, and had at last gone himself, in compliance with
his persuasions." He said, "This was the whole truth of the matter,
and he would take his oath of it;" and concluded with very
passionately begging Mr Allworthy "to have compassion on the poor
fellow's family, especially as he himself only had been guilty, and
the other had been very difficultly prevailed on to do what he did.
Indeed, sir," said he, "it could hardly be called a lie that I told;
for the poor fellow was entirely innocent of the whole matter. I
should have gone alone after the birds; nay, I did go at first, and he
only followed me to prevent more mischief. Do, pray, sir, let me be
punished; take my little horse away again; but pray, sir, forgive poor
George."
Mr Allworthy hesitated a few moments, and then dismissed the boys,
advising them to live more friendly and peaceably together.
Chapter v.
The opinions of the divine and the philosopher concerning the two
boys; with some reasons for their opinions, and other matters.
It is probable, that by disclosing this secret, which had been
communicated in the utmost confidence to him, young Blifil preserved
his companion from a good lashing; for the offence of the bloody nose
would have been of itself sufficient cause for Thwackum to have
proceeded to correction; but now this was totally absorbed in the
consideration of the other matter; and with regard to this, Mr
Allworthy declared privately, he thought the boy deserved reward
rather than punishment, so that Thwackum's hand was withheld by a
general pardon.
Thwackum, whose meditations were full of birch, exclaimed against this
weak, and, as he said he would venture to call it, wicked lenity. To
remit the punishment of such crimes was, he said, to encourage them.
He enlarged much on the correction of children, and quoted many texts
from Solomon, and others; which being to be found in so many other
books, shall not be found here. He then applied himself to the vice of
lying, on which head he was altogether as learned as he had been on
the other.
Square said, he had been endeavouring to reconcile the behaviour of
Tom with his idea of perfect virtue, but could not. He owned there was
something which at first sight appeared like fortitude in the action;
but as fortitude was a virtue, and falsehood a vice, they could by no
means agree or unite together. He added, that as this was in some
measure to confound virtue and vice, it might be worth Mr Thwackum's
consideration, whether a larger castigation might not be laid on upon
the account.
As both these learned men concurred in censuring Jones, so were they
no less unanimous in applauding Master Blifil. To bring truth to
light, was by the parson asserted to be the duty of every religious
man; and by the philosopher this was declared to be highly conformable
with the rule of right, and the eternal and unalterable fitness of
things.
All this, however, weighed very little with Mr Allworthy. He could not
be prevailed on to sign the warrant for the execution of Jones. There
was something within his own breast with which the invincible fidelity
which that youth had preserved, corresponded much better than it had
done with the religion of Thwackum, or with the virtue of Square. He
therefore strictly ordered the former of these gentlemen to abstain
from laying violent hands on Tom for what had past. The pedagogue was
obliged to obey those orders; but not without great reluctance, and
frequent mutterings that the boy would be certainly spoiled.
Towards the gamekeeper the good man behaved with more severity. He
presently summoned that poor fellow before him, and after many bitter
remonstrances, paid him his wages, and dismist him from his service;
for Mr Allworthy rightly observed, that there was a great difference
between being guilty of a falsehood to excuse yourself, and to excuse
another. He likewise urged, as the principal motive to his inflexible
severity against this man, that he had basely suffered Tom Jones to
undergo so heavy a punishment for his sake, whereas he ought to have
prevented it by making the discovery himself.
When this story became public, many people differed from Square and
Thwackum, in judging the conduct of the two lads on the occasion.
Master Blifil was generally called a sneaking rascal, a poor-spirited
wretch, with other epithets of the like kind; whilst Tom was honoured
with the appellations of a brave lad, a jolly dog, and an honest
fellow. Indeed, his behaviour to Black George much ingratiated him
with all the servants; for though that fellow was before universally
disliked, yet he was no sooner turned away than he was as universally
pitied; and the friendship and gallantry of Tom Jones was celebrated
by them all with the highest applause; and they condemned Master
Blifil as openly as they durst, without incurring the danger of
offending his mother. For all this, however, poor Tom smarted in the
flesh; for though Thwackum had been inhibited to exercise his arm on
the foregoing account, yet, as the proverb says, It is easy to find a
stick, &c. So was it easy to find a rod; and, indeed, the not being
able to find one was the only thing which could have kept Thwackum any
long time from chastising poor Jones.
Had the bare delight in the sport been the only inducement to the
pedagogue, it is probable Master Blifil would likewise have had his
share; but though Mr Allworthy had given him frequent orders to make
no difference between the lads, yet was Thwackum altogether as kind
and gentle to this youth, as he was harsh, nay even barbarous, to the
other. To say the truth, Blifil had greatly gained his master's
affections; partly by the profound respect he always showed his
person, but much more by the decent reverence with which he received
his doctrine; for he had got by heart, and frequently repeated, his
phrases, and maintained all his master's religious principles with a
zeal which was surprizing in one so young, and which greatly endeared
him to the worthy preceptor.
Tom Jones, on the other hand, was not only deficient in outward tokens
of respect, often forgetting to pull off his hat, or to bow at his
master's approach; but was altogether as unmindful both of his
master's precepts and example. He was indeed a thoughtless, giddy
youth, with little sobriety in his manners, and less in his
countenance; and would often very impudently and indecently laugh at
his companion for his serious behaviour.
Mr Square had the same reason for his preference of the former lad;
for Tom Jones showed no more regard to the learned discourses which
this gentleman would sometimes throw away upon him, than to those of
Thwackum. He once ventured to make a jest of the rule of right; and at
another time said, he believed there was no rule in the world capable
of making such a man as his father (for so Mr Allworthy suffered
himself to be called).
Master Blifil, on the contrary, had address enough at sixteen to
recommend himself at one and the same time to both these opposites.
With one he was all religion, with the other he was all virtue. And
when both were present, he was profoundly silent, which both
interpreted in his favour and in their own.
Nor was Blifil contented with flattering both these gentlemen to their
faces; he took frequent occasions of praising them behind their backs
to Allworthy; before whom, when they two were alone, and his uncle
commended any religious or virtuous sentiment (for many such came
constantly from him) he seldom failed to ascribe it to the good
instructions he had received from either Thwackum or Square; for he
knew his uncle repeated all such compliments to the persons for whose
use they were meant; and he found by experience the great impressions
which they made on the philosopher, as well as on the divine: for, to
say the truth, there is no kind of flattery so irresistible as this,
at second hand.
The young gentleman, moreover, soon perceived how extremely grateful
all those panegyrics on his instructors were to Mr Allworthy himself,
as they so loudly resounded the praise of that singular plan of
education which he had laid down; for this worthy man having observed
the imperfect institution of our public schools, and the many vices
which boys were there liable to learn, had resolved to educate his
nephew, as well as the other lad, whom he had in a manner adopted, in
his own house; where he thought their morals would escape all that
danger of being corrupted to which they would be unavoidably exposed
in any public school or university.
Having, therefore, determined to commit these boys to the tuition of a
private tutor, Mr Thwackum was recommended to him for that office, by
a very particular friend, of whose understanding Mr Allworthy had a
great opinion, and in whose integrity he placed much confidence. This
Thwackum was fellow of a college, where he almost entirely resided;
and had a great reputation for learning, religion, and sobriety of
manners. And these were doubtless the qualifications by which Mr
Allworthy's friend had been induced to recommend him; though indeed
this friend had some obligations to Thwackum's family, who were the
most considerable persons in a borough which that gentleman
represented in parliament.
Thwackum, at his first arrival, was extremely agreeable to Allworthy;
and indeed he perfectly answered the character which had been given of
him. Upon longer acquaintance, however, and more intimate
conversation, this worthy man saw infirmities in the tutor, which he
could have wished him to have been without; though as those seemed
greatly overbalanced by his good qualities, they did not incline Mr
Allworthy to part with him: nor would they indeed have justified such
a proceeding; for the reader is greatly mistaken, if he conceives that
Thwackum appeared to Mr Allworthy in the same light as he doth to him
in this history; and he is as much deceived, if he imagines that the
most intimate acquaintance which he himself could have had with that
divine, would have informed him of those things which we, from our
inspiration, are enabled to open and discover. Of readers who, from
such conceits as these, condemn the wisdom or penetration of Mr
Allworthy, I shall not scruple to say, that they make a very bad and
ungrateful use of that knowledge which we have communicated to them.
These apparent errors in the doctrine of Thwackum served greatly to
palliate the contrary errors in that of Square, which our good man no
less saw and condemned. He thought, indeed, that the different
exuberancies of these gentlemen would correct their different
imperfections; and that from both, especially with his assistance, the
two lads would derive sufficient precepts of true religion and virtue.
If the event happened contrary to his expectations, this possibly
proceeded from some fault in the plan itself; which the reader hath my
leave to discover, if he can: for we do not pretend to introduce any
infallible characters into this history; where we hope nothing will be
found which hath never yet been seen in human nature.
To return therefore: the reader will not, I think, wonder that the
different behaviour of the two lads above commemorated, produced the
different effects of which he hath already seen some instance; and
besides this, there was another reason for the conduct of the
philosopher and the pedagogue; but this being matter of great
importance, we shall reveal it in the next chapter.
Chapter vi.
Containing a better reason still for the before-mentioned opinions.
It is to be known then, that those two learned personages, who have
lately made a considerable figure on the theatre of this history, had,
from their first arrival at Mr Allworthy's house, taken so great an
affection, the one to his virtue, the other to his religion, that they
had meditated the closest alliance with him.
For this purpose they had cast their eyes on that fair widow, whom,
though we have not for some time made any mention of her, the reader,
we trust, hath not forgot. Mrs Blifil was indeed the object to which
they both aspired.
It may seem remarkable, that, of four persons whom we have
commemorated at Mr Allworthy's house, three of them should fix their
inclinations on a lady who was never greatly celebrated for her
beauty, and who was, moreover, now a little descended into the vale of
years; but in reality bosom friends, and intimate acquaintance, have a
kind of natural propensity to particular females at the house of a
friend--viz., to his grandmother, mother, sister, daughter, aunt,
niece, or cousin, when they are rich; and to his wife, sister,
daughter, niece, cousin, mistress, or servant-maid, if they should be
handsome.
We would not, however, have our reader imagine, that persons of such
characters as were supported by Thwackum and Square, would undertake a
matter of this kind, which hath been a little censured by some rigid
moralists, before they had thoroughly examined it, and considered
whether it was (as Shakespear phrases it) "Stuff o' th' conscience,"
or no. Thwackum was encouraged to the undertaking by reflecting that
to covet your neighbour's sister is nowhere forbidden: and he knew it
was a rule in the construction of all laws, that "_Expressum facit
cessare tacitum._" The sense of which is, "When a lawgiver sets down
plainly his whole meaning, we are prevented from making him mean what
we please ourselves." As some instances of women, therefore, are
mentioned in the divine law, which forbids us to covet our neighbour's
goods, and that of a sister omitted, he concluded it to be lawful. And
as to Square, who was in his person what is called a jolly fellow, or
a widow's man, he easily reconciled his choice to the eternal fitness
of things.
Now, as both of these gentlemen were industrious in taking every
opportunity of recommending themselves to the widow, they apprehended
one certain method was, by giving her son the constant preference to
the other lad; and as they conceived the kindness and affection which
Mr Allworthy showed the latter, must be highly disagreeable to her,
they doubted not but the laying hold on all occasions to degrade and
vilify him, would be highly pleasing to her; who, as she hated the
boy, must love all those who did him any hurt. In this Thwackum had
the advantage; for while Square could only scarify the poor lad's
reputation, he could flea his skin; and, indeed, he considered every
lash he gave him as a compliment paid to his mistress; so that he
could, with the utmost propriety, repeat this old flogging line,
_"Castigo te non quod odio habeam, sed quod_ AMEM. I chastise thee not
out of hatred, but out of love." And this, indeed, he often had in his
mouth, or rather, according to the old phrase, never more properly
applied, at his fingers' ends.
For this reason, principally, the two gentlemen concurred, as we have
seen above, in their opinion concerning the two lads; this being,
indeed, almost the only instance of their concurring on any point;
for, beside the difference of their principles, they had both long ago
strongly suspected each other's design, and hated one another with no
little degree of inveteracy.
This mutual animosity was a good deal increased by their alternate
successes; for Mrs Blifil knew what they would be at long before they
imagined it; or, indeed, intended she should: for they proceeded with
great caution, lest she should be offended, and acquaint Mr Allworthy.
But they had no reason for any such fear; she was well enough pleased
with a passion, of which she intended none should have any fruits but
herself. And the only fruits she designed for herself were, flattery
and courtship; for which purpose she soothed them by turns, and a long
time equally. She was, indeed, rather inclined to favour the parson's
principles; but Square's person was more agreeable to her eye, for he
was a comely man; whereas the pedagogue did in countenance very nearly
resemble that gentleman, who, in the Harlot's Progress, is seen
correcting the ladies in Bridewell.
Whether Mrs Blifil had been surfeited with the sweets of marriage, or
disgusted by its bitters, or from what other cause it proceeded, I
will not determine; but she could never be brought to listen to any
second proposals. However, she at last conversed with Square with such
a degree of intimacy that malicious tongues began to whisper things of
her, to which, as well for the sake of the lady, as that they were
highly disagreeable to the rule of right and the fitness of things, we
will give no credit, and therefore shall not blot our paper with them.
The pedagogue, 'tis certain, whipped on, without getting a step nearer
to his journey's end.
Indeed he had committed a great error, and that Square discovered much
sooner than himself. Mrs Blifil (as, perhaps, the reader may have
formerly guessed) was not over and above pleased with the behaviour of
her husband; nay, to be honest, she absolutely hated him, till his
death at last a little reconciled him to her affections. It will not
be therefore greatly wondered at, if she had not the most violent
regard to the offspring she had by him. And, in fact, she had so
little of this regard, that in his infancy she seldom saw her son, or
took any notice of him; and hence she acquiesced, after a little
reluctance, in all the favours which Mr Allworthy showered on the
foundling; whom the good man called his own boy, and in all things put
on an entire equality with Master Blifil. This acquiescence in Mrs
Blifil was considered by the neighbours, and by the family, as a mark
of her condescension to her brother's humour, and she was imagined by
all others, as well as Thwackum and Square, to hate the foundling in
her heart; nay, the more civility she showed him, the more they
conceived she detested him, and the surer schemes she was laying for
his ruin: for as they thought it her interest to hate him, it was very
difficult for her to persuade them she did not.
Thwackum was the more confirmed in his opinion, as she had more than
once slily caused him to whip Tom Jones, when Mr Allworthy, who was an
enemy to this exercise, was abroad; whereas she had never given any
such orders concerning young Blifil. And this had likewise imposed
upon Square. In reality, though she certainly hated her own son--of
which, however monstrous it appears, I am assured she is not a
singular instance--she appeared, notwithstanding all her outward
compliance, to be in her heart sufficiently displeased with all the
favour shown by Mr Allworthy to the foundling. She frequently
complained of this behind her brother's back, and very sharply
censured him for it, both to Thwackum and Square; nay, she would throw
it in the teeth of Allworthy himself, when a little quarrel, or miff,
as it is vulgarly called, arose between them.
However, when Tom grew up, and gave tokens of that gallantry of temper
which greatly recommends men to women, this disinclination which she
had discovered to him when a child, by degrees abated, and at last she
so evidently demonstrated her affection to him to be much stronger
than what she bore her own son, that it was impossible to mistake her
any longer. She was so desirous of often seeing him, and discovered
such satisfaction and delight in his company, that before he was
eighteen years old he was become a rival to both Square and Thwackum;
and what is worse, the whole country began to talk as loudly of her
inclination to Tom, as they had before done of that which she had
shown to Square: on which account the philosopher conceived the most
implacable hatred for our poor heroe.
Chapter vii.
In which the author himself makes his appearance on the stage.
Though Mr Allworthy was not of himself hasty to see things in a
disadvantageous light, and was a stranger to the public voice, which
seldom reaches to a brother or a husband, though it rings in the ears
of all the neighbourhood; yet was this affection of Mrs Blifil to Tom,
and the preference which she too visibly gave him to her own son, of
the utmost disadvantage to that youth.
For such was the compassion which inhabited Mr Allworthy's mind, that
nothing but the steel of justice could ever subdue it. To be
unfortunate in any respect was sufficient, if there was no demerit to
counterpoise it, to turn the scale of that good man's pity, and to
engage his friendship and his benefaction.
When therefore he plainly saw Master Blifil was absolutely detested
(for that he was) by his own mother, he began, on that account only,
to look with an eye of compassion upon him; and what the effects of
compassion are, in good and benevolent minds, I need not here explain
to most of my readers.
Henceforward he saw every appearance of virtue in the youth through
the magnifying end, and viewed all his faults with the glass inverted,
so that they became scarce perceptible. And this perhaps the amiable
temper of pity may make commendable; but the next step the weakness of
human nature alone must excuse; for he no sooner perceived that
preference which Mrs Blifil gave to Tom, than that poor youth (however
innocent) began to sink in his affections as he rose in hers. This, it
is true, would of itself alone never have been able to eradicate Jones
from his bosom; but it was greatly injurious to him, and prepared Mr
Allworthy's mind for those impressions which afterwards produced the
mighty events that will be contained hereafter in this history; and to
which, it must be confest, the unfortunate lad, by his own wantonness,
wildness, and want of caution, too much contributed.
In recording some instances of these, we shall, if rightly understood,
afford a very useful lesson to those well-disposed youths who shall
hereafter be our readers; for they may here find, that goodness of
heart, and openness of temper, though these may give them great
comfort within, and administer to an honest pride in their own minds,
will by no means, alas! do their business in the world. Prudence and
circumspection are necessary even to the best of men. They are indeed,
as it were, a guard to Virtue, without which she can never be safe. It
is not enough that your designs, nay, that your actions, are
intrinsically good; you must take care they shall appear so. If your
inside be never so beautiful, you must preserve a fair outside also.
This must be constantly looked to, or malice and envy will take care
to blacken it so, that the sagacity and goodness of an Allworthy will
not be able to see through it, and to discern the beauties within. Let
this, my young readers, be your constant maxim, that no man can be
good enough to enable him to neglect the rules of prudence; nor will
Virtue herself look beautiful, unless she be bedecked with the outward
ornaments of decency and decorum. And this precept, my worthy
disciples, if you read with due attention, you will, I hope, find
sufficiently enforced by examples in the following pages.
I ask pardon for this short appearance, by way of chorus, on the
stage. It is in reality for my own sake, that, while I am discovering
the rocks on which innocence and goodness often split, I may not be
misunderstood to recommend the very means to my worthy readers, by
which I intend to show them they will be undone. And this, as I could
not prevail on any of my actors to speak, I myself was obliged to
declare.
Chapter viii.
A childish incident, in which, however, is seen a good-natured
disposition in Tom Jones.
The reader may remember that Mr Allworthy gave Tom Jones a little
horse, as a kind of smart-money for the punishment which he imagined
he had suffered innocently.
This horse Tom kept above half a year, and then rode him to a
neighbouring fair, and sold him.
At his return, being questioned by Thwackum what he had done with the
money for which the horse was sold, he frankly declared he would not
tell him.
"Oho!" says Thwackum, "you will not! then I will have it out of your
br--h;" that being the place to which he always applied for
information on every doubtful occasion.
Tom was now mounted on the back of a footman, and everything prepared
for execution, when Mr Allworthy, entering the room, gave the criminal
a reprieve, and took him with him into another apartment; where, being
alone with Tom, he put the same question to him which Thwackum had
before asked him.
Tom answered, he could in duty refuse him nothing; but as for that
tyrannical rascal, he would never make him any other answer than with
a cudgel, with which he hoped soon to be able to pay him for all his
barbarities.
Mr Allworthy very severely reprimanded the lad for his indecent and
disrespectful expressions concerning his master; but much more for his
avowing an intention of revenge. He threatened him with the entire
loss of his favour, if he ever heard such another word from his mouth;
for, he said, he would never support or befriend a reprobate. By these
and the like declarations, he extorted some compunction from Tom, in
which that youth was not over-sincere; for he really meditated some
return for all the smarting favours he had received at the hands of
the pedagogue. He was, however, brought by Mr Allworthy to express a
concern for his resentment against Thwackum; and then the good man,
after some wholesome admonition, permitted him to proceed, which he
did as follows:--
"Indeed, my dear sir, I love and honour you more than all the world: I
know the great obligations I have to you, and should detest myself if
I thought my heart was capable of ingratitude. Could the little horse
you gave me speak, I am sure he could tell you how fond I was of your
present; for I had more pleasure in feeding him than in riding him.
Indeed, sir, it went to my heart to part with him; nor would I have
sold him upon any other account in the world than what I did. You
yourself, sir, I am convinced, in my case, would have done the same:
for none ever so sensibly felt the misfortunes of others. What would
you feel, dear sir, if you thought yourself the occasion of them?
Indeed, sir, there never was any misery like theirs."
"Like whose, child?" says Allworthy: "What do you mean?"
"Oh, sir!" answered Tom, "your poor gamekeeper, with all his large
family, ever since your discarding him, have been perishing with all
the miseries of cold and hunger: I could not bear to see these poor
wretches naked and starving, and at the same time know myself to have
been the occasion of all their sufferings. I could not bear it, sir;
upon my soul, I could not." [Here the tears ran down his cheeks, and
he thus proceeded.] "It was to save them from absolute destruction I
parted with your dear present, notwithstanding all the value I had for
it: I sold the horse for them, and they have every farthing of the
money."
Mr Allworthy now stood silent for some moments, and before he spoke
the tears started from his eyes. He at length dismissed Tom with a
gentle rebuke, advising him for the future to apply to him in cases of
distress, rather than to use extraordinary means of relieving them
himself.
This affair was afterwards the subject of much debate between Thwackum
and Square. Thwackum held, that this was flying in Mr Allworthy's
face, who had intended to punish the fellow for his disobedience. He
said, in some instances, what the world called charity appeared to him
to be opposing the will of the Almighty, which had marked some
particular persons for destruction; and that this was in like manner
acting in opposition to Mr Allworthy; concluding, as usual, with a
hearty recommendation of birch.
Square argued strongly on the other side, in opposition perhaps to
Thwackum, or in compliance with Mr Allworthy, who seemed very much to
approve what Jones had done. As to what he urged on this occasion, as
I am convinced most of my readers will be much abler advocates for
poor Jones, it would be impertinent to relate it. Indeed it was not
difficult to reconcile to the rule of right an action which it would
have been impossible to deduce from the rule of wrong.
Chapter ix.
Containing an incident of a more heinous kind, with the comments of
Thwackum and Square.
It hath been observed by some man of much greater reputation for
wisdom than myself, that misfortunes seldom come single. An instance
of this may, I believe, be seen in those gentlemen who have the
misfortune to have any of their rogueries detected; for here discovery
seldom stops till the whole is come out. Thus it happened to poor Tom;
who was no sooner pardoned for selling the horse, than he was
discovered to have some time before sold a fine Bible which Mr
Allworthy gave him, the money arising from which sale he had disposed
of in the same manner. This Bible Master Blifil had purchased, though
he had already such another of his own, partly out of respect for the
book, and partly out of friendship to Tom, being unwilling that the
Bible should be sold out of the family at half-price. He therefore
deposited the said half-price himself; for he was a very prudent lad,
and so careful of his money, that he had laid up almost every penny
which he had received from Mr Allworthy.
Some people have been noted to be able to read in no book but their
own. On the contrary, from the time when Master Blifil was first
possessed of this Bible, he never used any other. Nay, he was seen
reading in it much oftener than he had before been in his own. Now, as
he frequently asked Thwackum to explain difficult passages to him,
that gentleman unfortunately took notice of Tom's name, which was
written in many parts of the book. This brought on an inquiry, which
obliged Master Blifil to discover the whole matter.
Thwackum was resolved a crime of this kind, which he called sacrilege,
should not go unpunished. He therefore proceeded immediately to
castigation: and not contented with that he acquainted Mr Allworthy,
at their next meeting, with this monstrous crime, as it appeared to
him: inveighing against Tom in the most bitter terms, and likening him
to the buyers and sellers who were driven out of the temple.
Square saw this matter in a very different light. He said, he could
not perceive any higher crime in selling one book than in selling
another. That to sell Bibles was strictly lawful by all laws both
Divine and human, and consequently there was no unfitness in it. He
told Thwackum, that his great concern on this occasion brought to his
mind the story of a very devout woman, who, out of pure regard to
religion, stole Tillotson's Sermons from a lady of her acquaintance.
This story caused a vast quantity of blood to rush into the parson's
face, which of itself was none of the palest; and he was going to
reply with great warmth and anger, had not Mrs Blifil, who was present
at this debate, interposed. That lady declared herself absolutely of
Mr Square's side. She argued, indeed, very learnedly in support of his
opinion; and concluded with saying, if Tom had been guilty of any
fault, she must confess her own son appeared to be equally culpable;
for that she could see no difference between the buyer and the seller;
both of whom were alike to be driven out of the temple.
Mrs Blifil having declared her opinion, put an end to the debate.
Square's triumph would almost have stopt his words, had he needed
them; and Thwackum, who, for reasons before-mentioned, durst not
venture at disobliging the lady, was almost choaked with indignation.
As to Mr Allworthy, he said, since the boy had been already punished
he would not deliver his sentiments on the occasion; and whether he
was or was not angry with the lad, I must leave to the reader's own
conjecture.
Soon after this, an action was brought against the gamekeeper by
Squire Western (the gentleman in whose manor the partridge was
killed), for depredations of the like kind. This was a most
unfortunate circumstance for the fellow, as it not only of itself
threatened his ruin, but actually prevented Mr Allworthy from
restoring him to his favour: for as that gentleman was walking out one
evening with Master Blifil and young Jones, the latter slily drew him
to the habitation of Black George; where the family of that poor
wretch, namely, his wife and children, were found in all the misery
with which cold, hunger, and nakedness, can affect human creatures:
for as to the money they had received from Jones, former debts had
consumed almost the whole.
Such a scene as this could not fail of affecting the heart of Mr
Allworthy. He immediately gave the mother a couple of guineas, with
which he bid her cloath her children. The poor woman burst into tears
at this goodness, and while she was thanking him, could not refrain
from expressing her gratitude to Tom; who had, she said, long
preserved both her and hers from starving. "We have not," says she,
"had a morsel to eat, nor have these poor children had a rag to put
on, but what his goodness hath bestowed on us." For, indeed, besides
the horse and the Bible, Tom had sacrificed a night-gown, and other
things, to the use of this distressed family.
On their return home, Tom made use of all his eloquence to display the
wretchedness of these people, and the penitence of Black George
himself; and in this he succeeded so well, that Mr Allworthy said, he
thought the man had suffered enough for what was past; that he would
forgive him, and think of some means of providing for him and his
family.
Jones was so delighted with this news, that, though it was dark when
they returned home, he could not help going back a mile, in a shower
of rain, to acquaint the poor woman with the glad tidings; but, like
other hasty divulgers of news, he only brought on himself the trouble
of contradicting it: for the ill fortune of Black George made use of
the very opportunity of his friend's absence to overturn all again.
Chapter x.
In which Master Blifil and Jones appear in different lights.
Master Blifil fell very short of his companion in the amiable quality
of mercy; but he as greatly exceeded him in one of a much higher kind,
namely, in justice: in which he followed both the precepts and example
of Thwackum and Square; for though they would both make frequent use
of the word mercy, yet it was plain that in reality Square held it to
be inconsistent with the rule of right; and Thwackum was for doing
justice, and leaving mercy to heaven. The two gentlemen did indeed
somewhat differ in opinion concerning the objects of this sublime
virtue; by which Thwackum would probably have destroyed one half of
mankind, and Square the other half.
Master Blifil then, though he had kept silence in the presence of
Jones, yet, when he had better considered the matter, could by no
means endure the thought of suffering his uncle to confer favours on
the undeserving. He therefore resolved immediately to acquaint him
with the fact which we have above slightly hinted to the readers. The
truth of which was as follows:
The gamekeeper, about a year after he was dismissed from Mr
Allworthy's service, and before Tom's selling the horse, being in want
of bread, either to fill his own mouth or those of his family, as he
passed through a field belonging to Mr Western espied a hare sitting
in her form. This hare he had basely and barbarously knocked on the
head, against the laws of the land, and no less against the laws of
sportsmen.
The higgler to whom the hare was sold, being unfortunately taken many
months after with a quantity of game upon him, was obliged to make his
peace with the squire, by becoming evidence against some poacher. And
now Black George was pitched upon by him, as being a person already
obnoxious to Mr Western, and one of no good fame in the country. He
was, besides, the best sacrifice the higgler could make, as he had
supplied him with no game since; and by this means the witness had an
opportunity of screening his better customers: for the squire, being
charmed with the power of punishing Black George, whom a single
transgression was sufficient to ruin, made no further enquiry.
Had this fact been truly laid before Mr Allworthy, it might probably
have done the gamekeeper very little mischief. But there is no zeal
blinder than that which is inspired with the love of justice against
offenders. Master Blifil had forgot the distance of the time. He
varied likewise in the manner of the fact: and by the hasty addition
of the single letter S he considerably altered the story; for he said
that George had wired hares. These alterations might probably have
been set right, had not Master Blifil unluckily insisted on a promise
of secrecy from Mr Allworthy before he revealed the matter to him; but
by that means the poor gamekeeper was condemned without having an
opportunity to defend himself: for as the fact of killing the hare,
and of the action brought, were certainly true, Mr Allworthy had no
doubt concerning the rest.
Short-lived then was the joy of these poor people; for Mr Allworthy
the next morning declared he had fresh reason, without assigning it,
for his anger, and strictly forbad Tom to mention George any more:
though as for his family, he said he would endeavour to keep them from
starving; but as to the fellow himself, he would leave him to the
laws, which nothing could keep him from breaking.
Tom could by no means divine what had incensed Mr Allworthy, for of
Master Blifil he had not the least suspicion. However, as his
friendship was to be tired out by no disappointments, he now
determined to try another method of preserving the poor gamekeeper
from ruin.
Jones was lately grown very intimate with Mr Western. He had so
greatly recommended himself to that gentleman, by leaping over
five-barred gates, and by other acts of sportsmanship, that the squire
had declared Tom would certainly make a great man if he had but
sufficient encouragement. He often wished he had himself a son with
such parts; and one day very solemnly asserted at a drinking bout,
that Tom should hunt a pack of hounds for a thousand pound of his
money, with any huntsman in the whole country.
By such kind of talents he had so ingratiated himself with the squire,
that he was a most welcome guest at his table, and a favourite
companion in his sport: everything which the squire held most dear, to
wit, his guns, dogs, and horses, were now as much at the command of
Jones, as if they had been his own. He resolved therefore to make use
of this favour on behalf of his friend Black George, whom he hoped to
introduce into Mr Western's family, in the same capacity in which he
had before served Mr Allworthy.
The reader, if he considers that this fellow was already obnoxious to
Mr Western, and if he considers farther the weighty business by which
that gentleman's displeasure had been incurred, will perhaps condemn
this as a foolish and desperate undertaking; but if he should totally
condemn young Jones on that account, he will greatly applaud him for
strengthening himself with all imaginable interest on so arduous an
occasion.
For this purpose, then, Tom applied to Mr Western's daughter, a young
lady of about seventeen years of age, whom her father, next after
those necessary implements of sport just before mentioned, loved and
esteemed above all the world. Now, as she had some influence on the
squire, so Tom had some little influence on her. But this being the
intended heroine of this work, a lady with whom we ourselves are
greatly in love, and with whom many of our readers will probably be in
love too, before we part, it is by no means proper she should make her
appearance at the end of a book.
BOOK IV.
CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR.
Chapter i.
Containing five pages of paper.
As truth distinguishes our writings from those idle romances which are
filled with monsters, the productions, not of nature, but of
distempered brains; and which have been therefore recommended by an
eminent critic to the sole use of the pastry-cook; so, on the other
hand, we would avoid any resemblance to that kind of history which a
celebrated poet seems to think is no less calculated for the emolument
of the brewer, as the reading it should be always attended with a
tankard of good ale--
While--history with her comrade ale,
Soothes the sad series of her serious tale
For as this is the liquor of modern historians, nay, perhaps their
muse, if we may believe the opinion of Butler, who attributes
inspiration to ale, it ought likewise to be the potation of their
readers, since every book ought to be read with the same spirit and in
the same manner as it is writ. Thus the famous author of Hurlothrumbo
told a learned bishop, that the reason his lordship could not taste
the excellence of his piece was, that he did not read it with a fiddle
in his hand; which instrument he himself had always had in his own,
when he composed it.
That our work, therefore, might be in no danger of being likened to
the labours of these historians, we have taken every occasion of
interspersing through the whole sundry similes, descriptions, and
other kind of poetical embellishments. These are, indeed, designed to
supply the place of the said ale, and to refresh the mind, whenever
those slumbers, which in a long work are apt to invade the reader as
well as the writer, shall begin to creep upon him. Without
interruptions of this kind, the best narrative of plain matter of fact
must overpower every reader; for nothing but the ever lasting
watchfulness, which Homer has ascribed only to Jove himself, can be
proof against a newspaper of many volumes.
We shall leave to the reader to determine with what judgment we have
chosen the several occasions for inserting those ornamental parts of
our work. Surely it will be allowed that none could be more proper
than the present, where we are about to introduce a considerable
character on the scene; no less, indeed, than the heroine of this
heroic, historical, prosaic poem. Here, therefore, we have thought
proper to prepare the mind of the reader for her reception, by filling
it with every pleasing image which we can draw from the face of
nature. And for this method we plead many precedents. First, this is
an art well known to, and much practised by, our tragick poets, who
seldom fail to prepare their audience for the reception of their
principal characters.
Thus the heroe is always introduced with a flourish of drums and
trumpets, in order to rouse a martial spirit in the audience, and to
accommodate their ears to bombast and fustian, which Mr Locke's blind
man would not have grossly erred in likening to the sound of a
trumpet. Again, when lovers are coming forth, soft music often
conducts them on the stage, either to soothe the audience with the
softness of the tender passion, or to lull and prepare them for that
gentle slumber in which they will most probably be composed by the
ensuing scene.
And not only the poets, but the masters of these poets, the managers
of playhouses, seem to be in this secret; for, besides the aforesaid
kettle-drums, &c., which denote the heroe's approach, he is generally
ushered on the stage by a large troop of half a dozen scene-shifters;
and how necessary these are imagined to his appearance, may be
concluded from the following theatrical story:--
King Pyrrhus was at dinner at an ale-house bordering on the theatre,
when he was summoned to go on the stage. The heroe, being unwilling to
quit his shoulder of mutton, and as unwilling to draw on himself the
indignation of Mr Wilks (his brother-manager) for making the audience
wait, had bribed these his harbingers to be out of the way. While Mr
Wilks, therefore, was thundering out, "Where are the carpenters to
walk on before King Pyrrhus?" that monarch very quietly eat his
mutton, and the audience, however impatient, were obliged to entertain
themselves with music in his absence.
To be plain, I much question whether the politician, who hath
generally a good nose, hath not scented out somewhat of the utility of
this practice. I am convinced that awful magistrate my lord-mayor
contracts a good deal of that reverence which attends him through the
year, by the several pageants which precede his pomp. Nay, I must
confess, that even I myself, who am not remarkably liable to be
captivated with show, have yielded not a little to the impressions of
much preceding state. When I have seen a man strutting in a
procession, after others whose business was only to walk before him, I
have conceived a higher notion of his dignity than I have felt on
seeing him in a common situation. But there is one instance, which
comes exactly up to my purpose. This is the custom of sending on a
basket-woman, who is to precede the pomp at a coronation, and to strew
the stage with flowers, before the great personages begin their
procession. The antients would certainly have invoked the goddess
Flora for this purpose, and it would have been no difficulty for their
priests, or politicians to have persuaded the people of the real
presence of the deity, though a plain mortal had personated her and
performed her office. But we have no such design of imposing on our
reader; and therefore those who object to the heathen theology, may,
if they please, change our goddess into the above-mentioned
basket-woman. Our intention, in short, is to introduce our heroine
with the utmost solemnity in our power, with an elevation of stile,
and all other circumstances proper to raise the veneration of our
reader.--Indeed we would, for certain causes, advise those of our male
readers who have any hearts, to read no farther, were we not well
assured, that how amiable soever the picture of our heroine will
appear, as it is really a copy from nature, many of our fair
countrywomen will be found worthy to satisfy any passion, and to
answer any idea of female perfection which our pencil will be able to
raise.
And now, without any further preface, we proceed to our next chapter.
Chapter ii.
A short hint of what we can do in the sublime, and a description of
Miss Sophia Western.
Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of the winds
confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy Boreas, and the
sharp-pointed nose of bitter-biting Eurus. Do thou, sweet Zephyrus,
rising from thy fragrant bed, mount the western sky, and lead on those
delicious gales, the charms of which call forth the lovely Flora from
her chamber, perfumed with pearly dews, when on the 1st of June, her
birth-day, the blooming maid, in loose attire, gently trips it over
the verdant mead, where every flower rises to do her homage, till the
whole field becomes enamelled, and colours contend with sweets which
shall ravish her most.
So charming may she now appear! and you the feathered choristers of
nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can excell, tune your
melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. From love proceeds your
music, and to love it returns. Awaken therefore that gentle passion in
every swain: for lo! adorned with all the charms in which nature can
array her; bedecked with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence,
modesty, and tenderness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and
darting brightness from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia comes!
Reader, perhaps thou hast seen the statue of the _Venus de Medicis_.
Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beauties at Hampton Court.
Thou may'st remember each bright Churchill of the galaxy, and all the
toasts of the Kit-cat. Or, if their reign was before thy times, at
least thou hast seen their daughters, the no less dazzling beauties of
the present age; whose names, should we here insert, we apprehend they
would fill the whole volume.
Now if thou hast seen all these, be not afraid of the rude answer
which Lord Rochester once gave to a man who had seen many things. No.
If thou hast seen all these without knowing what beauty is, thou hast
no eyes; if without feeling its power, thou hast no heart.
Yet is it possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all these
without being able to form an exact idea of Sophia; for she did not
exactly resemble any of them. She was most like the picture of Lady
Ranelagh: and, I have heard, more still to the famous dutchess of
Mazarine; but most of all she resembled one whose image never can
depart from my breast, and whom, if thou dost remember, thou hast
then, my friend, an adequate idea of Sophia.
But lest this should not have been thy fortune, we will endeavour with
our utmost skill to describe this paragon, though we are sensible that
our highest abilities are very inadequate to the task.
Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr Western, was a middle-sized
woman; but rather inclining to tall. Her shape was not only exact, but
extremely delicate: and the nice proportion of her arms promised the
truest symmetry in her limbs. Her hair, which was black, was so
luxuriant, that it reached her middle, before she cut it to comply
with the modern fashion; and it was now curled so gracefully in her
neck, that few could believe it to be her own. If envy could find any
part of the face which demanded less commendation than the rest, it
might possibly think her forehead might have been higher without
prejudice to her. Her eyebrows were full, even, and arched beyond the
power of art to imitate. Her black eyes had a lustre in them, which
all her softness could not extinguish. Her nose was exactly regular,
and her mouth, in which were two rows of ivory, exactly answered Sir
John Suckling's description in those lines:--
Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin.
Some bee had stung it newly.
Her cheeks were of the oval kind; and in her right she had a dimple,
which the least smile discovered. Her chin had certainly its share in
forming the beauty of her face; but it was difficult to say it was
either large or small, though perhaps it was rather of the former
kind. Her complexion had rather more of the lily than of the rose; but
when exercise or modesty increased her natural colour, no vermilion
could equal it. Then one might indeed cry out with the celebrated Dr
Donne:
--Her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought
That one might almost say her body thought.
Her neck was long and finely turned: and here, if I was not afraid of
offending her delicacy, I might justly say, the highest beauties of
the famous _Venus de Medicis_ were outdone. Here was whiteness which
no lilies, ivory, nor alabaster could match. The finest cambric might
indeed be supposed from envy to cover that bosom which was much whiter
than itself.--It was indeed,
_Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius_.
A gloss shining beyond the purest brightness of Parian marble.
Such was the outside of Sophia; nor was this beautiful frame disgraced
by an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind was every way equal to her
person; nay, the latter borrowed some charms from the former; for when
she smiled, the sweetness of her temper diffused that glory over her
countenance which no regularity of features can give. But as there are
no perfections of the mind which do not discover themselves in that
perfect intimacy to which we intend to introduce our reader with this
charming young creature, so it is needless to mention them here: nay,
it is a kind of tacit affront to our reader's understanding, and may
also rob him of that pleasure which he will receive in forming his own
judgment of her character.
It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental
accomplishments she had derived from nature, they were somewhat
improved and cultivated by art: for she had been educated under the
care of an aunt, who was a lady of great discretion, and was
thoroughly acquainted with the world, having lived in her youth about
the court, whence she had retired some years since into the country.
By her conversation and instructions, Sophia was perfectly well bred,
though perhaps she wanted a little of that ease in her behaviour which
is to be acquired only by habit, and living within what is called the
polite circle. But this, to say the truth, is often too dearly
purchased; and though it hath charms so inexpressible, that the
French, perhaps, among other qualities, mean to express this, when
they declare they know not what it is; yet its absence is well
compensated by innocence; nor can good sense and a natural gentility
ever stand in need of it.
Chapter iii.
Wherein the history goes back to commemorate a trifling incident that
happened some years since; but which, trifling as it was, had some
future consequences.
The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year, when she is
introduced into this history. Her father, as hath been said, was
fonder of her than of any other human creature. To her, therefore, Tom
Jones applied, in order to engage her interest on the behalf of his
friend the gamekeeper.
But before we proceed to this business, a short recapitulation of some
previous matters may be necessary.
Though the different tempers of Mr Allworthy and of Mr Western did not
admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet they lived upon what is
called a decent footing together; by which means the young people of
both families had been acquainted from their infancy; and as they were
all near of the same age, had been frequent playmates together.
The gaiety of Tom's temper suited better with Sophia, than the grave
and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the preference which she
gave the former of these, would often appear so plainly, that a lad of
a more passionate turn than Master Blifil was, might have shown some
displeasure at it.
As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, it would
be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses of his
mind, as some scandalous people search into the most secret affairs of
their friends, and often pry into their closets and cupboards, only to
discover their poverty and meanness to the world.
However, as persons who suspect they have given others cause of
offence, are apt to conclude they are offended; so Sophia imputed an
action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the superior sagacity of
Thwackum and Square discerned to have arisen from a much better
principle.
Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a little bird,
which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up, and taught to sing.
Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so extremely
fond, that her chief business was to feed and tend it, and her chief
pleasure to play with it. By these means little Tommy, for so the bird
was called, was become so tame, that it would feed out of the hand of
its mistress, would perch upon the finger, and lie contented in her
bosom, where it seemed almost sensible of its own happiness; though
she always kept a small string about its leg, nor would ever trust it
with the liberty of flying away.
One day, when Mr Allworthy and his whole family dined at Mr Western's,
Master Blifil, being in the garden with little Sophia, and observing
the extreme fondness that she showed for her little bird, desired her
to trust it for a moment in his hands. Sophia presently complied with
the young gentleman's request, and after some previous caution,
delivered him her bird; of which he was no sooner in possession, than
he slipt the string from its leg and tossed it into the air.
The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than
forgetting all the favours it had received from Sophia, it flew
directly from her, and perched on a bough at some distance.
Sophia, seeing her bird gone, screamed out so loud, that Tom Jones,
who was at a little distance, immediately ran to her assistance.
He was no sooner informed of what had happened, than he cursed Blifil
for a pitiful malicious rascal; and then immediately stripping off his
coat he applied himself to climbing the tree to which the bird
escaped.
Tom had almost recovered his little namesake, when the branch on which
it was perched, and that hung over a canal, broke, and the poor lad
plumped over head and ears into the water.
Sophia's concern now changed its object. And as she apprehended the
boy's life was in danger, she screamed ten times louder than before;
and indeed Master Blifil himself now seconded her with all the
vociferation in his power.
The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden, were
instantly alarmed, and came all forth; but just as they reached the
canal, Tom (for the water was luckily pretty shallow in that part)
arrived safely on shore.
Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dropping and shivering
before him, when Mr Allworthy desired him to have patience; and
turning to Master Blifil, said, "Pray, child, what is the reason of
all this disturbance?"
Master Blifil answered, "Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for what I
have done; I have been unhappily the occasion of it all. I had Miss
Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the poor creature languished
for liberty, I own I could not forbear giving it what it desired; for
I always thought there was something very cruel in confining anything.
It seemed to be against the law of nature, by which everything hath a
right to liberty; nay, it is even unchristian, for it is not doing
what we would be done by; but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would have
been so much concerned at it, I am sure I never would have done it;
nay, if I had known what would have happened to the bird itself: for
when Master Jones, who climbed up that tree after it, fell into the
water, the bird took a second flight, and presently a nasty hawk
carried it away."
Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy's fate (for her
concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it when it happened),
shed a shower of tears. These Mr Allworthy endeavoured to assuage,
promising her a much finer bird: but she declared she would never have
another. Her father chid her for crying so for a foolish bird; but
could not help telling young Blifil, if he was a son of his, his
backside should be well flead.
Sophia now returned to her chamber, the two young gentlemen were sent
home, and the rest of the company returned to their bottle; where a
conversation ensued on the subject of the bird, so curious, that we
think it deserves a chapter by itself.
Chapter iv.
Containing such very deep and grave matters, that some readers,
perhaps, may not relish it.
Square had no sooner lighted his pipe, than, addressing himself to
Allworthy, he thus began: "Sir, I cannot help congratulating you on
your nephew; who, at an age when few lads have any ideas but of
sensible objects, is arrived at a capacity of distinguishing right
from wrong. To confine anything, seems to me against the law of
nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty. These were his
words; and the impression they have made on me is never to be
eradicated. Can any man have a higher notion of the rule of right, and
the eternal fitness of things? I cannot help promising myself, from
such a dawn, that the meridian of this youth will be equal to that of
either the elder or the younger Brutus."
Here Thwackum hastily interrupted, and spilling some of his wine, and
swallowing the rest with great eagerness, answered, "From another
expression he made use of, I hope he will resemble much better men.
The law of nature is a jargon of words, which means nothing. I know
not of any such law, nor of any right which can be derived from it. To
do as we would be done by, is indeed a Christian motive, as the boy
well expressed himself; and I am glad to find my instructions have
borne such good fruit."
"If vanity was a thing fit," says Square, "I might indulge some on the
same occasion; for whence only he can have learnt his notions of right
or wrong, I think is pretty apparent. If there be no law of nature,
there is no right nor wrong."
"How!" says the parson, "do you then banish revelation? Am I talking
with a deist or an atheist?"
"Drink about," says Western. "Pox of your laws of nature! I don't know
what you mean, either of you, by right and wrong. To take away my
girl's bird was wrong, in my opinion; and my neighbour Allworthy may
do as he pleases; but to encourage boys in such practices, is to breed
them up to the gallows."
Allworthy answered, "That he was sorry for what his nephew had done,
but could not consent to punish him, as he acted rather from a
generous than unworthy motive." He said, "If the boy had stolen the
bird, none would have been more ready to vote for a severe
chastisement than himself; but it was plain that was not his design:"
and, indeed, it was as apparent to him, that he could have no other
view but what he had himself avowed. (For as to that malicious purpose
which Sophia suspected, it never once entered into the head of Mr
Allworthy.) He at length concluded with again blaming the action as
inconsiderate, and which, he said, was pardonable only in a child.
Square had delivered his opinion so openly, that if he was now silent,
he must submit to have his judgment censured. He said, therefore, with
some warmth, "That Mr Allworthy had too much respect to the dirty
consideration of property. That in passing our judgments on great and
mighty actions, all private regards should be laid aside; for by
adhering to those narrow rules, the younger Brutus had been condemned
of ingratitude, and the elder of parricide."
"And if they had been hanged too for those crimes," cried Thwackum,
"they would have had no more than their deserts. A couple of
heathenish villains! Heaven be praised we have no Brutuses now-a-days!
I wish, Mr Square, you would desist from filling the minds of my
pupils with such antichristian stuff; for the consequence must be,
while they are under my care, its being well scourged out of them
again. There is your disciple Tom almost spoiled already. I overheard
him the other day disputing with Master Blifil that there was no merit
in faith without works. I know that is one of your tenets, and I
suppose he had it from you."
"Don't accuse me of spoiling him," says Square. "Who taught him to
laugh at whatever is virtuous and decent, and fit and right in the
nature of things? He is your own scholar, and I disclaim him. No, no,
Master Blifil is my boy. Young as he is, that lad's notions of moral
rectitude I defy you ever to eradicate."
Thwackum put on a contemptuous sneer at this, and replied, "Ay, ay, I
will venture him with you. He is too well grounded for all your
philosophical cant to hurt. No, no, I have taken care to instil such
principles into him--"
"And I have instilled principles into him too," cries Square. "What
but the sublime idea of virtue could inspire a human mind with the
generous thought of giving liberty? And I repeat to you again, if it
was a fit thing to be proud, I might claim the honour of having
infused that idea."--
"And if pride was not forbidden," said Thwackum, "I might boast of
having taught him that duty which he himself assigned as his motive."
"So between you both," says the squire, "the young gentleman hath been
taught to rob my daughter of her bird. I find I must take care of my
partridge-mew. I shall have some virtuous religious man or other set
all my partridges at liberty." Then slapping a gentleman of the law,
who was present, on the back, he cried out, "What say you to this, Mr
Counsellor? Is not this against law?"
The lawyer with great gravity delivered himself as follows:--
"If the case be put of a partridge, there can be no doubt but an
action would lie; for though this be _ferae naturae_, yet being
reclaimed, property vests: but being the case of a singing bird,
though reclaimed, as it is a thing of base nature, it must be
considered as _nullius in bonis_. In this case, therefore, I conceive
the plaintiff must be non-suited; and I should disadvise the bringing
any such action."
"Well," says the squire, "if it be _nullus bonus_, let us drink about,
and talk a little of the state of the nation, or some such discourse
that we all understand; for I am sure I don't understand a word of
this. It may be learning and sense for aught I know: but you shall
never persuade me into it. Pox! you have neither of you mentioned a
word of that poor lad who deserves to be commended: to venture
breaking his neck to oblige my girl was a generous-spirited action: I
have learning enough to see that. D--n me, here's Tom's health! I
shall love the boy for it the longest day I have to live."
Thus was the debate interrupted; but it would probably have been soon
resumed, had not Mr Allworthy presently called for his coach, and
carried off the two combatants.
Such was the conclusion of this adventure of the bird, and of the
dialogue occasioned by it; which we could not help recounting to our
reader, though it happened some years before that stage or period of
time at which our history is now arrived.
Chapter v.
Containing matter accommodated to every taste.
"Parva leves capiunt animos--Small things affect light minds," was the
sentiment of a great master of the passion of love. And certain it is,
that from this day Sophia began to have some little kindness for Tom
Jones, and no little aversion for his companion.
Many accidents from time to time improved both these passions in her
breast; which, without our recounting, the reader may well conclude,
from what we have before hinted of the different tempers of these
lads, and how much the one suited with her own inclinations more than
the other. To say the truth, Sophia, when very young, discerned that
Tom, though an idle, thoughtless, rattling rascal, was nobody's enemy
but his own; and that Master Blifil, though a prudent, discreet, sober
young gentleman, was at the same time strongly attached to the
interest only of one single person; and who that single person was the
reader will be able to divine without any assistance of ours.
These two characters are not always received in the world with the
different regard which seems severally due to either; and which one
would imagine mankind, from self-interest, should show towards them.
But perhaps there may be a political reason for it: in finding one of
a truly benevolent disposition, men may very reasonably suppose they
have found a treasure, and be desirous of keeping it, like all other
good things, to themselves. Hence they may imagine, that to trumpet
forth the praises of such a person, would, in the vulgar phrase, be
crying Roast-meat, and calling in partakers of what they intend to
apply solely to their own use. If this reason does not satisfy the
reader, I know no other means of accounting for the little respect
which I have commonly seen paid to a character which really does great
honour to human nature, and is productive of the highest good to
society. But it was otherwise with Sophia. She honoured Tom Jones, and
scorned Master Blifil, almost as soon as she knew the meaning of those
two words.
Sophia had been absent upwards of three years with her aunt; during
all which time she had seldom seen either of these young gentlemen.
She dined, however, once, together with her aunt, at Mr Allworthy's.
This was a few days after the adventure of the partridge, before
commemorated. Sophia heard the whole story at table, where she said
nothing: nor indeed could her aunt get many words from her as she
returned home; but her maid, when undressing her, happening to say,
"Well, miss, I suppose you have seen young Master Blifil to-day?" she
answered with much passion, "I hate the name of Master Blifil, as I do
whatever is base and treacherous: and I wonder Mr Allworthy would
suffer that old barbarous schoolmaster to punish a poor boy so cruelly
for what was only the effect of his good-nature." She then recounted
the story to her maid, and concluded with saying, "Don't you think he
is a boy of noble spirit?"
This young lady was now returned to her father; who gave her the
command of his house, and placed her at the upper end of his table,
where Tom (who for his great love of hunting was become a great
favourite of the squire) often dined. Young men of open, generous
dispositions are naturally inclined to gallantry, which, if they have
good understandings, as was in reality Tom's case, exerts itself in an
obliging complacent behaviour to all women in general. This greatly
distinguished Tom from the boisterous brutality of mere country
squires on the one hand, and from the solemn and somewhat sullen
deportment of Master Blifil on the other; and he began now, at twenty,
to have the name of a pretty fellow among all the women in the
neighbourhood.
Tom behaved to Sophia with no particularity, unless perhaps by showing
her a higher respect than he paid to any other. This distinction her
beauty, fortune, sense, and amiable carriage, seemed to demand; but as
to design upon her person he had none; for which we shall at present
suffer the reader to condemn him of stupidity; but perhaps we shall be
able indifferently well to account for it hereafter.
Sophia, with the highest degree of innocence and modesty, had a
remarkable sprightliness in her temper. This was so greatly increased
whenever she was in company with Tom, that had he not been very young
and thoughtless, he must have observed it: or had not Mr Western's
thoughts been generally either in the field, the stable, or the
dog-kennel, it might have perhaps created some jealousy in him: but so
far was the good gentleman from entertaining any such suspicions, that
he gave Tom every opportunity with his daughter which any lover could
have wished; and this Tom innocently improved to better advantage, by
following only the dictates of his natural gallantry and good-nature,
than he might perhaps have done had he had the deepest designs on the
young lady.
But indeed it can occasion little wonder that this matter escaped the
observation of others, since poor Sophia herself never remarked it;
and her heart was irretrievably lost before she suspected it was in
danger.
Matters were in this situation, when Tom, one afternoon, finding
Sophia alone, began, after a short apology, with a very serious face,
to acquaint her that he had a favour to ask of her which he hoped her
goodness would comply with.
Though neither the young man's behaviour, nor indeed his manner of
opening this business, were such as could give her any just cause of
suspecting he intended to make love to her; yet whether Nature
whispered something into her ear, or from what cause it arose I will
not determine; certain it is, some idea of that kind must have
intruded itself; for her colour forsook her cheeks, her limbs
trembled, and her tongue would have faltered, had Tom stopped for an
answer; but he soon relieved her from her perplexity, by proceeding to
inform her of his request; which was to solicit her interest on behalf
of the gamekeeper, whose own ruin, and that of a large family, must
be, he said, the consequence of Mr Western's pursuing his action
against him.
Sophia presently recovered her confusion, and, with a smile full of
sweetness, said, "Is this the mighty favour you asked with so much
gravity? I will do it with all my heart. I really pity the poor
fellow, and no longer ago than yesterday sent a small matter to his
wife." This small matter was one of her gowns, some linen, and ten
shillings in money, of which Tom had heard, and it had, in reality,
put this solicitation into his head.
Our youth, now, emboldened with his success, resolved to push the
matter farther, and ventured even to beg her recommendation of him to
her father's service; protesting that he thought him one of the
honestest fellows in the country, and extremely well qualified for the
place of a gamekeeper, which luckily then happened to be vacant.
Sophia answered, "Well, I will undertake this too; but I cannot
promise you as much success as in the former part, which I assure you
I will not quit my father without obtaining. However, I will do what I
can for the poor fellow; for I sincerely look upon him and his family
as objects of great compassion. And now, Mr Jones, I must ask you a
favour."
"A favour, madam!" cries Tom: "if you knew the pleasure you have given
me in the hopes of receiving a command from you, you would think by
mentioning it you did confer the greatest favour on me; for by this
dear hand I would sacrifice my life to oblige you."
He then snatched her hand, and eagerly kissed it, which was the first
time his lips had ever touched her. The blood, which before had
forsaken her cheeks, now made her sufficient amends, by rushing all
over her face and neck with such violence, that they became all of a
scarlet colour. She now first felt a sensation to which she had been
before a stranger, and which, when she had leisure to reflect on it,
began to acquaint her with some secrets, which the reader, if he doth
not already guess them, will know in due time.
Sophia, as soon as she could speak (which was not instantly), informed
him that the favour she had to desire of him was, not to lead her
father through so many dangers in hunting; for that, from what she had
heard, she was terribly frightened every time they went out together,
and expected some day or other to see her father brought home with
broken limbs. She therefore begged him, for her sake, to be more
cautious; and as he well knew Mr Western would follow him, not to ride
so madly, nor to take those dangerous leaps for the future.
Tom promised faithfully to obey her commands; and after thanking her
for her kind compliance with his request, took his leave, and departed
highly charmed with his success.
Poor Sophia was charmed too, but in a very different way. Her
sensations, however, the reader's heart (if he or she have any) will
better represent than I can, if I had as many mouths as ever poet
wished for, to eat, I suppose, those many dainties with which he was
so plentifully provided.
It was Mr Western's custom every afternoon, as soon as he was drunk,
to hear his daughter play on the harpsichord; for he was a great lover
of music, and perhaps, had he lived in town, might have passed for a
connoisseur; for he always excepted against the finest compositions of
Mr Handel. He never relished any music but what was light and airy;
and indeed his most favourite tunes were Old Sir Simon the King, St
George he was for England, Bobbing Joan, and some others.
His daughter, though she was a perfect mistress of music, and would
never willingly have played any but Handel's, was so devoted to her
father's pleasure, that she learnt all those tunes to oblige him.
However, she would now and then endeavour to lead him into her own
taste; and when he required the repetition of his ballads, would
answer with a "Nay, dear sir;" and would often beg him to suffer her
to play something else.
This evening, however, when the gentleman was retired from his bottle,
she played all his favourites three times over without any
solicitation. This so pleased the good squire, that he started from
his couch, gave his daughter a kiss, and swore her hand was greatly
improved. She took this opportunity to execute her promise to Tom; in
which she succeeded so well, that the squire declared, if she would
give him t'other bout of Old Sir Simon, he would give the gamekeeper
his deputation the next morning. Sir Simon was played again and again,
till the charms of the music soothed Mr Western to sleep. In the
morning Sophia did not fail to remind him of his engagement; and his
attorney was immediately sent for, ordered to stop any further
proceedings in the action, and to make out the deputation.
Tom's success in this affair soon began to ring over the country, and
various were the censures passed upon it; some greatly applauding it
as an act of good nature; others sneering, and saying, "No wonder that
one idle fellow should love another." Young Blifil was greatly enraged
at it. He had long hated Black George in the same proportion as Jones
delighted in him; not from any offence which he had ever received, but
from his great love to religion and virtue;--for Black George had the
reputation of a loose kind of a fellow. Blifil therefore represented
this as flying in Mr Allworthy's face; and declared, with great
concern, that it was impossible to find any other motive for doing
good to such a wretch.
Thwackum and Square likewise sung to the same tune. They were now
(especially the latter) become greatly jealous of young Jones with the
widow; for he now approached the age of twenty, was really a fine
young fellow, and that lady, by her encouragements to him, seemed
daily more and more to think him so.
Allworthy was not, however, moved with their malice. He declared
himself very well satisfied with what Jones had done. He said the
perseverance and integrity of his friendship was highly commendable,
and he wished he could see more frequent instances of that virtue.
But Fortune, who seldom greatly relishes such sparks as my friend Tom,
perhaps because they do not pay more ardent addresses to her, gave now
a very different turn to all his actions, and showed them to Mr
Allworthy in a light far less agreeable than that gentleman's goodness
had hitherto seen them in.
Chapter vi.
An apology for the insensibility of Mr Jones to all the charms of the
lovely Sophia; in which possibly we may, in a considerable degree,
lower his character in the estimation of those men of wit and
gallantry who approve the heroes in most of our modern comedies.
There are two sorts of people, who, I am afraid, have already
conceived some contempt for my heroe, on account of his behaviour to
Sophia. The former of these will blame his prudence in neglecting an
opportunity to possess himself of Mr Western's fortune; and the latter
will no less despise him for his backwardness to so fine a girl, who
seemed ready to fly into his arms, if he would open them to receive
her.
Now, though I shall not perhaps be able absolutely to acquit him of
either of these charges (for want of prudence admits of no excuse; and
what I shall produce against the latter charge will, I apprehend, be
scarce satisfactory); yet, as evidence may sometimes be offered in
mitigation, I shall set forth the plain matter of fact, and leave the
whole to the reader's determination.
Mr Jones had somewhat about him, which, though I think writers are not
thoroughly agreed in its name, doth certainly inhabit some human
breasts; whose use is not so properly to distinguish right from wrong,
as to prompt and incite them to the former, and to restrain and
withhold them from the latter.
This somewhat may be indeed resembled to the famous trunk-maker in the
playhouse; for, whenever the person who is possessed of it doth what
is right, no ravished or friendly spectator is so eager or so loud in
his applause: on the contrary, when he doth wrong, no critic is so apt
to hiss and explode him.
To give a higher idea of the principle I mean, as well as one more
familiar to the present age; it may be considered as sitting on its
throne in the mind, like the Lord High Chancellor of this kingdom in
his court; where it presides, governs, directs, judges, acquits, and
condemns according to merit and justice, with a knowledge which
nothing escapes, a penetration which nothing can deceive, and an
integrity which nothing can corrupt.
This active principle may perhaps be said to constitute the most
essential barrier between us and our neighbours the brutes; for if
there be some in the human shape who are not under any such dominion,
I choose rather to consider them as deserters from us to our
neighbours; among whom they will have the fate of deserters, and not
be placed in the first rank.
Our heroe, whether he derived it from Thwackum or Square I will not
determine, was very strongly under the guidance of this principle; for
though he did not always act rightly, yet he never did otherwise
without feeling and suffering for it. It was this which taught him,
that to repay the civilities and little friendships of hospitality by
robbing the house where you have received them, is to be the basest
and meanest of thieves. He did not think the baseness of this offence
lessened by the height of the injury committed; on the contrary, if to
steal another's plate deserved death and infamy, it seemed to him
difficult to assign a punishment adequate to the robbing a man of his
whole fortune, and of his child into the bargain.
This principle, therefore, prevented him from any thought of making
his fortune by such means (for this, as I have said, is an active
principle, and doth not content itself with knowledge or belief only).
Had he been greatly enamoured of Sophia, he possibly might have
thought otherwise; but give me leave to say, there is great difference
between running away with a man's daughter from the motive of love,
and doing the same thing from the motive of theft.
Now, though this young gentleman was not insensible of the charms of
Sophia; though he greatly liked her beauty, and esteemed all her other
qualifications, she had made, however, no deep impression on his
heart; for which, as it renders him liable to the charge of stupidity,
or at least of want of taste, we shall now proceed to account.
The truth then is, his heart was in the possession of another woman.
Here I question not but the reader will be surprized at our long
taciturnity as to this matter; and quite at a loss to divine who this
woman was, since we have hitherto not dropt a hint of any one likely
to be a rival to Sophia; for as to Mrs Blifil, though we have been
obliged to mention some suspicions of her affection for Tom, we have
not hitherto given the least latitude for imagining that he had any
for her; and, indeed, I am sorry to say it, but the youth of both
sexes are too apt to be deficient in their gratitude for that regard
with which persons more advanced in years are sometimes so kind to
honour them.
That the reader may be no longer in suspense, he will be pleased to
remember, that we have often mentioned the family of George Seagrim
(commonly called Black George, the gamekeeper), which consisted at
present of a wife and five children.
The second of these children was a daughter, whose name was Molly, and
who was esteemed one of the handsomest girls in the whole country.
Congreve well says there is in true beauty something which vulgar
souls cannot admire; so can no dirt or rags hide this something from
those souls which are not of the vulgar stamp.
The beauty of this girl made, however, no impression on Tom, till she
grew towards the age of sixteen, when Tom, who was near three years
older, began first to cast the eyes of affection upon her. And this
affection he had fixed on the girl long before he could bring himself
to attempt the possession of her person: for though his constitution
urged him greatly to this, his principles no less forcibly restrained
him. To debauch a young woman, however low her condition was, appeared
to him a very heinous crime; and the good-will he bore the father,
with the compassion he had for his family, very strongly corroborated
all such sober reflections; so that he once resolved to get the better
of his inclinations, and he actually abstained three whole months
without ever going to Seagrim's house, or seeing his daughter.
Now, though Molly was, as we have said, generally thought a very fine
girl, and in reality she was so, yet her beauty was not of the most
amiable kind. It had, indeed, very little of feminine in it, and would
have become a man at least as well as a woman; for, to say the truth,
youth and florid health had a very considerable share in the
composition.
Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As this was tall and
robust, so was that bold and forward. So little had she of modesty,
that Jones had more regard for her virtue than she herself. And as
most probably she liked Tom as well as he liked her, so when she
perceived his backwardness she herself grew proportionably forward;
and when she saw he had entirely deserted the house, she found means
of throwing herself in his way, and behaved in such a manner that the
youth must have had very much or very little of the heroe if her
endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, she soon triumphed over
all the virtuous resolutions of Jones; for though she behaved at last
with all decent reluctance, yet I rather chuse to attribute the
triumph to her, since, in fact, it was her design which succeeded.
In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played her part,
that Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, and considered
the young woman as one who had yielded to the violent attacks of his
passion. He likewise imputed her yielding to the ungovernable force of
her love towards him; and this the reader will allow to have been a
very natural and probable supposition, as we have more than once
mentioned the uncommon comeliness of his person: and, indeed, he was
one of the handsomest young fellows in the world.
As there are some minds whose affections, like Master Blifil's, are
solely placed on one single person, whose interest and indulgence
alone they consider on every occasion; regarding the good and ill of
all others as merely indifferent, any farther than as they contribute
to the pleasure or advantage of that person: so there is a different
temper of mind which borrows a degree of virtue even from self-love.
Such can never receive any kind of satisfaction from another, without
loving the creature to whom that satisfaction is owing, and without
making its well-being in some sort necessary to their own ease.
Of this latter species was our heroe. He considered this poor girl as
one whose happiness or misery he had caused to be dependent on
himself. Her beauty was still the object of desire, though greater
beauty, or a fresher object, might have been more so; but the little
abatement which fruition had occasioned to this was highly
overbalanced by the considerations of the affection which she visibly
bore him, and of the situation into which he had brought her. The
former of these created gratitude, the latter compassion; and both,
together with his desire for her person, raised in him a passion which
might, without any great violence to the word, be called love; though,
perhaps, it was at first not very judiciously placed.
This, then, was the true reason of that insensibility which he had
shown to the charms of Sophia, and that behaviour in her which might
have been reasonably enough interpreted as an encouragement to his
addresses; for as he could not think of abandoning his Molly, poor and
destitute as she was, so no more could he entertain a notion of
betraying such a creature as Sophia. And surely, had he given the
least encouragement to any passion for that young lady, he must have
been absolutely guilty of one or other of those crimes; either of
which would, in my opinion, have very justly subjected him to that
fate, which, at his first introduction into this history, I mentioned
to have been generally predicted as his certain destiny.
Chapter vii.
Being the shortest chapter in this book.
Her mother first perceived the alteration in the shape of Molly; and
in order to hide it from her neighbours, she foolishly clothed her in
that sack which Sophia had sent her; though, indeed, that young lady
had little apprehension that the poor woman would have been weak
enough to let any of her daughters wear it in that form.
Molly was charmed with the first opportunity she ever had of showing
her beauty to advantage; for though she could very well bear to
contemplate herself in the glass, even when dressed in rags; and
though she had in that dress conquered the heart of Jones, and perhaps
of some others; yet she thought the addition of finery would much
improve her charms, and extend her conquests.
Molly, therefore, having dressed herself out in this sack, with a new
laced cap, and some other ornaments which Tom had given her, repairs
to church with her fan in her hand the very next Sunday. The great are
deceived if they imagine they have appropriated ambition and vanity to
themselves. These noble qualities flourish as notably in a country
church and churchyard as in the drawing-room, or in the closet.
Schemes have indeed been laid in the vestry which would hardly
disgrace the conclave. Here is a ministry, and here is an opposition.
Here are plots and circumventions, parties and factions, equal to
those which are to be found in courts.
Nor are the women here less practised in the highest feminine arts
than their fair superiors in quality and fortune. Here are prudes and
coquettes. Here are dressing and ogling, falsehood, envy, malice,
scandal; in short, everything which is common to the most splendid
assembly, or politest circle. Let those of high life, therefore, no
longer despise the ignorance of their inferiors; nor the vulgar any
longer rail at the vices of their betters.
Molly had seated herself some time before she was known by her
neighbours. And then a whisper ran through the whole congregation,
"Who is she?" but when she was discovered, such sneering, gigling,
tittering, and laughing ensued among the women, that Mr Allworthy was
obliged to exert his authority to preserve any decency among them.
Chapter viii.
A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican style, and which none but
the classical reader can taste.
Mr Western had an estate in this parish; and as his house stood at
little greater distance from this church than from his own, he very
often came to Divine Service here; and both he and the charming Sophia
happened to be present at this time.
Sophia was much pleased with the beauty of the girl, whom she pitied
for her simplicity in having dressed herself in that manner, as she
saw the envy which it had occasioned among her equals. She no sooner
came home than she sent for the gamekeeper, and ordered him to bring
his daughter to her; saying she would provide for her in the family,
and might possibly place the girl about her own person, when her own
maid, who was now going away, had left her.
Poor Seagrim was thunderstruck at this; for he was no stranger to the
fault in the shape of his daughter. He answered, in a stammering
voice, "That he was afraid Molly would be too awkward to wait on her
ladyship, as she had never been at service." "No matter for that,"
says Sophia; "she will soon improve. I am pleased with the girl, and
am resolved to try her."
Black George now repaired to his wife, on whose prudent counsel he
depended to extricate him out of this dilemma; but when he came
thither he found his house in some confusion. So great envy had this
sack occasioned, that when Mr Allworthy and the other gentry were gone
from church, the rage, which had hitherto been confined, burst into an
uproar; and, having vented itself at first in opprobrious words,
laughs, hisses, and gestures, betook itself at last to certain missile
weapons; which, though from their plastic nature they threatened
neither the loss of life or of limb, were however sufficiently
dreadful to a well-dressed lady. Molly had too much spirit to bear
this treatment tamely. Having therefore--but hold, as we are diffident
of our own abilities, let us here invite a superior power to our
assistance.
Ye Muses, then, whoever ye are, who love to sing battles, and
principally thou who whilom didst recount the slaughter in those
fields where Hudibras and Trulla fought, if thou wert not starved with
thy friend Butler, assist me on this great occasion. All things are
not in the power of all.
As a vast herd of cows in a rich farmer's yard, if, while they are
milked, they hear their calves at a distance, lamenting the robbery
which is then committing, roar and bellow; so roared forth the
Somersetshire mob an hallaloo, made up of almost as many squalls,
screams, and other different sounds as there were persons, or indeed
passions among them: some were inspired by rage, others alarmed by
fear, and others had nothing in their heads but the love of fun; but
chiefly Envy, the sister of Satan, and his constant companion, rushed
among the crowd, and blew up the fury of the women; who no sooner came
up to Molly than they pelted her with dirt and rubbish.
Molly, having endeavoured in vain to make a handsome retreat, faced
about; and laying hold of ragged Bess, who advanced in the front of
the enemy, she at one blow felled her to the ground. The whole army of
the enemy (though near a hundred in number), seeing the fate of their
general, gave back many paces, and retired behind a new-dug grave; for
the churchyard was the field of battle, where there was to be a
funeral that very evening. Molly pursued her victory, and catching up
a skull which lay on the side of the grave, discharged it with such
fury, that having hit a taylor on the head, the two skulls sent
equally forth a hollow sound at their meeting, and the taylor took
presently measure of his length on the ground, where the skulls lay
side by side, and it was doubtful which was the more valuable of the
two. Molly then taking a thigh-bone in her hand, fell in among the
flying ranks, and dealing her blows with great liberality on either
side, overthrew the carcass of many a mighty heroe and heroine.
Recount, O Muse, the names of those who fell on this fatal day. First,
Jemmy Tweedle felt on his hinder head the direful bone. Him the
pleasant banks of sweetly-winding Stour had nourished, where he first
learnt the vocal art, with which, wandering up and down at wakes and
fairs, he cheered the rural nymphs and swains, when upon the green
they interweaved the sprightly dance; while he himself stood fiddling
and jumping to his own music. How little now avails his fiddle! He
thumps the verdant floor with his carcass. Next, old Echepole, the
sowgelder, received a blow in his forehead from our Amazonian heroine,
and immediately fell to the ground. He was a swinging fat fellow, and
fell with almost as much noise as a house. His tobacco-box dropped at
the same time from his pocket, which Molly took up as lawful spoils.
Then Kate of the Mill tumbled unfortunately over a tombstone, which
catching hold of her ungartered stocking inverted the order of nature,
and gave her heels the superiority to her head. Betty Pippin, with
young Roger her lover, fell both to the ground; where, oh perverse
fate! she salutes the earth, and he the sky. Tom Freckle, the smith's
son, was the next victim to her rage. He was an ingenious workman, and
made excellent pattens; nay, the very patten with which he was knocked
down was his own workmanship. Had he been at that time singing psalms
in the church, he would have avoided a broken head. Miss Crow, the
daughter of a farmer; John Giddish, himself a farmer; Nan Slouch,
Esther Codling, Will Spray, Tom Bennet; the three Misses Potter, whose
father keeps the sign of the Red Lion; Betty Chambermaid, Jack Ostler,
and many others of inferior note, lay rolling among the graves.
Not that the strenuous arm of Molly reached all these; for many of
them in their flight overthrew each other.
But now Fortune, fearing she had acted out of character, and had
inclined too long to the same side, especially as it was the right
side, hastily turned about: for now Goody Brown--whom Zekiel Brown
caressed in his arms; nor he alone, but half the parish besides; so
famous was she in the fields of Venus, nor indeed less in those of
Mars. The trophies of both these her husband always bore about on his
head and face; for if ever human head did by its horns display the
amorous glories of a wife, Zekiel's did; nor did his well-scratched
face less denote her talents (or rather talons) of a different kind.
No longer bore this Amazon the shameful flight of her party. She stopt
short, and, calling aloud to all who fled, spoke as follows: "Ye
Somersetshire men, or rather ye Somersetshire women, are ye not
ashamed thus to fly from a single woman? But if no other will oppose
her, I myself and Joan Top here will have the honour of the victory."
Having thus said, she flew at Molly Seagrim, and easily wrenched the
thigh-bone from her hand, at the same time clawing off her cap from
her head. Then laying hold of the hair of Molly with her left hand,
she attacked her so furiously in the face with the right, that the
blood soon began to trickle from her nose. Molly was not idle this
while. She soon removed the clout from the head of Goody Brown, and
then fastening on her hair with one hand, with the other she caused
another bloody stream to issue forth from the nostrils of the enemy.
When each of the combatants had borne off sufficient spoils of hair
from the head of her antagonist, the next rage was against the
garments. In this attack they exerted so much violence, that in a very
few minutes they were both naked to the middle.
It is lucky for the women that the seat of fistycuff war is not the
same with them as among men; but though they may seem a little to
deviate from their sex, when they go forth to battle, yet I have
observed, they never so far forget, as to assail the bosoms of each
other; where a few blows would be fatal to most of them. This, I know,
some derive from their being of a more bloody inclination than the
males. On which account they apply to the nose, as to the part whence
blood may most easily be drawn; but this seems a far-fetched as well
as ill-natured supposition.
Goody Brown had great advantage of Molly in this particular; for the
former had indeed no breasts, her bosom (if it may be so called), as
well in colour as in many other properties, exactly resembling an
antient piece of parchment, upon which any one might have drummed a
considerable while without doing her any great damage.
Molly, beside her present unhappy condition, was differently formed in
those parts, and might, perhaps, have tempted the envy of Brown to
give her a fatal blow, had not the lucky arrival of Tom Jones at this
instant put an immediate end to the bloody scene.
This accident was luckily owing to Mr Square; for he, Master Blifil,
and Jones, had mounted their horses, after church, to take the air,
and had ridden about a quarter of a mile, when Square, changing his
mind (not idly, but for a reason which we shall unfold as soon as we
have leisure), desired the young gentlemen to ride with him another
way than they had at first purposed. This motion being complied with,
brought them of necessity back again to the churchyard.
Master Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a mob assembled, and two
women in the posture in which we left the combatants, stopt his horse
to enquire what was the matter. A country fellow, scratching his head,
answered him: "I don't know, measter, un't I; an't please your honour,
here hath been a vight, I think, between Goody Brown and Moll
Seagrim."
"Who, who?" cries Tom; but without waiting for an answer, having
discovered the features of his Molly through all the discomposure in
which they now were, he hastily alighted, turned his horse loose, and,
leaping over the wall, ran to her. She now first bursting into tears,
told him how barbarously she had been treated. Upon which, forgetting
the sex of Goody Brown, or perhaps not knowing it in his rage--for, in
reality, she had no feminine appearance but a petticoat, which he
might not observe--he gave her a lash or two with his horsewhip; and
then flying at the mob, who were all accused by Moll, he dealt his
blows so profusely on all sides, that unless I would again invoke the
muse (which the good-natured reader may think a little too hard upon
her, as she hath so lately been violently sweated), it would be
impossible for me to recount the horse-whipping of that day.
Having scoured the whole coast of the enemy, as well as any of Homer's
heroes ever did, or as Don Quixote or any knight-errant in the world
could have done, he returned to Molly, whom he found in a condition
which must give both me and my reader pain, was it to be described
here. Tom raved like a madman, beat his breast, tore his hair, stamped
on the ground, and vowed the utmost vengeance on all who had been
concerned. He then pulled off his coat, and buttoned it round her, put
his hat upon her head, wiped the blood from her face as well as he
could with his handkerchief, and called out to the servant to ride as
fast as possible for a side-saddle, or a pillion, that he might carry
her safe home.
Master Blifil objected to the sending away the servant, as they had
only one with them; but as Square seconded the order of Jones, he was
obliged to comply.
The servant returned in a very short time with the pillion, and Molly,
having collected her rags as well as she could, was placed behind him.
In which manner she was carried home, Square, Blifil, and Jones
attending.
Here Jones having received his coat, given her a sly kiss, and
whispered her, that he would return in the evening, quitted his Molly,
and rode on after his companions.
Chapter ix.
Containing matter of no very peaceable colour.
Molly had no sooner apparelled herself in her accustomed rags, than
her sisters began to fall violently upon her, particularly her eldest
sister, who told her she was well enough served. "How had she the
assurance to wear a gown which young Madam Western had given to
mother! If one of us was to wear it, I think," says she, "I myself
have the best right; but I warrant you think it belongs to your
beauty. I suppose you think yourself more handsomer than any of
us."--"Hand her down the bit of glass from over the cupboard," cries
another; "I'd wash the blood from my face before I talked of my
beauty."--"You'd better have minded what the parson says," cries the
eldest, "and not a harkened after men voke."--"Indeed, child, and so
she had," says the mother, sobbing: "she hath brought a disgrace upon
us all. She's the vurst of the vamily that ever was a whore."
"You need not upbraid me with that, mother," cries Molly; "you
yourself was brought-to-bed of sister there, within a week after you
was married."
"Yes, hussy," answered the enraged mother, "so I was, and what was the
mighty matter of that? I was made an honest woman then; and if you was
to be made an honest woman, I should not be angry; but you must have
to doing with a gentleman, you nasty slut; you will have a bastard,
hussy, you will; and that I defy any one to say of me."
In this situation Black George found his family, when he came home for
the purpose before mentioned. As his wife and three daughters were all
of them talking together, and most of them crying, it was some time
before he could get an opportunity of being heard; but as soon as such
an interval occurred, he acquainted the company with what Sophia had
said to him.
Goody Seagrim then began to revile her daughter afresh. "Here," says
she, "you have brought us into a fine quandary indeed. What will madam
say to that big belly? Oh that ever I should live to see this day!"
Molly answered with great spirit, "And what is this mighty place which
you have got for me, father?" (for he had not well understood the
phrase used by Sophia of being about her person). "I suppose it is to
be under the cook; but I shan't wash dishes for anybody. My gentleman
will provide better for me. See what he hath given me this afternoon.
He hath promised I shall never want money; and you shan't want money
neither, mother, if you will hold your tongue, and know when you are
well." And so saying, she pulled out several guineas, and gave her
mother one of them.
The good woman no sooner felt the gold within her palm, than her
temper began (such is the efficacy of that panacea) to be mollified.
"Why, husband," says she, "would any but such a blockhead as you not
have enquired what place this was before he had accepted it? Perhaps,
as Molly says, it may be in the kitchen; and truly I don't care my
daughter should be a scullion wench; for, poor as I am, I am a
gentlewoman. And thof I was obliged, as my father, who was a
clergyman, died worse than nothing, and so could not give me a
shilling of _potion_, to undervalue myself by marrying a poor man; yet
I would have you to know, I have a spirit above all them things. Marry
come up! it would better become Madam Western to look at home, and
remember who her own grandfather was. Some of my family, for aught I
know, might ride in their coaches, when the grandfathers of some voke
walked a-voot. I warrant she fancies she did a mighty matter, when she
sent us that old gownd; some of my family would not have picked up
such rags in the street; but poor people are always trampled
upon.--The parish need not have been in such a fluster with Molly. You
might have told them, child, your grandmother wore better things new
out of the shop."
"Well, but consider," cried George, "what answer shall I make to
madam?"
"I don't know what answer," says she; "you are always bringing your
family into one quandary or other. Do you remember when you shot the
partridge, the occasion of all our misfortunes? Did not I advise you
never to go into Squire Western's manor? Did not I tell you many a
good year ago what would come of it? But you would have your own
headstrong ways; yes, you would, you villain."
Black George was, in the main, a peaceable kind of fellow, and nothing
choleric nor rash; yet did he bear about him something of what the
antients called the irascible, and which his wife, if she had been
endowed with much wisdom, would have feared. He had long experienced,
that when the storm grew very high, arguments were but wind, which
served rather to increase, than to abate it. He was therefore seldom
unprovided with a small switch, a remedy of wonderful force, as he had
often essayed, and which the word villain served as a hint for his
applying.
No sooner, therefore, had this symptom appeared, than he had immediate
recourse to the said remedy, which though, as it is usual in all very
efficacious medicines, it at first seemed to heighten and inflame the
disease, soon produced a total calm, and restored the patient to
perfect ease and tranquillity.
This is, however, a kind of horse-medicine, which requires a very
robust constitution to digest, and is therefore proper only for the
vulgar, unless in one single instance, viz., where superiority of
birth breaks out; in which case, we should not think it very
improperly applied by any husband whatever, if the application was not
in itself so base, that, like certain applications of the physical
kind which need not be mentioned, it so much degrades and contaminates
the hand employed in it, that no gentleman should endure the thought
of anything so low and detestable.
The whole family were soon reduced to a state of perfect quiet; for
the virtue of this medicine, like that of electricity, is often
communicated through one person to many others, who are not touched by
the instrument. To say the truth, as they both operate by friction, it
may be doubted whether there is not something analogous between them,
of which Mr Freke would do well to enquire, before he publishes the
next edition of his book.
A council was now called, in which, after many debates, Molly still
persisting that she would not go to service, it was at length
resolved, that Goody Seagrim herself should wait on Miss Western, and
endeavour to procure the place for her eldest daughter, who declared
great readiness to accept it: but Fortune, who seems to have been an
enemy of this little family, afterwards put a stop to her promotion.
Chapter x.
A story told by Mr Supple, the curate. The penetration of Squire
Western. His great love for his daughter, and the return to it made by
her.
The next morning Tom Jones hunted with Mr Western, and was at his
return invited by that gentleman to dinner.
The lovely Sophia shone forth that day with more gaiety and
sprightliness than usual. Her battery was certainly levelled at our
heroe; though, I believe, she herself scarce yet knew her own
intention; but if she had any design of charming him, she now
succeeded.
Mr Supple, the curate of Mr Allworthy's parish, made one of the
company. He was a good-natured worthy man; but chiefly remarkable for
his great taciturnity at table, though his mouth was never shut at it.
In short, he had one of the best appetites in the world. However, the
cloth was no sooner taken away, than he always made sufficient amends
for his silence: for he was a very hearty fellow; and his conversation
was often entertaining, never offensive.
At his first arrival, which was immediately before the entrance of the
roast-beef, he had given an intimation that he had brought some news
with him, and was beginning to tell, that he came that moment from Mr
Allworthy's, when the sight of the roast-beef struck him dumb,
permitting him only to say grace, and to declare he must pay his
respect to the baronet, for so he called the sirloin.
When dinner was over, being reminded by Sophia of his news, he began
as follows: "I believe, lady, your ladyship observed a young woman at
church yesterday at even-song, who was drest in one of your outlandish
garments; I think I have seen your ladyship in such a one. However, in
the country, such dresses are
_Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno._
That is, madam, as much as to say, `A rare bird upon the earth, and
very like a black swan.' The verse is in Juvenal. But to return to
what I was relating. I was saying such garments are rare sights in the
country; and perchance, too, it was thought the more rare, respect
being had to the person who wore it, who, they tell me, is the
daughter of Black George, your worship's gamekeeper, whose sufferings,
I should have opined, might have taught him more wit, than to dress
forth his wenches in such gaudy apparel. She created so much confusion
in the congregation, that if Squire Allworthy had not silenced it, it
would have interrupted the service: for I was once about to stop in
the middle of the first lesson. Howbeit, nevertheless, after prayer
was over, and I was departed home, this occasioned a battle in the
churchyard, where, amongst other mischief, the head of a travelling
fidler was very much broken. This morning the fidler came to Squire
Allworthy for a warrant, and the wench was brought before him. The
squire was inclined to have compounded matters; when, lo! on a sudden
the wench appeared (I ask your ladyship's pardon) to be, as it were,
at the eve of bringing forth a bastard. The squire demanded of her who
was the father? But she pertinaciously refused to make any response.
So that he was about to make her mittimus to Bridewell when I
departed."
"And is a wench having a bastard all your news, doctor?" cries
Western; "I thought it might have been some public matter, something
about the nation."
"I am afraid it is too common, indeed," answered the parson; "but I
thought the whole story altogether deserved commemorating. As to
national matters, your worship knows them best. My concerns extend no
farther than my own parish."
"Why, ay," says the squire, "I believe I do know a little of that
matter, as you say. But, come, Tommy, drink about; the bottle stands
with you."
Tom begged to be excused, for that he had particular business; and
getting up from table, escaped the clutches of the squire, who was
rising to stop him, and went off with very little ceremony.
The squire gave him a good curse at his departure; and then turning to
the parson, he cried out, "I smoke it: I smoke it. Tom is certainly
the father of this bastard. Zooks, parson, you remember how he
recommended the veather o' her to me. D--n un, what a sly b--ch 'tis.
Ay, ay, as sure as two-pence, Tom is the veather of the bastard."
"I should be very sorry for that," says the parson.
"Why sorry," cries the squire: "Where is the mighty matter o't? What,
I suppose dost pretend that thee hast never got a bastard? Pox! more
good luck's thine? for I warrant hast a done a _therefore_ many's the
good time and often."
"Your worship is pleased to be jocular," answered the parson; "but I
do not only animadvert on the sinfulness of the action--though that
surely is to be greatly deprecated--but I fear his unrighteousness may
injure him with Mr Allworthy. And truly I must say, though he hath the
character of being a little wild, I never saw any harm in the young
man; nor can I say I have heard any, save what your worship now
mentions. I wish, indeed, he was a little more regular in his
responses at church; but altogether he seems
_Ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris._
That is a classical line, young lady; and, being rendered into
English, is, `a lad of an ingenuous countenance, and of an ingenuous
modesty;' for this was a virtue in great repute both among the Latins
and Greeks. I must say, the young gentleman (for so I think I may call
him, notwithstanding his birth) appears to me a very modest, civil
lad, and I should be sorry that he should do himself any injury in
Squire Allworthy's opinion."
"Poogh!" says the squire: "Injury, with Allworthy! Why, Allworthy
loves a wench himself. Doth not all the country know whose son Tom is?
You must talk to another person in that manner. I remember Allworthy
at college."
"I thought," said the parson, "he had never been at the university."
"Yes, yes, he was," says the squire: "and many a wench have we two had
together. As arrant a whore-master as any within five miles o'un. No,
no. It will do'n no harm with he, assure yourself; nor with anybody
else. Ask Sophy there--You have not the worse opinion of a young
fellow for getting a bastard, have you, girl? No, no, the women will
like un the better for't."
This was a cruel question to poor Sophia. She had observed Tom's
colour change at the parson's story; and that, with his hasty and
abrupt departure, gave her sufficient reason to think her father's
suspicion not groundless. Her heart now at once discovered the great
secret to her which it had been so long disclosing by little and
little; and she found herself highly interested in this matter. In
such a situation, her father's malapert question rushing suddenly upon
her, produced some symptoms which might have alarmed a suspicious
heart; but, to do the squire justice, that was not his fault. When she
rose therefore from her chair, and told him a hint from him was always
sufficient to make her withdraw, he suffered her to leave the room,
and then with great gravity of countenance remarked, "That it was
better to see a daughter over-modest than over-forward;"--a sentiment
which was highly applauded by the parson.
There now ensued between the squire and the parson a most excellent
political discourse, framed out of newspapers and political pamphlets;
in which they made a libation of four bottles of wine to the good of
their country: and then, the squire being fast asleep, the parson
lighted his pipe, mounted his horse, and rode home.
When the squire had finished his half-hour's nap, he summoned his
daughter to her harpsichord; but she begged to be excused that
evening, on account of a violent head-ache. This remission was
presently granted; for indeed she seldom had occasion to ask him
twice, as he loved her with such ardent affection, that, by gratifying
her, he commonly conveyed the highest gratification to himself. She
was really, what he frequently called her, his little darling, and she
well deserved to be so; for she returned all his affection in the most
ample manner. She had preserved the most inviolable duty to him in all
things; and this her love made not only easy, but so delightful, that
when one of her companions laughed at her for placing so much merit in
such scrupulous obedience, as that young lady called it, Sophia
answered, "You mistake me, madam, if you think I value myself upon
this account; for besides that I am barely discharging my duty, I am
likewise pleasing myself. I can truly say I have no delight equal to
that of contributing to my father's happiness; and if I value myself,
my dear, it is on having this power, and not on executing it."
This was a satisfaction, however, which poor Sophia was incapable of
tasting this evening. She therefore not only desired to be excused
from her attendance at the harpsichord, but likewise begged that he
would suffer her to absent herself from supper. To this request
likewise the squire agreed, though not without some reluctance; for he
scarce ever permitted her to be out of his sight, unless when he was
engaged with his horses, dogs, or bottle. Nevertheless he yielded to
the desire of his daughter, though the poor man was at the same time
obliged to avoid his own company (if I may so express myself), by
sending for a neighbouring farmer to sit with him.
Chapter xi.
The narrow escape of Molly Seagrim, with some observations for which
we have been forced to dive pretty deep into nature.
Tom Jones had ridden one of Mr Western's horses that morning in the
chase; so that having no horse of his own in the squire's stable, he
was obliged to go home on foot: this he did so expeditiously that he
ran upwards of three miles within the half-hour.
Just as he arrived at Mr Allworthy's outward gate, he met the
constable and company with Molly in their possession, whom they were
conducting to that house where the inferior sort of people may learn
one good lesson, viz., respect and deference to their superiors; since
it must show them the wide distinction Fortune intends between those
persons who are to be corrected for their faults, and those who are
not; which lesson if they do not learn, I am afraid they very rarely
learn any other good lesson, or improve their morals, at the house of
correction.
A lawyer may perhaps think Mr Allworthy exceeded his authority a
little in this instance. And, to say the truth, I question, as here
was no regular information before him, whether his conduct was
strictly regular. However, as his intention was truly upright, he
ought to be excused in _foro conscientiae_; since so many arbitrary
acts are daily committed by magistrates who have not this excuse to
plead for themselves.
Tom was no sooner informed by the constable whither they were
proceeding (indeed he pretty well guessed it of himself), than he
caught Molly in his arms, and embracing her tenderly before them all,
swore he would murder the first man who offered to lay hold of her. He
bid her dry her eyes and be comforted; for, wherever she went, he
would accompany her. Then turning to the constable, who stood
trembling with his hat off, he desired him, in a very mild voice, to
return with him for a moment only to his father (for so he now called
Allworthy); for he durst, he said, be assured, that, when he had
alledged what he had to say in her favour, the girl would be
discharged.
The constable, who, I make no doubt, would have surrendered his
prisoner had Tom demanded her, very readily consented to this request.
So back they all went into Mr Allworthy's hall; where Tom desired them
to stay till his return, and then went himself in pursuit of the good
man. As soon as he was found, Tom threw himself at his feet, and
having begged a patient hearing, confessed himself to be the father of
the child of which Molly was then big. He entreated him to have
compassion on the poor girl, and to consider, if there was any guilt
in the case, it lay principally at his door.
"If there is any guilt in the case!" answered Allworthy warmly: "Are
you then so profligate and abandoned a libertine to doubt whether the
breaking the laws of God and man, the corrupting and ruining a poor
girl be guilt? I own, indeed, it doth lie principally upon you; and so
heavy it is, that you ought to expect it should crush you."
"Whatever may be my fate," says Tom, "let me succeed in my
intercessions for the poor girl. I confess I have corrupted her! but
whether she shall be ruined, depends on you. For Heaven's sake, sir,
revoke your warrant, and do not send her to a place which must
unavoidably prove her destruction."
Allworthy bid him immediately call a servant. Tom answered there was
no occasion; for he had luckily met them at the gate, and relying upon
his goodness, had brought them all back into his hall, where they now
waited his final resolution, which upon his knees he besought him
might be in favour of the girl; that she might be permitted to go home
to her parents, and not be exposed to a greater degree of shame and
scorn than must necessarily fall upon her. "I know," said he, "that is
too much. I know I am the wicked occasion of it. I will endeavour to
make amends, if possible; and if you shall have hereafter the goodness
to forgive me, I hope I shall deserve it."
Allworthy hesitated some time, and at last said, "Well, I will
discharge my mittimus.--You may send the constable to me." He was
instantly called, discharged, and so was the girl.
It will be believed that Mr Allworthy failed not to read Tom a very
severe lecture on this occasion; but it is unnecessary to insert it
here, as we have faithfully transcribed what he said to Jenny Jones in
the first book, most of which may be applied to the men, equally with
the women. So sensible an effect had these reproofs on the young man,
who was no hardened sinner, that he retired to his own room, where he
passed the evening alone, in much melancholy contemplation.
Allworthy was sufficiently offended by this transgression of Jones;
for notwithstanding the assertions of Mr Western, it is certain this
worthy man had never indulged himself in any loose pleasures with
women, and greatly condemned the vice of incontinence in others.
Indeed, there is much reason to imagine that there was not the least
truth in what Mr Western affirmed, especially as he laid the scene of
those impurities at the university, where Mr Allworthy had never been.
In fact, the good squire was a little too apt to indulge that kind of
pleasantry which is generally called rhodomontade: but which may, with
as much propriety, be expressed by a much shorter word; and perhaps we
too often supply the use of this little monosyllable by others; since
very much of what frequently passes in the world for wit and humour,
should, in the strictest purity of language, receive that short
appellation, which, in conformity to the well-bred laws of custom, I
here suppress.
But whatever detestation Mr Allworthy had to this or to any other
vice, he was not so blinded by it but that he could discern any virtue
in the guilty person, as clearly indeed as if there had been no
mixture of vice in the same character. While he was angry therefore
with the incontinence of Jones, he was no less pleased with the honour
and honesty of his self-accusation. He began now to form in his mind
the same opinion of this young fellow, which, we hope, our reader may
have conceived. And in balancing his faults with his perfections, the
latter seemed rather to preponderate.
It was to no purpose, therefore, that Thwackum, who was immediately
charged by Mr Blifil with the story, unbended all his rancour against
poor Tom. Allworthy gave a patient hearing to their invectives, and
then answered coldly: "That young men of Tom's complexion were too
generally addicted to this vice; but he believed that youth was
sincerely affected with what he had said to him on the occasion, and
he hoped he would not transgress again." So that, as the days of
whipping were at an end, the tutor had no other vent but his own mouth
for his gall, the usual poor resource of impotent revenge.
But Square, who was a less violent, was a much more artful man; and as
he hated Jones more perhaps than Thwackum himself did, so he contrived
to do him more mischief in the mind of Mr Allworthy.
The reader must remember the several little incidents of the
partridge, the horse, and the Bible, which were recounted in the
second book. By all which Jones had rather improved than injured the
affection which Mr Allworthy was inclined to entertain for him. The
same, I believe, must have happened to him with every other person who
hath any idea of friendship, generosity, and greatness of spirit, that
is to say, who hath any traces of goodness in his mind.
Square himself was not unacquainted with the true impression which
those several instances of goodness had made on the excellent heart of
Allworthy; for the philosopher very well knew what virtue was, though
he was not always perhaps steady in its pursuit; but as for Thwackum,
from what reason I will not determine, no such thoughts ever entered
into his head: he saw Jones in a bad light, and he imagined Allworthy
saw him in the same, but that he was resolved, from pride and
stubbornness of spirit, not to give up the boy whom he had once
cherished; since by so doing, he must tacitly acknowledge that his
former opinion of him had been wrong.
Square therefore embraced this opportunity of injuring Jones
in the tenderest part, by giving a very bad turn to all these
before-mentioned occurrences. "I am sorry, sir," said he, "to own I
have been deceived as well as yourself. I could not, I confess, help
being pleased with what I ascribed to the motive of friendship, though
it was carried to an excess, and all excess is faulty and vicious: but
in this I made allowance for youth. Little did I suspect that the
sacrifice of truth, which we both imagined to have been made to
friendship, was in reality a prostitution of it to a depraved and
debauched appetite. You now plainly see whence all the seeming
generosity of this young man to the family of the gamekeeper
proceeded. He supported the father in order to corrupt the daughter,
and preserved the family from starving, to bring one of them to shame
and ruin. This is friendship! this is generosity! As Sir Richard
Steele says, `Gluttons who give high prices for delicacies, are very
worthy to be called generous.' In short I am resolved, from this
instance, never to give way to the weakness of human nature more, nor
to think anything virtue which doth not exactly quadrate with the
unerring rule of right."
The goodness of Allworthy had prevented those considerations from
occurring to himself; yet were they too plausible to be absolutely and
hastily rejected, when laid before his eyes by another. Indeed what
Square had said sunk very deeply into his mind, and the uneasiness
which it there created was very visible to the other; though the good
man would not acknowledge this, but made a very slight answer, and
forcibly drove off the discourse to some other subject. It was well
perhaps for poor Tom, that no such suggestions had been made before he
was pardoned; for they certainly stamped in the mind of Allworthy the
first bad impression concerning Jones.
Chapter xii.
Containing much clearer matters; but which flowed from the same
fountain with those in the preceding chapter.
The reader will be pleased, I believe, to return with me to Sophia.
She passed the night, after we saw her last, in no very agreeable
manner. Sleep befriended her but little, and dreams less. In the
morning, when Mrs Honour, her maid, attended her at the usual hour,
she was found already up and drest.
Persons who live two or three miles' distance in the country are
considered as next-door neighbours, and transactions at the one house
fly with incredible celerity to the other. Mrs Honour, therefore, had
heard the whole story of Molly's shame; which she, being of a very
communicative temper, had no sooner entered the apartment of her
mistress, than she began to relate in the following manner:--
"La, ma'am, what doth your la'ship think? the girl that your la'ship
saw at church on Sunday, whom you thought so handsome; though you
would not have thought her so handsome neither, if you had seen her
nearer, but to be sure she hath been carried before the justice for
being big with child. She seemed to me to look like a confident slut:
and to be sure she hath laid the child to young Mr Jones. And all the
parish says Mr Allworthy is so angry with young Mr Jones, that he
won't see him. To be sure, one can't help pitying the poor young man,
and yet he doth not deserve much pity neither, for demeaning himself
with such kind of trumpery. Yet he is so pretty a gentleman, I should
be sorry to have him turned out of doors. I dares to swear the wench
was as willing as he; for she was always a forward kind of body. And
when wenches are so coming, young men are not so much to be blamed
neither; for to be sure they do no more than what is natural. Indeed
it is beneath them to meddle with such dirty draggle-tails; and
whatever happens to them, it is good enough for them. And yet, to be
sure, the vile baggages are most in fault. I wishes, with all my
heart, they were well to be whipped at the cart's tail; for it is pity
they should be the ruin of a pretty young gentleman; and nobody can
deny but that Mr Jones is one of the most handsomest young men that
ever----"
She was running on thus, when Sophia, with a more peevish voice than
she had ever spoken to her in before, cried, "Prithee, why dost thou
trouble me with all this stuff? What concern have I in what Mr Jones
doth? I suppose you are all alike. And you seem to me to be angry it
was not your own case."
"I, ma'am!" answered Mrs Honour, "I am sorry your ladyship should have
such an opinion of me. I am sure nobody can say any such thing of me.
All the young fellows in the world may go to the divil for me. Because
I said he was a handsome man? Everybody says it as well as I. To be
sure, I never thought as it was any harm to say a young man was
handsome; but to be sure I shall never think him so any more now; for
handsome is that handsome does. A beggar wench!--"
"Stop thy torrent of impertinence," cries Sophia, "and see whether my
father wants me at breakfast."
Mrs Honour then flung out of the room, muttering much to herself, of
which "Marry come up, I assure you," was all that could be plainly
distinguished.
Whether Mrs Honour really deserved that suspicion, of which her
mistress gave her a hint, is a matter which we cannot indulge our
reader's curiosity by resolving. We will, however, make him amends in
disclosing what passed in the mind of Sophia.
The reader will be pleased to recollect, that a secret affection for
Mr Jones had insensibly stolen into the bosom of this young lady. That
it had there grown to a pretty great height before she herself had
discovered it. When she first began to perceive its symptoms, the
sensations were so sweet and pleasing, that she had not resolution
sufficient to check or repel them; and thus she went on cherishing a
passion of which she never once considered the consequences.
This incident relating to Molly first opened her eyes. She now first
perceived the weakness of which she had been guilty; and though it
caused the utmost perturbation in her mind, yet it had the effect of
other nauseous physic, and for the time expelled her distemper. Its
operation indeed was most wonderfully quick; and in the short
interval, while her maid was absent, so entirely removed all symptoms,
that when Mrs Honour returned with a summons from her father, she was
become perfectly easy, and had brought herself to a thorough
indifference for Mr Jones.
The diseases of the mind do in almost every particular imitate those
of the body. For which reason, we hope, that learned faculty, for whom
we have so profound a respect, will pardon us the violent hands we
have been necessitated to lay on several words and phrases, which of
right belong to them, and without which our descriptions must have
been often unintelligible.
Now there is no one circumstance in which the distempers of the mind
bear a more exact analogy to those which are called bodily, than that
aptness which both have to a relapse. This is plain in the violent
diseases of ambition and avarice. I have known ambition, when cured at
court by frequent disappointments (which are the only physic for it),
to break out again in a contest for foreman of the grand jury at an
assizes; and have heard of a man who had so far conquered avarice, as
to give away many a sixpence, that comforted himself, at last, on his
deathbed, by making a crafty and advantageous bargain concerning his
ensuing funeral, with an undertaker who had married his only child.
In the affair of love, which, out of strict conformity with the Stoic
philosophy, we shall here treat as a disease, this proneness to
relapse is no less conspicuous. Thus it happened to poor Sophia; upon
whom, the very next time she saw young Jones, all the former symptoms
returned, and from that time cold and hot fits alternately seized her
heart.
The situation of this young lady was now very different from what it
had ever been before. That passion which had formerly been so
exquisitely delicious, became now a scorpion in her bosom. She
resisted it therefore with her utmost force, and summoned every
argument her reason (which was surprisingly strong for her age) could
suggest, to subdue and expel it. In this she so far succeeded, that
she began to hope from time and absence a perfect cure. She resolved
therefore to avoid Tom Jones as much as possible; for which purpose
she began to conceive a design of visiting her aunt, to which she made
no doubt of obtaining her father's consent.
But Fortune, who had other designs in her head, put an immediate stop
to any such proceeding, by introducing an accident, which will be
related in the next chapter.
Chapter xiii.
A dreadful accident which befel Sophia. The gallant behaviour of
Jones, and the more dreadful consequence of that behaviour to the
young lady; with a short digression in favour of the female sex.
Mr Western grew every day fonder and fonder of Sophia, insomuch that
his beloved dogs themselves almost gave place to her in his
affections; but as he could not prevail on himself to abandon these,
he contrived very cunningly to enjoy their company, together with that
of his daughter, by insisting on her riding a hunting with him.
Sophia, to whom her father's word was a law, readily complied with his
desires, though she had not the least delight in a sport, which was of
too rough and masculine a nature to suit with her disposition. She had
however another motive, beside her obedience, to accompany the old
gentleman in the chase; for by her presence she hoped in some measure
to restrain his impetuosity, and to prevent him from so frequently
exposing his neck to the utmost hazard.
The strongest objection was that which would have formerly been an
inducement to her, namely, the frequent meeting with young Jones, whom
she had determined to avoid; but as the end of the hunting season now
approached, she hoped, by a short absence with her aunt, to reason
herself entirely out of her unfortunate passion; and had not any doubt
of being able to meet him in the field the subsequent season without
the least danger.
On the second day of her hunting, as she was returning from the chase,
and was arrived within a little distance from Mr Western's house, her
horse, whose mettlesome spirit required a better rider, fell suddenly
to prancing and capering in such a manner that she was in the most
imminent peril of falling. Tom Jones, who was at a little distance
behind, saw this, and immediately galloped up to her assistance. As
soon as he came up, he leapt from his own horse, and caught hold of
hers by the bridle. The unruly beast presently reared himself an end
on his hind legs, and threw his lovely burthen from his back, and
Jones caught her in his arms.
She was so affected with the fright, that she was not immediately able
to satisfy Jones, who was very sollicitous to know whether she had
received any hurt. She soon after, however, recovered her spirits,
assured him she was safe, and thanked him for the care he had taken of
her. Jones answered, "If I have preserved you, madam, I am
sufficiently repaid; for I promise you, I would have secured you from
the least harm at the expense of a much greater misfortune to myself
than I have suffered on this occasion."
"What misfortune?" replied Sophia eagerly; "I hope you have come to no
mischief?"
"Be not concerned, madam," answered Jones. "Heaven be praised you have
escaped so well, considering the danger you was in. If I have broke my
arm, I consider it as a trifle, in comparison of what I feared upon
your account."
Sophia then screamed out, "Broke your arm! Heaven forbid."
"I am afraid I have, madam," says Jones: "but I beg you will suffer me
first to take care of you. I have a right hand yet at your service, to
help you into the next field, whence we have but a very little walk to
your father's house."
Sophia seeing his left arm dangling by his side, while he was using
the other to lead her, no longer doubted of the truth. She now grew
much paler than her fears for herself had made her before. All her
limbs were seized with a trembling, insomuch that Jones could scarce
support her; and as her thoughts were in no less agitation, she could
not refrain from giving Jones a look so full of tenderness, that it
almost argued a stronger sensation in her mind, than even gratitude
and pity united can raise in the gentlest female bosom, without the
assistance of a third more powerful passion.
Mr Western, who was advanced at some distance when this accident
happened, was now returned, as were the rest of the horsemen. Sophia
immediately acquainted them with what had befallen Jones, and begged
them to take care of him. Upon which Western, who had been much
alarmed by meeting his daughter's horse without its rider, and was now
overjoyed to find her unhurt, cried out, "I am glad it is no worse. If
Tom hath broken his arm, we will get a joiner to mend un again."
The squire alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his house on
foot, with his daughter and Jones. An impartial spectator, who had met
them on the way, would, on viewing their several countenances, have
concluded Sophia alone to have been the object of compassion: for as
to Jones, he exulted in having probably saved the life of the young
lady, at the price only of a broken bone; and Mr Western, though he
was not unconcerned at the accident which had befallen Jones, was,
however, delighted in a much higher degree with the fortunate escape
of his daughter.
The generosity of Sophia's temper construed this behaviour of Jones
into great bravery; and it made a deep impression on her heart: for
certain it is, that there is no one quality which so generally
recommends men to women as this; proceeding, if we believe the common
opinion, from that natural timidity of the sex, which is, says Mr
Osborne, "so great, that a woman is the most cowardly of all the
creatures God ever made;"--a sentiment more remarkable for its
bluntness than for its truth. Aristotle, in his Politics, doth them, I
believe, more justice, when he says, "The modesty and fortitude of men
differ from those virtues in women; for the fortitude which becomes a
woman, would be cowardice in a man; and the modesty which becomes a
man, would be pertness in a woman." Nor is there, perhaps, more of
truth in the opinion of those who derive the partiality which women
are inclined to show to the brave, from this excess of their fear. Mr
Bayle (I think, in his article of Helen) imputes this, and with
greater probability, to their violent love of glory; for the truth of
which, we have the authority of him who of all others saw farthest
into human nature, and who introduces the heroine of his Odyssey, the
great pattern of matrimonial love and constancy, assigning the glory
of her husband as the only source of her affection towards him.[*]
[*] The English reader will not find this in the poem; for the
sentiment is entirely left out in the translation.
However this be, certain it is that the accident operated very
strongly on Sophia; and, indeed, after much enquiry into the matter, I
am inclined to believe, that, at this very time, the charming Sophia
made no less impression on the heart of Jones; to say truth, he had
for some time become sensible of the irresistible power of her charms.
Chapter xiv.
The arrival of a surgeon.--His operations, and a long dialogue between
Sophia and her maid.
When they arrived at Mr Western's hall, Sophia, who had tottered along
with much difficulty, sunk down in her chair; but by the assistance of
hartshorn and water, she was prevented from fainting away, and had
pretty well recovered her spirits, when the surgeon who was sent for
to Jones appeared. Mr Western, who imputed these symptoms in his
daughter to her fall, advised her to be presently blooded by way of
prevention. In this opinion he was seconded by the surgeon, who gave
so many reasons for bleeding, and quoted so many cases where persons
had miscarried for want of it, that the squire became very
importunate, and indeed insisted peremptorily that his daughter should
be blooded.
Sophia soon yielded to the commands of her father, though entirely
contrary to her own inclinations, for she suspected, I believe, less
danger from the fright, than either the squire or the surgeon. She
then stretched out her beautiful arm, and the operator began to
prepare for his work.
While the servants were busied in providing materials, the surgeon,
who imputed the backwardness which had appeared in Sophia to her
fears, began to comfort her with assurances that there was not the
least danger; for no accident, he said, could ever happen in bleeding,
but from the monstrous ignorance of pretenders to surgery, which he
pretty plainly insinuated was not at present to be apprehended. Sophia
declared she was not under the least apprehension; adding, "If you
open an artery, I promise you I'll forgive you." "Will you?" cries
Western: "D--n me, if I will. If he does thee the least mischief, d--n
me if I don't ha' the heart's blood o'un out." The surgeon assented to
bleed her upon these conditions, and then proceeded to his operation,
which he performed with as much dexterity as he had promised; and with
as much quickness: for he took but little blood from her, saying, it
was much safer to bleed again and again, than to take away too much at
once.
Sophia, when her arm was bound up, retired: for she was not willing
(nor was it, perhaps, strictly decent) to be present at the operation
on Jones. Indeed, one objection which she had to bleeding (though she
did not make it) was the delay which it would occasion to setting the
broken bone. For Western, when Sophia was concerned, had no
consideration but for her; and as for Jones himself, he "sat like
patience on a monument smiling at grief." To say the truth, when he
saw the blood springing from the lovely arm of Sophia, he scarce
thought of what had happened to himself.
The surgeon now ordered his patient to be stript to his shirt, and
then entirely baring the arm, he began to stretch and examine it, in
such a manner that the tortures he put him to caused Jones to make
several wry faces; which the surgeon observing, greatly wondered at,
crying, "What is the matter, sir? I am sure it is impossible I should
hurt you." And then holding forth the broken arm, he began a long and
very learned lecture of anatomy, in which simple and double fractures
were most accurately considered; and the several ways in which Jones
might have broken his arm were discussed, with proper annotations
showing how many of these would have been better, and how many worse
than the present case.
Having at length finished his laboured harangue, with which the
audience, though it had greatly raised their attention and admiration,
were not much edified, as they really understood not a single syllable
of all he had said, he proceeded to business, which he was more
expeditious in finishing, than he had been in beginning.
Jones was then ordered into a bed, which Mr Western compelled him to
accept at his own house, and sentence of water-gruel was passed upon
him.
Among the good company which had attended in the hall during the
bone-setting, Mrs Honour was one; who being summoned to her mistress
as soon as it was over, and asked by her how the young gentleman did,
presently launched into extravagant praises on the magnanimity, as she
called it, of his behaviour, which, she said, "was so charming in so
pretty a creature." She then burst forth into much warmer encomiums on
the beauty of his person; enumerating many particulars, and ending
with the whiteness of his skin.
This discourse had an effect on Sophia's countenance, which would not
perhaps have escaped the observance of the sagacious waiting-woman,
had she once looked her mistress in the face, all the time she was
speaking: but as a looking-glass, which was most commodiously placed
opposite to her, gave her an opportunity of surveying those features,
in which, of all others, she took most delight; so she had not once
removed her eyes from that amiable object during her whole speech.
Mrs Honour was so intirely wrapped up in the subject on which she
exercised her tongue, and the object before her eyes, that she gave
her mistress time to conquer her confusion; which having done, she
smiled on her maid, and told her, "she was certainly in love with this
young fellow."--"I in love, madam!" answers she: "upon my word, ma'am,
I assure you, ma'am, upon my soul, ma'am, I am not."--"Why, if you
was," cries her mistress, "I see no reason that you should be ashamed
of it; for he is certainly a pretty fellow."--"Yes, ma'am," answered
the other, "that he is, the most handsomest man I ever saw in my life.
Yes, to be sure, that he is, and, as your ladyship says, I don't know
why I should be ashamed of loving him, though he is my betters. To be
sure, gentlefolks are but flesh and blood no more than us servants.
Besides, as for Mr Jones, thof Squire Allworthy hath made a gentleman
of him, he was not so good as myself by birth: for thof I am a poor
body, I am an honest person's child, and my father and mother were
married, which is more than some people can say, as high as they hold
their heads. Marry, come up! I assure you, my dirty cousin! thof his
skin be so white, and to be sure it is the most whitest that ever was
seen, I am a Christian as well as he, and nobody can say that I am
base born: my grandfather was a clergyman,[*] and would have been very
angry, I believe, to have thought any of his family should have taken
up with Molly Seagrim's dirty leavings."
[*] This is the second person of low condition whom we have recorded
in this history to have sprung from the clergy. It is to be hoped
such instances will, in future ages, when some provision is made for
the families of the inferior clergy, appear stranger than they can
be thought at present.
Perhaps Sophia might have suffered her maid to run on in this manner,
from wanting sufficient spirits to stop her tongue, which the reader
may probably conjecture was no very easy task; for certainly there
were some passages in her speech which were far from being agreeable
to the lady. However, she now checked the torrent, as there seemed no
end of its flowing. "I wonder," says she, "at your assurance in daring
to talk thus of one of my father's friends. As to the wench, I order
you never to mention her name to me. And with regard to the young
gentleman's birth, those who can say nothing more to his disadvantage,
may as well be silent on that head, as I desire you will be for the
future."
"I am sorry I have offended your ladyship," answered Mrs Honour. "I am
sure I hate Molly Seagrim as much as your ladyship can; and as for
abusing Squire Jones, I can call all the servants in the house to
witness, that whenever any talk hath been about bastards, I have
always taken his part; for which of you, says I to the footmen, would
not be a bastard, if he could, to be made a gentleman of? And, says I,
I am sure he is a very fine gentleman; and he hath one of the whitest
hands in the world; for to be sure so he hath: and, says I, one of the
sweetest temperedest, best naturedest men in the world he is; and,
says I, all the servants and neighbours all round the country loves
him. And, to be sure, I could tell your ladyship something, but that I
am afraid it would offend you."--"What could you tell me, Honour?"
says Sophia. "Nay, ma'am, to be sure he meant nothing by it, therefore
I would not have your ladyship be offended."--"Prithee tell me," says
Sophia; "I will know it this instant."--"Why, ma'am," answered Mrs
Honour, "he came into the room one day last week when I was at work,
and there lay your ladyship's muff on a chair, and to be sure he put
his hands into it; that very muff your ladyship gave me but yesterday.
La! says I, Mr Jones, you will stretch my lady's muff, and spoil it:
but he still kept his hands in it: and then he kissed it--to be sure I
hardly ever saw such a kiss in my life as he gave it."--"I suppose he
did not know it was mine," replied Sophia. "Your ladyship shall hear,
ma'am. He kissed it again and again, and said it was the prettiest
muff in the world. La! sir, says I, you have seen it a hundred times.
Yes, Mrs Honour, cried he; but who can see anything beautiful in the
presence of your lady but herself?--Nay, that's not all neither; but I
hope your ladyship won't be offended, for to be sure he meant nothing.
One day, as your ladyship was playing on the harpsichord to my master,
Mr Jones was sitting in the next room, and methought he looked
melancholy. La! says I, Mr Jones, what's the matter? a penny for your
thoughts, says I. Why, hussy, says he, starting up from a dream, what
can I be thinking of, when that angel your mistress is playing? And
then squeezing me by the hand, Oh! Mrs Honour, says he, how happy will
that man be!--and then he sighed. Upon my troth, his breath is as
sweet as a nosegay.--But to be sure he meant no harm by it. So I hope
your ladyship will not mention a word; for he gave me a crown never to
mention it, and made me swear upon a book, but I believe, indeed, it
was not the Bible."
Till something of a more beautiful red than vermilion be found out, I
shall say nothing of Sophia's colour on this occasion. "Ho--nour,"
says she, "I--if you will not mention this any more to me--nor to
anybody else, I will not betray you--I mean, I will not be angry; but
I am afraid of your tongue. Why, my girl, will you give it such
liberties?"--"Nay, ma'am," answered she, "to be sure, I would sooner
cut out my tongue than offend your ladyship. To be sure I shall never
mention a word that your ladyship would not have me."--"Why, I would
not have you mention this any more," said Sophia, "for it may come to
my father's ears, and he would be angry with Mr Jones; though I really
believe, as you say, he meant nothing. I should be very angry myself,
if I imagined--"--"Nay, ma'am," says Honour, "I protest I believe he
meant nothing. I thought he talked as if he was out of his senses;
nay, he said he believed he was beside himself when he had spoken the
words. Ay, sir, says I, I believe so too. Yes, says he, Honour.--But I
ask your ladyship's pardon; I could tear my tongue out for offending
you." "Go on," says Sophia; "you may mention anything you have not
told me before."--"Yes, Honour, says he (this was some time
afterwards, when he gave me the crown), I am neither such a coxcomb,
or such a villain, as to think of her in any other delight but as my
goddess; as such I will always worship and adore her while I have
breath.--This was all, ma'am, I will be sworn, to the best of my
remembrance. I was in a passion with him myself, till I found he meant
no harm."--"Indeed, Honour," says Sophia, "I believe you have a real
affection for me. I was provoked the other day when I gave you
warning; but if you have a desire to stay with me, you shall."--"To be
sure, ma'am," answered Mrs Honour, "I shall never desire to part with
your ladyship. To be sure, I almost cried my eyes out when you gave me
warning. It would be very ungrateful in me to desire to leave your
ladyship; because as why, I should never get so good a place again. I
am sure I would live and die with your ladyship; for, as poor Mr Jones
said, happy is the man----"
Here the dinner bell interrupted a conversation which had wrought such
an effect on Sophia, that she was, perhaps, more obliged to her
bleeding in the morning, than she, at the time, had apprehended she
should be. As to the present situation of her mind, I shall adhere to
a rule of Horace, by not attempting to describe it, from despair of
success. Most of my readers will suggest it easily to themselves; and
the few who cannot, would not understand the picture, or at least
would deny it to be natural, if ever so well drawn.
BOOK V.
CONTAINING A PORTION OF TIME SOMEWHAT LONGER THAN HALF A YEAR.
Chapter i.
Of the SERIOUS in writing, and for what purpose it is introduced.
Peradventure there may be no parts in this prodigious work which will
give the reader less pleasure in the perusing, than those which have
given the author the greatest pains in composing. Among these probably
may be reckoned those initial essays which we have prefixed to the
historical matter contained in every book; and which we have
determined to be essentially necessary to this kind of writing, of
which we have set ourselves at the head.
For this our determination we do not hold ourselves strictly bound to
assign any reason; it being abundantly sufficient that we have laid it
down as a rule necessary to be observed in all prosai-comi-epic
writing. Who ever demanded the reasons of that nice unity of time or
place which is now established to be so essential to dramatic poetry?
What critic hath been ever asked, why a play may not contain two days
as well as one? Or why the audience (provided they travel, like
electors, without any expense) may not be wafted fifty miles as well
as five? Hath any commentator well accounted for the limitation which
an antient critic hath set to the drama, which he will have contain
neither more nor less than five acts? Or hath any one living attempted
to explain what the modern judges of our theatres mean by that word
_low_; by which they have happily succeeded in banishing all humour
from the stage, and have made the theatre as dull as a drawing-room!
Upon all these occasions the world seems to have embraced a maxim of
our law, viz., _cuicunque in arte sua perito credendum est:_ for it
seems perhaps difficult to conceive that any one should have had
enough of impudence to lay down dogmatical rules in any art or science
without the least foundation. In such cases, therefore, we are apt to
conclude there are sound and good reasons at the bottom, though we are
unfortunately not able to see so far.
Now, in reality, the world have paid too great a compliment to
critics, and have imagined them men of much greater profundity than
they really are. From this complacence, the critics have been
emboldened to assume a dictatorial power, and have so far succeeded,
that they are now become the masters, and have the assurance to give
laws to those authors from whose predecessors they originally received
them.
The critic, rightly considered, is no more than the clerk, whose
office it is to transcribe the rules and laws laid down by those great
judges whose vast strength of genius hath placed them in the light of
legislators, in the several sciences over which they presided. This
office was all which the critics of old aspired to; nor did they ever
dare to advance a sentence, without supporting it by the authority of
the judge from whence it was borrowed.
But in process of time, and in ages of ignorance, the clerk began to
invade the power and assume the dignity of his master. The laws of
writing were no longer founded on the practice of the author, but on
the dictates of the critic. The clerk became the legislator, and those
very peremptorily gave laws whose business it was, at first, only to
transcribe them.
Hence arose an obvious, and perhaps an unavoidable error; for these
critics being men of shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere form
for substance. They acted as a judge would, who should adhere to the
lifeless letter of law, and reject the spirit. Little circumstances,
which were perhaps accidental in a great author, were by these critics
considered to constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as
essentials to be observed by all his successors. To these
encroachments, time and ignorance, the two great supporters of
imposture, gave authority; and thus many rules for good writing have
been established, which have not the least foundation in truth or
nature; and which commonly serve for no other purpose than to curb and
restrain genius, in the same manner as it would have restrained the
dancing-master, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it
down as an essential rule that every man must dance in chains.
To avoid, therefore, all imputation of laying down a rule for
posterity, founded only on the authority of _ipse dixit_--for which,
to say the truth, we have not the profoundest veneration--we shall
here waive the privilege above contended for, and proceed to lay
before the reader the reasons which have induced us to intersperse
these several digressive essays in the course of this work.
And here we shall of necessity be led to open a new vein of knowledge,
which if it hath been discovered, hath not, to our remembrance, been
wrought on by any antient or modern writer. This vein is no other than
that of contrast, which runs through all the works of the creation,
and may probably have a large share in constituting in us the idea of
all beauty, as well natural as artificial: for what demonstrates the
beauty and excellence of anything but its reverse? Thus the beauty of
day, and that of summer, is set off by the horrors of night and
winter. And, I believe, if it was possible for a man to have seen only
the two former, he would have a very imperfect idea of their beauty.
But to avoid too serious an air; can it be doubted, but that the
finest woman in the world would lose all benefit of her charms in the
eye of a man who had never seen one of another cast? The ladies
themselves seem so sensible of this, that they are all industrious to
procure foils: nay, they will become foils to themselves; for I have
observed (at Bath particularly) that they endeavour to appear as ugly
as possible in the morning, in order to set off that beauty which they
intend to show you in the evening.
Most artists have this secret in practice, though some, perhaps, have
not much studied the theory. The jeweller knows that the finest
brilliant requires a foil; and the painter, by the contrast of his
figures, often acquires great applause.
A great genius among us will illustrate this matter fully. I cannot,
indeed, range him under any general head of common artists, as he hath
a title to be placed among those
_Inventas qui vitam excoluere per artes._
Who by invented arts have life improved.
I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment, called
the English Pantomime.
This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor
distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious
exhibited a certain number of heathen gods and heroes, who were
certainly the worst and dullest company into which an audience was
ever introduced; and (which was a secret known to few) were actually
intended so to be, in order to contrast the comic part of the
entertainment, and to display the tricks of harlequin to the better
advantage.
This was, perhaps, no very civil use of such personages: but the
contrivance was, nevertheless, ingenious enough, and had its effect.
And this will now plainly appear, if, instead of serious and comic, we
supply the words duller and dullest; for the comic was certainly
duller than anything before shown on the stage, and could be set off
only by that superlative degree of dulness which composed the serious.
So intolerably serious, indeed, were these gods and heroes, that
harlequin (though the English gentleman of that name is not at all
related to the French family, for he is of a much more serious
disposition) was always welcome on the stage, as he relieved the
audience from worse company.
Judicious writers have always practised this art of contrast with
great success. I have been surprized that Horace should cavil at this
art in Homer; but indeed he contradicts himself in the very next line:
_Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus;
Verum opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum._
I grieve if e'er great Homer chance to sleep,
Yet slumbers on long works have right to creep.
For we are not here to understand, as perhaps some have, that an
author actually falls asleep while he is writing. It is true, that
readers are too apt to be so overtaken; but if the work was as long as
any of Oldmixon, the author himself is too well entertained to be
subject to the least drowsiness. He is, as Mr Pope observes,
Sleepless himself to give his readers sleep.
To say the truth, these soporific parts are so many scenes of serious
artfully interwoven, in order to contrast and set off the rest; and
this is the true meaning of a late facetious writer, who told the
public that whenever he was dull they might be assured there was a
design in it.
In this light, then, or rather in this darkness, I would have the
reader to consider these initial essays. And after this warning, if he
shall be of opinion that he can find enough of serious in other parts
of this history, he may pass over these, in which we profess to be
laboriously dull, and begin the following books at the second chapter.
Chapter ii.
In which Mr Jones receives many friendly visits during his
confinement; with some fine touches of the passion of love, scarce
visible to the naked eye.
Tom Jones had many visitors during his confinement, though some,
perhaps, were not very agreeable to him. Mr Allworthy saw him almost
every day; but though he pitied Tom's sufferings, and greatly approved
the gallant behaviour which had occasioned them; yet he thought this
was a favourable opportunity to bring him to a sober sense of his
indiscreet conduct; and that wholesome advice for that purpose could
never be applied at a more proper season than at the present, when the
mind was softened by pain and sickness, and alarmed by danger; and
when its attention was unembarrassed with those turbulent passions
which engage us in the pursuit of pleasure.
At all seasons, therefore, when the good man was alone with the youth,
especially when the latter was totally at ease, he took occasion to
remind him of his former miscarriages, but in the mildest and
tenderest manner, and only in order to introduce the caution which he
prescribed for his future behaviour; "on which alone," he assured him,
"would depend his own felicity, and the kindness which he might yet
promise himself to receive at the hands of his father by adoption,
unless he should hereafter forfeit his good opinion: for as to what
had past," he said, "it should be all forgiven and forgotten. He
therefore advised him to make a good use of this accident, that so in
the end it might prove a visitation for his own good."
Thwackum was likewise pretty assiduous in his visits; and he too
considered a sick-bed to be a convenient scene for lectures. His
stile, however, was more severe than Mr Allworthy's: he told his
pupil, "That he ought to look on his broken limb as a judgment from
heaven on his sins. That it would become him to be daily on his knees,
pouring forth thanksgivings that he had broken his arm only, and not
his neck; which latter," he said, "was very probably reserved for some
future occasion, and that, perhaps, not very remote. For his part," he
said, "he had often wondered some judgment had not overtaken him
before; but it might be perceived by this, that Divine punishments,
though slow, are always sure." Hence likewise he advised him, "to
foresee, with equal certainty, the greater evils which were yet
behind, and which were as sure as this of overtaking him in his state
of reprobacy. These are," said he, "to be averted only by such a
thorough and sincere repentance as is not to be expected or hoped for
from one so abandoned in his youth, and whose mind, I am afraid, is
totally corrupted. It is my duty, however, to exhort you to this
repentance, though I too well know all exhortations will be vain and
fruitless. But _liberavi animam meam._ I can accuse my own conscience
of no neglect; though it is at the same time with the utmost concern I
see you travelling on to certain misery in this world, and to as
certain damnation in the next."
Square talked in a very different strain; he said, "Such accidents as
a broken bone were below the consideration of a wise man. That it was
abundantly sufficient to reconcile the mind to any of these
mischances, to reflect that they are liable to befal the wisest of
mankind, and are undoubtedly for the good of the whole." He said, "It
was a mere abuse of words to call those things evils, in which there
was no moral unfitness: that pain, which was the worst consequence of
such accidents, was the most contemptible thing in the world;" with
more of the like sentences, extracted out of the second book of
Tully's Tusculan questions, and from the great Lord Shaftesbury. In
pronouncing these he was one day so eager, that he unfortunately bit
his tongue; and in such a manner, that it not only put an end to his
discourse, but created much emotion in him, and caused him to mutter
an oath or two: but what was worst of all, this accident gave
Thwackum, who was present, and who held all such doctrine to be
heathenish and atheistical, an opportunity to clap a judgment on his
back. Now this was done with so malicious a sneer, that it totally
unhinged (if I may so say) the temper of the philosopher, which the
bite of his tongue had somewhat ruffled; and as he was disabled from
venting his wrath at his lips, he had possibly found a more violent
method of revenging himself, had not the surgeon, who was then luckily
in the room, contrary to his own interest, interposed and preserved
the peace.
Mr Blifil visited his friend Jones but seldom, and never alone. This
worthy young man, however, professed much regard for him, and as great
concern at his misfortune; but cautiously avoided any intimacy, lest,
as he frequently hinted, it might contaminate the sobriety of his own
character: for which purpose he had constantly in his mouth that
proverb in which Solomon speaks against evil communication. Not that
he was so bitter as Thwackum; for he always expressed some hopes of
Tom's reformation; "which," he said, "the unparalleled goodness shown
by his uncle on this occasion, must certainly effect in one not
absolutely abandoned:" but concluded, "if Mr Jones ever offends
hereafter, I shall not be able to say a syllable in his favour."
As to Squire Western, he was seldom out of the sick-room, unless when
he was engaged either in the field or over his bottle. Nay, he would
sometimes retire hither to take his beer, and it was not without
difficulty that he was prevented from forcing Jones to take his beer
too: for no quack ever held his nostrum to be a more general panacea
than he did this; which, he said, had more virtue in it than was in
all the physic in an apothecary's shop. He was, however, by much
entreaty, prevailed on to forbear the application of this medicine;
but from serenading his patient every hunting morning with the horn
under his window, it was impossible to withhold him; nor did he ever
lay aside that hallow, with which he entered into all companies, when
he visited Jones, without any regard to the sick person's being at
that time either awake or asleep.
This boisterous behaviour, as it meant no harm, so happily it effected
none, and was abundantly compensated to Jones, as soon as he was able
to sit up, by the company of Sophia, whom the squire then brought to
visit him; nor was it, indeed, long before Jones was able to attend
her to the harpsichord, where she would kindly condescend, for hours
together, to charm him with the most delicious music, unless when the
squire thought proper to interrupt her, by insisting on Old Sir Simon,
or some other of his favourite pieces.
Notwithstanding the nicest guard which Sophia endeavoured to set on
her behaviour, she could not avoid letting some appearances now and
then slip forth: for love may again be likened to a disease in this,
that when it is denied a vent in one part, it will certainly break out
in another. What her lips, therefore, concealed, her eyes, her
blushes, and many little involuntary actions, betrayed.
One day, when Sophia was playing on the harpsichord, and Jones was
attending, the squire came into the room, crying, "There, Tom, I have
had a battle for thee below-stairs with thick parson Thwackum. He hath
been a telling Allworthy, before my face, that the broken bone was a
judgment upon thee. D--n it, says I, how can that be? Did he not come
by it in defence of a young woman? A judgment indeed! Pox, if he never
doth anything worse, he will go to heaven sooner than all the parsons
in the country. He hath more reason to glory in it than to be ashamed
of it."--"Indeed, sir," says Jones, "I have no reason for either; but
if it preserved Miss Western, I shall always think it the happiest
accident of my life."--"And to gu," said the squire, "to zet Allworthy
against thee vor it! D--n un, if the parson had unt his petticuoats
on, I should have lent un o flick; for I love thee dearly, my boy, and
d--n me if there is anything in my power which I won't do for thee.
Sha't take thy choice of all the horses in my stable to-morrow
morning, except only the Chevalier and Miss Slouch." Jones thanked
him, but declined accepting the offer. "Nay," added the squire, "sha't
ha the sorrel mare that Sophy rode. She cost me fifty guineas, and
comes six years old this grass." "If she had cost me a thousand,"
cries Jones passionately, "I would have given her to the dogs." "Pooh!
pooh!" answered Western; "what! because she broke thy arm? Shouldst
forget and forgive. I thought hadst been more a man than to bear
malice against a dumb creature."--Here Sophia interposed, and put an
end to the conversation, by desiring her father's leave to play to
him; a request which he never refused.
The countenance of Sophia had undergone more than one change during
the foregoing speeches; and probably she imputed the passionate
resentment which Jones had expressed against the mare, to a different
motive from that from which her father had derived it. Her spirits
were at this time in a visible flutter; and she played so intolerably
ill, that had not Western soon fallen asleep, he must have remarked
it. Jones, however, who was sufficiently awake, and was not without an
ear any more than without eyes, made some observations; which being
joined to all which the reader may remember to have passed formerly,
gave him pretty strong assurances, when he came to reflect on the
whole, that all was not well in the tender bosom of Sophia; an opinion
which many young gentlemen will, I doubt not, extremely wonder at his
not having been well confirmed in long ago. To confess the truth, he
had rather too much diffidence in himself, and was not forward enough
in seeing the advances of a young lady; a misfortune which can be
cured only by that early town education, which is at present so
generally in fashion.
When these thoughts had fully taken possession of Jones, they
occasioned a perturbation in his mind, which, in a constitution less
pure and firm than his, might have been, at such a season, attended
with very dangerous consequences. He was truly sensible of the great
worth of Sophia. He extremely liked her person, no less admired her
accomplishments, and tenderly loved her goodness. In reality, as he
had never once entertained any thought of possessing her, nor had ever
given the least voluntary indulgence to his inclinations, he had a
much stronger passion for her than he himself was acquainted with. His
heart now brought forth the full secret, at the same time that it
assured him the adorable object returned his affection.
Chapter iii.
Which all who have no heart will think to contain much ado about
nothing.
The reader will perhaps imagine the sensations which now arose in
Jones to have been so sweet and delicious, that they would rather tend
to produce a chearful serenity in the mind, than any of those
dangerous effects which we have mentioned; but in fact, sensations of
this kind, however delicious, are, at their first recognition, of a
very tumultuous nature, and have very little of the opiate in them.
They were, moreover, in the present case, embittered with certain
circumstances, which being mixed with sweeter ingredients, tended
altogether to compose a draught that might be termed bitter-sweet;
than which, as nothing can be more disagreeable to the palate, so
nothing, in the metaphorical sense, can be so injurious to the mind.
For first, though he had sufficient foundation to flatter himself in
what he had observed in Sophia, he was not yet free from doubt of
misconstruing compassion, or at best, esteem, into a warmer regard. He
was far from a sanguine assurance that Sophia had any such affection
towards him, as might promise his inclinations that harvest, which, if
they were encouraged and nursed, they would finally grow up to
require. Besides, if he could hope to find no bar to his happiness
from the daughter, he thought himself certain of meeting an effectual
bar in the father; who, though he was a country squire in his
diversions, was perfectly a man of the world in whatever regarded his
fortune; had the most violent affection for his only daughter, and had
often signified, in his cups, the pleasure he proposed in seeing her
married to one of the richest men in the county. Jones was not so vain
and senseless a coxcomb as to expect, from any regard which Western
had professed for him, that he would ever be induced to lay aside
these views of advancing his daughter. He well knew that fortune is
generally the principal, if not the sole, consideration, which
operates on the best of parents in these matters: for friendship makes
us warmly espouse the interest of others; but it is very cold to the
gratification of their passions. Indeed, to feel the happiness which
may result from this, it is necessary we should possess the passion
ourselves. As he had therefore no hopes of obtaining her father's
consent; so he thought to endeavour to succeed without it, and by such
means to frustrate the great point of Mr Western's life, was to make a
very ill use of his hospitality, and a very ungrateful return to the
many little favours received (however roughly) at his hands. If he saw
such a consequence with horror and disdain, how much more was he
shocked with what regarded Mr Allworthy; to whom, as he had more than
filial obligations, so had he for him more than filial piety! He knew
the nature of that good man to be so averse to any baseness or
treachery, that the least attempt of such a kind would make the sight
of the guilty person for ever odious to his eyes, and his name a
detestable sound in his ears. The appearance of such unsurmountable
difficulties was sufficient to have inspired him with despair, however
ardent his wishes had been; but even these were contruoled by
compassion for another woman. The idea of lovely Molly now intruded
itself before him. He had sworn eternal constancy in her arms, and she
had as often vowed never to out-live his deserting her. He now saw her
in all the most shocking postures of death; nay, he considered all the
miseries of prostitution to which she would be liable, and of which he
would be doubly the occasion; first by seducing, and then by deserting
her; for he well knew the hatred which all her neighbours, and even
her own sisters, bore her, and how ready they would all be to tear her
to pieces. Indeed, he had exposed her to more envy than shame, or
rather to the latter by means of the former: for many women abused her
for being a whore, while they envied her her lover, and her finery,
and would have been themselves glad to have purchased these at the
same rate. The ruin, therefore, of the poor girl must, he foresaw,
unavoidably attend his deserting her; and this thought stung him to
the soul. Poverty and distress seemed to him to give none a right of
aggravating those misfortunes. The meanness of her condition did not
represent her misery as of little consequence in his eyes, nor did it
appear to justify, or even to palliate, his guilt, in bringing that
misery upon her. But why do I mention justification? His own heart
would not suffer him to destroy a human creature who, he thought,
loved him, and had to that love sacrificed her innocence. His own good
heart pleaded her cause; not as a cold venal advocate, but as one
interested in the event, and which must itself deeply share in all the
agonies its owner brought on another.
When this powerful advocate had sufficiently raised the pity of Jones,
by painting poor Molly in all the circumstances of wretchedness; it
artfully called in the assistance of another passion, and represented
the girl in all the amiable colours of youth, health, and beauty; as
one greatly the object of desire, and much more so, at least to a good
mind, from being, at the same time, the object of compassion.
Amidst these thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless night, and
in the morning the result of the whole was to abide by Molly, and to
think no more of Sophia.
In this virtuous resolution he continued all the next day till the
evening, cherishing the idea of Molly, and driving Sophia from his
thoughts; but in the fatal evening, a very trifling accident set all
his passions again on float, and worked so total a change in his mind,
that we think it decent to communicate it in a fresh chapter.
Chapter iv.
A little chapter, in which is contained a little incident.
Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the young
gentleman in his confinement, Mrs Honour was one. The reader, perhaps,
when he reflects on some expressions which have formerly dropt from
her, may conceive that she herself had a very particular affection for
Mr Jones; but, in reality, it was no such thing. Tom was a handsome
young fellow; and for that species of men Mrs Honour had some regard;
but this was perfectly indiscriminate; for having being crossed in the
love which she bore a certain nobleman's footman, who had basely
deserted her after a promise of marriage, she had so securely kept
together the broken remains of her heart, that no man had ever since
been able to possess himself of any single fragment. She viewed all
handsome men with that equal regard and benevolence which a sober and
virtuous mind bears to all the good. She might indeed be called a
lover of men, as Socrates was a lover of mankind, preferring one to
another for corporeal, as he for mental qualifications; but never
carrying this preference so far as to cause any perturbation in the
philosophical serenity of her temper.
The day after Mr Jones had that conflict with himself which we have
seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs Honour came into his room, and
finding him alone, began in the following manner:--"La, sir, where do
you think I have been? I warrants you, you would not guess in fifty
years; but if you did guess, to be sure I must not tell you
neither."--"Nay, if it be something which you must not tell me," said
Jones, "I shall have the curiosity to enquire, and I know you will not
be so barbarous to refuse me."--"I don't know," cries she, "why I
should refuse you neither, for that matter; for to be sure you won't
mention it any more. And for that matter, if you knew where I have
been, unless you knew what I have been about, it would not signify
much. Nay, I don't see why it should be kept a secret for my part; for
to be sure she is the best lady in the world." Upon this, Jones began
to beg earnestly to be let into this secret, and faithfully promised
not to divulge it. She then proceeded thus:--"Why, you must know, sir,
my young lady sent me to enquire after Molly Seagrim, and to see
whether the wench wanted anything; to be sure, I did not care to go,
methinks; but servants must do what they are ordered.--How could you
undervalue yourself so, Mr Jones?--So my lady bid me go and carry her
some linen, and other things. She is too good. If such forward sluts
were sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I told my lady,
says I, madam, your la'ship is encouraging idleness."--"And was my
Sophia so good?" says Jones. "My Sophia! I assure you, marry come up,"
answered Honour. "And yet if you knew all--indeed, if I was as Mr
Jones, I should look a little higher than such trumpery as Molly
Seagrim." "What do you mean by these words," replied Jones, "if I knew
all?" "I mean what I mean," says Honour. "Don't you remember putting
your hands in my lady's muff once? I vow I could almost find in my
heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would never come to the
hearing on't." Jones then made several solemn protestations. And
Honour proceeded--"Then to be sure, my lady gave me that muff; and
afterwards, upon hearing what you had done"--"Then you told her what I
had done?" interrupted Jones. "If I did, sir," answered she, "you need
not be angry with me. Many's the man would have given his head to have
had my lady told, if they had known,--for, to be sure, the biggest
lord in the land might be proud--but, I protest, I have a great mind
not to tell you." Jones fell to entreaties, and soon prevailed on her
to go on thus. "You must know then, sir, that my lady had given this
muff to me; but about a day or two after I had told her the story, she
quarrels with her new muff, and to be sure it is the prettiest that
ever was seen. Honour, says she, this is an odious muff; it is too big
for me, I can't wear it: till I can get another, you must let me have
my old one again, and you may have this in the room on't--for she's a
good lady, and scorns to give a thing and take a thing, I promise you
that. So to be sure I fetched it her back again, and, I believe, she
hath worn it upon her arm almost ever since, and I warrants hath given
it many a kiss when nobody hath seen her."
Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr Western himself, who came
to summon Jones to the harpsichord; whither the poor young fellow went
all pale and trembling. This Western observed, but, on seeing Mrs
Honour, imputed it to a wrong cause; and having given Jones a hearty
curse between jest and earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and not poach
up the game in his warren.
Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty, and we may
believe it was no small addition to her charms, in the eye of Mr
Jones, that she now happened to have on her right arm this very muff.
She was playing one of her father's favourite tunes, and he was
leaning on her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers, and put her
out. This so disconcerted the squire, that he snatched the muff from
her, and with a hearty curse threw it into the fire. Sophia instantly
started up, and with the utmost eagerness recovered it from the
flames.
Though this incident will probably appear of little consequence to
many of our readers; yet, trifling as it was, it had so violent an
effect on poor Jones, that we thought it our duty to relate it. In
reality, there are many little circumstances too often omitted by
injudicious historians, from which events of the utmost importance
arise. The world may indeed be considered as a vast machine, in which
the great wheels are originally set in motion by those which are very
minute, and almost imperceptible to any but the strongest eyes.
Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia; not all the
dazzling brightness, and languishing softness of her eyes; the harmony
of her voice, and of her person; not all her wit, good-humour,
greatness of mind, or sweetness of disposition, had been able so
absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of poor Jones, as this
little incident of the muff. Thus the poet sweetly sings of Troy--
_--Captique dolis lachrymisque coacti
Quos neque Tydides, nec Larissaeus Achilles,
Non anni domuere decem, non mille Carinae._
What Diomede or Thetis' greater son,
A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege had done
False tears and fawning words the city won.
The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprize. All those
considerations of honour and prudence which our heroe had lately with
so much military wisdom placed as guards over the avenues of his
heart, ran away from their posts, and the god of love marched in, in
triumph.
Chapter v.
A very long chapter, containing a very great incident.
But though this victorious deity easily expelled his avowed enemies
from the heart of Jones, he found it more difficult to supplant the
garrison which he himself had placed there. To lay aside all allegory,
the concern for what must become of poor Molly greatly disturbed and
perplexed the mind of the worthy youth. The superior merit of Sophia
totally eclipsed, or rather extinguished, all the beauties of the poor
girl; but compassion instead of contempt succeeded to love. He was
convinced the girl had placed all her affections, and all her prospect
of future happiness, in him only. For this he had, he knew, given
sufficient occasion, by the utmost profusion of tenderness towards
her: a tenderness which he had taken every means to persuade her he
would always maintain. She, on her side, had assured him of her firm
belief in his promise, and had with the most solemn vows declared,
that on his fulfilling or breaking these promises, it depended,
whether she should be the happiest or most miserable of womankind. And
to be the author of this highest degree of misery to a human being,
was a thought on which he could not bear to ruminate a single moment.
He considered this poor girl as having sacrificed to him everything in
her little power; as having been at her own expense the object of his
pleasure; as sighing and languishing for him even at that very
instant. Shall then, says he, my recovery, for which she hath so
ardently wished; shall my presence, which she hath so eagerly
expected, instead of giving her that joy with which she hath flattered
herself, cast her at once down into misery and despair? Can I be such
a villain? Here, when the genius of poor Molly seemed triumphant, the
love of Sophia towards him, which now appeared no longer dubious,
rushed upon his mind, and bore away every obstacle before it.
At length it occurred to him, that he might possibly be able to make
Molly amends another way; namely, by giving her a sum of money. This,
nevertheless, he almost despaired of her accepting, when he
recollected the frequent and vehement assurances he had received from
her, that the world put in balance with him would make her no amends
for his loss. However, her extreme poverty, and chiefly her egregious
vanity (somewhat of which hath been already hinted to the reader),
gave him some little hope, that, notwithstanding all her avowed
tenderness, she might in time be brought to content herself with a
fortune superior to her expectation, and which might indulge her
vanity, by setting her above all her equals. He resolved therefore to
take the first opportunity of making a proposal of this kind.
One day, accordingly, when his arm was so well recovered that he could
walk easily with it slung in a sash, he stole forth, at a season when
the squire was engaged in his field exercises, and visited his fair
one. Her mother and sisters, whom he found taking their tea, informed
him first that Molly was not at home; but afterwards the eldest sister
acquainted him, with a malicious smile, that she was above stairs
a-bed. Tom had no objection to this situation of his mistress, and
immediately ascended the ladder which led towards her bed-chamber; but
when he came to the top, he, to his great surprize, found the door
fast; nor could he for some time obtain any answer from within; for
Molly, as she herself afterwards informed him, was fast asleep.
The extremes of grief and joy have been remarked to produce very
similar effects; and when either of these rushes on us by surprize, it
is apt to create such a total perturbation and confusion, that we are
often thereby deprived of the use of all our faculties. It cannot
therefore be wondered at, that the unexpected sight of Mr Jones should
so strongly operate on the mind of Molly, and should overwhelm her
with such confusion, that for some minutes she was unable to express
the great raptures, with which the reader will suppose she was
affected on this occasion. As for Jones, he was so entirely possessed,
and as it were enchanted, by the presence of his beloved object, that
he for a while forgot Sophia, and consequently the principal purpose
of his visit.
This, however, soon recurred to his memory; and after the first
transports of their meeting were over, he found means by degrees to
introduce a discourse on the fatal consequences which must attend
their amour, if Mr Allworthy, who had strictly forbidden him ever
seeing her more, should discover that he still carried on this
commerce. Such a discovery, which his enemies gave him reason to think
would be unavoidable, must, he said, end in his ruin, and consequently
in hers. Since therefore their hard fates had determined that they
must separate, he advised her to bear it with resolution, and swore he
would never omit any opportunity, through the course of his life, of
showing her the sincerity of his affection, by providing for her in a
manner beyond her utmost expectation, or even beyond her wishes, if
ever that should be in his power; concluding at last, that she might
soon find some man who would marry her, and who would make her much
happier than she could be by leading a disreputable life with him.
Molly remained a few moments in silence, and then bursting into a
flood of tears, she began to upbraid him in the following words: "And
this is your love for me, to forsake me in this manner, now you have
ruined me! How often, when I have told you that all men are false and
perjury alike, and grow tired of us as soon as ever they have had
their wicked wills of us, how often have you sworn you would never
forsake me! And can you be such a perjury man after all? What
signifies all the riches in the world to me without you, now you have
gained my heart, so you have--you have--? Why do you mention another
man to me? I can never love any other man as long as I live. All other
men are nothing to me. If the greatest squire in all the country would
come a suiting to me to-morrow, I would not give my company to him.
No, I shall always hate and despise the whole sex for your sake."--
She was proceeding thus, when an accident put a stop to her tongue,
before it had run out half its career. The room, or rather garret, in
which Molly lay, being up one pair of stairs, that is to say, at the
top of the house, was of a sloping figure, resembling the great Delta
of the Greeks. The English reader may perhaps form a better idea of
it, by being told that it was impossible to stand upright anywhere but
in the middle. Now, as this room wanted the conveniency of a closet,
Molly had, to supply that defect, nailed up an old rug against the
rafters of the house, which enclosed a little hole where her best
apparel, such as the remains of that sack which we have formerly
mentioned, some caps, and other things with which she had lately
provided herself, were hung up and secured from the dust.
This enclosed place exactly fronted the foot of the bed, to which,
indeed, the rug hung so near, that it served in a manner to supply the
want of curtains. Now, whether Molly, in the agonies of her rage,
pushed this rug with her feet; or Jones might touch it; or whether the
pin or nail gave way of its own accord, I am not certain; but as Molly
pronounced those last words, which are recorded above, the wicked rug
got loose from its fastening, and discovered everything hid behind it;
where among other female utensils appeared--(with shame I write it,
and with sorrow will it be read)--the philosopher Square, in a posture
(for the place would not near admit his standing upright) as
ridiculous as can possibly be conceived.
The posture, indeed, in which he stood, was not greatly unlike that of
a soldier who is tied neck and heels; or rather resembling the
attitude in which we often see fellows in the public streets of
London, who are not suffering but deserving punishment by so standing.
He had a nightcap belonging to Molly on his head, and his two large
eyes, the moment the rug fell, stared directly at Jones; so that when
the idea of philosophy was added to the figure now discovered, it
would have been very difficult for any spectator to have refrained
from immoderate laughter.
I question not but the surprize of the reader will be here equal to
that of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise from the appearance
of this wise and grave man in such a place, may seem so inconsistent
with that character which he hath, doubtless, maintained hitherto, in
the opinion of every one.
But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary than
real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other
human creatures; and however sublimated and refined the theory of
these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to
other mortals. It is, indeed, in theory only, and not in practice, as
we have before hinted, that consists the difference: for though such
great beings think much better and more wisely, they always act
exactly like other men. They know very well how to subdue all
appetites and passions, and to despise both pain and pleasure; and
this knowledge affords much delightful contemplation, and is easily
acquired; but the practice would be vexatious and troublesome; and,
therefore, the same wisdom which teaches them to know this, teaches
them to avoid carrying it into execution.
Mr Square happened to be at church on that Sunday, when, as the reader
may be pleased to remember, the appearance of Molly in her sack had
caused all that disturbance. Here he first observed her, and was so
pleased with her beauty, that he prevailed with the young gentlemen to
change their intended ride that evening, that he might pass by the
habitation of Molly, and by that means might obtain a second chance of
seeing her. This reason, however, as he did not at that time mention
to any, so neither did we think proper to communicate it then to the
reader.
Among other particulars which constituted the unfitness of things in
Mr Square's opinion, danger and difficulty were two. The difficulty
therefore which he apprehended there might be in corrupting this young
wench, and the danger which would accrue to his character on the
discovery, were such strong dissuasives, that it is probable he at
first intended to have contented himself with the pleasing ideas which
the sight of beauty furnishes us with. These the gravest men, after a
full meal of serious meditation, often allow themselves by way of
dessert: for which purpose, certain books and pictures find their way
into the most private recesses of their study, and a certain liquorish
part of natural philosophy is often the principal subject of their
conversation.
But when the philosopher heard, a day or two afterwards, that the
fortress of virtue had already been subdued, he began to give a larger
scope to his desires. His appetite was not of that squeamish kind
which cannot feed on a dainty because another hath tasted it. In
short, he liked the girl the better for the want of that chastity,
which, if she had possessed it, must have been a bar to his pleasures;
he pursued and obtained her.
The reader will be mistaken, if he thinks Molly gave Square the
preference to her younger lover: on the contrary, had she been
confined to the choice of one only, Tom Jones would undoubtedly have
been, of the two, the victorious person. Nor was it solely the
consideration that two are better than one (though this had its proper
weight) to which Mr Square owed his success: the absence of Jones
during his confinement was an unlucky circumstance; and in that
interval some well-chosen presents from the philosopher so softened
and unguarded the girl's heart, that a favourable opportunity became
irresistible, and Square triumphed over the poor remains of virtue
which subsisted in the bosom of Molly.
It was now about a fortnight since this conquest, when Jones paid the
above-mentioned visit to his mistress, at a time when she and Square
were in bed together. This was the true reason why the mother denied
her as we have seen; for as the old woman shared in the profits
arising from the iniquity of her daughter, she encouraged and
protected her in it to the utmost of her power; but such was the envy
and hatred which the elder sister bore towards Molly, that,
notwithstanding she had some part of the booty, she would willingly
have parted with this to ruin her sister and spoil her trade. Hence
she had acquainted Jones with her being above-stairs in bed, in hopes
that he might have caught her in Square's arms. This, however, Molly
found means to prevent, as the door was fastened; which gave her an
opportunity of conveying her lover behind that rug or blanket where he
now was unhappily discovered.
Square no sooner made his appearance than Molly flung herself back in
her bed, cried out she was undone, and abandoned herself to despair.
This poor girl, who was yet but a novice in her business, had not
arrived to that perfection of assurance which helps off a town lady in
any extremity; and either prompts her with an excuse, or else inspires
her to brazen out the matter with her husband, who, from love of
quiet, or out of fear of his reputation--and sometimes, perhaps, from
fear of the gallant, who, like Mr Constant in the play, wears a
sword--is glad to shut his eyes, and content to put his horns in his
pocket. Molly, on the contrary, was silenced by this evidence, and
very fairly gave up a cause which she had hitherto maintained with so
many tears, and with such solemn and vehement protestations of the
purest love and constancy.
As to the gentleman behind the arras, he was not in much less
consternation. He stood for a while motionless, and seemed equally at
a loss what to say, or whither to direct his eyes. Jones, though
perhaps the most astonished of the three, first found his tongue; and
being immediately recovered from those uneasy sensations which Molly
by her upbraidings had occasioned, he burst into a loud laughter, and
then saluting Mr Square, advanced to take him by the hand, and to
relieve him from his place of confinement.
Square being now arrived in the middle of the room, in which part only
he could stand upright, looked at Jones with a very grave countenance,
and said to him, "Well, sir, I see you enjoy this mighty discovery,
and, I dare swear, take great delight in the thoughts of exposing me;
but if you will consider the matter fairly, you will find you are
yourself only to blame. I am not guilty of corrupting innocence. I
have done nothing for which that part of the world which judges of
matters by the rule of right, will condemn me. Fitness is governed by
the nature of things, and not by customs, forms, or municipal laws.
Nothing is indeed unfit which is not unnatural."--"Well reasoned, old
boy," answered Jones; "but why dost thou think that I should desire to
expose thee? I promise thee, I was never better pleased with thee in
my life; and unless thou hast a mind to discover it thyself, this
affair may remain a profound secret for me."--"Nay, Mr Jones," replied
Square, "I would not be thought to undervalue reputation. Good fame is
a species of the Kalon, and it is by no means fitting to neglect it.
Besides, to murder one's own reputation is a kind of suicide, a
detestable and odious vice. If you think proper, therefore, to conceal
any infirmity of mine (for such I may have, since no man is perfectly
perfect), I promise you I will not betray myself. Things may be
fitting to be done, which are not fitting to be boasted of; for
by the perverse judgment of the world, that often becomes the
subject of censure, which is, in truth, not only innocent but
laudable."--"Right!" cries Jones: "what can be more innocent than the
indulgence of a natural appetite? or what more laudable than the
propagation of our species?"--"To be serious with you," answered
Square, "I profess they always appeared so to me."--"And yet," said
Jones, "you was of a different opinion when my affair with this girl
was first discovered."--"Why, I must confess," says Square, "as the
matter was misrepresented to me, by that parson Thwackum, I might
condemn the corruption of innocence: it was that, sir, it was
that--and that--: for you must know, Mr Jones, in the consideration of
fitness, very minute circumstances, sir, very minute circumstances
cause great alteration."--"Well," cries Jones, "be that as it will, it
shall be your own fault, as I have promised you, if you ever hear any
more of this adventure. Behave kindly to the girl, and I will never
open my lips concerning the matter to any one. And, Molly, do you be
faithful to your friend, and I will not only forgive your infidelity
to me, but will do you all the service I can." So saying, he took a
hasty leave, and, slipping down the ladder, retired with much
expedition.
Square was rejoiced to find this adventure was likely to have no worse
conclusion; and as for Molly, being recovered from her confusion, she
began at first to upbraid Square with having been the occasion of her
loss of Jones; but that gentleman soon found the means of mitigating
her anger, partly by caresses, and partly by a small nostrum from his
purse, of wonderful and approved efficacy in purging off the ill
humours of the mind, and in restoring it to a good temper.
She then poured forth a vast profusion of tenderness towards her new
lover; turned all she had said to Jones, and Jones himself, into
ridicule; and vowed, though he once had the possession of her person,
that none but Square had ever been master of her heart.
Chapter vi.
By comparing which with the former, the reader may possibly correct
some abuse which he hath formerly been guilty of in the application of
the word love.
The infidelity of Molly, which Jones had now discovered, would,
perhaps, have vindicated a much greater degree of resentment than he
expressed on the occasion; and if he had abandoned her directly from
that moment, very few, I believe, would have blamed him.
Certain, however, it is, that he saw her in the light of compassion;
and though his love to her was not of that kind which could give him
any great uneasiness at her inconstancy, yet was he not a little
shocked on reflecting that he had himself originally corrupted her
innocence; for to this corruption he imputed all the vice into which
she appeared now so likely to plunge herself.
This consideration gave him no little uneasiness, till Betty, the
elder sister, was so kind, some time afterwards, entirely to cure him
by a hint, that one Will Barnes, and not himself, had been the first
seducer of Molly; and that the little child, which he had hitherto so
certainly concluded to be his own, might very probably have an equal
title, at least, to claim Barnes for its father.
Jones eagerly pursued this scent when he had first received it; and in
a very short time was sufficiently assured that the girl had told him
truth, not only by the confession of the fellow, but at last by that
of Molly herself.
This Will Barnes was a country gallant, and had acquired as many
trophies of this kind as any ensign or attorney's clerk in the
kingdom. He had, indeed, reduced several women to a state of utter
profligacy, had broke the hearts of some, and had the honour of
occasioning the violent death of one poor girl, who had either drowned
herself, or, what was rather more probable, had been drowned by him.
Among other of his conquests, this fellow had triumphed over the heart
of Betty Seagrim. He had made love to her long before Molly was grown
to be a fit object of that pastime; but had afterwards deserted her,
and applied to her sister, with whom he had almost immediate success.
Now Will had, in reality, the sole possession of Molly's affection,
while Jones and Square were almost equally sacrifices to her interest
and to her pride.
Hence had grown that implacable hatred which we have before seen
raging in the mind of Betty; though we did not think it necessary to
assign this cause sooner, as envy itself alone was adequate to all the
effects we have mentioned.
Jones was become perfectly easy by possession of this secret with
regard to Molly; but as to Sophia, he was far from being in a state of
tranquillity; nay, indeed, he was under the most violent perturbation;
his heart was now, if I may use the metaphor, entirely evacuated, and
Sophia took absolute possession of it. He loved her with an unbounded
passion, and plainly saw the tender sentiments she had for him; yet
could not this assurance lessen his despair of obtaining the consent
of her father, nor the horrors which attended his pursuit of her by
any base or treacherous method.
The injury which he must thus do to Mr Western, and the concern which
would accrue to Mr Allworthy, were circumstances that tormented him
all day, and haunted him on his pillow at night. His life was a
constant struggle between honour and inclination, which alternately
triumphed over each other in his mind. He often resolved, in the
absence of Sophia, to leave her father's house, and to see her no
more; and as often, in her presence, forgot all those resolutions, and
determined to pursue her at the hazard of his life, and at the
forfeiture of what was much dearer to him.
This conflict began soon to produce very strong and visible effects:
for he lost all his usual sprightliness and gaiety of temper, and
became not only melancholy when alone, but dejected and absent in
company; nay, if ever he put on a forced mirth, to comply with Mr
Western's humour, the constraint appeared so plain, that he seemed to
have been giving the strongest evidence of what he endeavoured to
conceal by such ostentation.
It may, perhaps, be a question, whether the art which he used to
conceal his passion, or the means which honest nature employed to
reveal it, betrayed him most: for while art made him more than ever
reserved to Sophia, and forbad him to address any of his discourse to
her, nay, to avoid meeting her eyes, with the utmost caution; nature
was no less busy in counterplotting him. Hence, at the approach of the
young lady, he grew pale; and if this was sudden, started. If his eyes
accidentally met hers, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and his
countenance became all over scarlet. If common civility ever obliged
him to speak to her, as to drink her health at table, his tongue was
sure to falter. If he touched her, his hand, nay his whole frame,
trembled. And if any discourse tended, however remotely, to raise the
idea of love, an involuntary sigh seldom failed to steal from his
bosom. Most of which accidents nature was wonderfully industrious to
throw daily in his way.
All these symptoms escaped the notice of the squire: but not so of
Sophia. She soon perceived these agitations of mind in Jones, and was
at no loss to discover the cause; for indeed she recognized it in her
own breast. And this recognition is, I suppose, that sympathy which
hath been so often noted in lovers, and which will sufficiently
account for her being so much quicker-sighted than her father.
But, to say the truth, there is a more simple and plain method of
accounting for that prodigious superiority of penetration which we
must observe in some men over the rest of the human species, and one
which will serve not only in the case of lovers, but of all others.
From whence is it that the knave is generally so quick-sighted to
those symptoms and operations of knavery, which often dupe an honest
man of a much better understanding? There surely is no general
sympathy among knaves; nor have they, like freemasons, any common sign
of communication. In reality, it is only because they have the same
thing in their heads, and their thoughts are turned the same way.
Thus, that Sophia saw, and that Western did not see, the plain
symptoms of love in Jones can be no wonder, when we consider that the
idea of love never entered into the head of the father, whereas the
daughter, at present, thought of nothing else.
When Sophia was well satisfied of the violent passion which tormented
poor Jones, and no less certain that she herself was its object, she
had not the least difficulty in discovering the true cause of his
present behaviour. This highly endeared him to her, and raised in her
mind two of the best affections which any lover can wish to raise in a
mistress--these were, esteem and pity--for sure the most outrageously
rigid among her sex will excuse her pitying a man whom she saw
miserable on her own account; nor can they blame her for esteeming one
who visibly, from the most honourable motives, endeavoured to smother
a flame in his own bosom, which, like the famous Spartan theft, was
preying upon and consuming his very vitals. Thus his backwardness, his
shunning her, his coldness, and his silence, were the forwardest, the
most diligent, the warmest, and most eloquent advocates; and wrought
so violently on her sensible and tender heart, that she soon felt for
him all those gentle sensations which are consistent with a virtuous
and elevated female mind. In short, all which esteem, gratitude, and
pity, can inspire in such towards an agreeable man--indeed, all which
the nicest delicacy can allow. In a word, she was in love with him to
distraction.
One day this young couple accidentally met in the garden, at the end
of the two walks which were both bounded by that canal in which Jones
had formerly risqued drowning to retrieve the little bird that Sophia
had there lost.
This place had been of late much frequented by Sophia. Here she used
to ruminate, with a mixture of pain and pleasure, on an incident
which, however trifling in itself, had possibly sown the first seeds
of that affection which was now arrived to such maturity in her heart.
Here then this young couple met. They were almost close together
before either of them knew anything of the other's approach. A
bystander would have discovered sufficient marks of confusion in the
countenance of each; but they felt too much themselves to make any
observation. As soon as Jones had a little recovered his first
surprize, he accosted the young lady with some of the ordinary forms
of salutation, which she in the same manner returned; and their
conversation began, as usual, on the delicious beauty of the morning.
Hence they past to the beauty of the place, on which Jones launched
forth very high encomiums. When they came to the tree whence he had
formerly tumbled into the canal, Sophia could not help reminding him
of that accident, and said, "I fancy, Mr Jones, you have some little
shuddering when you see that water."--"I assure you, madam," answered
Jones, "the concern you felt at the loss of your little bird will
always appear to me the highest circumstance in that adventure. Poor
little Tommy! there is the branch he stood upon. How could the little
wretch have the folly to fly away from that state of happiness in
which I had the honour to place him? His fate was a just punishment
for his ingratitude."--"Upon my word, Mr Jones," said she, "your
gallantry very narrowly escaped as severe a fate. Sure the remembrance
must affect you."--"Indeed, madam," answered he, "if I have any reason
to reflect with sorrow on it, it is, perhaps, that the water had not
been a little deeper, by which I might have escaped many bitter
heart-aches that Fortune seems to have in store for me."--"Fie, Mr
Jones!" replied Sophia; "I am sure you cannot be in earnest now. This
affected contempt of life is only an excess of your complacence to me.
You would endeavour to lessen the obligation of having twice ventured
it for my sake. Beware the third time." She spoke these last words
with a smile, and a softness inexpressible. Jones answered with a
sigh, "He feared it was already too late for caution:" and then
looking tenderly and stedfastly on her, he cried, "Oh, Miss Western!
can you desire me to live? Can you wish me so ill?" Sophia, looking
down on the ground, answered with some hesitation, "Indeed, Mr Jones,
I do not wish you ill."--"Oh, I know too well that heavenly temper,"
cries Jones, "that divine goodness, which is beyond every other
charm."--"Nay, now," answered she, "I understand you not. I can stay
no longer."--"I--I would not be understood!" cries he; "nay, I can't
be understood. I know not what I say. Meeting you here so
unexpectedly, I have been unguarded: for Heaven's sake pardon me, if I
have said anything to offend you. I did not mean it. Indeed, I would
rather have died--nay, the very thought would kill me."--"You surprize
me," answered she. "How can you possibly think you have offended
me?"--"Fear, madam," says he, "easily runs into madness; and there is
no degree of fear like that which I feel of offending you. How can I
speak then? Nay, don't look angrily at me: one frown will destroy me.
I mean nothing. Blame my eyes, or blame those beauties. What am I
saying? Pardon me if I have said too much. My heart overflowed. I have
struggled with my love to the utmost, and have endeavoured to conceal
a fever which preys on my vitals, and will, I hope, soon make it
impossible for me ever to offend you more."
Mr Jones now fell a trembling as if he had been shaken with the fit of
an ague. Sophia, who was in a situation not very different from his,
answered in these words: "Mr Jones, I will not affect to misunderstand
you; indeed, I understand you too well; but, for Heaven's sake, if you
have any affection for me, let me make the best of my way into the
house. I wish I may be able to support myself thither."
Jones, who was hardly able to support himself, offered her his arm,
which she condescended to accept, but begged he would not mention a
word more to her of this nature at present. He promised he would not;
insisting only on her forgiveness of what love, without the leave of
his will, had forced from him: this, she told him, he knew how to
obtain by his future behaviour; and thus this young pair tottered and
trembled along, the lover not once daring to squeeze the hand of his
mistress, though it was locked in his.
Sophia immediately retired to her chamber, where Mrs Honour and the
hartshorn were summoned to her assistance. As to poor Jones, the only
relief to his distempered mind was an unwelcome piece of news, which,
as it opens a scene of different nature from those in which the reader
hath lately been conversant, will be communicated to him in the next
chapter.
Chapter vii.
In which Mr Allworthy appears on a sick-bed.
Mr Western was become so fond of Jones that he was unwilling to part
with him, though his arm had been long since cured; and Jones, either
from the love of sport, or from some other reason, was easily
persuaded to continue at his house, which he did sometimes for a
fortnight together without paying a single visit at Mr Allworthy's;
nay, without ever hearing from thence.
Mr Allworthy had been for some days indisposed with a cold, which had
been attended with a little fever. This he had, however, neglected; as
it was usual with him to do all manner of disorders which did not
confine him to his bed, or prevent his several faculties from
performing their ordinary functions;--a conduct which we would by no
means be thought to approve or recommend to imitation; for surely the
gentlemen of the Aesculapian art are in the right in advising, that
the moment the disease has entered at one door, the physician should
be introduced at the other: what else is meant by that old adage,
_Venienti occurrite morbo?_ "Oppose a distemper at its first
approach." Thus the doctor and the disease meet in fair and equal
conflict; whereas, by giving time to the latter, we often suffer him
to fortify and entrench himself, like a French army; so that the
learned gentleman finds it very difficult, and sometimes impossible,
to come at the enemy. Nay, sometimes by gaining time the disease
applies to the French military politics, and corrupts nature over to
his side, and then all the powers of physic must arrive too late.
Agreeable to these observations was, I remember, the complaint of the
great Doctor Misaubin, who used very pathetically to lament the late
applications which were made to his skill, saying, "Bygar, me believe
my pation take me for de undertaker, for dey never send for me till de
physicion have kill dem."
Mr Allworthy's distemper, by means of this neglect, gained such
ground, that, when the increase of his fever obliged him to send for
assistance, the doctor at his first arrival shook his head, wished he
had been sent for sooner, and intimated that he thought him in very
imminent danger. Mr Allworthy, who had settled all his affairs in this
world, and was as well prepared as it is possible for human nature to
be for the other, received this information with the utmost calmness
and unconcern. He could, indeed, whenever he laid himself down to
rest, say with Cato in the tragical poem--
Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them;
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.
In reality, he could say this with ten times more reason and
confidence than Cato, or any other proud fellow among the antient or
modern heroes; for he was not only devoid of fear, but might be
considered as a faithful labourer, when at the end of harvest he is
summoned to receive his reward at the hands of a bountiful master.
The good man gave immediate orders for all his family to be summoned
round him. None of these were then abroad, but Mrs Blifil, who had
been some time in London, and Mr Jones, whom the reader hath just
parted from at Mr Western's, and who received this summons just as
Sophia had left him.
The news of Mr Allworthy's danger (for the servant told him he was
dying) drove all thoughts of love out of his head. He hurried
instantly into the chariot which was sent for him, and ordered the
coachman to drive with all imaginable haste; nor did the idea of
Sophia, I believe, once occur to him on the way.
And now the whole family, namely, Mr Blifil, Mr Jones, Mr Thwackum, Mr
Square, and some of the servants (for such were Mr Allworthy's orders)
being all assembled round his bed, the good man sat up in it, and was
beginning to speak, when Blifil fell to blubbering, and began to
express very loud and bitter lamentations. Upon this Mr Allworthy
shook him by the hand, and said, "Do not sorrow thus, my dear nephew,
at the most ordinary of all human occurrences. When misfortunes befal
our friends we are justly grieved; for those are accidents which might
often have been avoided, and which may seem to render the lot of one
man more peculiarly unhappy than that of others; but death is
certainly unavoidable, and is that common lot in which alone the
fortunes of all men agree: nor is the time when this happens to us
very material. If the wisest of men hath compared life to a span,
surely we may be allowed to consider it as a day. It is my fate to
leave it in the evening; but those who are taken away earlier have
only lost a few hours, at the best little worth lamenting, and much
oftener hours of labour and fatigue, of pain and sorrow. One of the
Roman poets, I remember, likens our leaving life to our departure from
a feast;--a thought which hath often occurred to me when I have seen
men struggling to protract an entertainment, and to enjoy the company
of their friends a few moments longer. Alas! how short is the most
protracted of such enjoyments! how immaterial the difference between
him who retires the soonest, and him who stays the latest! This is
seeing life in the best view, and this unwillingness to quit our
friends is the most amiable motive from which we can derive the fear
of death; and yet the longest enjoyment which we can hope for of this
kind is of so trivial a duration, that it is to a wise man truly
contemptible. Few men, I own, think in this manner; for, indeed, few
men think of death till they are in its jaws. However gigantic and
terrible an object this may appear when it approaches them, they are
nevertheless incapable of seeing it at any distance; nay, though they
have been ever so much alarmed and frightened when they have
apprehended themselves in danger of dying, they are no sooner cleared
from this apprehension than even the fears of it are erased from their
minds. But, alas! he who escapes from death is not pardoned; he is
only reprieved, and reprieved to a short day.
"Grieve, therefore, no more, my dear child, on this occasion: an event
which may happen every hour; which every element, nay, almost every
particle of matter that surrounds us is capable of producing, and
which must and will most unavoidably reach us all at last, ought
neither to occasion our surprize nor our lamentation.
"My physician having acquainted me (which I take very kindly of him)
that I am in danger of leaving you all very shortly, I have determined
to say a few words to you at this our parting, before my distemper,
which I find grows very fast upon me, puts it out of my power.
"But I shall waste my strength too much. I intended to speak
concerning my will, which, though I have settled long ago, I think
proper to mention such heads of it as concern any of you, that I may
have the comfort of perceiving you are all satisfied with the
provision I have there made for you.
"Nephew Blifil, I leave you the heir to my whole estate, except only
L500 a-year, which is to revert to you after the death of your mother,
and except one other estate of L500 a-year, and the sum of L6000,
which I have bestowed in the following manner:
"The estate of L500 a-year I have given to you, Mr Jones: and as I
know the inconvenience which attends the want of ready money, I have
added L1000 in specie. In this I know not whether I have exceeded or
fallen short of your expectation. Perhaps you will think I have given
you too little, and the world will be as ready to condemn me for
giving you too much; but the latter censure I despise; and as to the
former, unless you should entertain that common error which I have
often heard in my life pleaded as an excuse for a total want of
charity, namely, that instead of raising gratitude by voluntary acts
of bounty, we are apt to raise demands, which of all others are the
most boundless and most difficult to satisfy.--Pardon me the bare
mention of this; I will not suspect any such thing."
Jones flung himself at his benefactor's feet, and taking eagerly hold
of his hand, assured him his goodness to him, both now and all other
times, had so infinitely exceeded not only his merit but his hopes,
that no words could express his sense of it. "And I assure you, sir,"
said he, "your present generosity hath left me no other concern than
for the present melancholy occasion. Oh, my friend, my father!" Here
his words choaked him, and he turned away to hide a tear which was
starting from his eyes.
Allworthy then gently squeezed his hand, and proceeded thus: "I am
convinced, my child, that you have much goodness, generosity, and
honour, in your temper: if you will add prudence and religion to
these, you must be happy; for the three former qualities, I admit,
make you worthy of happiness, but they are the latter only which will
put you in possession of it.
"One thousand pound I have given to you, Mr Thwackum; a sum I am
convinced which greatly exceeds your desires, as well as your wants.
However, you will receive it as a memorial of my friendship; and
whatever superfluities may redound to you, that piety which you so
rigidly maintain will instruct you how to dispose of them.
"A like sum, Mr Square, I have bequeathed to you. This, I hope, will
enable you to pursue your profession with better success than
hitherto. I have often observed with concern, that distress is more
apt to excite contempt than commiseration, especially among men of
business, with whom poverty is understood to indicate want of ability.
But the little I have been able to leave you will extricate you from
those difficulties with which you have formerly struggled; and then I
doubt not but you will meet with sufficient prosperity to supply what
a man of your philosophical temper will require.
"I find myself growing faint, so I shall refer you to my will for my
disposition of the residue. My servants will there find some tokens to
remember me by; and there are a few charities which, I trust, my
executors will see faithfully performed. Bless you all. I am setting
out a little before you."--
Here a footman came hastily into the room, and said there was an
attorney from Salisbury who had a particular message, which he said he
must communicate to Mr Allworthy himself: that he seemed in a violent
hurry, and protested he had so much business to do, that, if he could
cut himself into four quarters, all would not be sufficient.
"Go, child," said Allworthy to Blifil, "see what the gentleman wants.
I am not able to do any business now, nor can he have any with me, in
which you are not at present more concerned than myself. Besides, I
really am--I am incapable of seeing any one at present, or of any
longer attention." He then saluted them all, saying, perhaps he should
be able to see them again, but he should be now glad to compose
himself a little, finding that he had too much exhausted his spirits
in discourse.
Some of the company shed tears at their parting; and even the
philosopher Square wiped his eyes, albeit unused to the melting mood.
As to Mrs Wilkins, she dropt her pearls as fast as the Arabian trees
their medicinal gums; for this was a ceremonial which that gentlewoman
never omitted on a proper occasion.
After this Mr Allworthy again laid himself down on his pillow, and
endeavoured to compose himself to rest.
Chapter viii.
Containing matter rather natural than pleasing.
Besides grief for her master, there was another source for that briny
stream which so plentifully rose above the two mountainous cheek-bones
of the housekeeper. She was no sooner retired, than she began to
mutter to herself in the following pleasant strain: "Sure master might
have made some difference, methinks, between me and the other
servants. I suppose he hath left me mourning; but, i'fackins! if that
be all, the devil shall wear it for him, for me. I'd have his worship
know I am no beggar. I have saved five hundred pound in his service,
and after all to be used in this manner.--It is a fine encouragement
to servants to be honest; and to be sure, if I have taken a little
something now and then, others have taken ten times as much; and now
we are all put in a lump together. If so be that it be so, the legacy
may go to the devil with him that gave it. No, I won't give it up
neither, because that will please some folks. No, I'll buy the gayest
gown I can get, and dance over the old curmudgeon's grave in it. This
is my reward for taking his part so often, when all the country have
cried shame of him, for breeding up his bastard in that manner; but he
is going now where he must pay for all. It would have become him
better to have repented of his sins on his deathbed, than to glory in
them, and give away his estate out of his own family to a misbegotten
child. Found in his bed, forsooth! a pretty story! ay, ay, those that
hide know where to find. Lord forgive him! I warrant he hath many more
bastards to answer for, if the truth was known. One comfort is, they
will all be known where he is a going now.--`The servants will find
some token to remember me by.' Those were the very words; I shall
never forget them, if I was to live a thousand years. Ay, ay, I shall
remember you for huddling me among the servants. One would have
thought he might have mentioned my name as well as that of Square; but
he is a gentleman forsooth, though he had not cloths on his back when
he came hither first. Marry come up with such gentlemen! though he
hath lived here this many years, I don't believe there is arrow a
servant in the house ever saw the colour of his money. The devil shall
wait upon such a gentleman for me." Much more of the like kind she
muttered to herself; but this taste shall suffice to the reader.
Neither Thwackum nor Square were much better satisfied with their
legacies. Though they breathed not their resentment so loud, yet from
the discontent which appeared in their countenances, as well as from
the following dialogue, we collect that no great pleasure reigned in
their minds.
About an hour after they had left the sick-room, Square met Thwackum
in the hall and accosted him thus: "Well, sir, have you heard any news
of your friend since we parted from him?"--"If you mean Mr Allworthy,"
answered Thwackum, "I think you might rather give him the appellation
of your friend; for he seems to me to have deserved that title."--"The
title is as good on your side," replied Square, "for his bounty, such
as it is, hath been equal to both."--"I should not have mentioned it
first," cries Thwackum, "but since you begin, I must inform you I am
of a different opinion. There is a wide distinction between voluntary
favours and rewards. The duty I have done in his family, and the care
I have taken in the education of his two boys, are services for which
some men might have expected a greater return. I would not have you
imagine I am therefore dissatisfied; for St Paul hath taught me to
be content with the little I have. Had the modicum been less, I
should have known my duty. But though the Scriptures obliges me to
remain contented, it doth not enjoin me to shut my eyes to my own
merit, nor restrain me from seeing when I am injured by an unjust
comparison."--"Since you provoke me," returned Square, "that injury is
done to me; nor did I ever imagine Mr Allworthy had held my friendship
so light, as to put me in balance with one who received his wages. I
know to what it is owing; it proceeds from those narrow principles
which you have been so long endeavouring to infuse into him, in
contempt of everything which is great and noble. The beauty and
loveliness of friendship is too strong for dim eyes, nor can it be
perceived by any other medium than that unerring rule of right, which
you have so often endeavoured to ridicule, that you have perverted
your friend's understanding."--"I wish," cries Thwackum, in a rage, "I
wish, for the sake of his soul, your damnable doctrines have not
perverted his faith. It is to this I impute his present behaviour, so
unbecoming a Christian. Who but an atheist could think of leaving the
world without having first made up his account? without confessing his
sins, and receiving that absolution which he knew he had one in the
house duly authorized to give him? He will feel the want of these
necessaries when it is too late, when he is arrived at that place
where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. It is then he will find
in what mighty stead that heathen goddess, that virtue, which you and
all other deists of the age adore, will stand him. He will then summon
his priest, when there is none to be found, and will lament the want
of that absolution, without which no sinner can be safe."--"If it be
so material," says Square, "why don't you present it him of your own
accord?" "It hath no virtue," cries Thwackum, "but to those who have
sufficient grace to require it. But why do I talk thus to a heathen
and an unbeliever? It is you that taught him this lesson, for which
you have been well rewarded in this world, as I doubt not your
disciple will soon be in the other."--"I know not what you mean by
reward," said Square; "but if you hint at that pitiful memorial of our
friendship, which he hath thought fit to bequeath me, I despise it;
and nothing but the unfortunate situation of my circumstances should
prevail on me to accept it."
The physician now arrived, and began to inquire of the two disputants,
how we all did above-stairs? "In a miserable way," answered Thwackum.
"It is no more than I expected," cries the doctor: "but pray what
symptoms have appeared since I left you?"--"No good ones, I am
afraid," replied Thwackum: "after what past at our departure, I think
there were little hopes." The bodily physician, perhaps, misunderstood
the curer of souls; and before they came to an explanation, Mr Blifil
came to them with a most melancholy countenance, and acquainted them
that he brought sad news, that his mother was dead at Salisbury; that
she had been seized on the road home with the gout in her head and
stomach, which had carried her off in a few hours. "Good-lack-a-day!"
says the doctor. "One cannot answer for events; but I wish I had been
at hand, to have been called in. The gout is a distemper which it is
difficult to treat; yet I have been remarkably successful in it."
Thwackum and Square both condoled with Mr Blifil for the loss of his
mother, which the one advised him to bear like a man, and the other
like a Christian. The young gentleman said he knew very well we were
all mortal, and he would endeavour to submit to his loss as well as he
could. That he could not, however, help complaining a little against
the peculiar severity of his fate, which brought the news of so great
a calamity to him by surprize, and that at a time when he hourly
expected the severest blow he was capable of feeling from the malice
of fortune. He said, the present occasion would put to the test those
excellent rudiments which he had learnt from Mr Thwackum and Mr
Square; and it would be entirely owing to them, if he was enabled to
survive such misfortunes.
It was now debated whether Mr Allworthy should be informed of the
death of his sister. This the doctor violently opposed; in which, I
believe, the whole college would agree with him: but Mr Blifil said,
he had received such positive and repeated orders from his uncle,
never to keep any secret from him for fear of the disquietude which it
might give him, that he durst not think of disobedience, whatever
might be the consequence. He said, for his part, considering the
religious and philosophic temper of his uncle, he could not agree with
the doctor in his apprehensions. He was therefore resolved to
communicate it to him: for if his uncle recovered (as he heartily
prayed he might) he knew he would never forgive an endeavour to keep a
secret of this kind from him.
The physician was forced to submit to these resolutions, which the two
other learned gentlemen very highly commended. So together moved Mr
Blifil and the doctor toward the sick-room; where the physician first
entered, and approached the bed, in order to feel his patient's pulse,
which he had no sooner done, than he declared he was much better; that
the last application had succeeded to a miracle, and had brought the
fever to intermit: so that, he said, there appeared now to be as
little danger as he had before apprehended there were hopes.
To say the truth, Mr Allworthy's situation had never been so bad as
the great caution of the doctor had represented it: but as a wise
general never despises his enemy, however inferior that enemy's force
may be, so neither doth a wise physician ever despise a distemper,
however inconsiderable. As the former preserves the same strict
discipline, places the same guards, and employs the same scouts,
though the enemy be never so weak; so the latter maintains the same
gravity of countenance, and shakes his head with the same significant
air, let the distemper be never so trifling. And both, among many
other good ones, may assign this solid reason for their conduct, that
by these means the greater glory redounds to them if they gain the
victory, and the less disgrace if by any unlucky accident they should
happen to be conquered.
Mr Allworthy had no sooner lifted up his eyes, and thanked Heaven for
these hopes of his recovery, than Mr Blifil drew near, with a very
dejected aspect, and having applied his handkerchief to his eye,
either to wipe away his tears, or to do as Ovid somewhere expresses
himself on another occasion
_Si nullus erit, tamen excute nullum,_
If there be none, then wipe away that none,
he communicated to his uncle what the reader hath been just before
acquainted with.
Allworthy received the news with concern, with patience, and with
resignation. He dropt a tender tear, then composed his countenance,
and at last cried, "The Lord's will be done in everything."
He now enquired for the messenger; but Blifil told him it had been
impossible to detain him a moment; for he appeared by the great hurry
he was in to have some business of importance on his hands; that he
complained of being hurried and driven and torn out of his life, and
repeated many times, that if he could divide himself into four
quarters, he knew how to dispose of every one.
Allworthy then desired Blifil to take care of the funeral. He said, he
would have his sister deposited in his own chapel; and as to the
particulars, he left them to his own discretion, only mentioning the
person whom he would have employed on this occasion.
Chapter ix.
Which, among other things, may serve as a comment on that saying of
Aeschines, that "drunkenness shows the mind of a man, as a mirrour
reflects his person."
The reader may perhaps wonder at hearing nothing of Mr Jones in the
last chapter. In fact, his behaviour was so different from that of the
persons there mentioned, that we chose not to confound his name with
theirs.
When the good man had ended his speech, Jones was the last who
deserted the room. Thence he retired to his own apartment, to give
vent to his concern; but the restlessness of his mind would not suffer
him to remain long there; he slipped softly therefore to Allworthy's
chamber-door, where he listened a considerable time without hearing
any kind of motion within, unless a violent snoring, which at last his
fears misrepresented as groans. This so alarmed him, that he could not
forbear entering the room; where he found the good man in the bed, in
a sweet composed sleep, and his nurse snoring in the above mentioned
hearty manner, at the bed's feet. He immediately took the only method
of silencing this thorough bass, whose music he feared might disturb
Mr Allworthy; and then sitting down by the nurse, he remained
motionless till Blifil and the doctor came in together and waked the
sick man, in order that the doctor might feel his pulse, and that the
other might communicate to him that piece of news, which, had Jones
been apprized of it, would have had great difficulty of finding its
way to Mr Allworthy's ear at such a season.
When he first heard Blifil tell his uncle this story, Jones could
hardly contain the wrath which kindled in him at the other's
indiscretion, especially as the doctor shook his head, and declared
his unwillingness to have the matter mentioned to his patient. But as
his passion did not so far deprive him of all use of his
understanding, as to hide from him the consequences which any violent
expression towards Blifil might have on the sick, this apprehension
stilled his rage at the present; and he grew afterwards so satisfied
with finding that this news had, in fact, produced no mischief, that
he suffered his anger to die in his own bosom, without ever mentioning
it to Blifil.
The physician dined that day at Mr Allworthy's; and having after
dinner visited his patient, he returned to the company, and told them,
that he had now the satisfaction to say, with assurance, that his
patient was out of all danger: that he had brought his fever to a
perfect intermission, and doubted not by throwing in the bark to
prevent its return.
This account so pleased Jones, and threw him into such immoderate
excess of rapture, that he might be truly said to be drunk with
joy--an intoxication which greatly forwards the effects of wine; and
as he was very free too with the bottle on this occasion (for he drank
many bumpers to the doctor's health, as well as to other toasts) he
became very soon literally drunk.
Jones had naturally violent animal spirits: these being set on float
and augmented by the spirit of wine, produced most extravagant
effects. He kissed the doctor, and embraced him with the most
passionate endearments; swearing that next to Mr Allworthy himself, he
loved him of all men living. "Doctor," added he, "you deserve a statue
to be erected to you at the public expense, for having preserved a
man, who is not only the darling of all good men who know him, but a
blessing to society, the glory of his country, and an honour to human
nature. D--n me if I don't love him better than my own soul."
"More shame for you," cries Thwackum. "Though I think you have reason
to love him, for he hath provided very well for you. And perhaps it
might have been better for some folks that he had not lived to see
just reason of revoking his gift."
Jones now looking on Thwackum with inconceivable disdain, answered,
"And doth thy mean soul imagine that any such considerations could
weigh with me? No, let the earth open and swallow her own dirt (if I
had millions of acres I would say it) rather than swallow up my dear
glorious friend."
_Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam chari capitis?_[*]
[*] "What modesty or measure can set bounds to our desire of so dear
a friend?" The word _desiderium_ here cannot be easily translated.
It includes our desire of enjoying our friend again, and the grief
which attends that desire.
The doctor now interposed, and prevented the effects of a wrath which
was kindling between Jones and Thwackum; after which the former gave a
loose to mirth, sang two or three amorous songs, and fell into every
frantic disorder which unbridled joy is apt to inspire; but so far was
he from any disposition to quarrel, that he was ten times better
humoured, if possible, than when he was sober.
To say truth, nothing is more erroneous than the common observation,
that men who are ill-natured and quarrelsome when they are drunk, are
very worthy persons when they are sober: for drink, in reality, doth
not reverse nature, or create passions in men which did not exist in
them before. It takes away the guard of reason, and consequently
forces us to produce those symptoms, which many, when sober, have art
enough to conceal. It heightens and inflames our passions (generally
indeed that passion which is uppermost in our mind), so that the angry
temper, the amorous, the generous, the good-humoured, the avaricious,
and all other dispositions of men, are in their cups heightened and
exposed.
And yet as no nation produces so many drunken quarrels, especially
among the lower people, as England (for indeed, with them, to drink
and to fight together are almost synonymous terms), I would not,
methinks, have it thence concluded, that the English are the
worst-natured people alive. Perhaps the love of glory only is at the
bottom of this; so that the fair conclusion seems to be, that our
countrymen have more of that love, and more of bravery, than any other
plebeians. And this the rather, as there is seldom anything
ungenerous, unfair, or ill-natured, exercised on these occasions: nay,
it is common for the combatants to express good-will for each other
even at the time of the conflict; and as their drunken mirth generally
ends in a battle, so do most of their battles end in friendship.
But to return to our history. Though Jones had shown no design of
giving offence, yet Mr Blifil was highly offended at a behaviour which
was so inconsistent with the sober and prudent reserve of his own
temper. He bore it too with the greater impatience, as it appeared to
him very indecent at this season; "When," as he said, "the house was a
house of mourning, on the account of his dear mother; and if it had
pleased Heaven to give him some prospect of Mr Allworthy's recovery,
it would become them better to express the exultations of their hearts
in thanksgiving, than in drunkenness and riots; which were properer
methods to encrease the Divine wrath, than to avert it." Thwackum, who
had swallowed more liquor than Jones, but without any ill effect on
his brain, seconded the pious harangue of Blifil; but Square, for
reasons which the reader may probably guess, was totally silent.
Wine had not so totally overpowered Jones, as to prevent his
recollecting Mr Blifil's loss, the moment it was mentioned. As no
person, therefore, was more ready to confess and condemn his own
errors, he offered to shake Mr Blifil by the hand, and begged his
pardon, saying, "His excessive joy for Mr Allworthy's recovery had
driven every other thought out of his mind."
Blifil scornfully rejected his hand; and with much indignation
answered, "It was little to be wondered at, if tragical spectacles
made no impression on the blind; but, for his part, he had the
misfortune to know who his parents were, and consequently must be
affected with their loss."
Jones, who, notwithstanding his good humour, had some mixture of the
irascible in his constitution, leaped hastily from his chair, and
catching hold of Blifil's collar, cried out, "D--n you for a rascal,
do you insult me with the misfortune of my birth?" He accompanied
these words with such rough actions, that they soon got the better of
Mr Blifil's peaceful temper; and a scuffle immediately ensued, which
might have produced mischief, had it not been prevented by the
interposition of Thwackum and the physician; for the philosophy of
Square rendered him superior to all emotions, and he very calmly
smoaked his pipe, as was his custom in all broils, unless when he
apprehended some danger of having it broke in his mouth.
The combatants being now prevented from executing present vengeance on
each other, betook themselves to the common resources of disappointed
rage, and vented their wrath in threats and defiance. In this kind of
conflict, Fortune, which, in the personal attack, seemed to incline to
Jones, was now altogether as favourable to his enemy.
A truce, nevertheless, was at length agreed on, by the mediation of
the neutral parties, and the whole company again sat down at the
table; where Jones being prevailed on to ask pardon, and Blifil to
give it, peace was restored, and everything seemed _in statu quo_.
But though the quarrel was, in all appearance, perfectly reconciled,
the good humour which had been interrupted by it, was by no means
restored. All merriment was now at an end, and the subsequent
discourse consisted only of grave relations of matters of fact, and of
as grave observations upon them; a species of conversation, in which,
though there is much of dignity and instruction, there is but little
entertainment. As we presume therefore to convey only this last to the
reader, we shall pass by whatever was said, till the rest of the
company having by degrees dropped off, left only Square and the
physician together; at which time the conversation was a little
heightened by some comments on what had happened between the two young
gentlemen; both of whom the doctor declared to be no better than
scoundrels; to which appellation the philosopher, very sagaciously
shaking his head, agreed.
Chapter x.
Showing the truth of many observations of Ovid, and of other more
grave writers, who have proved beyond contradiction, that wine is
often the forerunner of incontinency.
Jones retired from the company, in which we have seen him engaged,
into the fields, where he intended to cool himself by a walk in the
open air before he attended Mr Allworthy. There, whilst he renewed
those meditations on his dear Sophia, which the dangerous illness of
his friend and benefactor had for some time interrupted, an accident
happened, which with sorrow we relate, and with sorrow doubtless will
it be read; however, that historic truth to which we profess so
inviolable an attachment, obliges us to communicate it to posterity.
It was now a pleasant evening in the latter end of June, when our
heroe was walking in a most delicious grove, where the gentle breezes
fanning the leaves, together with the sweet trilling of a murmuring
stream, and the melodious notes of nightingales, formed altogether the
most enchanting harmony. In this scene, so sweetly accommodated to
love, he meditated on his dear Sophia. While his wanton fancy roamed
unbounded over all her beauties, and his lively imagination painted
the charming maid in various ravishing forms, his warm heart melted
with tenderness; and at length, throwing himself on the ground, by the
side of a gently murmuring brook, he broke forth into the following
ejaculation:
"O Sophia, would Heaven give thee to my arms, how blest would be my
condition! Curst be that fortune which sets a distance between us. Was
I but possessed of thee, one only suit of rags thy whole estate, is
there a man on earth whom I would envy! How contemptible would the
brightest Circassian beauty, drest in all the jewels of the Indies,
appear to my eyes! But why do I mention another woman? Could I think
my eyes capable of looking at any other with tenderness, these hands
should tear them from my head. No, my Sophia, if cruel fortune
separates us for ever, my soul shall doat on thee alone. The chastest
constancy will I ever preserve to thy image. Though I should never
have possession of thy charming person, still shalt thou alone have
possession of my thoughts, my love, my soul. Oh! my fond heart is so
wrapt in that tender bosom, that the brightest beauties would for me
have no charms, nor would a hermit be colder in their embraces.
Sophia, Sophia alone shall be mine. What raptures are in that name! I
will engrave it on every tree."
At these words he started up, and beheld--not his Sophia--no, nor a
Circassian maid richly and elegantly attired for the grand Signior's
seraglio. No; without a gown, in a shift that was somewhat of the
coarsest, and none of the cleanest, bedewed likewise with some
odoriferous effluvia, the produce of the day's labour, with a
pitchfork in her hand, Molly Seagrim approached. Our hero had his
penknife in his hand, which he had drawn for the before-mentioned
purpose of carving on the bark; when the girl coming near him, cryed
out with a smile, "You don't intend to kill me, squire, I hope!"--"Why
should you think I would kill you?" answered Jones. "Nay," replied
she, "after your cruel usage of me when I saw you last, killing me
would, perhaps, be too great kindness for me to expect."
Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not think myself obliged to
relate it, I shall omit. It is sufficient that it lasted a full
quarter of an hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into the
thickest part of the grove.
Some of my readers may be inclined to think this event unnatural.
However, the fact is true; and perhaps may be sufficiently accounted
for by suggesting, that Jones probably thought one woman better than
none, and Molly as probably imagined two men to be better than one.
Besides the before-mentioned motive assigned to the present behaviour
of Jones, the reader will be likewise pleased to recollect in his
favour, that he was not at this time perfect master of that wonderful
power of reason, which so well enables grave and wise men to subdue
their unruly passions, and to decline any of these prohibited
amusements. Wine now had totally subdued this power in Jones. He was,
indeed, in a condition, in which, if reason had interposed, though
only to advise, she might have received the answer which one
Cleostratus gave many years ago to a silly fellow, who asked him, if
he was not ashamed to be drunk? "Are not you," said Cleostratus,
"ashamed to admonish a drunken man?"--To say the truth, in a court of
justice drunkenness must not be an excuse, yet in a court of
conscience it is greatly so; and therefore Aristotle, who commends the
laws of Pittacus, by which drunken men received double punishment for
their crimes, allows there is more of policy than justice in that law.
Now, if there are any transgressions pardonable from drunkenness, they
are certainly such as Mr Jones was at present guilty of; on which head
I could pour forth a vast profusion of learning, if I imagined it
would either entertain my reader, or teach him anything more than he
knows already. For his sake therefore I shall keep my learning to
myself, and return to my history.
It hath been observed, that Fortune seldom doth things by halves. To
say truth, there is no end to her freaks whenever she is disposed to
gratify or displease. No sooner had our heroe retired with his Dido,
but
_Speluncam_ Blifil _dux et divinus eandem
Deveniunt--_
the parson and the young squire, who were taking a serious walk,
arrived at the stile which leads into the grove, and the latter caught
a view of the lovers just as they were sinking out of sight.
Blifil knew Jones very well, though he was at above a hundred yards'
distance, and he was as positive to the sex of his companion, though
not to the individual person. He started, blessed himself, and uttered
a very solemn ejaculation.
Thwackum expressed some surprize at these sudden emotions, and asked
the reason of them. To which Blifil answered, "He was certain he had
seen a fellow and wench retire together among the bushes, which he
doubted not was with some wicked purpose." As to the name of Jones, he
thought proper to conceal it, and why he did so must be left to the
judgment of the sagacious reader; for we never chuse to assign motives
to the actions of men, when there is any possibility of our being
mistaken.
The parson, who was not only strictly chaste in his own person, but a
great enemy to the opposite vice in all others, fired at this
information. He desired Mr Blifil to conduct him immediately to the
place, which as he approached he breathed forth vengeance mixed with
lamentations; nor did he refrain from casting some oblique reflections
on Mr Allworthy; insinuating that the wickedness of the country was
principally owing to the encouragement he had given to vice, by having
exerted such kindness to a bastard, and by having mitigated that just
and wholesome rigour of the law which allots a very severe punishment
to loose wenches.
The way through which our hunters were to pass in pursuit of their
game was so beset with briars, that it greatly obstructed their walk,
and caused besides such a rustling, that Jones had sufficient warning
of their arrival before they could surprize him; nay, indeed, so
incapable was Thwackum of concealing his indignation, and such
vengeance did he mutter forth every step he took, that this alone must
have abundantly satisfied Jones that he was (to use the language of
sportsmen) found sitting.
Chapter xi.
In which a simile in Mr Pope's period of a mile introduces as bloody a
battle as can possibly be fought without the assistance of steel or
cold iron.
As in the season of _rutting_ (an uncouth phrase, by which the vulgar
denote that gentle dalliance, which in the well-wooded[*] forest of
Hampshire, passes between lovers of the ferine kind), if, while the
lofty-crested stag meditates the amorous sport, a couple of puppies,
or any other beasts of hostile note, should wander so near the temple
of Venus Ferina that the fair hind should shrink from the place,
touched with that somewhat, either of fear or frolic, of nicety or
skittishness, with which nature hath bedecked all females, or hath at
least instructed them how to put it on; lest, through the indelicacy
of males, the Samean mysteries should be pryed into by unhallowed
eyes: for, at the celebration of these rites, the female priestess
cries out with her in Virgil (who was then, probably, hard at work on
such celebration),
_--Procul, o procul este, profani;
Proclamat vates, totoque absistite luco._
--Far hence be souls profane,
The sibyl cry'd, and from the grove abstain.--DRYDEN.
[*] This is an ambiguous phrase, and may mean either a forest well
cloathed with wood, or well stript of it.
If, I say, while these sacred rites, which are in common to _genus
omne animantium,_ are in agitation between the stag and his mistress,
any hostile beasts should venture too near, on the first hint given by
the frighted hind, fierce and tremendous rushes forth the stag to the
entrance of the thicket; there stands he centinel over his love,
stamps the ground with his foot, and with his horns brandished aloft
in air, proudly provokes the apprehended foe to combat.
Thus, and more terrible, when he perceived the enemy's approach,
leaped forth our heroe. Many a step advanced he forwards, in order to
conceal the trembling hind, and, if possible, to secure her retreat.
And now Thwackum, having first darted some livid lightning from his
fiery eyes, began to thunder forth, "Fie upon it! Fie upon it! Mr
Jones. Is it possible you should be the person?"--"You see," answered
Jones, "it is possible I should be here."--"And who," said Thwackum,
"is that wicked slut with you?"--"If I have any wicked slut with me,"
cries Jones, "it is possible I shall not let you know who she is."--"I
command you to tell me immediately," says Thwackum: "and I would not
have you imagine, young man, that your age, though it hath somewhat
abridged the purpose of tuition, hath totally taken away the authority
of the master. The relation of the master and scholar is indelible;
as, indeed, all other relations are; for they all derive their
original from heaven. I would have you think yourself, therefore, as
much obliged to obey me now, as when I taught you your first
rudiments."--"I believe you would," cries Jones; "but that will not
happen, unless you had the same birchen argument to convince
me."--"Then I must tell you plainly," said Thwackum, "I am resolved to
discover the wicked wretch."--"And I must tell you plainly," returned
Jones, "I am resolved you shall not." Thwackum then offered to
advance, and Jones laid hold of his arms; which Mr Blifil endeavoured
to rescue, declaring, "he would not see his old master insulted."
Jones now finding himself engaged with two, thought it necessary to
rid himself of one of his antagonists as soon as possible. He
therefore applied to the weakest first; and, letting the parson go, he
directed a blow at the young squire's breast, which luckily taking
place, reduced him to measure his length on the ground.
Thwackum was so intent on the discovery, that, the moment he found
himself at liberty, he stept forward directly into the fern, without
any great consideration of what might in the meantime befal his
friend; but he had advanced a very few paces into the thicket, before
Jones, having defeated Blifil, overtook the parson, and dragged him
backward by the skirt of his coat.
This parson had been a champion in his youth, and had won much honour
by his fist, both at school and at the university. He had now indeed,
for a great number of years, declined the practice of that noble art;
yet was his courage full as strong as his faith, and his body no less
strong than either. He was moreover, as the reader may perhaps have
conceived, somewhat irascible in his nature. When he looked back,
therefore, and saw his friend stretched out on the ground, and found
himself at the same time so roughly handled by one who had formerly
been only passive in all conflicts between them (a circumstance which
highly aggravated the whole), his patience at length gave way; he
threw himself into a posture of offence; and collecting all his force,
attacked Jones in the front with as much impetuosity as he had
formerly attacked him in the rear.
Our heroe received the enemy's attack with the most undaunted
intrepidity, and his bosom resounded with the blow. This he presently
returned with no less violence, aiming likewise at the parson's
breast; but he dexterously drove down the fist of Jones, so that it
reached only his belly, where two pounds of beef and as many of
pudding were then deposited, and whence consequently no hollow sound
could proceed. Many lusty blows, much more pleasant as well as easy to
have seen, than to read or describe, were given on both sides: at last
a violent fall, in which Jones had thrown his knees into Thwackum's
breast, so weakened the latter, that victory had been no longer
dubious, had not Blifil, who had now recovered his strength, again
renewed the fight, and by engaging with Jones, given the parson a
moment's time to shake his ears, and to regain his breath.
And now both together attacked our heroe, whose blows did not retain
that force with which they had fallen at first, so weakened was he by
his combat with Thwackum; for though the pedagogue chose rather to
play _solos_ on the human instrument, and had been lately used to
those only, yet he still retained enough of his antient knowledge to
perform his part very well in a _duet_.
The victory, according to modern custom, was like to be decided by
numbers, when, on a sudden, a fourth pair of fists appeared in the
battle, and immediately paid their compliments to the parson; and the
owner of them at the same time crying out, "Are not you ashamed, and
be d--n'd to you, to fall two of you upon one?"
The battle, which was of the kind that for distinction's sake is
called royal, now raged with the utmost violence during a few minutes;
till Blifil being a second time laid sprawling by Jones, Thwackum
condescended to apply for quarter to his new antagonist, who was now
found to be Mr Western himself; for in the heat of the action none of
the combatants had recognized him.
In fact, that honest squire, happening, in his afternoon's walk with
some company, to pass through the field where the bloody battle was
fought, and having concluded, from seeing three men engaged, that two
of them must be on a side, he hastened from his companions, and with
more gallantry than policy, espoused the cause of the weaker party. By
which generous proceeding he very probably prevented Mr Jones from
becoming a victim to the wrath of Thwackum, and to the pious
friendship which Blifil bore his old master; for, besides the
disadvantage of such odds, Jones had not yet sufficiently recovered
the former strength of his broken arm. This reinforcement, however,
soon put an end to the action, and Jones with his ally obtained the
victory.
Chapter xii.
In which is seen a more moving spectacle than all the blood in the
bodies of Thwackum and Blifil, and of twenty other such, is capable of
producing.
The rest of Mr Western's company were now come up, being just at the
instant when the action was over. These were the honest clergyman,
whom we have formerly seen at Mr Western's table; Mrs Western, the
aunt of Sophia; and lastly, the lovely Sophia herself.
At this time, the following was the aspect of the bloody field. In one
place lay on the ground, all pale, and almost breathless, the
vanquished Blifil. Near him stood the conqueror Jones, almost covered
with blood, part of which was naturally his own, and part had been
lately the property of the Reverend Mr Thwackum. In a third place
stood the said Thwackum, like King Porus, sullenly submitting to the
conqueror. The last figure in the piece was Western the Great, most
gloriously forbearing the vanquished foe.
Blifil, in whom there was little sign of life, was at first the
principal object of the concern of every one, and particularly of Mrs
Western, who had drawn from her pocket a bottle of hartshorn, and was
herself about to apply it to his nostrils, when on a sudden the
attention of the whole company was diverted from poor Blifil, whose
spirit, if it had any such design, might have now taken an opportunity
of stealing off to the other world, without any ceremony.
For now a more melancholy and a more lovely object lay motionless
before them. This was no other than the charming Sophia herself, who,
from the sight of blood, or from fear for her father, or from some
other reason, had fallen down in a swoon, before any one could get to
her assistance.
Mrs Western first saw her and screamed. Immediately two or three
voices cried out, "Miss Western is dead." Hartshorn, water, every
remedy was called for, almost at one and the same instant.
The reader may remember, that in our description of this grove we
mentioned a murmuring brook, which brook did not come there, as such
gentle streams flow through vulgar romances, with no other purpose
than to murmur. No! Fortune had decreed to ennoble this little brook
with a higher honour than any of those which wash the plains of
Arcadia ever deserved.
Jones was rubbing Blifil's temples, for he began to fear he had given
him a blow too much, when the words, Miss Western and Dead, rushed at
once on his ear. He started up, left Blifil to his fate, and flew to
Sophia, whom, while all the rest were running against each other,
backward and forward, looking for water in the dry paths, he caught up
in his arms, and then ran away with her over the field to the rivulet
above mentioned; where, plunging himself into the water, he contrived
to besprinkle her face, head, and neck very plentifully.
Happy was it for Sophia that the same confusion which prevented her
other friends from serving her, prevented them likewise from
obstructing Jones. He had carried her half ways before they knew what
he was doing, and he had actually restored her to life before they
reached the waterside. She stretched out her arms, opened her eyes,
and cried, "Oh! heavens!" just as her father, aunt, and the parson
came up.
Jones, who had hitherto held this lovely burthen in his arms, now
relinquished his hold; but gave her at the same instant a tender
caress, which, had her senses been then perfectly restored, could not
have escaped her observation. As she expressed, therefore, no
displeasure at this freedom, we suppose she was not sufficiently
recovered from her swoon at the time.
This tragical scene was now converted into a sudden scene of joy. In
this our heroe was certainly the principal character; for as he
probably felt more ecstatic delight in having saved Sophia than she
herself received from being saved, so neither were the congratulations
paid to her equal to what were conferred on Jones, especially by Mr
Western himself, who, after having once or twice embraced his
daughter, fell to hugging and kissing Jones. He called him the
preserver of Sophia, and declared there was nothing, except her, or
his estate, which he would not give him; but upon recollection, he
afterwards excepted his fox-hounds, the Chevalier, and Miss Slouch
(for so he called his favourite mare).
All fears for Sophia being now removed, Jones became the object of the
squire's consideration.--"Come, my lad," says Western, "d'off thy
quoat and wash thy feace; for att in a devilish pickle, I promise
thee. Come, come, wash thyself, and shat go huome with me; and we'l
zee to vind thee another quoat."
Jones immediately complied, threw off his coat, went down to the
water, and washed both his face and bosom; for the latter was as much
exposed and as bloody as the former. But though the water could clear
off the blood, it could not remove the black and blue marks which
Thwackum had imprinted on both his face and breast, and which, being
discerned by Sophia, drew from her a sigh and a look full of
inexpressible tenderness.
Jones received this full in his eyes, and it had infinitely a stronger
effect on him than all the contusions which he had received before. An
effect, however, widely different; for so soft and balmy was it, that,
had all his former blows been stabs, it would for some minutes have
prevented his feeling their smart.
The company now moved backwards, and soon arrived where Thwackum had
got Mr Blifil again on his legs. Here we cannot suppress a pious wish,
that all quarrels were to be decided by those weapons only with which
Nature, knowing what is proper for us, hath supplied us; and that cold
iron was to be used in digging no bowels but those of the earth. Then
would war, the pastime of monarchs, be almost inoffensive, and battles
between great armies might be fought at the particular desire of
several ladies of quality; who, together with the kings themselves,
might be actual spectators of the conflict. Then might the field be
this moment well strewed with human carcasses, and the next, the dead
men, or infinitely the greatest part of them, might get up, like Mr
Bayes's troops, and march off either at the sound of a drum or fiddle,
as should be previously agreed on.
I would avoid, if possible, treating this matter ludicrously, lest
grave men and politicians, whom I know to be offended at a jest, may
cry pish at it; but, in reality, might not a battle be as well decided
by the greater number of broken heads, bloody noses, and black eyes,
as by the greater heaps of mangled and murdered human bodies? Might
not towns be contended for in the same manner? Indeed, this may be
thought too detrimental a scheme to the French interest, since they
would thus lose the advantage they have over other nations in the
superiority of their engineers; but when I consider the gallantry and
generosity of that people, I am persuaded they would never decline
putting themselves upon a par with their adversary; or, as the phrase
is, making themselves his match.
But such reformations are rather to be wished than hoped for: I shall
content myself, therefore, with this short hint, and return to my
narrative.
Western began now to inquire into the original rise of this quarrel.
To which neither Blifil nor Jones gave any answer; but Thwackum said
surlily, "I believe the cause is not far off; if you beat the bushes
well you may find her."--"Find her?" replied Western: "what! have you
been fighting for a wench?"--"Ask the gentleman in his waistcoat
there," said Thwackum: "he best knows." "Nay then," cries Western, "it
is a wench certainly.--Ah, Tom, Tom, thou art a liquorish dog. But
come, gentlemen, be all friends, and go home with me, and make final
peace over a bottle." "I ask your pardon, sir," says Thwackum: "it is
no such slight matter for a man of my character to be thus injuriously
treated, and buffeted by a boy, only because I would have done my
duty, in endeavouring to detect and bring to justice a wanton harlot;
but, indeed, the principal fault lies in Mr Allworthy and yourself;
for if you put the laws in execution, as you ought to do, you will
soon rid the country of these vermin."
"I would as soon rid the country of foxes," cries Western. "I think we
ought to encourage the recruiting those numbers which we are every day
losing in the war.--But where is she? Prithee, Tom, show me." He then
began to beat about, in the same language and in the same manner as if
he had been beating for a hare; and at last cried out, "Soho! Puss is
not far off. Here's her form, upon my soul; I believe I may cry stole
away." And indeed so he might; for he had now discovered the place
whence the poor girl had, at the beginning of the fray, stolen away,
upon as many feet as a hare generally uses in travelling.
Sophia now desired her father to return home; saying she found herself
very faint, and apprehended a relapse. The squire immediately complied
with his daughter's request (for he was the fondest of parents). He
earnestly endeavoured to prevail with the whole company to go and sup
with him: but Blifil and Thwackum absolutely refused; the former
saying, there were more reasons than he could then mention, why he
must decline this honour; and the latter declaring (perhaps rightly)
that it was not proper for a person of his function to be seen at any
place in his present condition.
Jones was incapable of refusing the pleasure of being with his Sophia;
so on he marched with Squire Western and his ladies, the parson
bringing up the rear. This had, indeed, offered to tarry with his
brother Thwackum, professing his regard for the cloth would not permit
him to depart; but Thwackum would not accept the favour, and, with no
great civility, pushed him after Mr Western.
Thus ended this bloody fray; and thus shall end the fifth book of this
history.
BOOK VI.
CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS.
Chapter i.
Of love.
In our last book we have been obliged to deal pretty much with the
passion of love; and in our succeeding book shall be forced to handle
this subject still more largely. It may not therefore in this place be
improper to apply ourselves to the examination of that modern
doctrine, by which certain philosophers, among many other wonderful
discoveries, pretend to have found out, that there is no such passion
in the human breast.
Whether these philosophers be the same with that surprising sect, who
are honourably mentioned by the late Dr Swift, as having, by the mere
force of genius alone, without the least assistance of any kind of
learning, or even reading, discovered that profound and invaluable
secret that there is no God; or whether they are not rather the same
with those who some years since very much alarmed the world, by
showing that there were no such things as virtue or goodness really
existing in human nature, and who deduced our best actions from pride,
I will not here presume to determine. In reality, I am inclined to
suspect, that all these several finders of truth, are the very
identical men who are by others called the finders of gold. The method
used in both these searches after truth and after gold, being indeed
one and the same, viz., the searching, rummaging, and examining into a
nasty place; indeed, in the former instances, into the nastiest of all
places, A BAD MIND.
But though in this particular, and perhaps in their success, the
truth-finder and the gold-finder may very properly be compared
together; yet in modesty, surely, there can be no comparison between
the two; for who ever heard of a gold-finder that had the impudence or
folly to assert, from the ill success of his search, that there was no
such thing as gold in the world? whereas the truth-finder, having
raked out that jakes, his own mind, and being there capable of tracing
no ray of divinity, nor anything virtuous or good, or lovely, or
loving, very fairly, honestly, and logically concludes that no such
things exist in the whole creation.
To avoid, however, all contention, if possible, with these
philosophers, if they will be called so; and to show our own
disposition to accommodate matters peaceably between us, we shall here
make them some concessions, which may possibly put an end to the
dispute.
First, we will grant that many minds, and perhaps those of the
philosophers, are entirely free from the least traces of such a
passion.
Secondly, that what is commonly called love, namely, the desire of
satisfying a voracious appetite with a certain quantity of delicate
white human flesh, is by no means that passion for which I here
contend. This is indeed more properly hunger; and as no glutton is
ashamed to apply the word love to his appetite, and to say he LOVES
such and such dishes; so may the lover of this kind, with equal
propriety, say, he HUNGERS after such and such women.
Thirdly, I will grant, which I believe will be a most acceptable
concession, that this love for which I am an advocate, though it
satisfies itself in a much more delicate manner, doth nevertheless
seek its own satisfaction as much as the grossest of all our
appetites.
And, lastly, that this love, when it operates towards one of a
different sex, is very apt, towards its complete gratification, to
call in the aid of that hunger which I have mentioned above; and which
it is so far from abating, that it heightens all its delights to a
degree scarce imaginable by those who have never been susceptible of
any other emotions than what have proceeded from appetite alone.
In return to all these concessions, I desire of the philosophers to
grant, that there is in some (I believe in many) human breasts a kind
and benevolent disposition, which is gratified by contributing to the
happiness of others. That in this gratification alone, as in
friendship, in parental and filial affection, as indeed in general
philanthropy, there is a great and exquisite delight. That if we will
not call such disposition love, we have no name for it. That though
the pleasures arising from such pure love may be heightened and
sweetened by the assistance of amorous desires, yet the former can
subsist alone, nor are they destroyed by the intervention of the
latter. Lastly, that esteem and gratitude are the proper motives to
love, as youth and beauty are to desire, and, therefore, though such
desire may naturally cease, when age or sickness overtakes its object;
yet these can have no effect on love, nor ever shake or remove, from a
good mind, that sensation or passion which hath gratitude and esteem
for its basis.
To deny the existence of a passion of which we often see manifest
instances, seems to be very strange and absurd; and can indeed proceed
only from that self-admonition which we have mentioned above: but how
unfair is this! Doth the man who recognizes in his own heart no traces
of avarice or ambition, conclude, therefore, that there are no such
passions in human nature? Why will we not modestly observe the same
rule in judging of the good, as well as the evil of others? Or why, in
any case, will we, as Shakespear phrases it, "put the world in our own
person?"
Predominant vanity is, I am afraid, too much concerned here. This is
one instance of that adulation which we bestow on our own minds, and
this almost universally. For there is scarce any man, how much soever
he may despise the character of a flatterer, but will condescend in
the meanest manner to flatter himself.
To those therefore I apply for the truth of the above observations,
whose own minds can bear testimony to what I have advanced.
Examine your heart, my good reader, and resolve whether you do believe
these matters with me. If you do, you may now proceed to their
exemplification in the following pages: if you do not, you have, I
assure you, already read more than you have understood; and it would
be wiser to pursue your business, or your pleasures (such as they
are), than to throw away any more of your time in reading what you can
neither taste nor comprehend. To treat of the effects of love to you,
must be as absurd as to discourse on colours to a man born blind;
since possibly your idea of love may be as absurd as that which we are
told such blind man once entertained of the colour scarlet; that
colour seemed to him to be very much like the sound of a trumpet: and
love probably may, in your opinion, very greatly resemble a dish of
soup, or a surloin of roast-beef.
Chapter ii.
The character of Mrs Western. Her great learning and knowledge of the
world, and an instance of the deep penetration which she derived from
those advantages.
The reader hath seen Mr Western, his sister, and daughter, with young
Jones, and the parson, going together to Mr Western's house, where the
greater part of the company spent the evening with much joy and
festivity. Sophia was indeed the only grave person; for as to Jones,
though love had now gotten entire possession of his heart, yet the
pleasing reflection on Mr Allworthy's recovery, and the presence of
his mistress, joined to some tender looks which she now and then could
not refrain from giving him, so elevated our heroe, that he joined the
mirth of the other three, who were perhaps as good-humoured people as
any in the world.
Sophia retained the same gravity of countenance the next morning at
breakfast; whence she retired likewise earlier than usual, leaving her
father and aunt together. The squire took no notice of this change in
his daughter's disposition. To say the truth, though he was somewhat
of a politician, and had been twice a candidate in the country
interest at an election, he was a man of no great observation. His
sister was a lady of a different turn. She had lived about the court,
and had seen the world. Hence she had acquired all that knowledge
which the said world usually communicates; and was a perfect mistress
of manners, customs, ceremonies, and fashions. Nor did her erudition
stop here. She had considerably improved her mind by study; she had
not only read all the modern plays, operas, oratorios, poems, and
romances--in all which she was a critic; but had gone through Rapin's
History of England, Eachard's Roman History, and many French _Memoires
pour servir a l'Histoire_: to these she had added most of the
political pamphlets and journals published within the last twenty
years. From which she had attained a very competent skill in politics,
and could discourse very learnedly on the affairs of Europe. She was,
moreover, excellently well skilled in the doctrine of amour, and knew
better than anybody who and who were together; a knowledge which she
the more easily attained, as her pursuit of it was never diverted by
any affairs of her own; for either she had no inclinations, or they
had never been solicited; which last is indeed very probable; for her
masculine person, which was near six foot high, added to her manner
and learning, possibly prevented the other sex from regarding her,
notwithstanding her petticoats, in the light of a woman. However, as
she had considered the matter scientifically, she perfectly well knew,
though she had never practised them, all the arts which fine ladies
use when they desire to give encouragement, or to conceal liking, with
all the long appendage of smiles, ogles, glances, &c., as they are at
present practised in the beau-monde. To sum the whole, no species of
disguise or affectation had escaped her notice; but as to the plain
simple workings of honest nature, as she had never seen any such, she
could know but little of them.
By means of this wonderful sagacity, Mrs Western had now, as she
thought, made a discovery of something in the mind of Sophia. The
first hint of this she took from the behaviour of the young lady in
the field of battle; and the suspicion which she then conceived, was
greatly corroborated by some observations which she had made that
evening and the next morning. However, being greatly cautious to avoid
being found in a mistake, she carried the secret a whole fortnight in
her bosom, giving only some oblique hints, by simpering, winks, nods,
and now and then dropping an obscure word, which indeed sufficiently
alarmed Sophia, but did not at all affect her brother.
Being at length, however, thoroughly satisfied of the truth of her
observation, she took an opportunity, one morning, when she was alone
with her brother, to interrupt one of his whistles in the following
manner:--
"Pray, brother, have you not observed something very extraordinary in my
niece lately?"--"No, not I," answered Western; "is anything the matter
with the girl?"--"I think there is," replied she; "and something of
much consequence too."--"Why, she doth not complain of anything,"
cries Western; "and she hath had the small-pox."--"Brother," returned
she, "girls are liable to other distempers besides the small-pox, and
sometimes possibly to much worse." Here Western interrupted her with
much earnestness, and begged her, if anything ailed his daughter, to
acquaint him immediately; adding, "she knew he loved her more than his
own soul, and that he would send to the world's end for the best
physician to her." "Nay, nay," answered she, smiling, "the distemper
is not so terrible; but I believe, brother, you are convinced I know
the world, and I promise you I was never more deceived in my life, if
my niece be not most desperately in love."--"How! in love!" cries
Western, in a passion; "in love, without acquainting me! I'll
disinherit her; I'll turn her out of doors, stark naked, without a
farthing. Is all my kindness vor 'ur, and vondness o'ur come to this,
to fall in love without asking me leave?"--"But you will not,"
answered Mrs Western, "turn this daughter, whom you love better than
your own soul, out of doors, before you know whether you shall approve
her choice. Suppose she should have fixed on the very person whom you
yourself would wish, I hope you would not be angry then?"--"No, no,"
cries Western, "that would make a difference. If she marries the man I
would ha' her, she may love whom she pleases, I shan't trouble my head
about that." "That is spoken," answered the sister, "like a sensible
man; but I believe the very person she hath chosen would be the very
person you would choose for her. I will disclaim all knowledge of the
world, if it is not so; and I believe, brother, you will allow I have
some."--"Why, lookee, sister," said Western, "I do believe you have as
much as any woman; and to be sure those are women's matters. You know
I don't love to hear you talk about politics; they belong to us, and
petticoats should not meddle: but come, who is the man?"--"Marry!"
said she, "you may find him out yourself if you please. You, who are
so great a politician, can be at no great loss. The judgment which can
penetrate into the cabinets of princes, and discover the secret
springs which move the great state wheels in all the political
machines of Europe, must surely, with very little difficulty, find out
what passes in the rude uninformed mind of a girl."--"Sister," cries
the squire, "I have often warn'd you not to talk the court gibberish
to me. I tell you, I don't understand the lingo: but I can read a
journal, or the _London Evening Post._ Perhaps, indeed, there may be
now and tan a verse which I can't make much of, because half the
letters are left out; yet I know very well what is meant by that, and
that our affairs don't go so well as they should do, because of
bribery and corruption."--"I pity your country ignorance from my
heart," cries the lady.--"Do you?" answered Western; "and I pity your
town learning; I had rather be anything than a courtier, and a
Presbyterian, and a Hanoverian too, as some people, I believe,
are."--"If you mean me," answered she, "you know I am a woman,
brother; and it signifies nothing what I am. Besides--"--"I do know
you are a woman," cries the squire, "and it's well for thee that art
one; if hadst been a man, I promise thee I had lent thee a flick long
ago."--"Ay, there," said she, "in that flick lies all your fancied
superiority. Your bodies, and not your brains, are stronger than ours.
Believe me, it is well for you that you are able to beat us; or, such
is the superiority of our understanding, we should make all of you
what the brave, and wise, and witty, and polite are already--our
slaves."--"I am glad I know your mind," answered the squire. "But
we'll talk more of this matter another time. At present, do tell me
what man is it you mean about my daughter?"--"Hold a moment," said
she, "while I digest that sovereign contempt I have for your sex; or
else I ought to be angry too with you. There--I have made a shift to
gulp it down. And now, good politic sir, what think you of Mr Blifil?
Did she not faint away on seeing him lie breathless on the ground? Did
she not, after he was recovered, turn pale again the moment we came up
to that part of the field where he stood? And pray what else should be
the occasion of all her melancholy that night at supper, the next
morning, and indeed ever since?"--"'Fore George!" cries the squire,
"now you mind me on't, I remember it all. It is certainly so, and I am
glad on't with all my heart. I knew Sophy was a good girl, and would
not fall in love to make me angry. I was never more rejoiced in my
life; for nothing can lie so handy together as our two estates. I had
this matter in my head some time ago: for certainly the two estates
are in a manner joined together in matrimony already, and it would be
a thousand pities to part them. It is true, indeed, there be larger
estates in the kingdom, but not in this county, and I had rather bate
something, than marry my daughter among strangers and foreigners.
Besides, most o' zuch great estates be in the hands of lords, and I
heate the very name of _themmun_. Well but, sister, what would you
advise me to do; for I tell you women know these matters better than
we do?"--"Oh, your humble servant, sir," answered the lady: "we are
obliged to you for allowing us a capacity in anything. Since you are
pleased, then, most politic sir, to ask my advice, I think you may
propose the match to Allworthy yourself. There is no indecorum in the
proposal's coming from the parent of either side. King Alcinous, in Mr
Pope's Odyssey, offers his daughter to Ulysses. I need not caution so
politic a person not to say that your daughter is in love; that would
indeed be against all rules."--"Well," said the squire, "I will
propose it; but I shall certainly lend un a flick, if he should refuse
me." "Fear not," cries Mrs Western; "the match is too advantageous to
be refused." "I don't know that," answered the squire: "Allworthy is a
queer b--ch, and money hath no effect o'un." "Brother," said the lady,
"your politics astonish me. Are you really to be imposed on by
professions? Do you think Mr Allworthy hath more contempt for money
than other men because he professes more? Such credulity would better
become one of us weak women, than that wise sex which heaven hath
formed for politicians. Indeed, brother, you would make a fine plenipo
to negotiate with the French. They would soon persuade you, that they
take towns out of mere defensive principles." "Sister," answered the
squire, with much scorn, "let your friends at court answer for the
towns taken; as you are a woman, I shall lay no blame upon you; for I
suppose they are wiser than to trust women with secrets." He
accompanied this with so sarcastical a laugh, that Mrs Western could
bear no longer. She had been all this time fretted in a tender part
(for she was indeed very deeply skilled in these matters, and very
violent in them), and therefore, burst forth in a rage, declared her
brother to be both a clown and a blockhead, and that she would stay no
longer in his house.
The squire, though perhaps he had never read Machiavel, was, however,
in many points, a perfect politician. He strongly held all those wise
tenets, which are so well inculcated in that Politico-Peripatetic
school of Exchange-alley. He knew the just value and only use of
money, viz., to lay it up. He was likewise well skilled in the exact
value of reversions, expectations, &c., and had often considered the
amount of his sister's fortune, and the chance which he or his
posterity had of inheriting it. This he was infinitely too wise to
sacrifice to a trifling resentment. When he found, therefore, he had
carried matters too far, he began to think of reconciling them; which
was no very difficult task, as the lady had great affection for her
brother, and still greater for her niece; and though too susceptible
of an affront offered to her skill in politics, on which she much
valued herself, was a woman of a very extraordinary good and sweet
disposition.
Having first, therefore, laid violent hands on the horses, for whose
escape from the stable no place but the window was left open, he next
applied himself to his sister; softened and soothed her, by unsaying
all he had said, and by assertions directly contrary to those which
had incensed her. Lastly, he summoned the eloquence of Sophia to his
assistance, who, besides a most graceful and winning address, had the
advantage of being heard with great favour and partiality by her aunt.
The result of the whole was a kind smile from Mrs Western, who said,
"Brother, you are absolutely a perfect Croat; but as those have their
use in the army of the empress queen, so you likewise have some good
in you. I will therefore once more sign a treaty of peace with you,
and see that you do not infringe it on your side; at least, as you are
so excellent a politician, I may expect you will keep your leagues,
like the French, till your interest calls upon you to break them."
Chapter iii.
Containing two defiances to the critics.
The squire having settled matters with his sister, as we have seen in
the last chapter, was so greatly impatient to communicate the proposal
to Allworthy, that Mrs Western had the utmost difficulty to prevent
him from visiting that gentleman in his sickness, for this purpose.
Mr Allworthy had been engaged to dine with Mr Western at the time when
he was taken ill. He was therefore no sooner discharged out of the
custody of physic, but he thought (as was usual with him on all
occasions, both the highest and the lowest) of fulfilling his
engagement.
In the interval between the time of the dialogue in the last chapter,
and this day of public entertainment, Sophia had, from certain obscure
hints thrown out by her aunt, collected some apprehension that the
sagacious lady suspected her passion for Jones. She now resolved to
take this opportunity of wiping out all such suspicion, and for that
purpose to put an entire constraint on her behaviour.
First, she endeavoured to conceal a throbbing melancholy heart with
the utmost sprightliness in her countenance, and the highest gaiety in
her manner. Secondly, she addressed her whole discourse to Mr Blifil,
and took not the least notice of poor Jones the whole day.
The squire was so delighted with this conduct of his daughter, that he
scarce eat any dinner, and spent almost his whole time in watching
opportunities of conveying signs of his approbation by winks and nods
to his sister; who was not at first altogether so pleased with what
she saw as was her brother.
In short, Sophia so greatly overacted her part, that her aunt was at
first staggered, and began to suspect some affectation in her niece;
but as she was herself a woman of great art, so she soon attributed
this to extreme art in Sophia. She remembered the many hints she had
given her niece concerning her being in love, and imagined the young
lady had tak 
History of Tom Jones, a Foundling / Fielding, Henry, 1707-1754