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 solicitous 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.