BOOK V.

CONTAINING A PORTION OF TIME SOMEWHAT LONGER THAN HALF A YEAR.

Chapter i.

Of the SERIOUS in writing, and for what purpose it is introduced.

Peradventure there may be no parts in this prodigious work which will

give the reader less pleasure in the perusing, than those which have

given the author the greatest pains in composing. Among these probably

may be reckoned those initial essays which we have prefixed to the

historical matter contained in every book; and which we have

determined to be essentially necessary to this kind of writing, of

which we have set ourselves at the head.

For this our determination we do not hold ourselves strictly bound to

assign any reason; it being abundantly sufficient that we have laid it

down as a rule necessary to be observed in all prosai-comi-epic

writing. Who ever demanded the reasons of that nice unity of time or

place which is now established to be so essential to dramatic poetry?

What critic hath been ever asked, why a play may not contain two days

as well as one? Or why the audience (provided they travel, like

electors, without any expense) may not be wafted fifty miles as well

as five? Hath any commentator well accounted for the limitation which

an antient critic hath set to the drama, which he will have contain

neither more nor less than five acts? Or hath any one living attempted

to explain what the modern judges of our theatres mean by that word

_low_; by which they have happily succeeded in banishing all humour

from the stage, and have made the theatre as dull as a drawing-room!

Upon all these occasions the world seems to have embraced a maxim of

our law, viz., _cuicunque in arte sua perito credendum est:_ for it

seems perhaps difficult to conceive that any one should have had

enough of impudence to lay down dogmatical rules in any art or science

without the least foundation. In such cases, therefore, we are apt to

conclude there are sound and good reasons at the bottom, though we are

unfortunately not able to see so far.

Now, in reality, the world have paid too great a compliment to

critics, and have imagined them men of much greater profundity than

they really are. From this complacence, the critics have been

emboldened to assume a dictatorial power, and have so far succeeded,

that they are now become the masters, and have the assurance to give

laws to those authors from whose predecessors they originally received

them.

The critic, rightly considered, is no more than the clerk, whose

office it is to transcribe the rules and laws laid down by those great

judges whose vast strength of genius hath placed them in the light of

legislators, in the several sciences over which they presided. This

office was all which the critics of old aspired to; nor did they ever

dare to advance a sentence, without supporting it by the authority of

the judge from whence it was borrowed.

But in process of time, and in ages of ignorance, the clerk began to

invade the power and assume the dignity of his master. The laws of

writing were no longer founded on the practice of the author, but on

the dictates of the critic. The clerk became the legislator, and those

very peremptorily gave laws whose business it was, at first, only to

transcribe them.

Hence arose an obvious, and perhaps an unavoidable error; for these

critics being men of shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere form

for substance. They acted as a judge would, who should adhere to the

lifeless letter of law, and reject the spirit. Little circumstances,

which were perhaps accidental in a great author, were by these critics

considered to constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as

essentials to be observed by all his successors. To these

encroachments, time and ignorance, the two great supporters of

imposture, gave authority; and thus many rules for good writing have

been established, which have not the least foundation in truth or

nature; and which commonly serve for no other purpose than to curb and

restrain genius, in the same manner as it would have restrained the

dancing-master, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it

down as an essential rule that every man must dance in chains.

To avoid, therefore, all imputation of laying down a rule for

posterity, founded only on the authority of _ipse dixit_--for which,

to say the truth, we have not the profoundest veneration--we shall

here waive the privilege above contended for, and proceed to lay

before the reader the reasons which have induced us to intersperse

these several digressive essays in the course of this work.

And here we shall of necessity be led to open a new vein of knowledge,

which if it hath been discovered, hath not, to our remembrance, been

wrought on by any antient or modern writer. This vein is no other than

that of contrast, which runs through all the works of the creation,

and may probably have a large share in constituting in us the idea of

all beauty, as well natural as artificial: for what demonstrates the

beauty and excellence of anything but its reverse? Thus the beauty of

day, and that of summer, is set off by the horrors of night and

winter. And, I believe, if it was possible for a man to have seen only

the two former, he would have a very imperfect idea of their beauty.

But to avoid too serious an air; can it be doubted, but that the

finest woman in the world would lose all benefit of her charms in the

eye of a man who had never seen one of another cast? The ladies

themselves seem so sensible of this, that they are all industrious to

procure foils: nay, they will become foils to themselves; for I have

observed (at Bath particularly) that they endeavour to appear as ugly

as possible in the morning, in order to set off that beauty which they

intend to show you in the evening.

Most artists have this secret in practice, though some, perhaps, have

not much studied the theory. The jeweller knows that the finest

brilliant requires a foil; and the painter, by the contrast of his

figures, often acquires great applause.

A great genius among us will illustrate this matter fully. I cannot,

indeed, range him under any general head of common artists, as he hath

a title to be placed among those

_Inventas qui vitam excoluere per artes._

Who by invented arts have life improved.

I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment, called

the English Pantomime.

This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor

distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious

exhibited a certain number of heathen gods and heroes, who were

certainly the worst and dullest company into which an audience was

ever introduced; and (which was a secret known to few) were actually

intended so to be, in order to contrast the comic part of the

entertainment, and to display the tricks of harlequin to the better

advantage.

This was, perhaps, no very civil use of such personages: but the

contrivance was, nevertheless, ingenious enough, and had its effect.

And this will now plainly appear, if, instead of serious and comic, we

supply the words duller and dullest; for the comic was certainly

duller than anything before shown on the stage, and could be set off

only by that superlative degree of dulness which composed the serious.

So intolerably serious, indeed, were these gods and heroes, that

harlequin (though the English gentleman of that name is not at all

related to the French family, for he is of a much more serious

disposition) was always welcome on the stage, as he relieved the

audience from worse company.

Judicious writers have always practised this art of contrast with

great success. I have been surprized that Horace should cavil at this

art in Homer; but indeed he contradicts himself in the very next line:

_Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus;

Verum opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum._

I grieve if e'er great Homer chance to sleep,

Yet slumbers on long works have right to creep.

For we are not here to understand, as perhaps some have, that an

author actually falls asleep while he is writing. It is true, that

readers are too apt to be so overtaken; but if the work was as long as

any of Oldmixon, the author himself is too well entertained to be

subject to the least drowsiness. He is, as Mr Pope observes,

Sleepless himself to give his readers sleep.

To say the truth, these soporific parts are so many scenes of serious

artfully interwoven, in order to contrast and set off the rest; and

this is the true meaning of a late facetious writer, who told the

public that whenever he was dull they might be assured there was a

design in it.

In this light, then, or rather in this darkness, I would have the

reader to consider these initial essays. And after this warning, if he

shall be of opinion that he can find enough of serious in other parts

of this history, he may pass over these, in which we profess to be

laboriously dull, and begin the following books at the second chapter.

Chapter ii.

In which Mr Jones receives many friendly visits during his

confinement; with some fine touches of the passion of love, scarce

visible to the naked eye.

Tom Jones had many visitors during his confinement, though some,

perhaps, were not very agreeable to him. Mr Allworthy saw him almost

every day; but though he pitied Tom's sufferings, and greatly approved

the gallant behaviour which had occasioned them; yet he thought this

was a favourable opportunity to bring him to a sober sense of his

indiscreet conduct; and that wholesome advice for that purpose could

never be applied at a more proper season than at the present, when the

mind was softened by pain and sickness, and alarmed by danger; and

when its attention was unembarrassed with those turbulent passions

which engage us in the pursuit of pleasure.

At all seasons, therefore, when the good man was alone with the youth,

especially when the latter was totally at ease, he took occasion to

remind him of his former miscarriages, but in the mildest and

tenderest manner, and only in order to introduce the caution which he

prescribed for his future behaviour; “on which alone,” he assured him,

“would depend his own felicity, and the kindness which he might yet

promise himself to receive at the hands of his father by adoption,

unless he should hereafter forfeit his good opinion: for as to what

had past,” he said, “it should be all forgiven and forgotten. He

therefore advised him to make a good use of this accident, that so in

the end it might prove a visitation for his own good.”

Thwackum was likewise pretty assiduous in his visits; and he too

considered a sick-bed to be a convenient scene for lectures. His

stile, however, was more severe than Mr Allworthy's: he told his

pupil, “That he ought to look on his broken limb as a judgment from

heaven on his sins. That it would become him to be daily on his knees,

pouring forth thanksgivings that he had broken his arm only, and not

his neck; which latter,” he said, “was very probably reserved for some

future occasion, and that, perhaps, not very remote. For his part,” he

said, “he had often wondered some judgment had not overtaken him

before; but it might be perceived by this, that Divine punishments,

though slow, are always sure.” Hence likewise he advised him, “to

foresee, with equal certainty, the greater evils which were yet

behind, and which were as sure as this of overtaking him in his state

of reprobacy. These are,” said he, “to be averted only by such a

thorough and sincere repentance as is not to be expected or hoped for

from one so abandoned in his youth, and whose mind, I am afraid, is

totally corrupted. It is my duty, however, to exhort you to this

repentance, though I too well know all exhortations will be vain and

fruitless. But _liberavi animam meam._ I can accuse my own conscience

of no neglect; though it is at the same time with the utmost concern I

see you travelling on to certain misery in this world, and to as

certain damnation in the next.”

Square talked in a very different strain; he said, “Such accidents as

a broken bone were below the consideration of a wise man. That it was

abundantly sufficient to reconcile the mind to any of these

mischances, to reflect that they are liable to befal the wisest of

mankind, and are undoubtedly for the good of the whole.” He said, “It

was a mere abuse of words to call those things evils, in which there

was no moral unfitness: that pain, which was the worst consequence of

such accidents, was the most contemptible thing in the world;” with

more of the like sentences, extracted out of the second book of

Tully's Tusculan questions, and from the great Lord Shaftesbury. In

pronouncing these he was one day so eager, that he unfortunately bit

his tongue; and in such a manner, that it not only put an end to his

discourse, but created much emotion in him, and caused him to mutter

an oath or two: but what was worst of all, this accident gave

Thwackum, who was present, and who held all such doctrine to be

heathenish and atheistical, an opportunity to clap a judgment on his

back. Now this was done with so malicious a sneer, that it totally

unhinged (if I may so say) the temper of the philosopher, which the

bite of his tongue had somewhat ruffled; and as he was disabled from

venting his wrath at his lips, he had possibly found a more violent

method of revenging himself, had not the surgeon, who was then luckily

in the room, contrary to his own interest, interposed and preserved

the peace.

Mr Blifil visited his friend Jones but seldom, and never alone. This

worthy young man, however, professed much regard for him, and as great

concern at his misfortune; but cautiously avoided any intimacy, lest,

as he frequently hinted, it might contaminate the sobriety of his own

character: for which purpose he had constantly in his mouth that

proverb in which Solomon speaks against evil communication. Not that

he was so bitter as Thwackum; for he always expressed some hopes of

Tom's reformation; “which,” he said, “the unparalleled goodness shown

by his uncle on this occasion, must certainly effect in one not

absolutely abandoned:” but concluded, “if Mr Jones ever offends

hereafter, I shall not be able to say a syllable in his favour.”

As to Squire Western, he was seldom out of the sick-room, unless when

he was engaged either in the field or over his bottle. Nay, he would

sometimes retire hither to take his beer, and it was not without

difficulty that he was prevented from forcing Jones to take his beer

too: for no quack ever held his nostrum to be a more general panacea

than he did this; which, he said, had more virtue in it than was in

all the physic in an apothecary's shop. He was, however, by much

entreaty, prevailed on to forbear the application of this medicine;

but from serenading his patient every hunting morning with the horn

under his window, it was impossible to withhold him; nor did he ever

lay aside that hallow, with which he entered into all companies, when

he visited Jones, without any regard to the sick person's being at

that time either awake or asleep.

This boisterous behaviour, as it meant no harm, so happily it effected

none, and was abundantly compensated to Jones, as soon as he was able

to sit up, by the company of Sophia, whom the squire then brought to

visit him; nor was it, indeed, long before Jones was able to attend

her to the harpsichord, where she would kindly condescend, for hours

together, to charm him with the most delicious music, unless when the

squire thought proper to interrupt her, by insisting on Old Sir Simon,

or some other of his favourite pieces.

Notwithstanding the nicest guard which Sophia endeavoured to set on

her behaviour, she could not avoid letting some appearances now and

then slip forth: for love may again be likened to a disease in this,

that when it is denied a vent in one part, it will certainly break out

in another. What her lips, therefore, concealed, her eyes, her

blushes, and many little involuntary actions, betrayed.

One day, when Sophia was playing on the harpsichord, and Jones was

attending, the squire came into the room, crying, “There, Tom, I have

had a battle for thee below-stairs with thick parson Thwackum. He hath

been a telling Allworthy, before my face, that the broken bone was a

judgment upon thee. D--n it, says I, how can that be? Did he not come

by it in defence of a young woman? A judgment indeed! Pox, if he never

doth anything worse, he will go to heaven sooner than all the parsons

in the country. He hath more reason to glory in it than to be ashamed

of it.”--“Indeed, sir,” says Jones, “I have no reason for either; but

if it preserved Miss Western, I shall always think it the happiest

accident of my life.”--“And to gu,” said the squire, “to zet Allworthy

against thee vor it! D--n un, if the parson had unt his petticuoats

on, I should have lent un o flick; for I love thee dearly, my boy, and

d--n me if there is anything in my power which I won't do for thee.

Sha't take thy choice of all the horses in my stable to-morrow

morning, except only the Chevalier and Miss Slouch.” Jones thanked

him, but declined accepting the offer. “Nay,” added the squire, “sha't

ha the sorrel mare that Sophy rode. She cost me fifty guineas, and

comes six years old this grass.” “If she had cost me a thousand,”

cries Jones passionately, “I would have given her to the dogs.” “Pooh!

pooh!” answered Western; “what! because she broke thy arm? Shouldst

forget and forgive. I thought hadst been more a man than to bear

malice against a dumb creature.”--Here Sophia interposed, and put an

end to the conversation, by desiring her father's leave to play to

him; a request which he never refused.

The countenance of Sophia had undergone more than one change during

the foregoing speeches; and probably she imputed the passionate

resentment which Jones had expressed against the mare, to a different

motive from that from which her father had derived it. Her spirits

were at this time in a visible flutter; and she played so intolerably

ill, that had not Western soon fallen asleep, he must have remarked

it. Jones, however, who was sufficiently awake, and was not without an

ear any more than without eyes, made some observations; which being

joined to all which the reader may remember to have passed formerly,

gave him pretty strong assurances, when he came to reflect on the

whole, that all was not well in the tender bosom of Sophia; an opinion

which many young gentlemen will, I doubt not, extremely wonder at his

not having been well confirmed in long ago. To confess the truth, he

had rather too much diffidence in himself, and was not forward enough

in seeing the advances of a young lady; a misfortune which can be

cured only by that early town education, which is at present so

generally in fashion.

When these thoughts had fully taken possession of Jones, they

occasioned a perturbation in his mind, which, in a constitution less

pure and firm than his, might have been, at such a season, attended

with very dangerous consequences. He was truly sensible of the great

worth of Sophia. He extremely liked her person, no less admired her

accomplishments, and tenderly loved her goodness. In reality, as he

had never once entertained any thought of possessing her, nor had ever

given the least voluntary indulgence to his inclinations, he had a

much stronger passion for her than he himself was acquainted with. His

heart now brought forth the full secret, at the same time that it

assured him the adorable object returned his affection.

Chapter iii.

Which all who have no heart will think to contain much ado about

nothing.

The reader will perhaps imagine the sensations which now arose in

Jones to have been so sweet and delicious, that they would rather tend

to produce a chearful serenity in the mind, than any of those

dangerous effects which we have mentioned; but in fact, sensations of

this kind, however delicious, are, at their first recognition, of a

very tumultuous nature, and have very little of the opiate in them.

They were, moreover, in the present case, embittered with certain

circumstances, which being mixed with sweeter ingredients, tended

altogether to compose a draught that might be termed bitter-sweet;

than which, as nothing can be more disagreeable to the palate, so

nothing, in the metaphorical sense, can be so injurious to the mind.

For first, though he had sufficient foundation to flatter himself in

what he had observed in Sophia, he was not yet free from doubt of

misconstruing compassion, or at best, esteem, into a warmer regard. He

was far from a sanguine assurance that Sophia had any such affection

towards him, as might promise his inclinations that harvest, which, if

they were encouraged and nursed, they would finally grow up to

require. Besides, if he could hope to find no bar to his happiness

from the daughter, he thought himself certain of meeting an effectual

bar in the father; who, though he was a country squire in his

diversions, was perfectly a man of the world in whatever regarded his

fortune; had the most violent affection for his only daughter, and had

often signified, in his cups, the pleasure he proposed in seeing her

married to one of the richest men in the county. Jones was not so vain

and senseless a coxcomb as to expect, from any regard which Western

had professed for him, that he would ever be induced to lay aside

these views of advancing his daughter. He well knew that fortune is

generally the principal, if not the sole, consideration, which

operates on the best of parents in these matters: for friendship makes

us warmly espouse the interest of others; but it is very cold to the

gratification of their passions. Indeed, to feel the happiness which

may result from this, it is necessary we should possess the passion

ourselves. As he had therefore no hopes of obtaining her father's

consent; so he thought to endeavour to succeed without it, and by such

means to frustrate the great point of Mr Western's life, was to make a

very ill use of his hospitality, and a very ungrateful return to the

many little favours received (however roughly) at his hands. If he saw

such a consequence with horror and disdain, how much more was he

shocked with what regarded Mr Allworthy; to whom, as he had more than

filial obligations, so had he for him more than filial piety! He knew

the nature of that good man to be so averse to any baseness or

treachery, that the least attempt of such a kind would make the sight

of the guilty person for ever odious to his eyes, and his name a

detestable sound in his ears. The appearance of such unsurmountable

difficulties was sufficient to have inspired him with despair, however

ardent his wishes had been; but even these were contruoled by

compassion for another woman. The idea of lovely Molly now intruded

itself before him. He had sworn eternal constancy in her arms, and she

had as often vowed never to out-live his deserting her. He now saw her

in all the most shocking postures of death; nay, he considered all the

miseries of prostitution to which she would be liable, and of which he

would be doubly the occasion; first by seducing, and then by deserting

her; for he well knew the hatred which all her neighbours, and even

her own sisters, bore her, and how ready they would all be to tear her

to pieces. Indeed, he had exposed her to more envy than shame, or

rather to the latter by means of the former: for many women abused her

for being a whore, while they envied her her lover, and her finery,

and would have been themselves glad to have purchased these at the

same rate. The ruin, therefore, of the poor girl must, he foresaw,

unavoidably attend his deserting her; and this thought stung him to

the soul. Poverty and distress seemed to him to give none a right of

aggravating those misfortunes. The meanness of her condition did not

represent her misery as of little consequence in his eyes, nor did it

appear to justify, or even to palliate, his guilt, in bringing that

misery upon her. But why do I mention justification? His own heart

would not suffer him to destroy a human creature who, he thought,

loved him, and had to that love sacrificed her innocence. His own good

heart pleaded her cause; not as a cold venal advocate, but as one

interested in the event, and which must itself deeply share in all the

agonies its owner brought on another.

When this powerful advocate had sufficiently raised the pity of Jones,

by painting poor Molly in all the circumstances of wretchedness; it

artfully called in the assistance of another passion, and represented

the girl in all the amiable colours of youth, health, and beauty; as

one greatly the object of desire, and much more so, at least to a good

mind, from being, at the same time, the object of compassion.

Amidst these thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless night, and

in the morning the result of the whole was to abide by Molly, and to

think no more of Sophia.

In this virtuous resolution he continued all the next day till the

evening, cherishing the idea of Molly, and driving Sophia from his

thoughts; but in the fatal evening, a very trifling accident set all

his passions again on float, and worked so total a change in his mind,

that we think it decent to communicate it in a fresh chapter.

Chapter iv.

A little chapter, in which is contained a little incident.

Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the young

gentleman in his confinement, Mrs Honour was one. The reader, perhaps,

when he reflects on some expressions which have formerly dropt from

her, may conceive that she herself had a very particular affection for

Mr Jones; but, in reality, it was no such thing. Tom was a handsome

young fellow; and for that species of men Mrs Honour had some regard;

but this was perfectly indiscriminate; for having being crossed in the

love which she bore a certain nobleman's footman, who had basely

deserted her after a promise of marriage, she had so securely kept

together the broken remains of her heart, that no man had ever since

been able to possess himself of any single fragment. She viewed all

handsome men with that equal regard and benevolence which a sober and

virtuous mind bears to all the good. She might indeed be called a

lover of men, as Socrates was a lover of mankind, preferring one to

another for corporeal, as he for mental qualifications; but never

carrying this preference so far as to cause any perturbation in the

philosophical serenity of her temper.

The day after Mr Jones had that conflict with himself which we have

seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs Honour came into his room, and

finding him alone, began in the following manner:--“La, sir, where do

you think I have been? I warrants you, you would not guess in fifty

years; but if you did guess, to be sure I must not tell you

neither.”--“Nay, if it be something which you must not tell me,” said

Jones, “I shall have the curiosity to enquire, and I know you will not

be so barbarous to refuse me.”--“I don't know,” cries she, “why I

should refuse you neither, for that matter; for to be sure you won't

mention it any more. And for that matter, if you knew where I have

been, unless you knew what I have been about, it would not signify

much. Nay, I don't see why it should be kept a secret for my part; for

to be sure she is the best lady in the world.” Upon this, Jones began

to beg earnestly to be let into this secret, and faithfully promised

not to divulge it. She then proceeded thus:--“Why, you must know, sir,

my young lady sent me to enquire after Molly Seagrim, and to see

whether the wench wanted anything; to be sure, I did not care to go,

methinks; but servants must do what they are ordered.--How could you

undervalue yourself so, Mr Jones?--So my lady bid me go and carry her

some linen, and other things. She is too good. If such forward sluts

were sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I told my lady,

says I, madam, your la'ship is encouraging idleness.”--“And was my

Sophia so good?” says Jones. “My Sophia! I assure you, marry come up,”

answered Honour. “And yet if you knew all--indeed, if I was as Mr

Jones, I should look a little higher than such trumpery as Molly

Seagrim.” “What do you mean by these words,” replied Jones, “if I knew

all?” “I mean what I mean,” says Honour. “Don't you remember putting

your hands in my lady's muff once? I vow I could almost find in my

heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would never come to the

hearing on't.” Jones then made several solemn protestations. And

Honour proceeded--“Then to be sure, my lady gave me that muff; and

afterwards, upon hearing what you had done”--“Then you told her what I

had done?” interrupted Jones. “If I did, sir,” answered she, “you need

not be angry with me. Many's the man would have given his head to have

had my lady told, if they had known,--for, to be sure, the biggest

lord in the land might be proud--but, I protest, I have a great mind

not to tell you.” Jones fell to entreaties, and soon prevailed on her

to go on thus. “You must know then, sir, that my lady had given this

muff to me; but about a day or two after I had told her the story, she

quarrels with her new muff, and to be sure it is the prettiest that

ever was seen. Honour, says she, this is an odious muff; it is too big

for me, I can't wear it: till I can get another, you must let me have

my old one again, and you may have this in the room on't--for she's a

good lady, and scorns to give a thing and take a thing, I promise you

that. So to be sure I fetched it her back again, and, I believe, she

hath worn it upon her arm almost ever since, and I warrants hath given

it many a kiss when nobody hath seen her.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr Western himself, who came

to summon Jones to the harpsichord; whither the poor young fellow went

all pale and trembling. This Western observed, but, on seeing Mrs

Honour, imputed it to a wrong cause; and having given Jones a hearty

curse between jest and earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and not poach

up the game in his warren.

Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty, and we may

believe it was no small addition to her charms, in the eye of Mr

Jones, that she now happened to have on her right arm this very muff.

She was playing one of her father's favourite tunes, and he was

leaning on her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers, and put her

out. This so disconcerted the squire, that he snatched the muff from

her, and with a hearty curse threw it into the fire. Sophia instantly

started up, and with the utmost eagerness recovered it from the

flames.

Though this incident will probably appear of little consequence to

many of our readers; yet, trifling as it was, it had so violent an

effect on poor Jones, that we thought it our duty to relate it. In

reality, there are many little circumstances too often omitted by

injudicious historians, from which events of the utmost importance

arise. The world may indeed be considered as a vast machine, in which

the great wheels are originally set in motion by those which are very

minute, and almost imperceptible to any but the strongest eyes.

Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia; not all the

dazzling brightness, and languishing softness of her eyes; the harmony

of her voice, and of her person; not all her wit, good-humour,

greatness of mind, or sweetness of disposition, had been able so

absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of poor Jones, as this

little incident of the muff. Thus the poet sweetly sings of Troy--

_--Captique dolis lachrymisque coacti

Quos neque Tydides, nec Larissaeus Achilles,

Non anni domuere decem, non mille Carinae._

What Diomede or Thetis' greater son,

A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege had done

False tears and fawning words the city won.

The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprize. All those

considerations of honour and prudence which our heroe had lately with

so much military wisdom placed as guards over the avenues of his

heart, ran away from their posts, and the god of love marched in, in

triumph.

Chapter v.

A very long chapter, containing a very great incident.

But though this victorious deity easily expelled his avowed enemies

from the heart of Jones, he found it more difficult to supplant the

garrison which he himself had placed there. To lay aside all allegory,

the concern for what must become of poor Molly greatly disturbed and

perplexed the mind of the worthy youth. The superior merit of Sophia

totally eclipsed, or rather extinguished, all the beauties of the poor

girl; but compassion instead of contempt succeeded to love. He was

convinced the girl had placed all her affections, and all her prospect

of future happiness, in him only. For this he had, he knew, given

sufficient occasion, by the utmost profusion of tenderness towards

her: a tenderness which he had taken every means to persuade her he

would always maintain. She, on her side, had assured him of her firm

belief in his promise, and had with the most solemn vows declared,

that on his fulfilling or breaking these promises, it depended,

whether she should be the happiest or most miserable of womankind. And

to be the author of this highest degree of misery to a human being,

was a thought on which he could not bear to ruminate a single moment.

He considered this poor girl as having sacrificed to him everything in

her little power; as having been at her own expense the object of his

pleasure; as sighing and languishing for him even at that very

instant. Shall then, says he, my recovery, for which she hath so

ardently wished; shall my presence, which she hath so eagerly

expected, instead of giving her that joy with which she hath flattered

herself, cast her at once down into misery and despair? Can I be such

a villain? Here, when the genius of poor Molly seemed triumphant, the

love of Sophia towards him, which now appeared no longer dubious,

rushed upon his mind, and bore away every obstacle before it.

At length it occurred to him, that he might possibly be able to make

Molly amends another way; namely, by giving her a sum of money. This,

nevertheless, he almost despaired of her accepting, when he

recollected the frequent and vehement assurances he had received from

her, that the world put in balance with him would make her no amends

for his loss. However, her extreme poverty, and chiefly her egregious

vanity (somewhat of which hath been already hinted to the reader),

gave him some little hope, that, notwithstanding all her avowed

tenderness, she might in time be brought to content herself with a

fortune superior to her expectation, and which might indulge her

vanity, by setting her above all her equals. He resolved therefore to

take the first opportunity of making a proposal of this kind.

One day, accordingly, when his arm was so well recovered that he could

walk easily with it slung in a sash, he stole forth, at a season when

the squire was engaged in his field exercises, and visited his fair

one. Her mother and sisters, whom he found taking their tea, informed

him first that Molly was not at home; but afterwards the eldest sister

acquainted him, with a malicious smile, that she was above stairs

a-bed. Tom had no objection to this situation of his mistress, and

immediately ascended the ladder which led towards her bed-chamber; but

when he came to the top, he, to his great surprize, found the door

fast; nor could he for some time obtain any answer from within; for

Molly, as she herself afterwards informed him, was fast asleep.

The extremes of grief and joy have been remarked to produce very

similar effects; and when either of these rushes on us by surprize, it

is apt to create such a total perturbation and confusion, that we are

often thereby deprived of the use of all our faculties. It cannot

therefore be wondered at, that the unexpected sight of Mr Jones should

so strongly operate on the mind of Molly, and should overwhelm her

with such confusion, that for some minutes she was unable to express

the great raptures, with which the reader will suppose she was

affected on this occasion. As for Jones, he was so entirely possessed,

and as it were enchanted, by the presence of his beloved object, that

he for a while forgot Sophia, and consequently the principal purpose

of his visit.

This, however, soon recurred to his memory; and after the first

transports of their meeting were over, he found means by degrees to

introduce a discourse on the fatal consequences which must attend

their amour, if Mr Allworthy, who had strictly forbidden him ever

seeing her more, should discover that he still carried on this

commerce. Such a discovery, which his enemies gave him reason to think

would be unavoidable, must, he said, end in his ruin, and consequently

in hers. Since therefore their hard fates had determined that they

must separate, he advised her to bear it with resolution, and swore he

would never omit any opportunity, through the course of his life, of

showing her the sincerity of his affection, by providing for her in a

manner beyond her utmost expectation, or even beyond her wishes, if

ever that should be in his power; concluding at last, that she might

soon find some man who would marry her, and who would make her much

happier than she could be by leading a disreputable life with him.

Molly remained a few moments in silence, and then bursting into a

flood of tears, she began to upbraid him in the following words: “And

this is your love for me, to forsake me in this manner, now you have

ruined me! How often, when I have told you that all men are false and

perjury alike, and grow tired of us as soon as ever they have had

their wicked wills of us, how often have you sworn you would never

forsake me! And can you be such a perjury man after all? What

signifies all the riches in the world to me without you, now you have

gained my heart, so you have--you have--? Why do you mention another

man to me? I can never love any other man as long as I live. All other

men are nothing to me. If the greatest squire in all the country would

come a suiting to me to-morrow, I would not give my company to him.

No, I shall always hate and despise the whole sex for your sake.”--

She was proceeding thus, when an accident put a stop to her tongue,

before it had run out half its career. The room, or rather garret, in

which Molly lay, being up one pair of stairs, that is to say, at the

top of the house, was of a sloping figure, resembling the great Delta

of the Greeks. The English reader may perhaps form a better idea of

it, by being told that it was impossible to stand upright anywhere but

in the middle. Now, as this room wanted the conveniency of a closet,

Molly had, to supply that defect, nailed up an old rug against the

rafters of the house, which enclosed a little hole where her best

apparel, such as the remains of that sack which we have formerly

mentioned, some caps, and other things with which she had lately

provided herself, were hung up and secured from the dust.

This enclosed place exactly fronted the foot of the bed, to which,

indeed, the rug hung so near, that it served in a manner to supply the

want of curtains. Now, whether Molly, in the agonies of her rage,

pushed this rug with her feet; or Jones might touch it; or whether the

pin or nail gave way of its own accord, I am not certain; but as Molly

pronounced those last words, which are recorded above, the wicked rug

got loose from its fastening, and discovered everything hid behind it;

where among other female utensils appeared--(with shame I write it,

and with sorrow will it be read)--the philosopher Square, in a posture

(for the place would not near admit his standing upright) as

ridiculous as can possibly be conceived.

The posture, indeed, in which he stood, was not greatly unlike that of

a soldier who is tied neck and heels; or rather resembling the

attitude in which we often see fellows in the public streets of

London, who are not suffering but deserving punishment by so standing.

He had a nightcap belonging to Molly on his head, and his two large

eyes, the moment the rug fell, stared directly at Jones; so that when

the idea of philosophy was added to the figure now discovered, it

would have been very difficult for any spectator to have refrained

from immoderate laughter.

I question not but the surprize of the reader will be here equal to

that of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise from the appearance

of this wise and grave man in such a place, may seem so inconsistent

with that character which he hath, doubtless, maintained hitherto, in

the opinion of every one.

But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary than

real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other

human creatures; and however sublimated and refined the theory of

these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to

other mortals. It is, indeed, in theory only, and not in practice, as

we have before hinted, that consists the difference: for though such

great beings think much better and more wisely, they always act

exactly like other men. They know very well how to subdue all

appetites and passions, and to despise both pain and pleasure; and

this knowledge affords much delightful contemplation, and is easily

acquired; but the practice would be vexatious and troublesome; and,

therefore, the same wisdom which teaches them to know this, teaches

them to avoid carrying it into execution.

Mr Square happened to be at church on that Sunday, when, as the reader

may be pleased to remember, the appearance of Molly in her sack had

caused all that disturbance. Here he first observed her, and was so

pleased with her beauty, that he prevailed with the young gentlemen to

change their intended ride that evening, that he might pass by the

habitation of Molly, and by that means might obtain a second chance of

seeing her. This reason, however, as he did not at that time mention

to any, so neither did we think proper to communicate it then to the

reader.

Among other particulars which constituted the unfitness of things in

Mr Square's opinion, danger and difficulty were two. The difficulty

therefore which he apprehended there might be in corrupting this young

wench, and the danger which would accrue to his character on the

discovery, were such strong dissuasives, that it is probable he at

first intended to have contented himself with the pleasing ideas which

the sight of beauty furnishes us with. These the gravest men, after a

full meal of serious meditation, often allow themselves by way of

dessert: for which purpose, certain books and pictures find their way

into the most private recesses of their study, and a certain liquorish

part of natural philosophy is often the principal subject of their

conversation.

But when the philosopher heard, a day or two afterwards, that the

fortress of virtue had already been subdued, he began to give a larger

scope to his desires. His appetite was not of that squeamish kind

which cannot feed on a dainty because another hath tasted it. In

short, he liked the girl the better for the want of that chastity,

which, if she had possessed it, must have been a bar to his pleasures;

he pursued and obtained her.

The reader will be mistaken, if he thinks Molly gave Square the

preference to her younger lover: on the contrary, had she been

confined to the choice of one only, Tom Jones would undoubtedly have

been, of the two, the victorious person. Nor was it solely the

consideration that two are better than one (though this had its proper

weight) to which Mr Square owed his success: the absence of Jones

during his confinement was an unlucky circumstance; and in that

interval some well-chosen presents from the philosopher so softened

and unguarded the girl's heart, that a favourable opportunity became

irresistible, and Square triumphed over the poor remains of virtue

which subsisted in the bosom of Molly.

It was now about a fortnight since this conquest, when Jones paid the

above-mentioned visit to his mistress, at a time when she and Square

were in bed together. This was the true reason why the mother denied

her as we have seen; for as the old woman shared in the profits

arising from the iniquity of her daughter, she encouraged and

protected her in it to the utmost of her power; but such was the envy

and hatred which the elder sister bore towards Molly, that,

notwithstanding she had some part of the booty, she would willingly

have parted with this to ruin her sister and spoil her trade. Hence

she had acquainted Jones with her being above-stairs in bed, in hopes

that he might have caught her in Square's arms. This, however, Molly

found means to prevent, as the door was fastened; which gave her an

opportunity of conveying her lover behind that rug or blanket where he

now was unhappily discovered.

Square no sooner made his appearance than Molly flung herself back in

her bed, cried out she was undone, and abandoned herself to despair.

This poor girl, who was yet but a novice in her business, had not

arrived to that perfection of assurance which helps off a town lady in

any extremity; and either prompts her with an excuse, or else inspires

her to brazen out the matter with her husband, who, from love of

quiet, or out of fear of his reputation--and sometimes, perhaps, from

fear of the gallant, who, like Mr Constant in the play, wears a

sword--is glad to shut his eyes, and content to put his horns in his

pocket. Molly, on the contrary, was silenced by this evidence, and

very fairly gave up a cause which she had hitherto maintained with so

many tears, and with such solemn and vehement protestations of the

purest love and constancy.

As to the gentleman behind the arras, he was not in much less

consternation. He stood for a while motionless, and seemed equally at

a loss what to say, or whither to direct his eyes. Jones, though

perhaps the most astonished of the three, first found his tongue; and

being immediately recovered from those uneasy sensations which Molly

by her upbraidings had occasioned, he burst into a loud laughter, and

then saluting Mr Square, advanced to take him by the hand, and to

relieve him from his place of confinement.

Square being now arrived in the middle of the room, in which part only

he could stand upright, looked at Jones with a very grave countenance,

and said to him, “Well, sir, I see you enjoy this mighty discovery,

and, I dare swear, take great delight in the thoughts of exposing me;

but if you will consider the matter fairly, you will find you are

yourself only to blame. I am not guilty of corrupting innocence. I

have done nothing for which that part of the world which judges of

matters by the rule of right, will condemn me. Fitness is governed by

the nature of things, and not by customs, forms, or municipal laws.

Nothing is indeed unfit which is not unnatural.”--“Well reasoned, old

boy,” answered Jones; “but why dost thou think that I should desire to

expose thee? I promise thee, I was never better pleased with thee in

my life; and unless thou hast a mind to discover it thyself, this

affair may remain a profound secret for me.”--“Nay, Mr Jones,” replied

Square, “I would not be thought to undervalue reputation. Good fame is

a species of the Kalon, and it is by no means fitting to neglect it.

Besides, to murder one's own reputation is a kind of suicide, a

detestable and odious vice. If you think proper, therefore, to conceal

any infirmity of mine (for such I may have, since no man is perfectly

perfect), I promise you I will not betray myself. Things may be

fitting to be done, which are not fitting to be boasted of; for

by the perverse judgment of the world, that often becomes the

subject of censure, which is, in truth, not only innocent but

laudable.”--“Right!” cries Jones: “what can be more innocent than the

indulgence of a natural appetite? or what more laudable than the

propagation of our species?”--“To be serious with you,” answered

Square, “I profess they always appeared so to me.”--“And yet,” said

Jones, “you was of a different opinion when my affair with this girl

was first discovered.”--“Why, I must confess,” says Square, “as the

matter was misrepresented to me, by that parson Thwackum, I might

condemn the corruption of innocence: it was that, sir, it was

that--and that--: for you must know, Mr Jones, in the consideration of

fitness, very minute circumstances, sir, very minute circumstances

cause great alteration.”--“Well,” cries Jones, “be that as it will, it

shall be your own fault, as I have promised you, if you ever hear any

more of this adventure. Behave kindly to the girl, and I will never

open my lips concerning the matter to any one. And, Molly, do you be

faithful to your friend, and I will not only forgive your infidelity

to me, but will do you all the service I can.” So saying, he took a

hasty leave, and, slipping down the ladder, retired with much

expedition.

Square was rejoiced to find this adventure was likely to have no worse

conclusion; and as for Molly, being recovered from her confusion, she

began at first to upbraid Square with having been the occasion of her

loss of Jones; but that gentleman soon found the means of mitigating

her anger, partly by caresses, and partly by a small nostrum from his

purse, of wonderful and approved efficacy in purging off the ill

humours of the mind, and in restoring it to a good temper.

She then poured forth a vast profusion of tenderness towards her new

lover; turned all she had said to Jones, and Jones himself, into

ridicule; and vowed, though he once had the possession of her person,

that none but Square had ever been master of her heart.

Chapter vi.

By comparing which with the former, the reader may possibly correct

some abuse which he hath formerly been guilty of in the application of

the word love.

The infidelity of Molly, which Jones had now discovered, would,

perhaps, have vindicated a much greater degree of resentment than he

expressed on the occasion; and if he had abandoned her directly from

that moment, very few, I believe, would have blamed him.

Certain, however, it is, that he saw her in the light of compassion;

and though his love to her was not of that kind which could give him

any great uneasiness at her inconstancy, yet was he not a little

shocked on reflecting that he had himself originally corrupted her

innocence; for to this corruption he imputed all the vice into which

she appeared now so likely to plunge herself.

This consideration gave him no little uneasiness, till Betty, the

elder sister, was so kind, some time afterwards, entirely to cure him

by a hint, that one Will Barnes, and not himself, had been the first

seducer of Molly; and that the little child, which he had hitherto so

certainly concluded to be his own, might very probably have an equal

title, at least, to claim Barnes for its father.

Jones eagerly pursued this scent when he had first received it; and in

a very short time was sufficiently assured that the girl had told him

truth, not only by the confession of the fellow, but at last by that

of Molly herself.

This Will Barnes was a country gallant, and had acquired as many

trophies of this kind as any ensign or attorney's clerk in the

kingdom. He had, indeed, reduced several women to a state of utter

profligacy, had broke the hearts of some, and had the honour of

occasioning the violent death of one poor girl, who had either drowned

herself, or, what was rather more probable, had been drowned by him.

Among other of his conquests, this fellow had triumphed over the heart

of Betty Seagrim. He had made love to her long before Molly was grown

to be a fit object of that pastime; but had afterwards deserted her,

and applied to her sister, with whom he had almost immediate success.

Now Will had, in reality, the sole possession of Molly's affection,

while Jones and Square were almost equally sacrifices to her interest

and to her pride.

Hence had grown that implacable hatred which we have before seen

raging in the mind of Betty; though we did not think it necessary to

assign this cause sooner, as envy itself alone was adequate to all the

effects we have mentioned.

Jones was become perfectly easy by possession of this secret with

regard to Molly; but as to Sophia, he was far from being in a state of

tranquillity; nay, indeed, he was under the most violent perturbation;

his heart was now, if I may use the metaphor, entirely evacuated, and

Sophia took absolute possession of it. He loved her with an unbounded

passion, and plainly saw the tender sentiments she had for him; yet

could not this assurance lessen his despair of obtaining the consent

of her father, nor the horrors which attended his pursuit of her by

any base or treacherous method.

The injury which he must thus do to Mr Western, and the concern which

would accrue to Mr Allworthy, were circumstances that tormented him

all day, and haunted him on his pillow at night. His life was a

constant struggle between honour and inclination, which alternately

triumphed over each other in his mind. He often resolved, in the

absence of Sophia, to leave her father's house, and to see her no

more; and as often, in her presence, forgot all those resolutions, and

determined to pursue her at the hazard of his life, and at the

forfeiture of what was much dearer to him.

This conflict began soon to produce very strong and visible effects:

for he lost all his usual sprightliness and gaiety of temper, and

became not only melancholy when alone, but dejected and absent in

company; nay, if ever he put on a forced mirth, to comply with Mr

Western's humour, the constraint appeared so plain, that he seemed to

have been giving the strongest evidence of what he endeavoured to

conceal by such ostentation.

It may, perhaps, be a question, whether the art which he used to

conceal his passion, or the means which honest nature employed to

reveal it, betrayed him most: for while art made him more than ever

reserved to Sophia, and forbad him to address any of his discourse to

her, nay, to avoid meeting her eyes, with the utmost caution; nature

was no less busy in counterplotting him. Hence, at the approach of the

young lady, he grew pale; and if this was sudden, started. If his eyes

accidentally met hers, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and his

countenance became all over scarlet. If common civility ever obliged

him to speak to her, as to drink her health at table, his tongue was

sure to falter. If he touched her, his hand, nay his whole frame,

trembled. And if any discourse tended, however remotely, to raise the

idea of love, an involuntary sigh seldom failed to steal from his

bosom. Most of which accidents nature was wonderfully industrious to

throw daily in his way.

All these symptoms escaped the notice of the squire: but not so of

Sophia. She soon perceived these agitations of mind in Jones, and was

at no loss to discover the cause; for indeed she recognized it in her

own breast. And this recognition is, I suppose, that sympathy which

hath been so often noted in lovers, and which will sufficiently

account for her being so much quicker-sighted than her father.

But, to say the truth, there is a more simple and plain method of

accounting for that prodigious superiority of penetration which we

must observe in some men over the rest of the human species, and one

which will serve not only in the case of lovers, but of all others.

From whence is it that the knave is generally so quick-sighted to

those symptoms and operations of knavery, which often dupe an honest

man of a much better understanding? There surely is no general

sympathy among knaves; nor have they, like freemasons, any common sign

of communication. In reality, it is only because they have the same

thing in their heads, and their thoughts are turned the same way.

Thus, that Sophia saw, and that Western did not see, the plain

symptoms of love in Jones can be no wonder, when we consider that the

idea of love never entered into the head of the father, whereas the

daughter, at present, thought of nothing else.

When Sophia was well satisfied of the violent passion which tormented

poor Jones, and no less certain that she herself was its object, she

had not the least difficulty in discovering the true cause of his

present behaviour. This highly endeared him to her, and raised in her

mind two of the best affections which any lover can wish to raise in a

mistress--these were, esteem and pity--for sure the most outrageously

rigid among her sex will excuse her pitying a man whom she saw

miserable on her own account; nor can they blame her for esteeming one

who visibly, from the most honourable motives, endeavoured to smother

a flame in his own bosom, which, like the famous Spartan theft, was

preying upon and consuming his very vitals. Thus his backwardness, his

shunning her, his coldness, and his silence, were the forwardest, the

most diligent, the warmest, and most eloquent advocates; and wrought

so violently on her sensible and tender heart, that she soon felt for

him all those gentle sensations which are consistent with a virtuous

and elevated female mind. In short, all which esteem, gratitude, and

pity, can inspire in such towards an agreeable man--indeed, all which

the nicest delicacy can allow. In a word, she was in love with him to

distraction.

One day this young couple accidentally met in the garden, at the end

of the two walks which were both bounded by that canal in which Jones

had formerly risqued drowning to retrieve the little bird that Sophia

had there lost.

This place had been of late much frequented by Sophia. Here she used

to ruminate, with a mixture of pain and pleasure, on an incident

which, however trifling in itself, had possibly sown the first seeds

of that affection which was now arrived to such maturity in her heart.

Here then this young couple met. They were almost close together

before either of them knew anything of the other's approach. A

bystander would have discovered sufficient marks of confusion in the

countenance of each; but they felt too much themselves to make any

observation. As soon as Jones had a little recovered his first

surprize, he accosted the young lady with some of the ordinary forms

of salutation, which she in the same manner returned; and their

conversation began, as usual, on the delicious beauty of the morning.

Hence they past to the beauty of the place, on which Jones launched

forth very high encomiums. When they came to the tree whence he had

formerly tumbled into the canal, Sophia could not help reminding him

of that accident, and said, “I fancy, Mr Jones, you have some little

shuddering when you see that water.”--“I assure you, madam,” answered

Jones, “the concern you felt at the loss of your little bird will

always appear to me the highest circumstance in that adventure. Poor

little Tommy! there is the branch he stood upon. How could the little

wretch have the folly to fly away from that state of happiness in

which I had the honour to place him? His fate was a just punishment

for his ingratitude.”--“Upon my word, Mr Jones,” said she, “your

gallantry very narrowly escaped as severe a fate. Sure the remembrance

must affect you.”--“Indeed, madam,” answered he, “if I have any reason

to reflect with sorrow on it, it is, perhaps, that the water had not

been a little deeper, by which I might have escaped many bitter

heart-aches that Fortune seems to have in store for me.”--“Fie, Mr

Jones!” replied Sophia; “I am sure you cannot be in earnest now. This

affected contempt of life is only an excess of your complacence to me.

You would endeavour to lessen the obligation of having twice ventured

it for my sake. Beware the third time.” She spoke these last words

with a smile, and a softness inexpressible. Jones answered with a

sigh, “He feared it was already too late for caution:” and then

looking tenderly and stedfastly on her, he cried, “Oh, Miss Western!

can you desire me to live? Can you wish me so ill?” Sophia, looking

down on the ground, answered with some hesitation, “Indeed, Mr Jones,

I do not wish you ill.”--“Oh, I know too well that heavenly temper,”

cries Jones, “that divine goodness, which is beyond every other

charm.”--“Nay, now,” answered she, “I understand you not. I can stay

no longer.”--“I--I would not be understood!” cries he; “nay, I can't

be understood. I know not what I say. Meeting you here so

unexpectedly, I have been unguarded: for Heaven's sake pardon me, if I

have said anything to offend you. I did not mean it. Indeed, I would

rather have died--nay, the very thought would kill me.”--“You surprize

me,” answered she. “How can you possibly think you have offended

me?”--“Fear, madam,” says he, “easily runs into madness; and there is

no degree of fear like that which I feel of offending you. How can I

speak then? Nay, don't look angrily at me: one frown will destroy me.

I mean nothing. Blame my eyes, or blame those beauties. What am I

saying? Pardon me if I have said too much. My heart overflowed. I have

struggled with my love to the utmost, and have endeavoured to conceal

a fever which preys on my vitals, and will, I hope, soon make it

impossible for me ever to offend you more.”

Mr Jones now fell a trembling as if he had been shaken with the fit of

an ague. Sophia, who was in a situation not very different from his,

answered in these words: “Mr Jones, I will not affect to misunderstand

you; indeed, I understand you too well; but, for Heaven's sake, if you

have any affection for me, let me make the best of my way into the

house. I wish I may be able to support myself thither.”

Jones, who was hardly able to support himself, offered her his arm,

which she condescended to accept, but begged he would not mention a

word more to her of this nature at present. He promised he would not;

insisting only on her forgiveness of what love, without the leave of

his will, had forced from him: this, she told him, he knew how to

obtain by his future behaviour; and thus this young pair tottered and

trembled along, the lover not once daring to squeeze the hand of his

mistress, though it was locked in his.

Sophia immediately retired to her chamber, where Mrs Honour and the

hartshorn were summoned to her assistance. As to poor Jones, the only

relief to his distempered mind was an unwelcome piece of news, which,

as it opens a scene of different nature from those in which the reader

hath lately been conversant, will be communicated to him in the next

chapter.

Chapter vii.

In which Mr Allworthy appears on a sick-bed.

Mr Western was become so fond of Jones that he was unwilling to part

with him, though his arm had been long since cured; and Jones, either

from the love of sport, or from some other reason, was easily

persuaded to continue at his house, which he did sometimes for a

fortnight together without paying a single visit at Mr Allworthy's;

nay, without ever hearing from thence.

Mr Allworthy had been for some days indisposed with a cold, which had

been attended with a little fever. This he had, however, neglected; as

it was usual with him to do all manner of disorders which did not

confine him to his bed, or prevent his several faculties from

performing their ordinary functions;--a conduct which we would by no

means be thought to approve or recommend to imitation; for surely the

gentlemen of the Aesculapian art are in the right in advising, that

the moment the disease has entered at one door, the physician should

be introduced at the other: what else is meant by that old adage,

_Venienti occurrite morbo?_ “Oppose a distemper at its first

approach.” Thus the doctor and the disease meet in fair and equal

conflict; whereas, by giving time to the latter, we often suffer him

to fortify and entrench himself, like a French army; so that the

learned gentleman finds it very difficult, and sometimes impossible,

to come at the enemy. Nay, sometimes by gaining time the disease

applies to the French military politics, and corrupts nature over to

his side, and then all the powers of physic must arrive too late.

Agreeable to these observations was, I remember, the complaint of the

great Doctor Misaubin, who used very pathetically to lament the late

applications which were made to his skill, saying, “Bygar, me believe

my pation take me for de undertaker, for dey never send for me till de

physicion have kill dem.”

Mr Allworthy's distemper, by means of this neglect, gained such

ground, that, when the increase of his fever obliged him to send for

assistance, the doctor at his first arrival shook his head, wished he

had been sent for sooner, and intimated that he thought him in very

imminent danger. Mr Allworthy, who had settled all his affairs in this

world, and was as well prepared as it is possible for human nature to

be for the other, received this information with the utmost calmness

and unconcern. He could, indeed, whenever he laid himself down to

rest, say with Cato in the tragical poem--

Let guilt or fear

Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them;

Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.

In reality, he could say this with ten times more reason and

confidence than Cato, or any other proud fellow among the antient or

modern heroes; for he was not only devoid of fear, but might be

considered as a faithful labourer, when at the end of harvest he is

summoned to receive his reward at the hands of a bountiful master.

The good man gave immediate orders for all his family to be summoned

round him. None of these were then abroad, but Mrs Blifil, who had

been some time in London, and Mr Jones, whom the reader hath just

parted from at Mr Western's, and who received this summons just as

Sophia had left him.

The news of Mr Allworthy's danger (for the servant told him he was

dying) drove all thoughts of love out of his head. He hurried

instantly into the chariot which was sent for him, and ordered the

coachman to drive with all imaginable haste; nor did the idea of

Sophia, I believe, once occur to him on the way.

And now the whole family, namely, Mr Blifil, Mr Jones, Mr Thwackum, Mr

Square, and some of the servants (for such were Mr Allworthy's orders)

being all assembled round his bed, the good man sat up in it, and was

beginning to speak, when Blifil fell to blubbering, and began to

express very loud and bitter lamentations. Upon this Mr Allworthy

shook him by the hand, and said, “Do not sorrow thus, my dear nephew,

at the most ordinary of all human occurrences. When misfortunes befal

our friends we are justly grieved; for those are accidents which might

often have been avoided, and which may seem to render the lot of one

man more peculiarly unhappy than that of others; but death is

certainly unavoidable, and is that common lot in which alone the

fortunes of all men agree: nor is the time when this happens to us

very material. If the wisest of men hath compared life to a span,

surely we may be allowed to consider it as a day. It is my fate to

leave it in the evening; but those who are taken away earlier have

only lost a few hours, at the best little worth lamenting, and much

oftener hours of labour and fatigue, of pain and sorrow. One of the

Roman poets, I remember, likens our leaving life to our departure from

a feast;--a thought which hath often occurred to me when I have seen

men struggling to protract an entertainment, and to enjoy the company

of their friends a few moments longer. Alas! how short is the most

protracted of such enjoyments! how immaterial the difference between

him who retires the soonest, and him who stays the latest! This is

seeing life in the best view, and this unwillingness to quit our

friends is the most amiable motive from which we can derive the fear

of death; and yet the longest enjoyment which we can hope for of this

kind is of so trivial a duration, that it is to a wise man truly

contemptible. Few men, I own, think in this manner; for, indeed, few

men think of death till they are in its jaws. However gigantic and

terrible an object this may appear when it approaches them, they are

nevertheless incapable of seeing it at any distance; nay, though they

have been ever so much alarmed and frightened when they have

apprehended themselves in danger of dying, they are no sooner cleared

from this apprehension than even the fears of it are erased from their

minds. But, alas! he who escapes from death is not pardoned; he is

only reprieved, and reprieved to a short day.

“Grieve, therefore, no more, my dear child, on this occasion: an event

which may happen every hour; which every element, nay, almost every

particle of matter that surrounds us is capable of producing, and

which must and will most unavoidably reach us all at last, ought

neither to occasion our surprize nor our lamentation.

“My physician having acquainted me (which I take very kindly of him)

that I am in danger of leaving you all very shortly, I have determined

to say a few words to you at this our parting, before my distemper,

which I find grows very fast upon me, puts it out of my power.

“But I shall waste my strength too much. I intended to speak

concerning my will, which, though I have settled long ago, I think

proper to mention such heads of it as concern any of you, that I may

have the comfort of perceiving you are all satisfied with the

provision I have there made for you.

“Nephew Blifil, I leave you the heir to my whole estate, except only

£500 a-year, which is to revert to you after the death of your mother,

and except one other estate of £500 a-year, and the sum of £6000,

which I have bestowed in the following manner:

“The estate of £500 a-year I have given to you, Mr Jones: and as I

know the inconvenience which attends the want of ready money, I have

added £1000 in specie. In this I know not whether I have exceeded or

fallen short of your expectation. Perhaps you will think I have given

you too little, and the world will be as ready to condemn me for

giving you too much; but the latter censure I despise; and as to the

former, unless you should entertain that common error which I have

often heard in my life pleaded as an excuse for a total want of

charity, namely, that instead of raising gratitude by voluntary acts

of bounty, we are apt to raise demands, which of all others are the

most boundless and most difficult to satisfy.--Pardon me the bare

mention of this; I will not suspect any such thing.”

Jones flung himself at his benefactor's feet, and taking eagerly hold

of his hand, assured him his goodness to him, both now and all other

times, had so infinitely exceeded not only his merit but his hopes,

that no words could express his sense of it. “And I assure you, sir,”

said he, “your present generosity hath left me no other concern than

for the present melancholy occasion. Oh, my friend, my father!” Here

his words choaked him, and he turned away to hide a tear which was

starting from his eyes.

Allworthy then gently squeezed his hand, and proceeded thus: “I am

convinced, my child, that you have much goodness, generosity, and

honour, in your temper: if you will add prudence and religion to

these, you must be happy; for the three former qualities, I admit,

make you worthy of happiness, but they are the latter only which will

put you in possession of it.

“One thousand pound I have given to you, Mr Thwackum; a sum I am

convinced which greatly exceeds your desires, as well as your wants.

However, you will receive it as a memorial of my friendship; and

whatever superfluities may redound to you, that piety which you so

rigidly maintain will instruct you how to dispose of them.

“A like sum, Mr Square, I have bequeathed to you. This, I hope, will

enable you to pursue your profession with better success than

hitherto. I have often observed with concern, that distress is more

apt to excite contempt than commiseration, especially among men of

business, with whom poverty is understood to indicate want of ability.

But the little I have been able to leave you will extricate you from

those difficulties with which you have formerly struggled; and then I

doubt not but you will meet with sufficient prosperity to supply what

a man of your philosophical temper will require.

“I find myself growing faint, so I shall refer you to my will for my

disposition of the residue. My servants will there find some tokens to

remember me by; and there are a few charities which, I trust, my

executors will see faithfully performed. Bless you all. I am setting

out a little before you.”--

Here a footman came hastily into the room, and said there was an

attorney from Salisbury who had a particular message, which he said he

must communicate to Mr Allworthy himself: that he seemed in a violent

hurry, and protested he had so much business to do, that, if he could

cut himself into four quarters, all would not be sufficient.

“Go, child,” said Allworthy to Blifil, “see what the gentleman wants.

I am not able to do any business now, nor can he have any with me, in

which you are not at present more concerned than myself. Besides, I

really am--I am incapable of seeing any one at present, or of any

longer attention.” He then saluted them all, saying, perhaps he should

be able to see them again, but he should be now glad to compose

himself a little, finding that he had too much exhausted his spirits

in discourse.

Some of the company shed tears at their parting; and even the

philosopher Square wiped his eyes, albeit unused to the melting mood.

As to Mrs Wilkins, she dropt her pearls as fast as the Arabian trees

their medicinal gums; for this was a ceremonial which that gentlewoman

never omitted on a proper occasion.

After this Mr Allworthy again laid himself down on his pillow, and

endeavoured to compose himself to rest.

Chapter viii.

Containing matter rather natural than pleasing.

Besides grief for her master, there was another source for that briny

stream which so plentifully rose above the two mountainous cheek-bones

of the housekeeper. She was no sooner retired, than she began to

mutter to herself in the following pleasant strain: “Sure master might

have made some difference, methinks, between me and the other

servants. I suppose he hath left me mourning; but, i'fackins! if that

be all, the devil shall wear it for him, for me. I'd have his worship

know I am no beggar. I have saved five hundred pound in his service,

and after all to be used in this manner.--It is a fine encouragement

to servants to be honest; and to be sure, if I have taken a little

something now and then, others have taken ten times as much; and now

we are all put in a lump together. If so be that it be so, the legacy

may go to the devil with him that gave it. No, I won't give it up

neither, because that will please some folks. No, I'll buy the gayest

gown I can get, and dance over the old curmudgeon's grave in it. This

is my reward for taking his part so often, when all the country have

cried shame of him, for breeding up his bastard in that manner; but he

is going now where he must pay for all. It would have become him

better to have repented of his sins on his deathbed, than to glory in

them, and give away his estate out of his own family to a misbegotten

child. Found in his bed, forsooth! a pretty story! ay, ay, those that

hide know where to find. Lord forgive him! I warrant he hath many more

bastards to answer for, if the truth was known. One comfort is, they

will all be known where he is a going now.--`The servants will find

some token to remember me by.' Those were the very words; I shall

never forget them, if I was to live a thousand years. Ay, ay, I shall

remember you for huddling me among the servants. One would have

thought he might have mentioned my name as well as that of Square; but

he is a gentleman forsooth, though he had not cloths on his back when

he came hither first. Marry come up with such gentlemen! though he

hath lived here this many years, I don't believe there is arrow a

servant in the house ever saw the colour of his money. The devil shall

wait upon such a gentleman for me.” Much more of the like kind she

muttered to herself; but this taste shall suffice to the reader.

Neither Thwackum nor Square were much better satisfied with their

legacies. Though they breathed not their resentment so loud, yet from

the discontent which appeared in their countenances, as well as from

the following dialogue, we collect that no great pleasure reigned in

their minds.

About an hour after they had left the sick-room, Square met Thwackum

in the hall and accosted him thus: “Well, sir, have you heard any news

of your friend since we parted from him?”--“If you mean Mr Allworthy,”

answered Thwackum, “I think you might rather give him the appellation

of your friend; for he seems to me to have deserved that title.”--“The

title is as good on your side,” replied Square, “for his bounty, such

as it is, hath been equal to both.”--“I should not have mentioned it

first,” cries Thwackum, “but since you begin, I must inform you I am

of a different opinion. There is a wide distinction between voluntary

favours and rewards. The duty I have done in his family, and the care

I have taken in the education of his two boys, are services for which

some men might have expected a greater return. I would not have you

imagine I am therefore dissatisfied; for St Paul hath taught me to

be content with the little I have. Had the modicum been less, I

should have known my duty. But though the Scriptures obliges me to

remain contented, it doth not enjoin me to shut my eyes to my own

merit, nor restrain me from seeing when I am injured by an unjust

comparison.”--“Since you provoke me,” returned Square, “that injury is

done to me; nor did I ever imagine Mr Allworthy had held my friendship

so light, as to put me in balance with one who received his wages. I

know to what it is owing; it proceeds from those narrow principles

which you have been so long endeavouring to infuse into him, in

contempt of everything which is great and noble. The beauty and

loveliness of friendship is too strong for dim eyes, nor can it be

perceived by any other medium than that unerring rule of right, which

you have so often endeavoured to ridicule, that you have perverted

your friend's understanding.”--“I wish,” cries Thwackum, in a rage, “I

wish, for the sake of his soul, your damnable doctrines have not

perverted his faith. It is to this I impute his present behaviour, so

unbecoming a Christian. Who but an atheist could think of leaving the

world without having first made up his account? without confessing his

sins, and receiving that absolution which he knew he had one in the

house duly authorized to give him? He will feel the want of these

necessaries when it is too late, when he is arrived at that place

where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. It is then he will find

in what mighty stead that heathen goddess, that virtue, which you and

all other deists of the age adore, will stand him. He will then summon

his priest, when there is none to be found, and will lament the want

of that absolution, without which no sinner can be safe.”--“If it be

so material,” says Square, “why don't you present it him of your own

accord?” “It hath no virtue,” cries Thwackum, “but to those who have

sufficient grace to require it. But why do I talk thus to a heathen

and an unbeliever? It is you that taught him this lesson, for which

you have been well rewarded in this world, as I doubt not your

disciple will soon be in the other.”--“I know not what you mean by

reward,” said Square; “but if you hint at that pitiful memorial of our

friendship, which he hath thought fit to bequeath me, I despise it;

and nothing but the unfortunate situation of my circumstances should

prevail on me to accept it.”

The physician now arrived, and began to inquire of the two disputants,

how we all did above-stairs? “In a miserable way,” answered Thwackum.

“It is no more than I expected,” cries the doctor: “but pray what

symptoms have appeared since I left you?”--“No good ones, I am

afraid,” replied Thwackum: “after what past at our departure, I think

there were little hopes.” The bodily physician, perhaps, misunderstood

the curer of souls; and before they came to an explanation, Mr Blifil

came to them with a most melancholy countenance, and acquainted them

that he brought sad news, that his mother was dead at Salisbury; that

she had been seized on the road home with the gout in her head and

stomach, which had carried her off in a few hours. “Good-lack-a-day!”

says the doctor. “One cannot answer for events; but I wish I had been

at hand, to have been called in. The gout is a distemper which it is

difficult to treat; yet I have been remarkably successful in it.”

Thwackum and Square both condoled with Mr Blifil for the loss of his

mother, which the one advised him to bear like a man, and the other

like a Christian. The young gentleman said he knew very well we were

all mortal, and he would endeavour to submit to his loss as well as he

could. That he could not, however, help complaining a little against

the peculiar severity of his fate, which brought the news of so great

a calamity to him by surprize, and that at a time when he hourly

expected the severest blow he was capable of feeling from the malice

of fortune. He said, the present occasion would put to the test those

excellent rudiments which he had learnt from Mr Thwackum and Mr

Square; and it would be entirely owing to them, if he was enabled to

survive such misfortunes.

It was now debated whether Mr Allworthy should be informed of the

death of his sister. This the doctor violently opposed; in which, I

believe, the whole college would agree with him: but Mr Blifil said,

he had received such positive and repeated orders from his uncle,

never to keep any secret from him for fear of the disquietude which it

might give him, that he durst not think of disobedience, whatever

might be the consequence. He said, for his part, considering the

religious and philosophic temper of his uncle, he could not agree with

the doctor in his apprehensions. He was therefore resolved to

communicate it to him: for if his uncle recovered (as he heartily

prayed he might) he knew he would never forgive an endeavour to keep a

secret of this kind from him.

The physician was forced to submit to these resolutions, which the two

other learned gentlemen very highly commended. So together moved Mr

Blifil and the doctor toward the sick-room; where the physician first

entered, and approached the bed, in order to feel his patient's pulse,

which he had no sooner done, than he declared he was much better; that

the last application had succeeded to a miracle, and had brought the

fever to intermit: so that, he said, there appeared now to be as

little danger as he had before apprehended there were hopes.

To say the truth, Mr Allworthy's situation had never been so bad as

the great caution of the doctor had represented it: but as a wise

general never despises his enemy, however inferior that enemy's force

may be, so neither doth a wise physician ever despise a distemper,

however inconsiderable. As the former preserves the same strict

discipline, places the same guards, and employs the same scouts,

though the enemy be never so weak; so the latter maintains the same

gravity of countenance, and shakes his head with the same significant

air, let the distemper be never so trifling. And both, among many

other good ones, may assign this solid reason for their conduct, that

by these means the greater glory redounds to them if they gain the

victory, and the less disgrace if by any unlucky accident they should

happen to be conquered.

Mr Allworthy had no sooner lifted up his eyes, and thanked Heaven for

these hopes of his recovery, than Mr Blifil drew near, with a very

dejected aspect, and having applied his handkerchief to his eye,

either to wipe away his tears, or to do as Ovid somewhere expresses

himself on another occasion

_Si nullus erit, tamen excute nullum,_

If there be none, then wipe away that none,

he communicated to his uncle what the reader hath been just before

acquainted with.

Allworthy received the news with concern, with patience, and with

resignation. He dropt a tender tear, then composed his countenance,

and at last cried, “The Lord's will be done in everything.”

He now enquired for the messenger; but Blifil told him it had been

impossible to detain him a moment; for he appeared by the great hurry

he was in to have some business of importance on his hands; that he

complained of being hurried and driven and torn out of his life, and

repeated many times, that if he could divide himself into four

quarters, he knew how to dispose of every one.

Allworthy then desired Blifil to take care of the funeral. He said, he

would have his sister deposited in his own chapel; and as to the

particulars, he left them to his own discretion, only mentioning the

person whom he would have employed on this occasion.

Chapter ix.

Which, among other things, may serve as a comment on that saying of

Aeschines, that “drunkenness shows the mind of a man, as a mirrour

reflects his person.”

The reader may perhaps wonder at hearing nothing of Mr Jones in the

last chapter. In fact, his behaviour was so different from that of the

persons there mentioned, that we chose not to confound his name with

theirs.

When the good man had ended his speech, Jones was the last who

deserted the room. Thence he retired to his own apartment, to give

vent to his concern; but the restlessness of his mind would not suffer

him to remain long there; he slipped softly therefore to Allworthy's

chamber-door, where he listened a considerable time without hearing

any kind of motion within, unless a violent snoring, which at last his

fears misrepresented as groans. This so alarmed him, that he could not

forbear entering the room; where he found the good man in the bed, in

a sweet composed sleep, and his nurse snoring in the above mentioned

hearty manner, at the bed's feet. He immediately took the only method

of silencing this thorough bass, whose music he feared might disturb

Mr Allworthy; and then sitting down by the nurse, he remained

motionless till Blifil and the doctor came in together and waked the

sick man, in order that the doctor might feel his pulse, and that the

other might communicate to him that piece of news, which, had Jones

been apprized of it, would have had great difficulty of finding its

way to Mr Allworthy's ear at such a season.

When he first heard Blifil tell his uncle this story, Jones could

hardly contain the wrath which kindled in him at the other's

indiscretion, especially as the doctor shook his head, and declared

his unwillingness to have the matter mentioned to his patient. But as

his passion did not so far deprive him of all use of his

understanding, as to hide from him the consequences which any violent

expression towards Blifil might have on the sick, this apprehension

stilled his rage at the present; and he grew afterwards so satisfied

with finding that this news had, in fact, produced no mischief, that

he suffered his anger to die in his own bosom, without ever mentioning

it to Blifil.

The physician dined that day at Mr Allworthy's; and having after

dinner visited his patient, he returned to the company, and told them,

that he had now the satisfaction to say, with assurance, that his

patient was out of all danger: that he had brought his fever to a

perfect intermission, and doubted not by throwing in the bark to

prevent its return.

This account so pleased Jones, and threw him into such immoderate

excess of rapture, that he might be truly said to be drunk with

joy--an intoxication which greatly forwards the effects of wine; and

as he was very free too with the bottle on this occasion (for he drank

many bumpers to the doctor's health, as well as to other toasts) he

became very soon literally drunk.

Jones had naturally violent animal spirits: these being set on float

and augmented by the spirit of wine, produced most extravagant

effects. He kissed the doctor, and embraced him with the most

passionate endearments; swearing that next to Mr Allworthy himself, he

loved him of all men living. “Doctor,” added he, “you deserve a statue

to be erected to you at the public expense, for having preserved a

man, who is not only the darling of all good men who know him, but a

blessing to society, the glory of his country, and an honour to human

nature. D--n me if I don't love him better than my own soul.”

“More shame for you,” cries Thwackum. “Though I think you have reason

to love him, for he hath provided very well for you. And perhaps it

might have been better for some folks that he had not lived to see

just reason of revoking his gift.”

Jones now looking on Thwackum with inconceivable disdain, answered,

“And doth thy mean soul imagine that any such considerations could

weigh with me? No, let the earth open and swallow her own dirt (if I

had millions of acres I would say it) rather than swallow up my dear

glorious friend.”

_Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus

Tam chari capitis?_[*]

[*] “What modesty or measure can set bounds to our desire of so dear

a friend?” The word _desiderium_ here cannot be easily translated.

It includes our desire of enjoying our friend again, and the grief

which attends that desire.

The doctor now interposed, and prevented the effects of a wrath which

was kindling between Jones and Thwackum; after which the former gave a

loose to mirth, sang two or three amorous songs, and fell into every

frantic disorder which unbridled joy is apt to inspire; but so far was

he from any disposition to quarrel, that he was ten times better

humoured, if possible, than when he was sober.

To say truth, nothing is more erroneous than the common observation,

that men who are ill-natured and quarrelsome when they are drunk, are

very worthy persons when they are sober: for drink, in reality, doth

not reverse nature, or create passions in men which did not exist in

them before. It takes away the guard of reason, and consequently

forces us to produce those symptoms, which many, when sober, have art

enough to conceal. It heightens and inflames our passions (generally

indeed that passion which is uppermost in our mind), so that the angry

temper, the amorous, the generous, the good-humoured, the avaricious,

and all other dispositions of men, are in their cups heightened and

exposed.

And yet as no nation produces so many drunken quarrels, especially

among the lower people, as England (for indeed, with them, to drink

and to fight together are almost synonymous terms), I would not,

methinks, have it thence concluded, that the English are the

worst-natured people alive. Perhaps the love of glory only is at the

bottom of this; so that the fair conclusion seems to be, that our

countrymen have more of that love, and more of bravery, than any other

plebeians. And this the rather, as there is seldom anything

ungenerous, unfair, or ill-natured, exercised on these occasions: nay,

it is common for the combatants to express good-will for each other

even at the time of the conflict; and as their drunken mirth generally

ends in a battle, so do most of their battles end in friendship.

But to return to our history. Though Jones had shown no design of

giving offence, yet Mr Blifil was highly offended at a behaviour which

was so inconsistent with the sober and prudent reserve of his own

temper. He bore it too with the greater impatience, as it appeared to

him very indecent at this season; “When,” as he said, “the house was a

house of mourning, on the account of his dear mother; and if it had

pleased Heaven to give him some prospect of Mr Allworthy's recovery,

it would become them better to express the exultations of their hearts

in thanksgiving, than in drunkenness and riots; which were properer

methods to encrease the Divine wrath, than to avert it.” Thwackum, who

had swallowed more liquor than Jones, but without any ill effect on

his brain, seconded the pious harangue of Blifil; but Square, for

reasons which the reader may probably guess, was totally silent.

Wine had not so totally overpowered Jones, as to prevent his

recollecting Mr Blifil's loss, the moment it was mentioned. As no

person, therefore, was more ready to confess and condemn his own

errors, he offered to shake Mr Blifil by the hand, and begged his

pardon, saying, “His excessive joy for Mr Allworthy's recovery had

driven every other thought out of his mind.”

Blifil scornfully rejected his hand; and with much indignation

answered, “It was little to be wondered at, if tragical spectacles

made no impression on the blind; but, for his part, he had the

misfortune to know who his parents were, and consequently must be

affected with their loss.”

Jones, who, notwithstanding his good humour, had some mixture of the

irascible in his constitution, leaped hastily from his chair, and

catching hold of Blifil's collar, cried out, “D--n you for a rascal,

do you insult me with the misfortune of my birth?” He accompanied

these words with such rough actions, that they soon got the better of

Mr Blifil's peaceful temper; and a scuffle immediately ensued, which

might have produced mischief, had it not been prevented by the

interposition of Thwackum and the physician; for the philosophy of

Square rendered him superior to all emotions, and he very calmly

smoaked his pipe, as was his custom in all broils, unless when he

apprehended some danger of having it broke in his mouth.

The combatants being now prevented from executing present vengeance on

each other, betook themselves to the common resources of disappointed

rage, and vented their wrath in threats and defiance. In this kind of

conflict, Fortune, which, in the personal attack, seemed to incline to

Jones, was now altogether as favourable to his enemy.

A truce, nevertheless, was at length agreed on, by the mediation of

the neutral parties, and the whole company again sat down at the

table; where Jones being prevailed on to ask pardon, and Blifil to

give it, peace was restored, and everything seemed _in statu quo_.

But though the quarrel was, in all appearance, perfectly reconciled,

the good humour which had been interrupted by it, was by no means

restored. All merriment was now at an end, and the subsequent

discourse consisted only of grave relations of matters of fact, and of

as grave observations upon them; a species of conversation, in which,

though there is much of dignity and instruction, there is but little

entertainment. As we presume therefore to convey only this last to the

reader, we shall pass by whatever was said, till the rest of the

company having by degrees dropped off, left only Square and the

physician together; at which time the conversation was a little

heightened by some comments on what had happened between the two young

gentlemen; both of whom the doctor declared to be no better than

scoundrels; to which appellation the philosopher, very sagaciously

shaking his head, agreed.

Chapter x.

Showing the truth of many observations of Ovid, and of other more

grave writers, who have proved beyond contradiction, that wine is

often the forerunner of incontinency.

Jones retired from the company, in which we have seen him engaged,

into the fields, where he intended to cool himself by a walk in the

open air before he attended Mr Allworthy. There, whilst he renewed

those meditations on his dear Sophia, which the dangerous illness of

his friend and benefactor had for some time interrupted, an accident

happened, which with sorrow we relate, and with sorrow doubtless will

it be read; however, that historic truth to which we profess so

inviolable an attachment, obliges us to communicate it to posterity.

It was now a pleasant evening in the latter end of June, when our

heroe was walking in a most delicious grove, where the gentle breezes

fanning the leaves, together with the sweet trilling of a murmuring

stream, and the melodious notes of nightingales, formed altogether the

most enchanting harmony. In this scene, so sweetly accommodated to

love, he meditated on his dear Sophia. While his wanton fancy roamed

unbounded over all her beauties, and his lively imagination painted

the charming maid in various ravishing forms, his warm heart melted

with tenderness; and at length, throwing himself on the ground, by the

side of a gently murmuring brook, he broke forth into the following

ejaculation:

“O Sophia, would Heaven give thee to my arms, how blest would be my

condition! Curst be that fortune which sets a distance between us. Was

I but possessed of thee, one only suit of rags thy whole estate, is

there a man on earth whom I would envy! How contemptible would the

brightest Circassian beauty, drest in all the jewels of the Indies,

appear to my eyes! But why do I mention another woman? Could I think

my eyes capable of looking at any other with tenderness, these hands

should tear them from my head. No, my Sophia, if cruel fortune

separates us for ever, my soul shall doat on thee alone. The chastest

constancy will I ever preserve to thy image. Though I should never

have possession of thy charming person, still shalt thou alone have

possession of my thoughts, my love, my soul. Oh! my fond heart is so

wrapt in that tender bosom, that the brightest beauties would for me

have no charms, nor would a hermit be colder in their embraces.

Sophia, Sophia alone shall be mine. What raptures are in that name! I

will engrave it on every tree.”

At these words he started up, and beheld--not his Sophia--no, nor a

Circassian maid richly and elegantly attired for the grand Signior's

seraglio. No; without a gown, in a shift that was somewhat of the

coarsest, and none of the cleanest, bedewed likewise with some

odoriferous effluvia, the produce of the day's labour, with a

pitchfork in her hand, Molly Seagrim approached. Our hero had his

penknife in his hand, which he had drawn for the before-mentioned

purpose of carving on the bark; when the girl coming near him, cryed

out with a smile, “You don't intend to kill me, squire, I hope!”--“Why

should you think I would kill you?” answered Jones. “Nay,” replied

she, “after your cruel usage of me when I saw you last, killing me

would, perhaps, be too great kindness for me to expect.”

Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not think myself obliged to

relate it, I shall omit. It is sufficient that it lasted a full

quarter of an hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into the

thickest part of the grove.

Some of my readers may be inclined to think this event unnatural.

However, the fact is true; and perhaps may be sufficiently accounted

for by suggesting, that Jones probably thought one woman better than

none, and Molly as probably imagined two men to be better than one.

Besides the before-mentioned motive assigned to the present behaviour

of Jones, the reader will be likewise pleased to recollect in his

favour, that he was not at this time perfect master of that wonderful

power of reason, which so well enables grave and wise men to subdue

their unruly passions, and to decline any of these prohibited

amusements. Wine now had totally subdued this power in Jones. He was,

indeed, in a condition, in which, if reason had interposed, though

only to advise, she might have received the answer which one

Cleostratus gave many years ago to a silly fellow, who asked him, if

he was not ashamed to be drunk? “Are not you,” said Cleostratus,

“ashamed to admonish a drunken man?”--To say the truth, in a court of

justice drunkenness must not be an excuse, yet in a court of

conscience it is greatly so; and therefore Aristotle, who commends the

laws of Pittacus, by which drunken men received double punishment for

their crimes, allows there is more of policy than justice in that law.

Now, if there are any transgressions pardonable from drunkenness, they

are certainly such as Mr Jones was at present guilty of; on which head

I could pour forth a vast profusion of learning, if I imagined it

would either entertain my reader, or teach him anything more than he

knows already. For his sake therefore I shall keep my learning to

myself, and return to my history.

It hath been observed, that Fortune seldom doth things by halves. To

say truth, there is no end to her freaks whenever she is disposed to

gratify or displease. No sooner had our heroe retired with his Dido,

but

_Speluncam_ Blifil _dux et divinus eandem

Deveniunt--_

the parson and the young squire, who were taking a serious walk,

arrived at the stile which leads into the grove, and the latter caught

a view of the lovers just as they were sinking out of sight.

Blifil knew Jones very well, though he was at above a hundred yards'

distance, and he was as positive to the sex of his companion, though

not to the individual person. He started, blessed himself, and uttered

a very solemn ejaculation.

Thwackum expressed some surprize at these sudden emotions, and asked

the reason of them. To which Blifil answered, “He was certain he had

seen a fellow and wench retire together among the bushes, which he

doubted not was with some wicked purpose.” As to the name of Jones, he

thought proper to conceal it, and why he did so must be left to the

judgment of the sagacious reader; for we never chuse to assign motives

to the actions of men, when there is any possibility of our being

mistaken.

The parson, who was not only strictly chaste in his own person, but a

great enemy to the opposite vice in all others, fired at this

information. He desired Mr Blifil to conduct him immediately to the

place, which as he approached he breathed forth vengeance mixed with

lamentations; nor did he refrain from casting some oblique reflections

on Mr Allworthy; insinuating that the wickedness of the country was

principally owing to the encouragement he had given to vice, by having

exerted such kindness to a bastard, and by having mitigated that just

and wholesome rigour of the law which allots a very severe punishment

to loose wenches.

The way through which our hunters were to pass in pursuit of their

game was so beset with briars, that it greatly obstructed their walk,

and caused besides such a rustling, that Jones had sufficient warning

of their arrival before they could surprize him; nay, indeed, so

incapable was Thwackum of concealing his indignation, and such

vengeance did he mutter forth every step he took, that this alone must

have abundantly satisfied Jones that he was (to use the language of

sportsmen) found sitting.

Chapter xi.

In which a simile in Mr Pope's period of a mile introduces as bloody a

battle as can possibly be fought without the assistance of steel or

cold iron.

As in the season of _rutting_ (an uncouth phrase, by which the vulgar

denote that gentle dalliance, which in the well-wooded[*] forest of

Hampshire, passes between lovers of the ferine kind), if, while the

lofty-crested stag meditates the amorous sport, a couple of puppies,

or any other beasts of hostile note, should wander so near the temple

of Venus Ferina that the fair hind should shrink from the place,

touched with that somewhat, either of fear or frolic, of nicety or

skittishness, with which nature hath bedecked all females, or hath at

least instructed them how to put it on; lest, through the indelicacy

of males, the Samean mysteries should be pryed into by unhallowed

eyes: for, at the celebration of these rites, the female priestess

cries out with her in Virgil (who was then, probably, hard at work on

such celebration),

_--Procul, o procul este, profani;

Proclamat vates, totoque absistite luco._

--Far hence be souls profane,

The sibyl cry'd, and from the grove abstain.--DRYDEN.

[*] This is an ambiguous phrase, and may mean either a forest well

cloathed with wood, or well stript of it.

If, I say, while these sacred rites, which are in common to _genus

omne animantium,_ are in agitation between the stag and his mistress,

any hostile beasts should venture too near, on the first hint given by

the frighted hind, fierce and tremendous rushes forth the stag to the

entrance of the thicket; there stands he centinel over his love,

stamps the ground with his foot, and with his horns brandished aloft

in air, proudly provokes the apprehended foe to combat.

Thus, and more terrible, when he perceived the enemy's approach,

leaped forth our heroe. Many a step advanced he forwards, in order to

conceal the trembling hind, and, if possible, to secure her retreat.

And now Thwackum, having first darted some livid lightning from his

fiery eyes, began to thunder forth, “Fie upon it! Fie upon it! Mr

Jones. Is it possible you should be the person?”--“You see,” answered

Jones, “it is possible I should be here.”--“And who,” said Thwackum,

“is that wicked slut with you?”--“If I have any wicked slut with me,”

cries Jones, “it is possible I shall not let you know who she is.”--“I

command you to tell me immediately,” says Thwackum: “and I would not

have you imagine, young man, that your age, though it hath somewhat

abridged the purpose of tuition, hath totally taken away the authority

of the master. The relation of the master and scholar is indelible;

as, indeed, all other relations are; for they all derive their

original from heaven. I would have you think yourself, therefore, as

much obliged to obey me now, as when I taught you your first

rudiments.”--“I believe you would,” cries Jones; “but that will not

happen, unless you had the same birchen argument to convince

me.”--“Then I must tell you plainly,” said Thwackum, “I am resolved to

discover the wicked wretch.”--“And I must tell you plainly,” returned

Jones, “I am resolved you shall not.” Thwackum then offered to

advance, and Jones laid hold of his arms; which Mr Blifil endeavoured

to rescue, declaring, “he would not see his old master insulted.”

Jones now finding himself engaged with two, thought it necessary to

rid himself of one of his antagonists as soon as possible. He

therefore applied to the weakest first; and, letting the parson go, he

directed a blow at the young squire's breast, which luckily taking

place, reduced him to measure his length on the ground.

Thwackum was so intent on the discovery, that, the moment he found

himself at liberty, he stept forward directly into the fern, without

any great consideration of what might in the meantime befal his

friend; but he had advanced a very few paces into the thicket, before

Jones, having defeated Blifil, overtook the parson, and dragged him

backward by the skirt of his coat.

This parson had been a champion in his youth, and had won much honour

by his fist, both at school and at the university. He had now indeed,

for a great number of years, declined the practice of that noble art;

yet was his courage full as strong as his faith, and his body no less

strong than either. He was moreover, as the reader may perhaps have

conceived, somewhat irascible in his nature. When he looked back,

therefore, and saw his friend stretched out on the ground, and found

himself at the same time so roughly handled by one who had formerly

been only passive in all conflicts between them (a circumstance which

highly aggravated the whole), his patience at length gave way; he

threw himself into a posture of offence; and collecting all his force,

attacked Jones in the front with as much impetuosity as he had

formerly attacked him in the rear.

Our heroe received the enemy's attack with the most undaunted

intrepidity, and his bosom resounded with the blow. This he presently

returned with no less violence, aiming likewise at the parson's

breast; but he dexterously drove down the fist of Jones, so that it

reached only his belly, where two pounds of beef and as many of

pudding were then deposited, and whence consequently no hollow sound

could proceed. Many lusty blows, much more pleasant as well as easy to

have seen, than to read or describe, were given on both sides: at last

a violent fall, in which Jones had thrown his knees into Thwackum's

breast, so weakened the latter, that victory had been no longer

dubious, had not Blifil, who had now recovered his strength, again

renewed the fight, and by engaging with Jones, given the parson a

moment's time to shake his ears, and to regain his breath.

And now both together attacked our heroe, whose blows did not retain

that force with which they had fallen at first, so weakened was he by

his combat with Thwackum; for though the pedagogue chose rather to

play _solos_ on the human instrument, and had been lately used to

those only, yet he still retained enough of his antient knowledge to

perform his part very well in a _duet_.

The victory, according to modern custom, was like to be decided by

numbers, when, on a sudden, a fourth pair of fists appeared in the

battle, and immediately paid their compliments to the parson; and the

owner of them at the same time crying out, “Are not you ashamed, and

be d--n'd to you, to fall two of you upon one?”

The battle, which was of the kind that for distinction's sake is

called royal, now raged with the utmost violence during a few minutes;

till Blifil being a second time laid sprawling by Jones, Thwackum

condescended to apply for quarter to his new antagonist, who was now

found to be Mr Western himself; for in the heat of the action none of

the combatants had recognized him.

In fact, that honest squire, happening, in his afternoon's walk with

some company, to pass through the field where the bloody battle was

fought, and having concluded, from seeing three men engaged, that two

of them must be on a side, he hastened from his companions, and with

more gallantry than policy, espoused the cause of the weaker party. By

which generous proceeding he very probably prevented Mr Jones from

becoming a victim to the wrath of Thwackum, and to the pious

friendship which Blifil bore his old master; for, besides the

disadvantage of such odds, Jones had not yet sufficiently recovered

the former strength of his broken arm. This reinforcement, however,

soon put an end to the action, and Jones with his ally obtained the

victory.

Chapter xii.

In which is seen a more moving spectacle than all the blood in the

bodies of Thwackum and Blifil, and of twenty other such, is capable of

producing.

The rest of Mr Western's company were now come up, being just at the

instant when the action was over. These were the honest clergyman,

whom we have formerly seen at Mr Western's table; Mrs Western, the

aunt of Sophia; and lastly, the lovely Sophia herself.

At this time, the following was the aspect of the bloody field. In one

place lay on the ground, all pale, and almost breathless, the

vanquished Blifil. Near him stood the conqueror Jones, almost covered

with blood, part of which was naturally his own, and part had been

lately the property of the Reverend Mr Thwackum. In a third place

stood the said Thwackum, like King Porus, sullenly submitting to the

conqueror. The last figure in the piece was Western the Great, most

gloriously forbearing the vanquished foe.

Blifil, in whom there was little sign of life, was at first the

principal object of the concern of every one, and particularly of Mrs

Western, who had drawn from her pocket a bottle of hartshorn, and was

herself about to apply it to his nostrils, when on a sudden the

attention of the whole company was diverted from poor Blifil, whose

spirit, if it had any such design, might have now taken an opportunity

of stealing off to the other world, without any ceremony.

For now a more melancholy and a more lovely object lay motionless

before them. This was no other than the charming Sophia herself, who,

from the sight of blood, or from fear for her father, or from some

other reason, had fallen down in a swoon, before any one could get to

her assistance.

Mrs Western first saw her and screamed. Immediately two or three

voices cried out, “Miss Western is dead.” Hartshorn, water, every

remedy was called for, almost at one and the same instant.

The reader may remember, that in our description of this grove we

mentioned a murmuring brook, which brook did not come there, as such

gentle streams flow through vulgar romances, with no other purpose

than to murmur. No! Fortune had decreed to ennoble this little brook

with a higher honour than any of those which wash the plains of

Arcadia ever deserved.

Jones was rubbing Blifil's temples, for he began to fear he had given

him a blow too much, when the words, Miss Western and Dead, rushed at

once on his ear. He started up, left Blifil to his fate, and flew to

Sophia, whom, while all the rest were running against each other,

backward and forward, looking for water in the dry paths, he caught up

in his arms, and then ran away with her over the field to the rivulet

above mentioned; where, plunging himself into the water, he contrived

to besprinkle her face, head, and neck very plentifully.

Happy was it for Sophia that the same confusion which prevented her

other friends from serving her, prevented them likewise from

obstructing Jones. He had carried her half ways before they knew what

he was doing, and he had actually restored her to life before they

reached the waterside. She stretched out her arms, opened her eyes,

and cried, “Oh! heavens!” just as her father, aunt, and the parson

came up.

Jones, who had hitherto held this lovely burthen in his arms, now

relinquished his hold; but gave her at the same instant a tender

caress, which, had her senses been then perfectly restored, could not

have escaped her observation. As she expressed, therefore, no

displeasure at this freedom, we suppose she was not sufficiently

recovered from her swoon at the time.

This tragical scene was now converted into a sudden scene of joy. In

this our heroe was certainly the principal character; for as he

probably felt more ecstatic delight in having saved Sophia than she

herself received from being saved, so neither were the congratulations

paid to her equal to what were conferred on Jones, especially by Mr

Western himself, who, after having once or twice embraced his

daughter, fell to hugging and kissing Jones. He called him the

preserver of Sophia, and declared there was nothing, except her, or

his estate, which he would not give him; but upon recollection, he

afterwards excepted his fox-hounds, the Chevalier, and Miss Slouch

(for so he called his favourite mare).

All fears for Sophia being now removed, Jones became the object of the

squire's consideration.--“Come, my lad,” says Western, “d'off thy

quoat and wash thy feace; for att in a devilish pickle, I promise

thee. Come, come, wash thyself, and shat go huome with me; and we'l

zee to vind thee another quoat.”

Jones immediately complied, threw off his coat, went down to the

water, and washed both his face and bosom; for the latter was as much

exposed and as bloody as the former. But though the water could clear

off the blood, it could not remove the black and blue marks which

Thwackum had imprinted on both his face and breast, and which, being

discerned by Sophia, drew from her a sigh and a look full of

inexpressible tenderness.

Jones received this full in his eyes, and it had infinitely a stronger

effect on him than all the contusions which he had received before. An

effect, however, widely different; for so soft and balmy was it, that,

had all his former blows been stabs, it would for some minutes have

prevented his feeling their smart.

The company now moved backwards, and soon arrived where Thwackum had

got Mr Blifil again on his legs. Here we cannot suppress a pious wish,

that all quarrels were to be decided by those weapons only with which

Nature, knowing what is proper for us, hath supplied us; and that cold

iron was to be used in digging no bowels but those of the earth. Then

would war, the pastime of monarchs, be almost inoffensive, and battles

between great armies might be fought at the particular desire of

several ladies of quality; who, together with the kings themselves,

might be actual spectators of the conflict. Then might the field be

this moment well strewed with human carcasses, and the next, the dead

men, or infinitely the greatest part of them, might get up, like Mr

Bayes's troops, and march off either at the sound of a drum or fiddle,

as should be previously agreed on.

I would avoid, if possible, treating this matter ludicrously, lest

grave men and politicians, whom I know to be offended at a jest, may

cry pish at it; but, in reality, might not a battle be as well decided

by the greater number of broken heads, bloody noses, and black eyes,

as by the greater heaps of mangled and murdered human bodies? Might

not towns be contended for in the same manner? Indeed, this may be

thought too detrimental a scheme to the French interest, since they

would thus lose the advantage they have over other nations in the

superiority of their engineers; but when I consider the gallantry and

generosity of that people, I am persuaded they would never decline

putting themselves upon a par with their adversary; or, as the phrase

is, making themselves his match.

But such reformations are rather to be wished than hoped for: I shall

content myself, therefore, with this short hint, and return to my

narrative.

Western began now to inquire into the original rise of this quarrel.

To which neither Blifil nor Jones gave any answer; but Thwackum said

surlily, “I believe the cause is not far off; if you beat the bushes

well you may find her.”--“Find her?” replied Western: “what! have you

been fighting for a wench?”--“Ask the gentleman in his waistcoat

there,” said Thwackum: “he best knows.” “Nay then,” cries Western, “it

is a wench certainly.--Ah, Tom, Tom, thou art a liquorish dog. But

come, gentlemen, be all friends, and go home with me, and make final

peace over a bottle.” “I ask your pardon, sir,” says Thwackum: “it is

no such slight matter for a man of my character to be thus injuriously

treated, and buffeted by a boy, only because I would have done my

duty, in endeavouring to detect and bring to justice a wanton harlot;

but, indeed, the principal fault lies in Mr Allworthy and yourself;

for if you put the laws in execution, as you ought to do, you will

soon rid the country of these vermin.”

“I would as soon rid the country of foxes,” cries Western. “I think we

ought to encourage the recruiting those numbers which we are every day

losing in the war.--But where is she? Prithee, Tom, show me.” He then

began to beat about, in the same language and in the same manner as if

he had been beating for a hare; and at last cried out, “Soho! Puss is

not far off. Here's her form, upon my soul; I believe I may cry stole

away.” And indeed so he might; for he had now discovered the place

whence the poor girl had, at the beginning of the fray, stolen away,

upon as many feet as a hare generally uses in travelling.

Sophia now desired her father to return home; saying she found herself

very faint, and apprehended a relapse. The squire immediately complied

with his daughter's request (for he was the fondest of parents). He

earnestly endeavoured to prevail with the whole company to go and sup

with him: but Blifil and Thwackum absolutely refused; the former

saying, there were more reasons than he could then mention, why he

must decline this honour; and the latter declaring (perhaps rightly)

that it was not proper for a person of his function to be seen at any

place in his present condition.

Jones was incapable of refusing the pleasure of being with his Sophia;

so on he marched with Squire Western and his ladies, the parson

bringing up the rear. This had, indeed, offered to tarry with his

brother Thwackum, professing his regard for the cloth would not permit

him to depart; but Thwackum would not accept the favour, and, with no

great civility, pushed him after Mr Western.

Thus ended this bloody fray; and thus shall end the fifth book of this

history.