TOM JONES
PART 8
Chapter vi. — An apology for the insensibility of Mr Jones to all the charms of the lovely Sophia; in which possibly we may, in a considerable degree, lower his character in the estimation of those men of wit and gallantry who approve the heroes in most of our modern comedies.
There are
two sorts of people, who, I am afraid, have already conceived some contempt for
my heroe, on account of his behaviour to Sophia. The former of these will blame
his prudence in neglecting an opportunity to possess himself of Mr Western’s
fortune; and the latter will no less despise him for his backwardness to so
fine a girl, who seemed ready to fly into his arms, if he would open them to
receive her.
Now,
though I shall not perhaps be able absolutely to acquit him of either of these
charges (for want of prudence admits of no excuse; and what I shall produce
against the latter charge will, I apprehend, be scarce satisfactory); yet, as
evidence may sometimes be offered in mitigation, I shall set forth the plain
matter of fact, and leave the whole to the reader’s determination.
Mr Jones
had somewhat about him, which, though I think writers are not thoroughly agreed
in its name, doth certainly inhabit some human breasts; whose use is not so
properly to distinguish right from wrong, as to prompt and incite them to the
former, and to restrain and withhold them from the latter.
This
somewhat may be indeed resembled to the famous trunk-maker in the playhouse;
for, whenever the person who is possessed of it doth what is right, no ravished
or friendly spectator is so eager or so loud in his applause: on the contrary,
when he doth wrong, no critic is so apt to hiss and explode him.
To give a
higher idea of the principle I mean, as well as one more familiar to the
present age; it may be considered as sitting on its throne in the mind, like
the Lord High Chancellor of this kingdom in his court; where it presides,
governs, directs, judges, acquits, and condemns according to merit and justice,
with a knowledge which nothing escapes, a penetration which nothing can
deceive, and an integrity which nothing can corrupt.
This
active principle may perhaps be said to constitute the most essential barrier
between us and our neighbours the brutes; for if there be some in the human
shape who are not under any such dominion, I choose rather to consider them as
deserters from us to our neighbours; among whom they will have the fate of
deserters, and not be placed in the first rank.
Our heroe,
whether he derived it from Thwackum or Square I will not determine, was very
strongly under the guidance of this principle; for though he did not always act
rightly, yet he never did otherwise without feeling and suffering for it. It
was this which taught him, that to repay the civilities and little friendships
of hospitality by robbing the house where you have received them, is to be the
basest and meanest of thieves. He did not think the baseness of this offence
lessened by the height of the injury committed; on the contrary, if to steal
another’s plate deserved death and infamy, it seemed to him difficult to assign
a punishment adequate to the robbing a man of his whole fortune, and of his
child into the bargain.
This
principle, therefore, prevented him from any thought of making his fortune by
such means (for this, as I have said, is an active principle, and doth not
content itself with knowledge or belief only). Had he been greatly enamoured of
Sophia, he possibly might have thought otherwise; but give me leave to say,
there is great difference between running away with a man’s daughter from the
motive of love, and doing the same thing from the motive of theft.
Now,
though this young gentleman was not insensible of the charms of Sophia; though
he greatly liked her beauty, and esteemed all her other qualifications, she had
made, however, no deep impression on his heart; for which, as it renders him
liable to the charge of stupidity, or at least of want of taste, we shall now
proceed to account.
The truth
then is, his heart was in the possession of another woman. Here I question not
but the reader will be surprized at our long taciturnity as to this matter; and
quite at a loss to divine who this woman was, since we have hitherto not dropt
a hint of any one likely to be a rival to Sophia; for as to Mrs Blifil, though
we have been obliged to mention some suspicions of her affection for Tom, we
have not hitherto given the least latitude for imagining that he had any for
her; and, indeed, I am sorry to say it, but the youth of both sexes are too apt
to be deficient in their gratitude for that regard with which persons more
advanced in years are sometimes so kind to honour them.
That the
reader may be no longer in suspense, he will be pleased to remember, that we
have often mentioned the family of George Seagrim (commonly called Black
George, the gamekeeper), which consisted at present of a wife and five
children.
The second
of these children was a daughter, whose name was Molly, and who was esteemed
one of the handsomest girls in the whole country.
Congreve
well says there is in true beauty something which vulgar souls cannot admire;
so can no dirt or rags hide this something from those souls which are not of
the vulgar stamp.
The beauty
of this girl made, however, no impression on Tom, till she grew towards the age
of sixteen, when Tom, who was near three years older, began first to cast the
eyes of affection upon her. And this affection he had fixed on the girl long
before he could bring himself to attempt the possession of her person: for
though his constitution urged him greatly to this, his principles no less
forcibly restrained him. To debauch a young woman, however low her condition
was, appeared to him a very heinous crime; and the good-will he bore the
father, with the compassion he had for his family, very strongly corroborated
all such sober reflections; so that he once resolved to get the better of his
inclinations, and he actually abstained three whole months without ever going
to Seagrim’s house, or seeing his daughter.
Now,
though Molly was, as we have said, generally thought a very fine girl, and in
reality she was so, yet her beauty was not of the most amiable kind. It had,
indeed, very little of feminine in it, and would have become a man at least as
well as a woman; for, to say the truth, youth and florid health had a very
considerable share in the composition.
Nor was
her mind more effeminate than her person. As this was tall and robust, so was
that bold and forward. So little had she of modesty, that Jones had more regard
for her virtue than she herself. And as most probably she liked Tom as well as
he liked her, so when she perceived his backwardness she herself grew
proportionably forward; and when she saw he had entirely deserted the house,
she found means of throwing herself in his way, and behaved in such a manner
that the youth must have had very much or very little of the heroe if her
endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, she soon triumphed over all the
virtuous resolutions of Jones; for though she behaved at last with all decent
reluctance, yet I rather chuse to attribute the triumph to her, since, in fact,
it was her design which succeeded.
In the
conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played her part, that Jones
attributed the conquest entirely to himself, and considered the young woman as
one who had yielded to the violent attacks of his passion. He likewise imputed
her yielding to the ungovernable force of her love towards him; and this the
reader will allow to have been a very natural and probable supposition, as we
have more than once mentioned the uncommon comeliness of his person: and,
indeed, he was one of the handsomest young fellows in the world.
As there
are some minds whose affections, like Master Blifil’s, are solely placed on one
single person, whose interest and indulgence alone they consider on every
occasion; regarding the good and ill of all others as merely indifferent, any
farther than as they contribute to the pleasure or advantage of that person: so
there is a different temper of mind which borrows a degree of virtue even from
self-love. Such can never receive any kind of satisfaction from another,
without loving the creature to whom that satisfaction is owing, and without
making its well-being in some sort necessary to their own ease.
Of this
latter species was our heroe. He considered this poor girl as one whose
happiness or misery he had caused to be dependent on himself. Her beauty was
still the object of desire, though greater beauty, or a fresher object, might
have been more so; but the little abatement which fruition had occasioned to
this was highly overbalanced by the considerations of the affection which she
visibly bore him, and of the situation into which he had brought her. The
former of these created gratitude, the latter compassion; and both, together
with his desire for her person, raised in him a passion which might, without
any great violence to the word, be called love; though, perhaps, it was at
first not very judiciously placed.
This,
then, was the true reason of that insensibility which he had shown to the
charms of Sophia, and that behaviour in her which might have been reasonably
enough interpreted as an encouragement to his addresses; for as he could not
think of abandoning his Molly, poor and destitute as she was, so no more could
he entertain a notion of betraying such a creature as Sophia. And surely, had
he given the least encouragement to any passion for that young lady, he must
have been absolutely guilty of one or other of those crimes; either of which
would, in my opinion, have very justly subjected him to that fate, which, at
his first introduction into this history, I mentioned to have been generally
predicted as his certain destiny.
Chapter vii. — Being the shortest chapter in this book.
Her mother
first perceived the alteration in the shape of Molly; and in order to hide it
from her neighbours, she foolishly clothed her in that sack which Sophia had
sent her; though, indeed, that young lady had little apprehension that the poor
woman would have been weak enough to let any of her daughters wear it in that
form.
Molly was
charmed with the first opportunity she ever had of showing her beauty to
advantage; for though she could very well bear to contemplate herself in the
glass, even when dressed in rags; and though she had in that dress conquered
the heart of Jones, and perhaps of some others; yet she thought the addition of
finery would much improve her charms, and extend her conquests.
Molly,
therefore, having dressed herself out in this sack, with a new laced cap, and
some other ornaments which Tom had given her, repairs to church with her fan in
her hand the very next Sunday. The great are deceived if they imagine they have
appropriated ambition and vanity to themselves. These noble qualities flourish
as notably in a country church and churchyard as in the drawing-room, or in the
closet. Schemes have indeed been laid in the vestry which would hardly disgrace
the conclave. Here is a ministry, and here is an opposition. Here are plots and
circumventions, parties and factions, equal to those which are to be found in courts.
Nor are
the women here less practised in the highest feminine arts than their fair
superiors in quality and fortune. Here are prudes and coquettes. Here are
dressing and ogling, falsehood, envy, malice, scandal; in short, everything
which is common to the most splendid assembly, or politest circle. Let those of
high life, therefore, no longer despise the ignorance of their inferiors; nor
the vulgar any longer rail at the vices of their betters.
Molly had
seated herself some time before she was known by her neighbours. And then a
whisper ran through the whole congregation, “Who is she?” but when she was
discovered, such sneering, gigling, tittering, and laughing ensued among the
women, that Mr Allworthy was obliged to exert his authority to preserve any
decency among them.
Chapter viii. — A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican style, and which none but the classical reader can taste.
Mr Western
had an estate in this parish; and as his house stood at little greater distance
from this church than from his own, he very often came to Divine Service here;
and both he and the charming Sophia happened to be present at this time.
Sophia was
much pleased with the beauty of the girl, whom she pitied for her simplicity in
having dressed herself in that manner, as she saw the envy which it had
occasioned among her equals. She no sooner came home than she sent for the
gamekeeper, and ordered him to bring his daughter to her; saying she would
provide for her in the family, and might possibly place the girl about her own
person, when her own maid, who was now going away, had left her.
Poor
Seagrim was thunderstruck at this; for he was no stranger to the fault in the
shape of his daughter. He answered, in a stammering voice, “That he was afraid
Molly would be too awkward to wait on her ladyship, as she had never been at
service.” “No matter for that,” says Sophia; “she will soon improve. I am
pleased with the girl, and am resolved to try her.”
Black
George now repaired to his wife, on whose prudent counsel he depended to
extricate him out of this dilemma; but when he came thither he found his house
in some confusion. So great envy had this sack occasioned, that when Mr
Allworthy and the other gentry were gone from church, the rage, which had
hitherto been confined, burst into an uproar; and, having vented itself at
first in opprobrious words, laughs, hisses, and gestures, betook itself at last
to certain missile weapons; which, though from their plastic nature they
threatened neither the loss of life or of limb, were however sufficiently
dreadful to a well-dressed lady. Molly had too much spirit to bear this
treatment tamely. Having therefore—but hold, as we are diffident of our own
abilities, let us here invite a superior power to our assistance.
Ye Muses,
then, whoever ye are, who love to sing battles, and principally thou who whilom
didst recount the slaughter in those fields where Hudibras and Trulla fought,
if thou wert not starved with thy friend Butler, assist me on this great
occasion. All things are not in the power of all.
As a vast
herd of cows in a rich farmer’s yard, if, while they are milked, they hear
their calves at a distance, lamenting the robbery which is then committing,
roar and bellow; so roared forth the Somersetshire mob an hallaloo, made up of
almost as many squalls, screams, and other different sounds as there were
persons, or indeed passions among them: some were inspired by rage, others
alarmed by fear, and others had nothing in their heads but the love of fun; but
chiefly Envy, the sister of Satan, and his constant companion, rushed among the
crowd, and blew up the fury of the women; who no sooner came up to Molly than
they pelted her with dirt and rubbish.
Molly,
having endeavoured in vain to make a handsome retreat, faced about; and laying
hold of ragged Bess, who advanced in the front of the enemy, she at one blow
felled her to the ground. The whole army of the enemy (though near a hundred in
number), seeing the fate of their general, gave back many paces, and retired
behind a new-dug grave; for the churchyard was the field of battle, where there
was to be a funeral that very evening. Molly pursued her victory, and catching
up a skull which lay on the side of the grave, discharged it with such fury,
that having hit a taylor on the head, the two skulls sent equally forth a
hollow sound at their meeting, and the taylor took presently measure of his
length on the ground, where the skulls lay side by side, and it was doubtful
which was the more valuable of the two. Molly then taking a thigh-bone in her
hand, fell in among the flying ranks, and dealing her blows with great
liberality on either side, overthrew the carcass of many a mighty heroe and
heroine.
Recount, O
Muse, the names of those who fell on this fatal day. First, Jemmy Tweedle felt
on his hinder head the direful bone. Him the pleasant banks of sweetly-winding
Stour had nourished, where he first learnt the vocal art, with which, wandering
up and down at wakes and fairs, he cheered the rural nymphs and swains, when
upon the green they interweaved the sprightly dance; while he himself stood
fiddling and jumping to his own music. How little now avails his fiddle! He
thumps the verdant floor with his carcass. Next, old Echepole, the sowgelder,
received a blow in his forehead from our Amazonian heroine, and immediately
fell to the ground. He was a swinging fat fellow, and fell with almost as much
noise as a house. His tobacco-box dropped at the same time from his pocket,
which Molly took up as lawful spoils. Then Kate of the Mill tumbled
unfortunately over a tombstone, which catching hold of her ungartered stocking
inverted the order of nature, and gave her heels the superiority to her head.
Betty Pippin, with young Roger her lover, fell both to the ground; where, oh
perverse fate! she salutes the earth, and he the sky. Tom Freckle, the smith’s
son, was the next victim to her rage. He was an ingenious workman, and made
excellent pattens; nay, the very patten with which he was knocked down was his
own workmanship. Had he been at that time singing psalms in the church, he
would have avoided a broken head. Miss Crow, the daughter of a farmer; John
Giddish, himself a farmer; Nan Slouch, Esther Codling, Will Spray, Tom Bennet;
the three Misses Potter, whose father keeps the sign of the Red Lion; Betty
Chambermaid, Jack Ostler, and many others of inferior note, lay rolling among
the graves.
Not that
the strenuous arm of Molly reached all these; for many of them in their flight
overthrew each other.
But now
Fortune, fearing she had acted out of character, and had inclined too long to
the same side, especially as it was the right side, hastily turned about: for
now Goody Brown—whom Zekiel Brown caressed in his arms; nor he alone, but half
the parish besides; so famous was she in the fields of Venus, nor indeed less
in those of Mars. The trophies of both these her husband always bore about on
his head and face; for if ever human head did by its horns display the amorous
glories of a wife, Zekiel’s did; nor did his well-scratched face less denote
her talents (or rather talons) of a different kind.
No longer
bore this Amazon the shameful flight of her party. She stopt short, and,
calling aloud to all who fled, spoke as follows: “Ye Somersetshire men, or
rather ye Somersetshire women, are ye not ashamed thus to fly from a single
woman? But if no other will oppose her, I myself and Joan Top here will have
the honour of the victory.” Having thus said, she flew at Molly Seagrim, and
easily wrenched the thigh-bone from her hand, at the same time clawing off her
cap from her head. Then laying hold of the hair of Molly with her left hand,
she attacked her so furiously in the face with the right, that the blood soon
began to trickle from her nose. Molly was not idle this while. She soon removed
the clout from the head of Goody Brown, and then fastening on her hair with one
hand, with the other she caused another bloody stream to issue forth from the
nostrils of the enemy.
When each
of the combatants had borne off sufficient spoils of hair from the head of her
antagonist, the next rage was against the garments. In this attack they exerted
so much violence, that in a very few minutes they were both naked to the
middle.
It is
lucky for the women that the seat of fistycuff war is not the same with them as
among men; but though they may seem a little to deviate from their sex, when
they go forth to battle, yet I have observed, they never so far forget, as to
assail the bosoms of each other; where a few blows would be fatal to most of
them. This, I know, some derive from their being of a more bloody inclination
than the males. On which account they apply to the nose, as to the part whence
blood may most easily be drawn; but this seems a far-fetched as well as
ill-natured supposition.
Goody
Brown had great advantage of Molly in this particular; for the former had
indeed no breasts, her bosom (if it may be so called), as well in colour as in
many other properties, exactly resembling an antient piece of parchment, upon
which any one might have drummed a considerable while without doing her any
great damage.
Molly,
beside her present unhappy condition, was differently formed in those parts,
and might, perhaps, have tempted the envy of Brown to give her a fatal blow,
had not the lucky arrival of Tom Jones at this instant put an immediate end to
the bloody scene.
This
accident was luckily owing to Mr Square; for he, Master Blifil, and Jones, had
mounted their horses, after church, to take the air, and had ridden about a
quarter of a mile, when Square, changing his mind (not idly, but for a reason
which we shall unfold as soon as we have leisure), desired the young gentlemen
to ride with him another way than they had at first purposed. This motion being
complied with, brought them of necessity back again to the churchyard.
Master
Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a mob assembled, and two women in the
posture in which we left the combatants, stopt his horse to enquire what was
the matter. A country fellow, scratching his head, answered him: “I don’t know,
measter, un’t I; an’t please your honour, here hath been a vight, I think,
between Goody Brown and Moll Seagrim.”
“Who,
who?” cries Tom; but without waiting for an answer, having discovered the
features of his Molly through all the discomposure in which they now were, he
hastily alighted, turned his horse loose, and, leaping over the wall, ran to
her. She now first bursting into tears, told him how barbarously she had been
treated. Upon which, forgetting the sex of Goody Brown, or perhaps not knowing
it in his rage—for, in reality, she had no feminine appearance but a petticoat,
which he might not observe—he gave her a lash or two with his horsewhip; and
then flying at the mob, who were all accused by Moll, he dealt his blows so
profusely on all sides, that unless I would again invoke the muse (which the
good-natured reader may think a little too hard upon her, as she hath so lately
been violently sweated), it would be impossible for me to recount the
horse-whipping of that day.
Having
scoured the whole coast of the enemy, as well as any of Homer’s heroes ever
did, or as Don Quixote or any knight-errant in the world could have done, he
returned to Molly, whom he found in a condition which must give both me and my
reader pain, was it to be described here. Tom raved like a madman, beat his
breast, tore his hair, stamped on the ground, and vowed the utmost vengeance on
all who had been concerned. He then pulled off his coat, and buttoned it round
her, put his hat upon her head, wiped the blood from her face as well as he
could with his handkerchief, and called out to the servant to ride as fast as
possible for a side-saddle, or a pillion, that he might carry her safe home.
Master
Blifil objected to the sending away the servant, as they had only one with
them; but as Square seconded the order of Jones, he was obliged to comply.
The
servant returned in a very short time with the pillion, and Molly, having
collected her rags as well as she could, was placed behind him. In which manner
she was carried home, Square, Blifil, and Jones attending.
Here Jones
having received his coat, given her a sly kiss, and whispered her, that he
would return in the evening, quitted his Molly, and rode on after his
companions.
Chapter ix. — Containing matter of no very peaceable colour.
Molly had
no sooner apparelled herself in her accustomed rags, than her sisters began to
fall violently upon her, particularly her eldest sister, who told her she was
well enough served. “How had she the assurance to wear a gown which young Madam
Western had given to mother! If one of us was to wear it, I think,” says she,
“I myself have the best right; but I warrant you think it belongs to your
beauty. I suppose you think yourself more handsomer than any of us.”—“Hand her
down the bit of glass from over the cupboard,” cries another; “I’d wash the
blood from my face before I talked of my beauty.”—“You’d better have minded
what the parson says,” cries the eldest, “and not a harkened after men
voke.”—“Indeed, child, and so she had,” says the mother, sobbing: “she hath
brought a disgrace upon us all. She’s the vurst of the vamily that ever was a
whore.”
“You need
not upbraid me with that, mother,” cries Molly; “you yourself was
brought-to-bed of sister there, within a week after you was married.”
“Yes,
hussy,” answered the enraged mother, “so I was, and what was the mighty matter
of that? I was made an honest woman then; and if you was to be made an honest
woman, I should not be angry; but you must have to doing with a gentleman, you
nasty slut; you will have a bastard, hussy, you will; and that I defy any one
to say of me.”
In this
situation Black George found his family, when he came home for the purpose
before mentioned. As his wife and three daughters were all of them talking
together, and most of them crying, it was some time before he could get an
opportunity of being heard; but as soon as such an interval occurred, he
acquainted the company with what Sophia had said to him.
Goody
Seagrim then began to revile her daughter afresh. “Here,” says she, “you have
brought us into a fine quandary indeed. What will madam say to that big belly?
Oh that ever I should live to see this day!”
Molly
answered with great spirit, “And what is this mighty place which you have got
for me, father?” (for he had not well understood the phrase used by Sophia of
being about her person). “I suppose it is to be under the cook; but I shan’t
wash dishes for anybody. My gentleman will provide better for me. See what he
hath given me this afternoon. He hath promised I shall never want money; and
you shan’t want money neither, mother, if you will hold your tongue, and know
when you are well.” And so saying, she pulled out several guineas, and gave her
mother one of them.
The good
woman no sooner felt the gold within her palm, than her temper began (such is
the efficacy of that panacea) to be mollified. “Why, husband,” says she, “would
any but such a blockhead as you not have enquired what place this was before he
had accepted it? Perhaps, as Molly says, it may be in the kitchen; and truly I
don’t care my daughter should be a scullion wench; for, poor as I am, I am a
gentlewoman. And thof I was obliged, as my father, who was a clergyman, died
worse than nothing, and so could not give me a shilling of potion, to
undervalue myself by marrying a poor man; yet I would have you to know, I have
a spirit above all them things. Marry come up! it would better become Madam
Western to look at home, and remember who her own grandfather was. Some of my
family, for aught I know, might ride in their coaches, when the grandfathers of
some voke walked a-voot. I warrant she fancies she did a mighty matter, when
she sent us that old gownd; some of my family would not have picked up such
rags in the street; but poor people are always trampled upon.—The parish need
not have been in such a fluster with Molly. You might have told them, child,
your grandmother wore better things new out of the shop.”
“Well, but
consider,” cried George, “what answer shall I make to madam?”
“I don’t
know what answer,” says she; “you are always bringing your family into one
quandary or other. Do you remember when you shot the partridge, the occasion of
all our misfortunes? Did not I advise you never to go into Squire Western’s
manor? Did not I tell you many a good year ago what would come of it? But you
would have your own headstrong ways; yes, you would, you villain.”
Black
George was, in the main, a peaceable kind of fellow, and nothing choleric nor
rash; yet did he bear about him something of what the antients called the
irascible, and which his wife, if she had been endowed with much wisdom, would
have feared. He had long experienced, that when the storm grew very high,
arguments were but wind, which served rather to increase, than to abate it. He
was therefore seldom unprovided with a small switch, a remedy of wonderful
force, as he had often essayed, and which the word villain served as a hint for
his applying.
No sooner,
therefore, had this symptom appeared, than he had immediate recourse to the
said remedy, which though, as it is usual in all very efficacious medicines, it
at first seemed to heighten and inflame the disease, soon produced a total
calm, and restored the patient to perfect ease and tranquillity.
This is,
however, a kind of horse-medicine, which requires a very robust constitution to
digest, and is therefore proper only for the vulgar, unless in one single
instance, viz., where superiority of birth breaks out; in which case, we should
not think it very improperly applied by any husband whatever, if the
application was not in itself so base, that, like certain applications of the
physical kind which need not be mentioned, it so much degrades and contaminates
the hand employed in it, that no gentleman should endure the thought of anything
so low and detestable.
The whole
family were soon reduced to a state of perfect quiet; for the virtue of this
medicine, like that of electricity, is often communicated through one person to
many others, who are not touched by the instrument. To say the truth, as they
both operate by friction, it may be doubted whether there is not something
analogous between them, of which Mr Freke would do well to enquire, before he
publishes the next edition of his book.
A council
was now called, in which, after many debates, Molly still persisting that she
would not go to service, it was at length resolved, that Goody Seagrim herself
should wait on Miss Western, and endeavour to procure the place for her eldest
daughter, who declared great readiness to accept it: but Fortune, who seems to
have been an enemy of this little family, afterwards put a stop to her
promotion.
Chapter x. — A story told by Mr Supple, the curate. The penetration of Squire Western. His great love for his daughter, and the return to it made by her.
The next
morning Tom Jones hunted with Mr Western, and was at his return invited by that
gentleman to dinner.
The lovely
Sophia shone forth that day with more gaiety and sprightliness than usual. Her
battery was certainly levelled at our heroe; though, I believe, she herself
scarce yet knew her own intention; but if she had any design of charming him,
she now succeeded.
Mr Supple,
the curate of Mr Allworthy’s parish, made one of the company. He was a
good-natured worthy man; but chiefly remarkable for his great taciturnity at
table, though his mouth was never shut at it. In short, he had one of the best
appetites in the world. However, the cloth was no sooner taken away, than he
always made sufficient amends for his silence: for he was a very hearty fellow;
and his conversation was often entertaining, never offensive.
At his
first arrival, which was immediately before the entrance of the roast-beef, he
had given an intimation that he had brought some news with him, and was
beginning to tell, that he came that moment from Mr Allworthy’s, when the sight
of the roast-beef struck him dumb, permitting him only to say grace, and to
declare he must pay his respect to the baronet, for so he called the sirloin.
When
dinner was over, being reminded by Sophia of his news, he began as follows: “I
believe, lady, your ladyship observed a young woman at church yesterday at
even-song, who was drest in one of your outlandish garments; I think I have
seen your ladyship in such a one. However, in the country, such dresses are
Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno.
That is,
madam, as much as to say, ‘A rare bird upon the earth, and very like a black
swan.’ The verse is in Juvenal. But to return to what I was relating. I was
saying such garments are rare sights in the country; and perchance, too, it was
thought the more rare, respect being had to the person who wore it, who, they
tell me, is the daughter of Black George, your worship’s gamekeeper, whose
sufferings, I should have opined, might have taught him more wit, than to dress
forth his wenches in such gaudy apparel. She created so much confusion in the
congregation, that if Squire Allworthy had not silenced it, it would have
interrupted the service: for I was once about to stop in the middle of the
first lesson. Howbeit, nevertheless, after prayer was over, and I was departed
home, this occasioned a battle in the churchyard, where, amongst other
mischief, the head of a travelling fidler was very much broken. This morning
the fidler came to Squire Allworthy for a warrant, and the wench was brought
before him. The squire was inclined to have compounded matters; when, lo! on a
sudden the wench appeared (I ask your ladyship’s pardon) to be, as it were, at
the eve of bringing forth a bastard. The squire demanded of her who was the
father? But she pertinaciously refused to make any response. So that he was
about to make her mittimus to Bridewell when I departed.”
“And is a
wench having a bastard all your news, doctor?” cries Western; “I thought it
might have been some public matter, something about the nation.”
“I am
afraid it is too common, indeed,” answered the parson; “but I thought the whole
story altogether deserved commemorating. As to national matters, your worship
knows them best. My concerns extend no farther than my own parish.”
“Why, ay,”
says the squire, “I believe I do know a little of that matter, as you say. But,
come, Tommy, drink about; the bottle stands with you.”
Tom begged
to be excused, for that he had particular business; and getting up from table,
escaped the clutches of the squire, who was rising to stop him, and went off
with very little ceremony.
The squire
gave him a good curse at his departure; and then turning to the parson, he
cried out, “I smoke it: I smoke it. Tom is certainly the father of this
bastard. Zooks, parson, you remember how he recommended the veather o’ her to
me. D—n un, what a sly b—ch ‘tis. Ay, ay, as sure as two-pence, Tom is the
veather of the bastard.”
“I should
be very sorry for that,” says the parson.
“Why
sorry,” cries the squire: “Where is the mighty matter o’t? What, I suppose dost
pretend that thee hast never got a bastard? Pox! more good luck’s thine? for I
warrant hast a done a therefore many’s the good time and often.”
“Your
worship is pleased to be jocular,” answered the parson; “but I do not only
animadvert on the sinfulness of the action—though that surely is to be greatly
deprecated—but I fear his unrighteousness may injure him with Mr Allworthy. And
truly I must say, though he hath the character of being a little wild, I never
saw any harm in the young man; nor can I say I have heard any, save what your
worship now mentions. I wish, indeed, he was a little more regular in his
responses at church; but altogether he seems
Ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris.
That is a
classical line, young lady; and, being rendered into English, is, `a lad of an
ingenuous countenance, and of an ingenuous modesty;’ for this was a virtue in
great repute both among the Latins and Greeks. I must say, the young gentleman
(for so I think I may call him, notwithstanding his birth) appears to me a very
modest, civil lad, and I should be sorry that he should do himself any injury
in Squire Allworthy’s opinion.”
“Poogh!”
says the squire: “Injury, with Allworthy! Why, Allworthy loves a wench himself.
Doth not all the country know whose son Tom is? You must talk to another person
in that manner. I remember Allworthy at college.”
“I
thought,” said the parson, “he had never been at the university.”
“Yes, yes,
he was,” says the squire: “and many a wench have we two had together. As arrant
a whore-master as any within five miles o’un. No, no. It will do’n no harm with
he, assure yourself; nor with anybody else. Ask Sophy there—You have not the
worse opinion of a young fellow for getting a bastard, have you, girl? No, no,
the women will like un the better for’t.”
This was a
cruel question to poor Sophia. She had observed Tom’s colour change at the
parson’s story; and that, with his hasty and abrupt departure, gave her
sufficient reason to think her father’s suspicion not groundless. Her heart now
at once discovered the great secret to her which it had been so long disclosing
by little and little; and she found herself highly interested in this matter.
In such a situation, her father’s malapert question rushing suddenly upon her,
produced some symptoms which might have alarmed a suspicious heart; but, to do
the squire justice, that was not his fault. When she rose therefore from her
chair, and told him a hint from him was always sufficient to make her withdraw,
he suffered her to leave the room, and then with great gravity of countenance
remarked, “That it was better to see a daughter over-modest than
over-forward;”—a sentiment which was highly applauded by the parson.
There now
ensued between the squire and the parson a most excellent political discourse,
framed out of newspapers and political pamphlets; in which they made a libation
of four bottles of wine to the good of their country: and then, the squire
being fast asleep, the parson lighted his pipe, mounted his horse, and rode
home.
When the
squire had finished his half-hour’s nap, he summoned his daughter to her
harpsichord; but she begged to be excused that evening, on account of a violent
head-ache. This remission was presently granted; for indeed she seldom had
occasion to ask him twice, as he loved her with such ardent affection, that, by
gratifying her, he commonly conveyed the highest gratification to himself. She
was really, what he frequently called her, his little darling, and she well
deserved to be so; for she returned all his affection in the most ample manner.
She had preserved the most inviolable duty to him in all things; and this her
love made not only easy, but so delightful, that when one of her companions
laughed at her for placing so much merit in such scrupulous obedience, as that
young lady called it, Sophia answered, “You mistake me, madam, if you think I
value myself upon this account; for besides that I am barely discharging my
duty, I am likewise pleasing myself. I can truly say I have no delight equal to
that of contributing to my father’s happiness; and if I value myself, my dear,
it is on having this power, and not on executing it.”
This was a
satisfaction, however, which poor Sophia was incapable of tasting this evening.
She therefore not only desired to be excused from her attendance at the
harpsichord, but likewise begged that he would suffer her to absent herself
from supper. To this request likewise the squire agreed, though not without
some reluctance; for he scarce ever permitted her to be out of his sight,
unless when he was engaged with his horses, dogs, or bottle. Nevertheless he
yielded to the desire of his daughter, though the poor man was at the same time
obliged to avoid his own company (if I may so express myself), by sending for a
neighbouring farmer to sit with him.
Chapter xi. — The narrow escape of Molly Seagrim, with some observations for which we have been forced to dive pretty deep into nature.
Tom Jones
had ridden one of Mr Western’s horses that morning in the chase; so that having
no horse of his own in the squire’s stable, he was obliged to go home on foot:
this he did so expeditiously that he ran upwards of three miles within the
half-hour.
Just as he
arrived at Mr Allworthy’s outward gate, he met the constable and company with
Molly in their possession, whom they were conducting to that house where the
inferior sort of people may learn one good lesson, viz., respect and deference
to their superiors; since it must show them the wide distinction Fortune
intends between those persons who are to be corrected for their faults, and
those who are not; which lesson if they do not learn, I am afraid they very
rarely learn any other good lesson, or improve their morals, at the house of
correction.
A lawyer
may perhaps think Mr Allworthy exceeded his authority a little in this
instance. And, to say the truth, I question, as here was no regular information
before him, whether his conduct was strictly regular. However, as his intention
was truly upright, he ought to be excused in foro conscientiae; since so
many arbitrary acts are daily committed by magistrates who have not this excuse
to plead for themselves.
Tom was no
sooner informed by the constable whither they were proceeding (indeed he pretty
well guessed it of himself), than he caught Molly in his arms, and embracing
her tenderly before them all, swore he would murder the first man who offered
to lay hold of her. He bid her dry her eyes and be comforted; for, wherever she
went, he would accompany her. Then turning to the constable, who stood
trembling with his hat off, he desired him, in a very mild voice, to return
with him for a moment only to his father (for so he now called Allworthy); for
he durst, he said, be assured, that, when he had alledged what he had to say in
her favour, the girl would be discharged.
The
constable, who, I make no doubt, would have surrendered his prisoner had Tom
demanded her, very readily consented to this request. So back they all went
into Mr Allworthy’s hall; where Tom desired them to stay till his return, and
then went himself in pursuit of the good man. As soon as he was found, Tom
threw himself at his feet, and having begged a patient hearing, confessed
himself to be the father of the child of which Molly was then big. He entreated
him to have compassion on the poor girl, and to consider, if there was any
guilt in the case, it lay principally at his door.
“If there
is any guilt in the case!” answered Allworthy warmly: “Are you then so
profligate and abandoned a libertine to doubt whether the breaking the laws of
God and man, the corrupting and ruining a poor girl be guilt? I own, indeed, it
doth lie principally upon you; and so heavy it is, that you ought to expect it
should crush you.”
“Whatever
may be my fate,” says Tom, “let me succeed in my intercessions for the poor
girl. I confess I have corrupted her! but whether she shall be ruined, depends
on you. For Heaven’s sake, sir, revoke your warrant, and do not send her to a
place which must unavoidably prove her destruction.”
Allworthy
bid him immediately call a servant. Tom answered there was no occasion; for he
had luckily met them at the gate, and relying upon his goodness, had brought
them all back into his hall, where they now waited his final resolution, which
upon his knees he besought him might be in favour of the girl; that she might
be permitted to go home to her parents, and not be exposed to a greater degree
of shame and scorn than must necessarily fall upon her. “I know,” said he,
“that is too much. I know I am the wicked occasion of it. I will endeavour to
make amends, if possible; and if you shall have hereafter the goodness to
forgive me, I hope I shall deserve it.”
Allworthy
hesitated some time, and at last said, “Well, I will discharge my mittimus.—You
may send the constable to me.” He was instantly called, discharged, and so was
the girl.
It will be
believed that Mr Allworthy failed not to read Tom a very severe lecture on this
occasion; but it is unnecessary to insert it here, as we have faithfully
transcribed what he said to Jenny Jones in the first book, most of which may be
applied to the men, equally with the women. So sensible an effect had these
reproofs on the young man, who was no hardened sinner, that he retired to his
own room, where he passed the evening alone, in much melancholy contemplation.
Allworthy
was sufficiently offended by this transgression of Jones; for notwithstanding
the assertions of Mr Western, it is certain this worthy man had never indulged
himself in any loose pleasures with women, and greatly condemned the vice of
incontinence in others. Indeed, there is much reason to imagine that there was
not the least truth in what Mr Western affirmed, especially as he laid the
scene of those impurities at the university, where Mr Allworthy had never been.
In fact, the good squire was a little too apt to indulge that kind of
pleasantry which is generally called rhodomontade: but which may, with as much
propriety, be expressed by a much shorter word; and perhaps we too often supply
the use of this little monosyllable by others; since very much of what
frequently passes in the world for wit and humour, should, in the strictest
purity of language, receive that short appellation, which, in conformity to the
well-bred laws of custom, I here suppress.
But
whatever detestation Mr Allworthy had to this or to any other vice, he was not
so blinded by it but that he could discern any virtue in the guilty person, as
clearly indeed as if there had been no mixture of vice in the same character.
While he was angry therefore with the incontinence of Jones, he was no less
pleased with the honour and honesty of his self-accusation. He began now to
form in his mind the same opinion of this young fellow, which, we hope, our
reader may have conceived. And in balancing his faults with his perfections,
the latter seemed rather to preponderate.
It was to
no purpose, therefore, that Thwackum, who was immediately charged by Mr Blifil
with the story, unbended all his rancour against poor Tom. Allworthy gave a
patient hearing to their invectives, and then answered coldly: “That young men
of Tom’s complexion were too generally addicted to this vice; but he believed
that youth was sincerely affected with what he had said to him on the occasion,
and he hoped he would not transgress again.” So that, as the days of whipping
were at an end, the tutor had no other vent but his own mouth for his gall, the
usual poor resource of impotent revenge.
But
Square, who was a less violent, was a much more artful man; and as he hated
Jones more perhaps than Thwackum himself did, so he contrived to do him more
mischief in the mind of Mr Allworthy.
The reader
must remember the several little incidents of the partridge, the horse, and the
Bible, which were recounted in the second book. By all which Jones had rather
improved than injured the affection which Mr Allworthy was inclined to
entertain for him. The same, I believe, must have happened to him with every
other person who hath any idea of friendship, generosity, and greatness of
spirit, that is to say, who hath any traces of goodness in his mind.
Square
himself was not unacquainted with the true impression which those several
instances of goodness had made on the excellent heart of Allworthy; for the
philosopher very well knew what virtue was, though he was not always perhaps
steady in its pursuit; but as for Thwackum, from what reason I will not
determine, no such thoughts ever entered into his head: he saw Jones in a bad
light, and he imagined Allworthy saw him in the same, but that he was resolved,
from pride and stubbornness of spirit, not to give up the boy whom he had once
cherished; since by so doing, he must tacitly acknowledge that his former
opinion of him had been wrong.
Square
therefore embraced this opportunity of injuring Jones in the tenderest part, by
giving a very bad turn to all these before-mentioned occurrences. “I am sorry,
sir,” said he, “to own I have been deceived as well as yourself. I could not, I
confess, help being pleased with what I ascribed to the motive of friendship,
though it was carried to an excess, and all excess is faulty and vicious: but
in this I made allowance for youth. Little did I suspect that the sacrifice of
truth, which we both imagined to have been made to friendship, was in reality a
prostitution of it to a depraved and debauched appetite. You now plainly see
whence all the seeming generosity of this young man to the family of the
gamekeeper proceeded. He supported the father in order to corrupt the daughter,
and preserved the family from starving, to bring one of them to shame and ruin.
This is friendship! this is generosity! As Sir Richard Steele says, `Gluttons
who give high prices for delicacies, are very worthy to be called generous.’ In
short I am resolved, from this instance, never to give way to the weakness of
human nature more, nor to think anything virtue which doth not exactly quadrate
with the unerring rule of right.”
The
goodness of Allworthy had prevented those considerations from occurring to
himself; yet were they too plausible to be absolutely and hastily rejected,
when laid before his eyes by another. Indeed what Square had said sunk very
deeply into his mind, and the uneasiness which it there created was very
visible to the other; though the good man would not acknowledge this, but made
a very slight answer, and forcibly drove off the discourse to some other
subject. It was well perhaps for poor Tom, that no such suggestions had been
made before he was pardoned; for they certainly stamped in the mind of
Allworthy the first bad impression concerning Jones.
To be
continued
