TOM JONES
PART 12
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.
To be
continued
