TOM JONES
PART 10
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.
To be continued
