TOM JONES
PART 13
Chapter xi. — In which a simile in Mr Pope’s period of a mile introduces as bloody a battle as can possibly be fought without the assistance of steel or cold iron.
As in the
season of rutting (an uncouth phrase, by which the vulgar denote that
gentle dalliance, which in the well-wooded[*] forest of Hampshire, passes
between lovers of the ferine kind), if, while the lofty-crested stag meditates
the amorous sport, a couple of puppies, or any other beasts of hostile note,
should wander so near the temple of Venus Ferina that the fair hind should
shrink from the place, touched with that somewhat, either of fear or frolic, of
nicety or skittishness, with which nature hath bedecked all females, or hath at
least instructed them how to put it on; lest, through the indelicacy of males,
the Samean mysteries should be pryed into by unhallowed eyes: for, at the
celebration of these rites, the female priestess cries out with her in Virgil
(who was then, probably, hard at work on such celebration),
—Procul, o procul este, profani;
Proclamat vates, totoque absistite luco.
—Far hence be souls profane,
The sibyl cry’d, and from the grove abstain.—DRYDEN.
[*] This is an ambiguous phrase, and may mean either a forest well
cloathed with wood, or well stript of it.
If, I say,
while these sacred rites, which are in common to genus omne animantium,
are in agitation between the stag and his mistress, any hostile beasts should
venture too near, on the first hint given by the frighted hind, fierce and
tremendous rushes forth the stag to the entrance of the thicket; there stands
he centinel over his love, stamps the ground with his foot, and with his horns
brandished aloft in air, proudly provokes the apprehended foe to combat.
Thus, and
more terrible, when he perceived the enemy’s approach, leaped forth our heroe.
Many a step advanced he forwards, in order to conceal the trembling hind, and,
if possible, to secure her retreat. And now Thwackum, having first darted some
livid lightning from his fiery eyes, began to thunder forth, “Fie upon it! Fie
upon it! Mr Jones. Is it possible you should be the person?”—“You see,”
answered Jones, “it is possible I should be here.”—“And who,” said Thwackum, “is
that wicked slut with you?”—“If I have any wicked slut with me,” cries Jones,
“it is possible I shall not let you know who she is.”—“I command you to tell me
immediately,” says Thwackum: “and I would not have you imagine, young man, that
your age, though it hath somewhat abridged the purpose of tuition, hath totally
taken away the authority of the master. The relation of the master and scholar
is indelible; as, indeed, all other relations are; for they all derive their
original from heaven. I would have you think yourself, therefore, as much
obliged to obey me now, as when I taught you your first rudiments.”—“I believe
you would,” cries Jones; “but that will not happen, unless you had the same
birchen argument to convince me.”—“Then I must tell you plainly,” said
Thwackum, “I am resolved to discover the wicked wretch.”—“And I must tell you
plainly,” returned Jones, “I am resolved you shall not.” Thwackum then offered
to advance, and Jones laid hold of his arms; which Mr Blifil endeavoured to
rescue, declaring, “he would not see his old master insulted.”
Jones now
finding himself engaged with two, thought it necessary to rid himself of one of
his antagonists as soon as possible. He therefore applied to the weakest first;
and, letting the parson go, he directed a blow at the young squire’s breast,
which luckily taking place, reduced him to measure his length on the ground.
Thwackum
was so intent on the discovery, that, the moment he found himself at liberty,
he stept forward directly into the fern, without any great consideration of
what might in the meantime befal his friend; but he had advanced a very few
paces into the thicket, before Jones, having defeated Blifil, overtook the
parson, and dragged him backward by the skirt of his coat.
This
parson had been a champion in his youth, and had won much honour by his fist,
both at school and at the university. He had now indeed, for a great number of
years, declined the practice of that noble art; yet was his courage full as
strong as his faith, and his body no less strong than either. He was moreover,
as the reader may perhaps have conceived, somewhat irascible in his nature.
When he looked back, therefore, and saw his friend stretched out on the ground,
and found himself at the same time so roughly handled by one who had formerly
been only passive in all conflicts between them (a circumstance which highly
aggravated the whole), his patience at length gave way; he threw himself into a
posture of offence; and collecting all his force, attacked Jones in the front with
as much impetuosity as he had formerly attacked him in the rear.
Our heroe
received the enemy’s attack with the most undaunted intrepidity, and his bosom
resounded with the blow. This he presently returned with no less violence,
aiming likewise at the parson’s breast; but he dexterously drove down the fist
of Jones, so that it reached only his belly, where two pounds of beef and as
many of pudding were then deposited, and whence consequently no hollow sound
could proceed. Many lusty blows, much more pleasant as well as easy to have
seen, than to read or describe, were given on both sides: at last a violent
fall, in which Jones had thrown his knees into Thwackum’s breast, so weakened
the latter, that victory had been no longer dubious, had not Blifil, who had
now recovered his strength, again renewed the fight, and by engaging with
Jones, given the parson a moment’s time to shake his ears, and to regain his
breath.
And now
both together attacked our heroe, whose blows did not retain that force with
which they had fallen at first, so weakened was he by his combat with Thwackum;
for though the pedagogue chose rather to play solos on the human
instrument, and had been lately used to those only, yet he still retained
enough of his antient knowledge to perform his part very well in a duet.
The
victory, according to modern custom, was like to be decided by numbers, when,
on a sudden, a fourth pair of fists appeared in the battle, and immediately
paid their compliments to the parson; and the owner of them at the same time
crying out, “Are not you ashamed, and be d—n’d to you, to fall two of you upon
one?”
The
battle, which was of the kind that for distinction’s sake is called royal, now
raged with the utmost violence during a few minutes; till Blifil being a second
time laid sprawling by Jones, Thwackum condescended to apply for quarter to his
new antagonist, who was now found to be Mr Western himself; for in the heat of
the action none of the combatants had recognized him.
In fact,
that honest squire, happening, in his afternoon’s walk with some company, to
pass through the field where the bloody battle was fought, and having
concluded, from seeing three men engaged, that two of them must be on a side,
he hastened from his companions, and with more gallantry than policy, espoused
the cause of the weaker party. By which generous proceeding he very probably
prevented Mr Jones from becoming a victim to the wrath of Thwackum, and to the
pious friendship which Blifil bore his old master; for, besides the disadvantage
of such odds, Jones had not yet sufficiently recovered the former strength of
his broken arm. This reinforcement, however, soon put an end to the action, and
Jones with his ally obtained the victory.
Chapter xii. — In which is seen a more moving spectacle than all the blood in the bodies of Thwackum and Blifil, and of twenty other such, is capable of producing.
The rest
of Mr Western’s company were now come up, being just at the instant when the
action was over. These were the honest clergyman, whom we have formerly seen at
Mr Western’s table; Mrs Western, the aunt of Sophia; and lastly, the lovely
Sophia herself.
At this
time, the following was the aspect of the bloody field. In one place lay on the
ground, all pale, and almost breathless, the vanquished Blifil. Near him stood
the conqueror Jones, almost covered with blood, part of which was naturally his
own, and part had been lately the property of the Reverend Mr Thwackum. In a
third place stood the said Thwackum, like King Porus, sullenly submitting to
the conqueror. The last figure in the piece was Western the Great, most
gloriously forbearing the vanquished foe.
Blifil, in
whom there was little sign of life, was at first the principal object of the
concern of every one, and particularly of Mrs Western, who had drawn from her
pocket a bottle of hartshorn, and was herself about to apply it to his
nostrils, when on a sudden the attention of the whole company was diverted from
poor Blifil, whose spirit, if it had any such design, might have now taken an
opportunity of stealing off to the other world, without any ceremony.
For now a
more melancholy and a more lovely object lay motionless before them. This was
no other than the charming Sophia herself, who, from the sight of blood, or
from fear for her father, or from some other reason, had fallen down in a
swoon, before any one could get to her assistance.
Mrs Western
first saw her and screamed. Immediately two or three voices cried out, “Miss
Western is dead.” Hartshorn, water, every remedy was called for, almost at one
and the same instant.
The reader
may remember, that in our description of this grove we mentioned a murmuring
brook, which brook did not come there, as such gentle streams flow through
vulgar romances, with no other purpose than to murmur. No! Fortune had decreed
to ennoble this little brook with a higher honour than any of those which wash
the plains of Arcadia ever deserved.
Jones was
rubbing Blifil’s temples, for he began to fear he had given him a blow too
much, when the words, Miss Western and Dead, rushed at once on his ear. He
started up, left Blifil to his fate, and flew to Sophia, whom, while all the
rest were running against each other, backward and forward, looking for water
in the dry paths, he caught up in his arms, and then ran away with her over the
field to the rivulet above mentioned; where, plunging himself into the water,
he contrived to besprinkle her face, head, and neck very plentifully.
Happy was
it for Sophia that the same confusion which prevented her other friends from
serving her, prevented them likewise from obstructing Jones. He had carried her
half ways before they knew what he was doing, and he had actually restored her
to life before they reached the waterside. She stretched out her arms, opened
her eyes, and cried, “Oh! heavens!” just as her father, aunt, and the parson
came up.
Jones, who
had hitherto held this lovely burthen in his arms, now relinquished his hold;
but gave her at the same instant a tender caress, which, had her senses been
then perfectly restored, could not have escaped her observation. As she
expressed, therefore, no displeasure at this freedom, we suppose she was not
sufficiently recovered from her swoon at the time.
This
tragical scene was now converted into a sudden scene of joy. In this our heroe
was certainly the principal character; for as he probably felt more ecstatic
delight in having saved Sophia than she herself received from being saved, so
neither were the congratulations paid to her equal to what were conferred on
Jones, especially by Mr Western himself, who, after having once or twice
embraced his daughter, fell to hugging and kissing Jones. He called him the
preserver of Sophia, and declared there was nothing, except her, or his estate,
which he would not give him; but upon recollection, he afterwards excepted his
fox-hounds, the Chevalier, and Miss Slouch (for so he called his favourite
mare).
All fears
for Sophia being now removed, Jones became the object of the squire’s
consideration.—“Come, my lad,” says Western, “d’off thy quoat and wash thy
feace; for att in a devilish pickle, I promise thee. Come, come, wash thyself,
and shat go huome with me; and we’l zee to vind thee another quoat.”
Jones
immediately complied, threw off his coat, went down to the water, and washed
both his face and bosom; for the latter was as much exposed and as bloody as
the former. But though the water could clear off the blood, it could not remove
the black and blue marks which Thwackum had imprinted on both his face and
breast, and which, being discerned by Sophia, drew from her a sigh and a look
full of inexpressible tenderness.
Jones
received this full in his eyes, and it had infinitely a stronger effect on him
than all the contusions which he had received before. An effect, however,
widely different; for so soft and balmy was it, that, had all his former blows
been stabs, it would for some minutes have prevented his feeling their smart.
The
company now moved backwards, and soon arrived where Thwackum had got Mr Blifil
again on his legs. Here we cannot suppress a pious wish, that all quarrels were
to be decided by those weapons only with which Nature, knowing what is proper
for us, hath supplied us; and that cold iron was to be used in digging no
bowels but those of the earth. Then would war, the pastime of monarchs, be
almost inoffensive, and battles between great armies might be fought at the
particular desire of several ladies of quality; who, together with the kings
themselves, might be actual spectators of the conflict. Then might the field be
this moment well strewed with human carcasses, and the next, the dead men, or
infinitely the greatest part of them, might get up, like Mr Bayes’s troops, and
march off either at the sound of a drum or fiddle, as should be previously
agreed on.
I would
avoid, if possible, treating this matter ludicrously, lest grave men and
politicians, whom I know to be offended at a jest, may cry pish at it; but, in
reality, might not a battle be as well decided by the greater number of broken
heads, bloody noses, and black eyes, as by the greater heaps of mangled and
murdered human bodies? Might not towns be contended for in the same manner?
Indeed, this may be thought too detrimental a scheme to the French interest,
since they would thus lose the advantage they have over other nations in the
superiority of their engineers; but when I consider the gallantry and
generosity of that people, I am persuaded they would never decline putting
themselves upon a par with their adversary; or, as the phrase is, making
themselves his match.
But such
reformations are rather to be wished than hoped for: I shall content myself,
therefore, with this short hint, and return to my narrative.
Western
began now to inquire into the original rise of this quarrel. To which neither
Blifil nor Jones gave any answer; but Thwackum said surlily, “I believe the
cause is not far off; if you beat the bushes well you may find her.”—“Find
her?” replied Western: “what! have you been fighting for a wench?”—“Ask the
gentleman in his waistcoat there,” said Thwackum: “he best knows.” “Nay then,”
cries Western, “it is a wench certainly.—Ah, Tom, Tom, thou art a liquorish
dog. But come, gentlemen, be all friends, and go home with me, and make final
peace over a bottle.” “I ask your pardon, sir,” says Thwackum: “it is no such
slight matter for a man of my character to be thus injuriously treated, and
buffeted by a boy, only because I would have done my duty, in endeavouring to
detect and bring to justice a wanton harlot; but, indeed, the principal fault
lies in Mr Allworthy and yourself; for if you put the laws in execution, as you
ought to do, you will soon rid the country of these vermin.”
“I would
as soon rid the country of foxes,” cries Western. “I think we ought to
encourage the recruiting those numbers which we are every day losing in the
war.—But where is she? Prithee, Tom, show me.” He then began to beat about, in
the same language and in the same manner as if he had been beating for a hare;
and at last cried out, “Soho! Puss is not far off. Here’s her form, upon my
soul; I believe I may cry stole away.” And indeed so he might; for he had now
discovered the place whence the poor girl had, at the beginning of the fray,
stolen away, upon as many feet as a hare generally uses in travelling.
Sophia now
desired her father to return home; saying she found herself very faint, and
apprehended a relapse. The squire immediately complied with his daughter’s
request (for he was the fondest of parents). He earnestly endeavoured to
prevail with the whole company to go and sup with him: but Blifil and Thwackum
absolutely refused; the former saying, there were more reasons than he could
then mention, why he must decline this honour; and the latter declaring
(perhaps rightly) that it was not proper for a person of his function to be
seen at any place in his present condition.
Jones was
incapable of refusing the pleasure of being with his Sophia; so on he marched
with Squire Western and his ladies, the parson bringing up the rear. This had,
indeed, offered to tarry with his brother Thwackum, professing his regard for
the cloth would not permit him to depart; but Thwackum would not accept the
favour, and, with no great civility, pushed him after Mr Western.
Thus ended
this bloody fray; and thus shall end the fifth book of this history.
To be continued, nevertheless
