TOM JONES
PART 20
BOOK VIII. — CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i. — A wonderful long chapter
concerning the marvellous; being much the longest of all our introductory
chapters.
As we are
now entering upon a book in which the course of our history will oblige us to
relate some matters of a more strange and surprizing kind than any which have
hitherto occurred, it may not be amiss, in the prolegomenous or introductory
chapter, to say something of that species of writing which is called the
marvellous. To this we shall, as well for the sake of ourselves as of others,
endeavour to set some certain bounds, and indeed nothing can be more necessary,
as critics[*] of different complexions are here apt to run into very different
extremes; for while some are, with M. Dacier, ready to allow, that the same
thing which is impossible may be yet probable,[**] others have so little
historic or poetic faith, that they believe nothing to be either possible or
probable, the like to which hath not occurred to their own observation.
[*] By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean
every reader in the world.
[**] It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.
First,
then, I think it may very reasonably be required of every writer, that he keeps
within the bounds of possibility; and still remembers that what it is not
possible for man to perform, it is scarce possible for man to believe he did
perform. This conviction perhaps gave birth to many stories of the antient
heathen deities (for most of them are of poetical original). The poet, being
desirous to indulge a wanton and extravagant imagination, took refuge in that
power, of the extent of which his readers were no judges, or rather which they
imagined to be infinite, and consequently they could not be shocked at any
prodigies related of it. This hath been strongly urged in defence of Homer’s
miracles; and it is perhaps a defence; not, as Mr Pope would have it, because Ulysses
told a set of foolish lies to the Phaeacians, who were a very dull nation; but
because the poet himself wrote to heathens, to whom poetical fables were
articles of faith. For my own part, I must confess, so compassionate is my
temper, I wish Polypheme had confined himself to his milk diet, and preserved
his eye; nor could Ulysses be much more concerned than myself, when his
companions were turned into swine by Circe, who showed, I think, afterwards,
too much regard for man’s flesh to be supposed capable of converting it into
bacon. I wish, likewise, with all my heart, that Homer could have known the
rule prescribed by Horace, to introduce supernatural agents as seldom as
possible. We should not then have seen his gods coming on trivial errands, and
often behaving themselves so as not only to forfeit all title to respect, but
to become the objects of scorn and derision. A conduct which must have shocked
the credulity of a pious and sagacious heathen; and which could never have been
defended, unless by agreeing with a supposition to which I have been sometimes
almost inclined, that this most glorious poet, as he certainly was, had an
intent to burlesque the superstitious faith of his own age and country.
But I have
rested too long on a doctrine which can be of no use to a Christian writer; for
as he cannot introduce into his works any of that heavenly host which make a
part of his creed, so it is horrid puerility to search the heathen theology for
any of those deities who have been long since dethroned from their immortality.
Lord Shaftesbury observes, that nothing is more cold than the invocation of a
muse by a modern; he might have added, that nothing can be more absurd. A
modern may with much more elegance invoke a ballad, as some have thought Homer
did, or a mug of ale, with the author of Hudibras; which latter may perhaps
have inspired much more poetry, as well as prose, than all the liquors of
Hippocrene or Helicon.
The only
supernatural agents which can in any manner be allowed to us moderns, are ghosts;
but of these I would advise an author to be extremely sparing. These are
indeed, like arsenic, and other dangerous drugs in physic, to be used with the
utmost caution; nor would I advise the introduction of them at all in those
works, or by those authors, to which, or to whom, a horse-laugh in the reader
would be any great prejudice or mortification.
As for
elves and fairies, and other such mummery, I purposely omit the mention of
them, as I should be very unwilling to confine within any bounds those surprizing
imaginations, for whose vast capacity the limits of human nature are too
narrow; whose works are to be considered as a new creation; and who have
consequently just right to do what they will with their own.
Man
therefore is the highest subject (unless on very extraordinary occasions
indeed) which presents itself to the pen of our historian, or of our poet; and,
in relating his actions, great care is to be taken that we do not exceed the
capacity of the agent we describe.
Nor is
possibility alone sufficient to justify us; we must keep likewise within the
rules of probability. It is, I think, the opinion of Aristotle; or if not, it
is the opinion of some wise man, whose authority will be as weighty when it is
as old, “That it is no excuse for a poet who relates what is incredible, that
the thing related is really matter of fact.” This may perhaps be allowed true
with regard to poetry, but it may be thought impracticable to extend it to the
historian; for he is obliged to record matters as he finds them, though they
may be of so extraordinary a nature as will require no small degree of
historical faith to swallow them. Such was the successless armament of Xerxes
described by Herodotus, or the successful expedition of Alexander related by
Arrian. Such of later years was the victory of Agincourt obtained by Harry the
Fifth, or that of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. All which
instances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the more astonishing.
Such
facts, however, as they occur in the thread of the story, nay, indeed, as they
constitute the essential parts of it, the historian is not only justifiable in
recording as they really happened, but indeed would be unpardonable should he
omit or alter them. But there are other facts not of such consequence nor so
necessary, which, though ever so well attested, may nevertheless be sacrificed
to oblivion in complacence to the scepticism of a reader. Such is that
memorable story of the ghost of George Villiers, which might with more
propriety have been made a present of to Dr Drelincourt, to have kept the ghost
of Mrs Veale company, at the head of his Discourse upon Death, than have been
introduced into so solemn a work as the History of the Rebellion.
To say the
truth, if the historian will confine himself to what really happened, and
utterly reject any circumstance, which, though never so well attested, he must
be well assured is false, he will sometimes fall into the marvellous, but never
into the incredible. He will often raise the wonder and surprize of his reader,
but never that incredulous hatred mentioned by Horace. It is by falling into
fiction, therefore, that we generally offend against this rule, of deserting
probability, which the historian seldom, if ever, quits, till he forsakes his character
and commences a writer of romance. In this, however, those historians who
relate public transactions, have the advantage of us who confine ourselves to
scenes of private life. The credit of the former is by common notoriety
supported for a long time; and public records, with the concurrent testimony of
many authors, bear evidence to their truth in future ages. Thus a Trajan and an
Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have all met with the belief of posterity;
and no one doubts but that men so very good, and so very bad, were once the
masters of mankind.
But we who
deal in private character, who search into the most retired recesses, and draw
forth examples of virtue and vice from holes and corners of the world, are in a
more dangerous situation. As we have no public notoriety, no concurrent
testimony, no records to support and corroborate what we deliver, it becomes us
to keep within the limits not only of possibility, but of probability too; and
this more especially in painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and
folly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet with assent; for
ill-nature adds great support and strength to faith.
Thus we
may, perhaps, with little danger, relate the history of Fisher; who having long
owed his bread to the generosity of Mr Derby, and having one morning received a
considerable bounty from his hands, yet, in order to possess himself of what
remained in his friend’s scrutore, concealed himself in a public office of the
Temple, through which there was a passage into Mr Derby’s chambers. Here he
overheard Mr Derby for many hours solacing himself at an entertainment which he
that evening gave his friends, and to which Fisher had been invited. During all
this time, no tender, no grateful reflections arose to restrain his purpose;
but when the poor gentleman had let his company out through the office, Fisher
came suddenly from his lurking-place, and walking softly behind his friend into
his chamber, discharged a pistol-ball into his head. This may be believed when
the bones of Fisher are as rotten as his heart. Nay, perhaps, it will be
credited, that the villain went two days afterwards with some young ladies to
the play of Hamlet; and with an unaltered countenance heard one of the ladies,
who little suspected how near she was to the person, cry out, “Good God! if the
man that murdered Mr Derby was now present!” manifesting in this a more seared
and callous conscience than even Nero himself; of whom we are told by
Suetonius, “that the consciousness of his guilt, after the death of his mother,
became immediately intolerable, and so continued; nor could all the
congratulations of the soldiers, of the senate, and the people, allay the
horrors of his conscience.”
But now,
on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I had known a man whose
penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a large fortune in a way where no
beginning was chaulked out to him; that he had done this with the most perfect
preservation of his integrity, and not only without the least injustice or
injury to any one individual person, but with the highest advantage to trade,
and a vast increase of the public revenue; that he had expended one part of the
income of this fortune in discovering a taste superior to most, by works where
the highest dignity was united with the purest simplicity, and another part in
displaying a degree of goodness superior to all men, by acts of charity to
objects whose only recommendations were their merits, or their wants; that he
was most industrious in searching after merit in distress, most eager to
relieve it, and then as careful (perhaps too careful) to conceal what he had
done; that his house, his furniture, his gardens, his table, his private
hospitality, and his public beneficence, all denoted the mind from which they
flowed, and were all intrinsically rich and noble, without tinsel, or external
ostentation; that he filled every relation in life with the most adequate
virtue; that he was most piously religious to his Creator, most zealously loyal
to his sovereign; a most tender husband to his wife, a kind relation, a
munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a knowing and a chearful companion,
indulgent to his servants, hospitable to his neighbours, charitable to the
poor, and benevolent to all mankind. Should I add to these the epithets of
wise, brave, elegant, and indeed every other amiable epithet in our language, I
might surely say,
—Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo;
Vel duo, vel nemo;
and yet I
know a man who is all I have here described. But a single instance (and I
really know not such another) is not sufficient to justify us, while we are
writing to thousands who never heard of the person, nor of anything like him.
Such rarae aves should be remitted to the epitaph writer, or to some
poet who may condescend to hitch him in a distich, or to slide him into a rhime
with an air of carelessness and neglect, without giving any offence to the
reader.
In the
last place, the actions should be such as may not only be within the compass of
human agency, and which human agents may probably be supposed to do; but they
should be likely for the very actors and characters themselves to have
performed; for what may be only wonderful and surprizing in one man, may become
improbable, or indeed impossible, when related of another.
This last
requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversation of character; and it
requires a very extraordinary degree of judgment, and a most exact knowledge of
human nature.
It is
admirably remarked by a most excellent writer, that zeal can no more hurry a
man to act in direct opposition to itself, than a rapid stream can carry a boat
against its own current. I will venture to say, that for a man to act in direct
contradiction to the dictates of his nature, is, if not impossible, as
improbable and as miraculous as anything which can well be conceived. Should
the best parts of the story of M. Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should the
worst incidents of Nero’s life be imputed to Antoninus, what would be more
shocking to belief than either instance? whereas both these being related of
their proper agent, constitute the truly marvellous.
Our modern
authors of comedy have fallen almost universally into the error here hinted at;
their heroes generally are notorious rogues, and their heroines abandoned
jades, during the first four acts; but in the fifth, the former become very
worthy gentlemen, and the latter women of virtue and discretion: nor is the
writer often so kind as to give himself the least trouble to reconcile or
account for this monstrous change and incongruity. There is, indeed, no other
reason to be assigned for it, than because the play is drawing to a conclusion;
as if it was no less natural in a rogue to repent in the last act of a play,
than in the last of his life; which we perceive to be generally the case at
Tyburn, a place which might indeed close the scene of some comedies with much
propriety, as the heroes in these are most commonly eminent for those very talents
which not only bring men to the gallows, but enable them to make an heroic
figure when they are there.
Within
these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be permitted to deal as much
in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keeps within the rules of
credibility, the more he can surprize the reader the more he will engage his
attention, and the more he will charm him. As a genius of the highest rank
observes in his fifth chapter of the Bathos, “The great art of all poetry is to
mix truth with fiction, in order to join the credible with the surprizing.”
For though
every good author will confine himself within the bounds of probability, it is
by no means necessary that his characters, or his incidents, should be trite,
common, or vulgar; such as happen in every street, or in every house, or which
may be met with in the home articles of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited
from showing many persons and things, which may possibly have never fallen
within the knowledge of great part of his readers. If the writer strictly
observes the rules above-mentioned, he hath discharged his part; and is then
intitled to some faith from his reader, who is indeed guilty of critical
infidelity if he disbelieves him.
For want
of a portion of such faith, I remember the character of a young lady of
quality, which was condemned on the stage for being unnatural, by the unanimous
voice of a very large assembly of clerks and apprentices; though it had the
previous suffrages of many ladies of the first rank; one of whom, very eminent
for her understanding, declared it was the picture of half the young people of
her acquaintance.
Chapter ii. — In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones.
When Jones
had taken leave of his friend the lieutenant, he endeavoured to close his eyes,
but all in vain; his spirits were too lively and wakeful to be lulled to sleep.
So having amused, or rather tormented, himself with the thoughts of his Sophia
till it was open daylight, he called for some tea; upon which occasion my landlady
herself vouchsafed to pay him a visit.
This was
indeed the first time she had seen him, or at least had taken any notice of
him; but as the lieutenant had assured her that he was certainly some young
gentleman of fashion, she now determined to show him all the respect in her
power; for, to speak truly, this was one of those houses where gentlemen, to
use the language of advertisements, meet with civil treatment for their money.
She had no
sooner begun to make his tea, than she likewise began to discourse:—“La! sir,”
said she, “I think it is great pity that such a pretty young gentleman should
under-value himself so, as to go about with these soldier fellows. They call
themselves gentlemen, I warrant you; but, as my first husband used to say, they
should remember it is we that pay them. And to be sure it is very hard upon us
to be obliged to pay them, and to keep ‘um too, as we publicans are. I had
twenty of ‘um last night, besides officers: nay, for matter o’ that, I had
rather have the soldiers than officers: for nothing is ever good enough for
those sparks; and I am sure, if you was to see the bills; la! sir, it is
nothing. I have had less trouble, I warrant you, with a good squire’s family,
where we take forty or fifty shillings of a night, besides horses. And yet I
warrants me, there is narrow a one of those officer fellows but looks upon
himself to be as good as arrow a squire of £500 a year. To be sure it doth me
good to hear their men run about after ‘um, crying your honour, and your
honour. Marry come up with such honour, and an ordinary at a shilling a head.
Then there’s such swearing among ‘um, to be sure it frightens me out o’ my
wits: I thinks nothing can ever prosper with such wicked people. And here one
of ‘um has used you in so barbarous a manner. I thought indeed how well the
rest would secure him; they all hang together; for if you had been in danger of
death, which I am glad to see you are not, it would have been all as one to
such wicked people. They would have let the murderer go. Laud have mercy upon
‘um; I would not have such a sin to answer for, for the whole world. But though
you are likely, with the blessing, to recover, there is laa for him yet; and if
you will employ lawyer Small, I darest be sworn he’ll make the fellow fly the
country for him; though perhaps he’ll have fled the country before; for it is
here to-day and gone to-morrow with such chaps. I hope, however, you will learn
more wit for the future, and return back to your friends; I warrant they are
all miserable for your loss; and if they was but to know what had happened—La,
my seeming! I would not for the world they should. Come, come, we know very
well what all the matter is; but if one won’t, another will; so pretty a
gentleman need never want a lady. I am sure, if I was you, I would see the
finest she that ever wore a head hanged, before I would go for a soldier for
her.—Nay, don’t blush so” (for indeed he did to a violent degree). “Why, you
thought, sir, I knew nothing of the matter, I warrant you, about Madam Sophia.”—“How,”
says Jones, starting up, “do you know my Sophia?”—“Do I! ay marry,” cries the
landlady; “many’s the time hath she lain in this house.”—“With her aunt, I
suppose,” says Jones. “Why, there it is now,” cries the landlady. “Ay, ay, ay,
I know the old lady very well. And a sweet young creature is Madam Sophia,
that’s the truth on’t.”—“A sweet creature,” cries Jones; “O heavens!”
Angels are painted fair to look like her.
There’s in her all that we believe of heav’n,
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,
Eternal joy and everlasting love.
“And could
I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia!”—“I wish,” says the
landlady, “you knew half so much of her. What would you have given to have sat
by her bed-side? What a delicious neck she hath! Her lovely limbs have
stretched themselves in that very bed you now lie in.”—“Here!” cries Jones:
“hath Sophia ever laid here?”—“Ay, ay, here; there, in that very bed,” says the
landlady; “where I wish you had her this moment; and she may wish so too for
anything I know to the contrary, for she hath mentioned your name to me.”—“Ha!”
cries he; “did she ever mention her poor Jones? You flatter me now: I can never
believe so much.”—“Why, then,” answered she, “as I hope to be saved, and may
the devil fetch me if I speak a syllable more than the truth, I have heard her
mention Mr Jones; but in a civil and modest way, I confess; yet I could
perceive she thought a great deal more than she said.”—“O my dear woman!” cries
Jones, “her thoughts of me I shall never be worthy of. Oh, she is all
gentleness, kindness, goodness! Why was such a rascal as I born, ever to give
her soft bosom a moment’s uneasiness? Why am I cursed? I, who would undergo all
the plagues and miseries which any daemon ever invented for mankind, to procure
her any good; nay, torture itself could not be misery to me, did I but know
that she was happy.”—“Why, look you there now,” says the landlady; “I told her
you was a constant lovier.”—“But pray, madam, tell me when or where you knew
anything of me; for I never was here before, nor do I remember ever to have
seen you.”—“Nor is it possible you should,” answered she; “for you was a little
thing when I had you in my lap at the squire’s.”—“How, the squire’s?” says
Jones: “what, do you know that great and good Mr Allworthy then?”—“Yes, marry,
do I,” says she: “who in the country doth not?”—“The fame of his goodness
indeed,” answered Jones, “must have extended farther than this; but heaven only
can know him—can know that benevolence which it copied from itself, and sent
upon earth as its own pattern. Mankind are as ignorant of such divine goodness,
as they are unworthy of it; but none so unworthy of it as myself. I, who was
raised by him to such a height; taken in, as you must well know, a poor
base-born child, adopted by him, and treated as his own son, to dare by my
follies to disoblige him, to draw his vengeance upon me. Yes, I deserve it all;
for I will never be so ungrateful as ever to think he hath done an act of
injustice by me. No, I deserve to be turned out of doors, as I am. And now,
madam,” says he, “I believe you will not blame me for turning soldier,
especially with such a fortune as this in my pocket.” At which words he shook a
purse, which had but very little in it, and which still appeared to the landlady
to have less.
My good
landlady was (according to vulgar phrase) struck all of a heap by this
relation. She answered coldly, “That to be sure people were the best judges
what was most proper for their circumstances. But hark,” says she, “I think I
hear somebody call. Coming! coming! the devil’s in all our volk; nobody hath
any ears. I must go down-stairs; if you want any more breakfast the maid will
come up. Coming!” At which words, without taking any leave, she flung out of
the room; for the lower sort of people are very tenacious of respect; and
though they are contented to give this gratis to persons of quality, yet they
never confer it on those of their own order without taking care to be well paid
for their pains.
Chapter iii. — In which the surgeon makes his second appearance.
Before we
proceed any farther, that the reader may not be mistaken in imagining the
landlady knew more than she did, nor surprized that she knew so much, it may be
necessary to inform him that the lieutenant had acquainted her that the name of
Sophia had been the occasion of the quarrel; and as for the rest of her
knowledge, the sagacious reader will observe how she came by it in the
preceding scene. Great curiosity was indeed mixed with her virtues; and she
never willingly suffered any one to depart from her house, without enquiring as
much as possible into their names, families, and fortunes.
She was no
sooner gone than Jones, instead of animadverting on her behaviour, reflected
that he was in the same bed which he was informed had held his dear Sophia.
This occasioned a thousand fond and tender thoughts, which we would dwell
longer upon, did we not consider that such kind of lovers will make a very
inconsiderable part of our readers. In this situation the surgeon found him,
when he came to dress his wound. The doctor perceiving, upon examination, that
his pulse was disordered, and hearing that he had not slept, declared that he
was in great danger; for he apprehended a fever was coming on, which he would
have prevented by bleeding, but Jones would not submit, declaring he would lose
no more blood; “and, doctor,” says he, “if you will be so kind only to dress my
head, I have no doubt of being well in a day or two.”
“I wish,”
answered the surgeon, “I could assure your being well in a month or two. Well,
indeed! No, no, people are not so soon well of such contusions; but, sir, I am
not at this time of day to be instructed in my operations by a patient, and I
insist on making a revulsion before I dress you.”
Jones
persisted obstinately in his refusal, and the doctor at last yielded; telling
him at the same time that he would not be answerable for the ill consequence,
and hoped he would do him the justice to acknowledge that he had given him a
contrary advice; which the patient promised he would.
The doctor
retired into the kitchen, where, addressing himself to the landlady, he
complained bitterly of the undutiful behaviour of his patient, who would not be
blooded, though he was in a fever.
“It is an
eating fever then,” says the landlady; “for he hath devoured two swinging
buttered toasts this morning for breakfast.”
“Very
likely,” says the doctor: “I have known people eat in a fever; and it is very
easily accounted for; because the acidity occasioned by the febrile matter may
stimulate the nerves of the diaphragm, and thereby occasion a craving which
will not be easily distinguishable from a natural appetite; but the aliment
will not be concreted, nor assimilated into chyle, and so will corrode the
vascular orifices, and thus will aggravate the febrific symptoms. Indeed, I
think the gentleman in a very dangerous way, and, if he is not blooded, I am
afraid will die.”
“Every man
must die some time or other,” answered the good woman; “it is no business of
mine. I hope, doctor, you would not have me hold him while you bleed him. But,
hark’ee, a word in your ear; I would advise you, before you proceed too far, to
take care who is to be your paymaster.”
“Paymaster!”
said the doctor, staring; “why, I’ve a gentleman under my hands, have I not?”
“I
imagined so as well as you,” said the landlady; “but, as my first husband used
to say, everything is not what it looks to be. He is an arrant scrub, I assure
you. However, take no notice that I mentioned anything to you of the matter;
but I think people in business oft always to let one another know such things.”
“And have
I suffered such a fellow as this,” cries the doctor, in a passion, “to instruct
me? Shall I hear my practice insulted by one who will not pay me? I am glad I
have made this discovery in time. I will see now whether he will be blooded or
no.” He then immediately went upstairs, and flinging open the door of the
chamber with much violence, awaked poor Jones from a very sound nap, into which
he was fallen, and, what was still worse, from a delicious dream concerning
Sophia.
“Will you
be blooded or no?” cries the doctor, in a rage. “I have told you my resolution
already,” answered Jones, “and I wish with all my heart you had taken my
answer; for you have awaked me out of the sweetest sleep which I ever had in my
life.”
“Ay, ay,”
cries the doctor; “many a man hath dozed away his life. Sleep is not always
good, no more than food; but remember, I demand of you for the last time, will
you be blooded?”—“I answer you for the last time,” said Jones, “I will
not.”—“Then I wash my hands of you,” cries the doctor; “and I desire you to pay
me for the trouble I have had already. Two journeys at 5s. each, two dressings
at 5s. more, and half a crown for phlebotomy.”—“I hope,” said Jones, “you don’t
intend to leave me in this condition.”—“Indeed but I shall,” said the other.
“Then,” said Jones, “you have used me rascally, and I will not pay you a
farthing.”—“Very well,” cries the doctor; “the first loss is the best. What a
pox did my landlady mean by sending for me to such vagabonds!” At which words
he flung out of the room, and his patient turning himself about soon recovered
his sleep; but his dream was unfortunately gone.
Chapter iv. — In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers that was ever recorded in history, the barber of Bagdad, or he in Don Quixote, not excepted.
The clock
had now struck five when Jones awaked from a nap of seven hours, so much
refreshed, and in such perfect health and spirits, that he resolved to get up
and dress himself; for which purpose he unlocked his portmanteau, and took out
clean linen, and a suit of cloaths; but first he slipt on a frock, and went
down into the kitchen to bespeak something that might pacify certain tumults he
found rising within his stomach.
Meeting
the landlady, he accosted her with great civility, and asked, “What he could
have for dinner?”—“For dinner!” says she; “it is an odd time a day to think
about dinner. There is nothing drest in the house, and the fire is almost
out.”—“Well, but,” says he, “I must have something to eat, and it is almost
indifferent to me what; for, to tell you the truth, I was never more hungry in
my life.”—“Then,” says she, “I believe there is a piece of cold buttock and
carrot, which will fit you.”—“Nothing better,” answered Jones; “but I should be
obliged to you, if you would let it be fried.” To which the landlady consented,
and said, smiling, “she was glad to see him so well recovered;” for the
sweetness of our heroe’s temper was almost irresistible; besides, she was
really no ill-humoured woman at the bottom; but she loved money so much, that
she hated everything which had the semblance of poverty.
Jones now
returned in order to dress himself, while his dinner was preparing, and was,
according to his orders, attended by the barber.
This
barber, who went by the name of Little Benjamin, was a fellow of great oddity
and humour, which had frequently let him into small inconveniencies, such as
slaps in the face, kicks in the breech, broken bones, &c. For every one
doth not understand a jest; and those who do are often displeased with being
themselves the subjects of it. This vice was, however, incurable in him; and
though he had often smarted for it, yet if ever he conceived a joke, he was
certain to be delivered of it, without the least respect of persons, time, or
place.
He had a
great many other particularities in his character, which I shall not mention,
as the reader will himself very easily perceive them, on his farther
acquaintance with this extraordinary person.
Jones
being impatient to be drest, for a reason which may be easily imagined, thought
the shaver was very tedious in preparing his suds, and begged him to make
haste; to which the other answered with much gravity, for he never discomposed
his muscles on any account, “Festina lente, is a proverb which I learned
long before I ever touched a razor.”—“I find, friend, you are a scholar,”
replied Jones. “A poor one,” said the barber, “non omnia possumus omnes.”—“Again!”
said Jones; “I fancy you are good at capping verses.”—“Excuse me, sir,” said
the barber, “non tanto me dignor honore.” And then proceeding to his
operation, “Sir,” said he, “since I have dealt in suds, I could never discover
more than two reasons for shaving; the one is to get a beard, and the other to
get rid of one. I conjecture, sir, it may not be long since you shaved from the
former of these motives. Upon my word, you have had good success; for one may
say of your beard, that it is tondenti gravior.”—“I conjecture,” says
Jones, “that thou art a very comical fellow.”—“You mistake me widely, sir,”
said the barber: “I am too much addicted to the study of philosophy; hinc
illae lacrymae, sir; that’s my misfortune. Too much learning hath been my
ruin.”—“Indeed,” says Jones, “I confess, friend, you have more learning than
generally belongs to your trade; but I can’t see how it can have injured
you.”—“Alas! sir,” answered the shaver, “my father disinherited me for it. He
was a dancing-master; and because I could read before I could dance, he took an
aversion to me, and left every farthing among his other children.—Will you
please to have your temples—O la! I ask your pardon, I fancy there is hiatus
in manuscriptis. I heard you was going to the wars; but I find it was a mistake.”—“Why
do you conclude so?” says Jones. “Sure, sir,” answered the barber, “you are too
wise a man to carry a broken head thither; for that would be carrying coals to
Newcastle.”
“Upon my
word,” cries Jones, “thou art a very odd fellow, and I like thy humour
extremely; I shall be very glad if thou wilt come to me after dinner, and drink
a glass with me; I long to be better acquainted with thee.”
“O dear
sir!” said the barber, “I can do you twenty times as great a favour, if you
will accept of it.”—“What is that, my friend?” cries Jones. “Why, I will drink
a bottle with you if you please; for I dearly love good-nature; and as you have
found me out to be a comical fellow, so I have no skill in physiognomy, if you
are not one of the best-natured gentlemen in the universe.” Jones now walked
downstairs neatly drest, and perhaps the fair Adonis was not a lovelier figure;
and yet he had no charms for my landlady; for as that good woman did not
resemble Venus at all in her person, so neither did she in her taste. Happy had
it been for Nanny the chambermaid, if she had seen with the eyes of her
mistress, for that poor girl fell so violently in love with Jones in five
minutes, that her passion afterwards cost her many a sigh. This Nanny was
extremely pretty, and altogether as coy; for she had refused a drawer, and one
or two young farmers in the neighbourhood, but the bright eyes of our heroe
thawed all her ice in a moment.
When Jones
returned to the kitchen, his cloth was not yet laid; nor indeed was there any
occasion it should, his dinner remaining in statu quo, as did the fire
which was to dress it. This disappointment might have put many a philosophical
temper into a passion; but it had no such effect on Jones. He only gave the
landlady a gentle rebuke, saying, “Since it was so difficult to get it heated
he would eat the beef cold.” But now the good woman, whether moved by
compassion, or by shame, or by whatever other motive, I cannot tell, first gave
her servants a round scold for disobeying the orders which she had never given,
and then bidding the drawer lay a napkin in the Sun, she set about the matter
in good earnest, and soon accomplished it.
This Sun,
into which Jones was now conducted, was truly named, as lucus a non lucendo;
for it was an apartment into which the sun had scarce ever looked. It was
indeed the worst room in the house; and happy was it for Jones that it was so.
However, he was now too hungry to find any fault; but having once satisfied his
appetite, he ordered the drawer to carry a bottle of wine into a better room,
and expressed some resentment at having been shown into a dungeon.
The drawer
having obeyed his commands, he was, after some time, attended by the barber,
who would not indeed have suffered him to wait so long for his company had he
not been listening in the kitchen to the landlady, who was entertaining a
circle that she had gathered round her with the history of poor Jones, part of
which she had extracted from his own lips, and the other part was her own
ingenious composition; for she said “he was a poor parish boy, taken into the
house of Squire Allworthy, where he was bred up as an apprentice, and now
turned out of doors for his misdeeds, particularly for making love to his young
mistress, and probably for robbing the house; for how else should he come by
the little money he hath; and this,” says she, “is your gentleman,
forsooth!”—“A servant of Squire Allworthy!” says the barber; “what’s his
name?”—“Why he told me his name was Jones,” says she: “perhaps he goes by a
wrong name. Nay, and he told me, too, that the squire had maintained him as his
own son, thof he had quarrelled with him now.”—“And if his name be Jones, he
told you the truth,” said the barber; “for I have relations who live in that
country; nay, and some people say he is his son.”—“Why doth he not go by the
name of his father?”—“I can’t tell that,” said the barber; “many people’s sons
don’t go by the name of their father.”—“Nay,” said the landlady, “if I thought
he was a gentleman’s son, thof he was a bye-blow, I should behave to him in
another guess manner; for many of these bye-blows come to be great men, and, as
my poor first husband used to say, never affront any customer that’s a
gentleman.”
This
conversation passed partly while Jones was at dinner in his dungeon, and partly
while he was expecting the barber in the parlour. And, as soon as it was ended,
Mr Benjamin, as we have said, attended him, and was very kindly desired to sit
down. Jones then filling out a glass of wine, drank his health by the
appellation of doctissime tonsorum. “Ago tibi gratias, domine”
said the barber; and then looking very steadfastly at Jones, he said, with
great gravity, and with a seeming surprize, as if he had recollected a face he
had seen before, “Sir, may I crave the favour to know if your name is not
Jones?” To which the other answered, “That it was.”—“Proh deum atque hominum
fidem!” says the barber; “how strangely things come to pass! Mr Jones, I am
your most obedient servant. I find you do not know me, which indeed is no
wonder, since you never saw me but once, and then you was very young. Pray,
sir, how doth the good Squire Allworthy? how doth ille optimus omnium
patronus?”—“I find,” said Jones, “you do indeed know me; but I have not the
like happiness of recollecting you.”—“I do not wonder at that,” cries Benjamin;
“but I am surprized I did not know you sooner, for you are not in the least
altered. And pray, sir, may I, without offence, enquire whither you are
travelling this way?”—“Fill the glass, Mr Barber,” said Jones, “and ask no more
questions.”—“Nay, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I would not be troublesome; and I
hope you don’t think me a man of an impertinent curiosity, for that is a vice
which nobody can lay to my charge; but I ask pardon; for when a gentleman of
your figure travels without his servants, we may suppose him to be, as we say, in
casu incognito, and perhaps I ought not to have mentioned your name.”—“I
own,” says Jones, “I did not expect to have been so well known in this country
as I find I am; yet, for particular reasons, I shall be obliged to you if you
will not mention my name to any other person till I am gone from hence.”—“Pauca
verba,” answered the barber;” and I wish no other here knew you but myself;
for some people have tongues; but I promise you I can keep a secret. My enemies
will allow me that virtue.”—“And yet that is not the characteristic of your
profession, Mr Barber,” answered Jones. “Alas! sir,” replied Benjamin, “Non
si male nunc et olim sic erit. I was not born nor bred a barber, I assure
you. I have spent most of my time among gentlemen, and though I say it, I
understand something of gentility. And if you had thought me as worthy of your
confidence as you have some other people, I should have shown you I could have
kept a secret better. I should not have degraded your name in a public kitchen;
for indeed, sir, some people have not used you well; for besides making a
public proclamation of what you told them of a quarrel between yourself and
Squire Allworthy, they added lies of their own, things which I knew to be
lies.”—“You surprize me greatly,” cries Jones. “Upon my word, sir,” answered
Benjamin, “I tell the truth, and I need not tell you my landlady was the
person. I am sure it moved me to hear the story, and I hope it is all false;
for I have a great respect for you, I do assure you I have, and have had ever
since the good-nature you showed to Black George, which was talked of all over
the country, and I received more than one letter about it. Indeed, it made you
beloved by everybody. You will pardon me, therefore; for it was real concern at
what I heard made me ask many questions; for I have no impertinent curiosity
about me: but I love good-nature and thence became amoris abundantia erga te.”
Every
profession of friendship easily gains credit with the miserable; it is no
wonder therefore, if Jones, who, besides his being miserable, was extremely
open-hearted, very readily believed all the professions of Benjamin, and received
him into his bosom. The scraps of Latin, some of which Benjamin applied
properly enough, though it did not savour of profound literature, seemed yet to
indicate something superior to a common barber; and so indeed did his whole
behaviour. Jones therefore believed the truth of what he had said, as to his
original and education; and at length, after much entreaty, he said, “Since you
have heard, my friend, so much of my affairs, and seem so desirous to know the
truth, if you will have patience to hear it, I will inform you of the
whole.”—“Patience!” cries Benjamin, “that I will, if the chapter was never so
long; and I am very much obliged to you for the honour you do me.”
Jones now
began, and related the whole history, forgetting only a circumstance or two,
namely, everything which passed on that day in which he had fought with
Thwackum; and ended with his resolution to go to sea, till the rebellion in the
North had made him change his purpose, and had brought him to the place where
he then was.
Little Benjamin,
who had been all attention, never once interrupted the narrative; but when it
was ended he could not help observing, that there must be surely something more
invented by his enemies, and told Mr Allworthy against him, or so good a man
would never have dismissed one he had loved so tenderly, in such a manner. To
which Jones answered, “He doubted not but such villanous arts had been made use
of to destroy him.”
And surely
it was scarce possible for any one to have avoided making the same remark with
the barber, who had not indeed heard from Jones one single circumstance upon
which he was condemned; for his actions were not now placed in those injurious
lights in which they had been misrepresented to Allworthy; nor could he mention
those many false accusations which had been from time to time preferred against
him to Allworthy: for with none of these he was himself acquainted. He had
likewise, as we have observed, omitted many material facts in his present
relation. Upon the whole, indeed, everything now appeared in such favourable
colours to Jones, that malice itself would have found it no easy matter to fix
any blame upon him.
Not that
Jones desired to conceal or to disguise the truth; nay, he would have been more
unwilling to have suffered any censure to fall on Mr Allworthy for punishing
him, than on his own actions for deserving it; but, in reality, so it happened,
and so it always will happen; for let a man be never so honest, the account of
his own conduct will, in spite of himself, be so very favourable, that his
vices will come purified through his lips, and, like foul liquors well
strained, will leave all their foulness behind. For though the facts themselves
may appear, yet so different will be the motives, circumstances, and
consequences, when a man tells his own story, and when his enemy tells it, that
we scarce can recognise the facts to be one and the same.
Though the
barber had drank down this story with greedy ears, he was not yet satisfied.
There was a circumstance behind which his curiosity, cold as it was, most
eagerly longed for. Jones had mentioned the fact of his amour, and of his being
the rival of Blifil, but had cautiously concealed the name of the young lady.
The barber, therefore, after some hesitation, and many hums and hahs, at last
begged leave to crave the name of the lady, who appeared to be the principal
cause of all this mischief. Jones paused a moment, and then said, “Since I have
trusted you with so much, and since, I am afraid, her name is become too
publick already on this occasion, I will not conceal it from you. Her name is
Sophia Western.”
“Proh
deum atque hominum fidem! Squire Western hath a daughter grown a
woman!”—“Ay, and such a woman,” cries Jones, “that the world cannot match. No
eye ever saw anything so beautiful; but that is her least excellence. Such
sense! such goodness! Oh, I could praise her for ever, and yet should omit half
her virtues!”—“Mr Western a daughter grown up!” cries the barber: “I remember
the father a boy; well, Tempus edax rerum.”
The wine being
now at an end, the barber pressed very eagerly to be his bottle; but Jones
absolutely refused, saying, “He had already drank more than he ought: and that
he now chose to retire to his room, where he wished he could procure himself a
book.”—“A book!” cries Benjamin; “what book would you have? Latin or English? I
have some curious books in both languages; such as Erasmi Colloquia, Ovid de
Tristibus, Gradus ad Parnassum; and in English I have several of the best
books, though some of them are a little torn; but I have a great part of
Stowe’s Chronicle; the sixth volume of Pope’s Homer; the third volume of the
Spectator; the second volume of Echard’s Roman History; the Craftsman; Robinson
Crusoe; Thomas a Kempis; and two volumes of Tom Brown’s Works.”
“Those
last,” cries Jones, “are books I never saw, so if you please lend me one of
those volumes.” The barber assured him he would be highly entertained, for he
looked upon the author to have been one of the greatest wits that ever the
nation produced. He then stepped to his house, which was hard by, and
immediately returned; after which, the barber having received very strict
injunctions of secrecy from Jones, and having sworn inviolably to maintain it,
they separated; the barber went home, and Jones retired to his chamber.
To be continued
