TOM JONES
PART 29
BOOK XI. — CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS.
Chapter i. — A crust for the critics.
In our
last initial chapter we may be supposed to have treated that formidable set of
men who are called critics with more freedom than becomes us; since they exact,
and indeed generally receive, great condescension from authors. We shall in
this, therefore, give the reasons of our conduct to this august body; and here
we shall, perhaps, place them in a light in which they have not hitherto been
seen.
This word
critic is of Greek derivation, and signifies judgment. Hence I presume some
persons who have not understood the original, and have seen the English
translation of the primitive, have concluded that it meant judgment in the
legal sense, in which it is frequently used as equivalent to condemnation.
I am the
rather inclined to be of that opinion, as the greatest number of critics hath
of late years been found amongst the lawyers. Many of these gentlemen, from
despair, perhaps, of ever rising to the bench in Westminster-hall, have placed
themselves on the benches at the playhouse, where they have exerted their
judicial capacity, and have given judgment, i.e., condemned without
mercy.
The
gentlemen would, perhaps, be well enough pleased, if we were to leave them thus
compared to one of the most important and honourable offices in the
commonwealth, and, if we intended to apply to their favour, we would do so;
but, as we design to deal very sincerely and plainly too with them, we must
remind them of another officer of justice of a much lower rank; to whom, as
they not only pronounce, but execute, their own judgment, they bear likewise
some remote resemblance.
But in
reality there is another light, in which these modern critics may, with great
justice and propriety, be seen; and this is that of a common slanderer. If a
person who prys into the characters of others, with no other design but to
discover their faults, and to publish them to the world, deserves the title of
a slanderer of the reputations of men, why should not a critic, who reads with
the same malevolent view, be as properly stiled the slanderer of the reputation
of books?
Vice hath
not, I believe, a more abject slave; society produces not a more odious vermin;
nor can the devil receive a guest more worthy of him, nor possibly more welcome
to him, than a slanderer. The world, I am afraid, regards not this monster with
half the abhorrence which he deserves; and I am more afraid to assign the
reason of this criminal lenity shown towards him; yet it is certain that the
thief looks innocent in the comparison; nay, the murderer himself can seldom
stand in competition with his guilt: for slander is a more cruel weapon than a
sword, as the wounds which the former gives are always incurable. One method,
indeed, there is of killing, and that the basest and most execrable of all,
which bears an exact analogy to the vice here disclaimed against, and that is
poison: a means of revenge so base, and yet so horrible, that it was once
wisely distinguished by our laws from all other murders, in the peculiar
severity of the punishment.
Besides
the dreadful mischiefs done by slander, and the baseness of the means by which
they are effected, there are other circumstances that highly aggravate its
atrocious quality; for it often proceeds from no provocation, and seldom
promises itself any reward, unless some black and infernal mind may propose a
reward in the thoughts of having procured the ruin and misery of another.
Shakespear
hath nobly touched this vice, when he says—
“Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘t is something, nothing;
‘Twas mine, ‘tis his, and hath been slave to thousands:
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that WHICH NOT ENRICHES HIM,
BUT MAKES ME POOR INDEED.”
With all
this my good reader will doubtless agree; but much of it will probably seem too
severe, when applied to the slanderer of books. But let it here be considered
that both proceed from the same wicked disposition of mind, and are alike void
of the excuse of temptation. Nor shall we conclude the injury done this way to
be very slight, when we consider a book as the author’s offspring, and indeed
as the child of his brain.
The reader
who hath suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a virgin state can have but
a very inadequate idea of this kind of paternal fondness. To such we may parody
the tender exclamation of Macduff, “Alas! Thou hast written no book.” But the
author whose muse hath brought forth will feel the pathetic strain, perhaps
will accompany me with tears (especially if his darling be already no more),
while I mention the uneasiness with which the big muse bears about her burden,
the painful labour with which she produces it, and, lastly, the care, the
fondness, with which the tender father nourishes his favourite, till it be
brought to maturity, and produced into the world.
Nor is
there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour of absolute instinct,
and which may so well be reconciled to worldly wisdom, as this. These children
may most truly be called the riches of their father; and many of them have with
true filial piety fed their parent in his old age: so that not only the
affection, but the interest, of the author may be highly injured by these
slanderers, whose poisonous breath brings his book to an untimely end.
Lastly,
the slander of a book is, in truth, the slander of the author: for, as no one
can call another bastard, without calling the mother a whore, so neither can
any one give the names of sad stuff, horrid nonsense, &c., to a book,
without calling the author a blockhead; which, though in a moral sense it is a
preferable appellation to that of villain, is perhaps rather more injurious to
his worldly interest.
Now,
however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others, I doubt not, will feel
and acknowledge the truth of it; nay, may, perhaps, think I have not treated
the subject with decent solemnity; but surely a man may speak truth with a
smiling countenance. In reality, to depreciate a book maliciously, or even
wantonly, is at least a very ill-natured office; and a morose snarling critic
may, I believe, be suspected to be a bad man.
I will
therefore endeavour, in the remaining part of this chapter, to explain the
marks of this character, and to show what criticism I here intend to obviate:
for I can never be understood, unless by the very persons here meant, to
insinuate that there are no proper judges of writing, or to endeavour to
exclude from the commonwealth of literature any of those noble critics to whose
labours the learned world are so greatly indebted. Such were Aristotle, Horace,
and Longinus, among the antients, Dacier and Bossu among the French, and some
perhaps among us; who have certainly been duly authorised to execute at least a
judicial authority in foro literario.
But
without ascertaining all the proper qualifications of a critic, which I have
touched on elsewhere, I think I may very boldly object to the censures of any
one past upon works which he hath not himself read. Such censurers as these,
whether they speak from their own guess or suspicion, or from the report and
opinion of others, may properly be said to slander the reputation of the book
they condemn.
Such may
likewise be suspected of deserving this character, who, without assigning any
particular faults, condemn the whole in general defamatory terms; such as vile,
dull, d—d stuff, &c., and particularly by the use of the monosyllable low;
a word which becomes the mouth of no critic who is not RIGHT HONOURABLE.
Again,
though there may be some faults justly assigned in the work, yet, if those are
not in the most essential parts, or if they are compensated by greater
beauties, it will savour rather of the malice of a slanderer than of the
judgment of a true critic to pass a severe sentence upon the whole, merely on
account of some vicious part. This is directly contrary to the sentiments of
Horace:
Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis
Offendor maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,
Aut humana parum cavit natura——
But where the beauties, more in number, shine,
I am not angry, when a casual line
(That with some trivial faults unequal flows)
A careless hand or human frailty shows.—MR FRANCIS.
For, as
Martial says, Aliter non fit, Avite, liber. No book can be otherwise composed.
All beauty of character, as well as of countenance, and indeed of everything
human, is to be tried in this manner. Cruel indeed would it be if such a work
as this history, which hath employed some thousands of hours in the composing,
should be liable to be condemned, because some particular chapter, or perhaps
chapters, may be obnoxious to very just and sensible objections. And yet
nothing is more common than the most rigorous sentence upon books supported by
such objections, which, if they were rightly taken (and that they are not
always), do by no means go to the merit of the whole. In the theatre
especially, a single expression which doth not coincide with the taste of the
audience, or with any individual critic of that audience, is sure to be hissed;
and one scene which should be disapproved would hazard the whole piece. To
write within such severe rules as these is as impossible as to live up to some
splenetic opinions: and if we judge according to the sentiments of some
critics, and of some Christians, no author will be saved in this world, and no
man in the next.
Chapter ii. — The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving Upton.
Our
history, just before it was obliged to turn about and travel backwards, had
mentioned the departure of Sophia and her maid from the inn; we shall now
therefore pursue the steps of that lovely creature, and leave her unworthy
lover a little longer to bemoan his ill-luck, or rather his ill-conduct.
Sophia
having directed her guide to travel through bye-roads, across the country, they
now passed the Severn, and had scarce got a mile from the inn, when the young
lady, looking behind her, saw several horses coming after on full speed. This
greatly alarmed her fears, and she called to the guide to put on as fast as
possible.
He
immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full gallop. But the faster they
went, the faster were they followed; and as the horses behind were somewhat
swifter than those before, so the former were at length overtaken. A happy
circumstance for poor Sophia; whose fears, joined to her fatigue, had almost
overpowered her spirits; but she was now instantly relieved by a female voice,
that greeted her in the softest manner, and with the utmost civility. This
greeting Sophia, as soon as she could recover her breath, with like civility,
and with the highest satisfaction to herself, returned.
The
travellers who joined Sophia, and who had given her such terror, consisted,
like her own company, of two females and a guide. The two parties proceeded
three full miles together before any one offered again to open their mouths;
when our heroine, having pretty well got the better of her fear (but yet being
somewhat surprized that the other still continued to attend her, as she pursued
no great road, and had already passed through several turnings), accosted the
strange lady in a most obliging tone, and said, “She was very happy to find
they were both travelling the same way.” The other, who, like a ghost, only
wanted to be spoke to, readily answered, “That the happiness was entirely hers;
that she was a perfect stranger in that country, and was so overjoyed at
meeting a companion of her own sex, that she had perhaps been guilty of an
impertinence, which required great apology, in keeping pace with her.” More
civilities passed between these two ladies; for Mrs Honour had now given place
to the fine habit of the stranger, and had fallen into the rear. But, though
Sophia had great curiosity to know why the other lady continued to travel on
through the same bye-roads with herself, nay, though this gave her some
uneasiness, yet fear, or modesty, or some other consideration, restrained her
from asking the question.
The
strange lady now laboured under a difficulty which appears almost below the
dignity of history to mention. Her bonnet had been blown from her head not less
than five times within the last mile; nor could she come at any ribbon or
handkerchief to tie it under her chin. When Sophia was informed of this, she
immediately supplied her with a handkerchief for this purpose; which while she
was pulling from her pocket, she perhaps too much neglected the management of
her horse, for the beast, now unluckily making a false step, fell upon his
fore-legs, and threw his fair rider from his back.
Though
Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received not the least
damage: and the same circumstances which had perhaps contributed to her fall
now preserved her from confusion; for the lane which they were then passing was
narrow, and very much overgrown with trees, so that the moon could here afford
very little light, and was moreover, at present, so obscured in a cloud, that
it was almost perfectly dark. By these means the young lady’s modesty, which
was extremely delicate, escaped as free from injury as her limbs, and she was
once more reinstated in her saddle, having received no other harm than a little
fright by her fall.
Daylight
at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the two ladies, who were riding
over a common side by side, looking stedfastly at each other, at the same
moment both their eyes became fixed; both their horses stopt, and, both
speaking together, with equal joy pronounced, the one the name of Sophia, the
other that of Harriet.
This
unexpected encounter surprized the ladies much more than I believe it will the
sagacious reader, who must have imagined that the strange lady could be no
other than Mrs Fitzpatrick, the cousin of Miss Western, whom we before
mentioned to have sallied from the inn a few minutes after her.
So great
was the surprize and joy which these two cousins conceived at this meeting (for
they had formerly been most intimate acquaintance and friends, and had long
lived together with their aunt Western), that it is impossible to recount half
the congratulations which passed between them, before either asked a very
natural question of the other, namely, whither she was going?
This at
last, however, came first from Mrs Fitzpatrick; but, easy and natural as the
question may seem, Sophia found it difficult to give it a very ready and
certain answer. She begged her cousin therefore to suspend all curiosity till
they arrived at some inn, “which I suppose,” says she, “can hardly be far
distant; and, believe me, Harriet, I suspend as much curiosity on my side; for,
indeed, I believe our astonishment is pretty equal.”
The
conversation which passed between these ladies on the road was, I apprehend,
little worth relating; and less certainly was that between the two
waiting-women; for they likewise began to pay their compliments to each other.
As for the guides, they were debarred from the pleasure of discourse, the one
being placed in the van, and the other obliged to bring up the rear.
In this
posture they travelled many hours, till they came into a wide and well-beaten
road, which, as they turned to the right, soon brought them to a very fair
promising inn, where they all alighted: but so fatigued was Sophia, that as she
had sat her horse during the last five or six miles with great difficulty, so
was she now incapable of dismounting from him without assistance. This the
landlord, who had hold of her horse, presently perceiving, offered to lift her
in his arms from her saddle; and she too readily accepted the tender of his
service. Indeed fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the blush that
day, and the second malicious attempt succeeded better than the first; for my
landlord had no sooner received the young lady in his arms, than his feet,
which the gout had lately very severely handled, gave way, and down he tumbled;
but, at the same time, with no less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to
throw himself under his charming burden, so that he alone received any bruise
from the fall; for the great injury which happened to Sophia was a violent
shock given to her modesty by an immoderate grin, which, at her rising from the
ground, she observed in the countenances of most of the bye-standers. This made
her suspect what had really happened, and what we shall not here relate for the
indulgence of those readers who are capable of laughing at the offence given to
a young lady’s delicacy. Accidents of this kind we have never regarded in a comical
light; nor will we scruple to say that he must have a very inadequate idea of
the modesty of a beautiful young woman, who would wish to sacrifice it to so
paltry a satisfaction as can arise from laughter.
This
fright and shock, joined to the violent fatigue which both her mind and body
had undergone, almost overcame the excellent constitution of Sophia, and she
had scarce strength sufficient to totter into the inn, leaning on the arm of
her maid. Here she was no sooner seated than she called for a glass of water;
but Mrs Honour, very judiciously, in my opinion, changed it into a glass of
wine.
Mrs
Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs Honour that Sophia had not been in bed during the
two last nights, and observing her to look very pale and wan with her fatigue,
earnestly entreated her to refresh herself with some sleep. She was yet a
stranger to her history, or her apprehensions; but, had she known both, she
would have given the same advice; for rest was visibly necessary for her; and
their long journey through bye-roads so entirely removed all danger of pursuit,
that she was herself perfectly easy on that account.
Sophia was
easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of her friend, which was heartily
seconded by her maid. Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise offered to bear her cousin
company, which Sophia, with much complacence, accepted.
The
mistress was no sooner in bed than the maid prepared to follow her example. She
began to make many apologies to her sister Abigail for leaving her alone in so
horrid a place as an inn; but the other stopt her short, being as well inclined
to a nap as herself, and desired the honour of being her bedfellow. Sophia’s
maid agreed to give her a share of her bed, but put in her claim to all the
honour. So, after many courtsies and compliments, to bed together went the
waiting-women, as their mistresses had done before them.
It was
usual with my landlord (as indeed it is with the whole fraternity) to enquire
particularly of all coachmen, footmen, postboys, and others, into the names of
all his guests; what their estate was, and where it lay. It cannot therefore be
wondered at that the many particular circumstances which attended our
travellers, and especially their retiring all to sleep at so extraordinary and
unusual an hour as ten in the morning, should excite his curiosity. As soon,
therefore, as the guides entered the kitchen, he began to examine who the
ladies were, and whence they came; but the guides, though they faithfully
related all they knew, gave him very little satisfaction. On the contrary, they
rather enflamed his curiosity than extinguished it.
This
landlord had the character, among all his neighbours, of being a very sagacious
fellow. He was thought to see farther and deeper into things than any man in
the parish, the parson himself not excepted. Perhaps his look had contributed
not a little to procure him this reputation; for there was in this something
wonderfully wise and significant, especially when he had a pipe in his mouth;
which, indeed, he seldom was without. His behaviour, likewise, greatly assisted
in promoting the opinion of his wisdom. In his deportment he was solemn, if not
sullen; and when he spoke, which was seldom, he always delivered himself in a
slow voice; and, though his sentences were short, they were still interrupted
with many hums and ha’s, ay ays, and other expletives: so that, though he
accompanied his words with certain explanatory gestures, such as shaking or
nodding the head, or pointing with his fore-finger, he generally left his
hearers to understand more than he expressed; nay, he commonly gave them a hint
that he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose. This last
circumstance alone may, indeed, very well account for his character of wisdom;
since men are strangely inclined to worship what they do not understand. A
grand secret, upon which several imposers on mankind have totally relied for
the success of their frauds.
This
polite person, now taking his wife aside, asked her “what she thought of the
ladies lately arrived?” “Think of them?” said the wife, “why, what should I
think of them?” “I know,” answered he, “what I think. The guides tell strange
stories. One pretends to be come from Gloucester, and the other from Upton; and
neither of them, for what I can find, can tell whither they are going. But what
people ever travel across the country from Upton hither, especially to London?
And one of the maid-servants, before she alighted from her horse, asked if this
was not the London road? Now I have put all these circumstances together, and
whom do you think I have found them out to be?” “Nay,” answered she, “you know
I never pretend to guess at your discoveries.”——“It is a good girl,” replied
he, chucking her under the chin; “I must own you have always submitted to my
knowledge of these matters. Why, then, depend upon it; mind what I say—depend
upon it, they are certainly some of the rebel ladies, who, they say, travel
with the young Chevalier; and have taken a roundabout way to escape the duke’s
army.”
“Husband,”
quoth the wife, “you have certainly hit it; for one of them is dressed as fine
as any princess; and, to be sure, she looks for all the world like one.——But
yet, when I consider one thing”——“When you consider,” cries the landlord
contemptuously——“Come, pray let’s hear what you consider.”——“Why, it is,”
answered the wife, “that she is too humble to be any very great lady: for,
while our Betty was warming the bed, she called her nothing but child, and my
dear, and sweetheart; and, when Betty offered to pull off her shoes and stockings,
she would not suffer her, saying, she would not give her the trouble.”
“Pugh!”
answered the husband, “that is nothing. Dost think, because you have seen some
great ladies rude and uncivil to persons below them, that none of them know how
to behave themselves when they come before their inferiors? I think I know
people of fashion when I see them—I think I do. Did not she call for a glass of
water when she came in? Another sort of women would have called for a dram; you
know they would. If she be not a woman of very great quality, sell me for a
fool; and, I believe, those who buy me will have a bad bargain. Now, would a
woman of her quality travel without a footman, unless upon some such
extraordinary occasion?” “Nay, to be sure, husband,” cries she, “you know these
matters better than I, or most folk.” “I think I do know something,” said he.
“To be sure,” answered the wife, “the poor little heart looked so piteous, when
she sat down in the chair, I protest I could not help having a compassion for
her almost as much as if she had been a poor body. But what’s to be done,
husband? If an she be a rebel, I suppose you intend to betray her up to the
court. Well, she’s a sweet-tempered, good-humoured lady, be she what she will,
and I shall hardly refrain from crying when I hear she is hanged or beheaded.”
“Pooh!” answered the husband.——“But, as to what’s to be done, it is not so easy
a matter to determine. I hope, before she goes away, we shall have the news of
a battle; for, if the Chevalier should get the better, she may gain us interest
at court, and make our fortunes without betraying her.” “Why, that’s true,”
replied the wife; “and I heartily hope she will have it in her power. Certainly
she’s a sweet good lady; it would go horribly against me to have her come to
any harm.” “Pooh!” cries the landlord, “women are always so tender-hearted.
Why, you would not harbour rebels, would you?” “No, certainly,” answered the
wife; “and as for betraying her, come what will on’t, nobody can blame us. It
is what anybody would do in our case.”
While our
politic landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the reputation of great
wisdom among his neighbours, was engaged in debating this matter with himself
(for he paid little attention to the opinion of his wife), news arrived that
the rebels had given the duke the slip, and had got a day’s march towards
London; and soon after arrived a famous Jacobite squire, who, with great joy in
his countenance, shook the landlord by the hand, saying, “All’s our own, boy,
ten thousand honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk. Old England for ever! ten
thousand French, my brave lad! I am going to tap away directly.”
This news
determined the opinion of the wise man, and he resolved to make his court to
the young lady when she arose; for he had now (he said) discovered that she was
no other than Madam Jenny Cameron herself.
Chapter iii. — A very short chapter, in which however is a sun, a moon, a star, and an angel.
The sun
(for he keeps very good hours at this time of the year) had been some time
retired to rest when Sophia arose greatly refreshed by her sleep; which, short
as it was, nothing but her extreme fatigue could have occasioned; for, though
she had told her maid, and perhaps herself too, that she was perfectly easy
when she left Upton, yet it is certain her mind was a little affected with that
malady which is attended with all the restless symptoms of a fever, and is
perhaps the very distemper which physicians mean (if they mean anything) by the
fever on the spirits.
Mrs
Fitzpatrick likewise left her bed at the same time; and, having summoned her
maid, immediately dressed herself. She was really a very pretty woman, and, had
she been in any other company but that of Sophia, might have been thought
beautiful; but when Mrs Honour of her own accord attended (for her mistress
would not suffer her to be waked), and had equipped our heroine, the charms of
Mrs Fitzpatrick, who had performed the office of the morning-star, and had
preceded greater glories, shared the fate of that star, and were totally
eclipsed the moment those glories shone forth.
Perhaps
Sophia never looked more beautiful than she did at this instant. We ought not,
therefore, to condemn the maid of the inn for her hyperbole, who, when she
descended, after having lighted the fire, declared, and ratified it with an
oath, that if ever there was an angel upon earth, she was now above-stairs.
Sophia had
acquainted her cousin with her design to go to London; and Mrs Fitzpatrick had
agreed to accompany her; for the arrival of her husband at Upton had put an end
to her design of going to Bath, or to her aunt Western. They had therefore no
sooner finished their tea than Sophia proposed to set out, the moon then
shining extremely bright, and as for the frost she defied it; nor had she any
of those apprehensions which many young ladies would have felt at travelling by
night; for she had, as we have before observed, some little degree of natural
courage; and this, her present sensations, which bordered somewhat on despair,
greatly encreased. Besides, as she had already travelled twice with safety by
the light of the moon, she was the better emboldened to trust to it a third
time.
The
disposition of Mrs Fitzpatrick was more timorous; for, though the greater
terrors had conquered the less, and the presence of her husband had driven her
away at so unseasonable an hour from Upton, yet, being now arrived at a place
where she thought herself safe from his pursuit, these lesser terrors of I know
not what operated so strongly, that she earnestly entreated her cousin to stay
till the next morning, and not expose herself to the dangers of travelling by
night.
Sophia,
who was yielding to an excess, when she could neither laugh nor reason her
cousin out of these apprehensions, at last gave way to them. Perhaps, indeed,
had she known of her father’s arrival at Upton, it might have been more
difficult to have persuaded her; for as to Jones, she had, I am afraid, no
great horror at the thoughts of being overtaken by him; nay, to confess the
truth, I believe she rather wished than feared it; though I might honestly
enough have concealed this wish from the reader, as it was one of those secret
spontaneous emotions of the soul to which the reason is often a stranger.
When our
young ladies had determined to remain all that evening in their inn they were
attended by the landlady, who desired to know what their ladyships would be
pleased to eat. Such charms were there in the voice, in the manner, and in the
affable deportment of Sophia, that she ravished the landlady to the highest
degree; and that good woman, concluding that she had attended Jenny Cameron,
became in a moment a stanch Jacobite, and wished heartily well to the young
Pretender’s cause, from the great sweetness and affability with which she had been
treated by his supposed mistress.
The two
cousins began now to impart to each other their reciprocal curiosity to know
what extraordinary accidents on both sides occasioned this so strange and
unexpected meeting. At last Mrs Fitzpatrick, having obtained of Sophia a
promise of communicating likewise in her turn, began to relate what the reader,
if he is desirous to know her history, may read in the ensuing chapter.
To be continued
