if it was possible for a man to have seen only the two former, he
would have a very imperfect idea of their beauty.
But to avoid too serious an air; can it be doubted, but that the
finest woman in the world would lose all benefit of her charms in
the eye of a man who had never seen one of another cast? The ladies
themselves seem so sensible of this, that they are all industrious
to procure foils: nay, they will become foils to themselves; for I
have observed (at Bath particularly) that they endeavour to appear
as ugly as possible in the morning, in order to set off that beauty
which they intend to show you in the evening.
Most artists have this secret in practice, though some, perhaps,
have not much studied the theory. The jeweller knows that the finest
brilliant requires a foil; and the painter, by the contrast of his
figures, often acquires great applause.
A great genius among us will illustrate this matter fully. I cannot,
indeed, range him under any general head of common artists, as he hath
a title to be placed among those
Inventas qui vitam excoluere per artes.
Who by invented arts have life improved.
I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment,
called the English Pantomime.
This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor
distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious
exhibited a certain number of heathen gods and heroes, who were
certainly the worst and dullest company into which an audience was
ever introduced; and (which was a secret known to few) were actually
intended so to be, in order to contrast the comic part of the
entertainment, and to display the tricks of harlequin to the better
advantage.
This was, perhaps, no very civil use of such personages: but the
contrivance was, nevertheless, ingenious enough, and had its effect.
And this will now plainly appear, if, instead of serious and comic, we
supply the words duller and dullest; for the comic was certainly
duller than anything before shown on the stage, and could be set off
only by that superlative degree of dulness which composed the serious.
So intolerably serious, indeed, were these gods and heroes, that
harlequin (though the English gentleman of that name is not at all
related to the French family, for he is of a much more serious
disposition) was always welcome on the stage, as he relieved the
audience from worse company.
Judicious writers have always practised this art of contrast with
great success. I have been surprized that Horace should cavil at
this art in Homer; but indeed he contradicts himself in the very
next line:
Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus;
Verum opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum.
I grieve if e'er great Homer chance to sleep,
Yet slumbers on long works have right to creep.
For we are not here to understand, as perhaps some have, that an
author actually falls asleep while he is writing. It is true, that
readers are too apt to be so overtaken; but if the work was as long as
any of Oldmixon, the author himself is too well entertained to be
subject to the least drowsiness. He is, as Mr. Pope observes,
Sleepless himself to give his readers sleep.
To say the truth, these soporific parts are so many scenes of
serious artfully interwoven, in order to contrast and set off the
rest; and this is the true meaning of a late facetious writer, who
told the public that whenever he was dull they might be assured
there was a design in it.
In this light, then, or rather in this darkness, I would have the
reader to consider these initial essays. And after this warning, if he
shall be of opinion that he can find enough of serious in other
parts of this history, he may pass over these, in which we profess
to be laboriously dull, and begin the following books at the second
chapter.
Chapter 2
In which Mr. Jones receives many friendly visits during his
confinement; with some fine touches of the passion of love, scarce
visible to the naked eye
Tom Jones had many visitors during his confinement, though some,
perhaps, were not very agreeable to him. Mr. Allworthy saw him
almost every day; but though he pitied Tom's sufferings, and greatly
approved the gallant behaviour which had occasioned them; yet he
thought this was a favourable opportunity to bring him to a sober
sense of his indiscreet conduct; and that wholesome advice for that
purpose could never be applied at a more proper season than at the
present, when the mind was softened by pain and sickness, and
alarmed by danger; and when its attention was unembarrassed with those
turbulent passions which engage us in the pursuit of pleasure.
At all seasons, therefore, when the good man was alone with the
youth, especially when the latter was totally at ease, he took
occasion to remind him of his former miscarriages, but in the
mildest and tenderest manner, and only in order to introduce the
caution which he prescribed for his future behaviour; "on which
alone," he assured him, "would depend his own felicity, and the
kindness which he might yet promise himself to receive at the hands of
his father by adoption, unless he should hereafter forfeit his good
opinion: for as to what had past," he said, "it should be all forgiven
and forgotten. He therefore advised him to make a good use of this
accident, that so in the end it might prove a visitation for his own
good."
Thwackum was likewise pretty assiduous in his visits; and he too
considered a sick-bed to be a convenient scene for lectures. His
stile, however, was more severe than Mr. Allworthy's: he told his
pupil, "That he ought to look on his broken limb as a judgment from
heaven on his sins. That it would become him to be daily on his knees,
pouring forth thanksgivings that he had broken his arm only, and not
his neck; which latter," he said, "was very probably reserved for some
future occasion, and that, perhaps, not very remote. For his part," he
said, "he had often wondered some judgment had not overtaken him
before; but it might be perceived by this, that Divine punishments,
though slow, are always sure." Hence likewise he advised him, "to
foresee, with equal certainty, the greater evils which were yet
behind, and which were as sure as this of overtaking him in his
state of reprobacy. These are," said he, "to be averted only by such a
thorough and sincere repentance as is not to be expected or hoped
for from one so abandoned in his youth, and whose mind, I am afraid,
is totally corrupted. It is my duty, however, to exhort you to this
repentance, though I too well know all exhortations will be vain and
fruitless. But liberavi animam meam. I can accuse my own conscience of
no neglect; though it is at the same time with the utmost concern I
see you travelling on to certain misery in this world, and to as
certain damnation in the next."
Square talked in a very different strain; he said, "Such accidents
as a broken bone were below the consideration of a wise man. That it
was abundantly sufficient to reconcile the mind to any of these
mischances, to reflect that they are liable to befal the wisest of
mankind, and are undoubtedly for the good of the whole." He said,
"It was a mere abuse of words to call those things evils, in which
there was no moral unfitness: that pain, which was the worst
consequence of such accidents, was the most contemptible thing in
the world"; with more of the like sentences, extracted out of the
second book of Tully's Tusculan questions, and from the great Lord
Shaftesbury. In pronouncing these he was one day so eager, that he
unfortunately bit his tongue; and in such a manner, that it not only
put an end to his discourse, but created much emotion in him, and
caused him to mutter an oath or two: but what was worst of all, this
accident gave Thwackum, who was present, and who held all such
doctrine to be heathenish and atheistical, an opportunity to clap a
judgment on his back. Now this was done with so malicious a sneer,
that it totally unhinged (if I may so say) the temper of the
philosopher, which the bite of his tongue had somewhat ruffled; and as
he was disabled from venting his wrath at his lips, he had possibly
found a more violent method of revenging himself, had not the surgeon,
who was then luckily in the room, contrary to his own interest,
interposed and preserved the peace.
Mr. Blifil visited his friend Jones but seldom, and never alone.
This worthy young man, however, professed much regard for him, and
as great concern at his misfortune; but cautiously avoided any
intimacy, lest, as he frequently hinted, it might contaminate the
sobriety of his own character: for which purpose he had constantly
in his mouth that proverb in which Solomon speaks against evil
communication. Not that he was so bitter as Thwackum; for he always
expressed some hopes of Tom's reformation; "which," he said, "the
unparalleled goodness shown by his uncle on this occasion, must
certainly effect in one not absolutely abandoned": but concluded, if
Mr. Jones ever offends hereafter, I shall not be able to say a
syllable in his favour."
As to Squire Western, he was seldom out of the sick-room, unless
when he was engaged either in the field or over his bottle. Nay, he
would sometimes retire hither to take his beer, and it was not without
difficulty that he was prevented from forcing Jones to take his beer
too: for no quack ever held his nostrum to be a more general panacea
than he did this; which, he said, had more virtue in it than was in
all the physic in an apothecary's shop. He was, however, by much
entreaty, prevailed on to forbear the application of this medicine;
but from serenading his patient every hunting morning with the horn
under his window, it was impossible to withhold him; nor did he ever
lay aside that hallow, with which he entered into all companies,
when he visited Jones, without any regard to the sick person's being
at that time either awake or asleep.
This boisterous behaviour, as it meant no harm, so happily it
effected none, and was abundantly compensated to Jones, as soon as
he was able to sit up, by the company of Sophia, whom the squire
then brought to visit him; nor was it, indeed, long before Jones was
able to attend her to the harpsichord, where she would kindly
condescend, for hours together, to charm him with the most delicious
music, unless when the squire thought proper to interrupt her, by
insisting on Old Sir Simon, or some other of his favourite pieces.
Notwithstanding the nicest guard which Sophia endeavoured to set
on her behaviour, she could not avoid letting some appearances now and
then slip forth: for love may again be likened to a disease in this,
that when it is denied a vent in one part, it will certainly break out
in another. What her lips, therefore, concealed, her eyes, her
blushes, and many little involuntary actions, betrayed.
One day, when Sophia was playing on the harpsichord, and Jones was
attending, the squire came into the room, crying, "There, Tom, I
have had a battle for thee below-stairs with thick parson Thwackum. He
hath been a telling Allworthy, before my face, that the broken bone
was a judgment upon thee. D--n it, says I, how can that be? Did he
not come by it in defence of a young woman? A judgment indeed! Pox, if
he never doth anything worse, he will go to heaven sooner than all the
parsons in the country. He hath more reason to glory in it than to
be ashamed of it."- "Indeed, sir," says Jones, "I have no reason for
either; but if it preserved Miss Western, I shall always think it
the happiest accident of my life."- "And to gu," said the squire, "to
zet Allworthy against thee vor it! D--n un, if the parson had unt his
petticuoats on, I should have lent un o flick; for I love thee dearly,
my boy, and d--n me if there is anything in my power which I won't do
for thee. Sha't take thy choice of all the horses in my stable
to-morrow morning, except only the Chevalier and Miss Slouch." Jones
thanked him, but declined accepting the offer. "Nay," added the
squire, "sha't ha the sorrel mare that Sophy rode. She cost me fifty
guineas, and comes six years old this grass." "If she had cost me a
thousand," cries Jones passionately, "I would have given her to the
dogs." "Pooh! pooh!" answered Western; "what! because she broke thy
arm? Shouldst forget and forgive. I thought hadst been more a man than
to bear malice against a dumb creature."- Here Sophia interposed, and
put an end to the conversation, by desiring her father's leave to play
to him; a request which he never refused.
The countenance of Sophia had undergone more than one change
during the foregoing speeches; and probably she imputed the passionate
resentment which Jones had expressed against the mare, to a
different motive from that from which her father had derived it. Her
spirits were at this time in a visible flutter; and she played so
intolerably ill, that had not Western soon fallen asleep, he must have
remarked it. Jones, however, who was sufficiently awake, and was not
without an ear any more than without eyes, made some observations;
which being joined to all which the reader may remember to have passed
formerly, gave him pretty strong assurances, when he came to reflect
on the whole, that all was not well in the tender bosom of Sophia;
an opinion which many young gentlemen will, I doubt not, extremely
wonder at his not having been well confirmed in long ago. To confess
the truth, he had rather too much diffidence in himself, and was not
forward enough in seeing the advances of a young lady; a misfortune
which can be cured only by that early town education, which is at
present so generally in fashion.
When these thoughts had fully taken possession of Jones, they
