hatred to Blifil, her compassion, and (why should we not confess the
truth?) her love for Jones; which last the behaviour of her father, of
her aunt, of every one else, and more particularly of Jones himself,
had blown into a flame, that her mind was in that confused state which
may be truly said to make us ignorant of what we do, or whither we go,
or rather, indeed, indifferent as to the consequence of either.
The prudent and sage advice of her maid produced, however, some cool
reflection; and she at length determined to go to Gloucester, and
thence to proceed directly to London.
But, unluckily, a few miles before she entered that town, she met
the hack-attorney, who, as is before mentioned, had dined there with
Mr. Jones. This fellow, being well known to Mrs. Honour, stopt and
spoke to her; of which Sophia at that time took little notice, more
than to enquire who he was.
But, having had a more particular account from Honour of this man
afterwards at Gloucester, and hearing of the great expedition he
usually made in travelling, for which (as hath been before observed)
he was particularly famous; recollecting, likewise, that she had
overheard Mrs. Honour inform him that they were going to Gloucester,
she began to fear lest her father might, by this fellow's means, be
able to trace her to that city; wherefore, if she should there
strike into the London road, she apprehended he would certainly be
able to overtake her. She therefore altered her resolution; and,
having hired horses to go a week's journey a way which she did not
intend to travel, she again set forward after a light refreshment,
contrary to the desire and earnest entreaties of her maid, and to
the no less vehement remonstrances of Mrs. Whitefield, who, from
good breeding, or perhaps from good nature (for the poor young lady
appeared much fatigued), pressed her very heartily to stay that
evening at Gloucester.
Having refreshed herself only with some tea, and with lying about
two hours the bed, while her horses were getting ready, she resolutely
left Mrs. Whitefield's about eleven at night, and, striking directly
into the Worcester road, within less than four hours arrived at that
very inn where we last saw her.
Having thus traced our heroine very particularly back from her
departure, till her arrival at Upton, we shall in a very few words
bring her father to the same place; who, having received the first
scent from the post-boy, who conducted his daughter to Hambrook,
very easily traced her afterwards to Gloucester; whence he pursued her
to Upton, as he had learned Mr. Jones had taken that route (for
Partridge, to use the squire's expression, left everywhere a strong
scent behind him), and he doubted not in the least but Sophia
travelled, or, as he phrased it, ran, the same way. He used indeed a
very coarse expression, which need not be here inserted; as
fox-hunters, who alone will understand it, will easily suggest it to
themselves.
BOOK XI
CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS
Chapter 1
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 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 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 is 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 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; 'tis 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 authorized 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 2
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,
