History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
they performed a journey of ninety miles in two days, and on the
second evening arrived in London, without having encountered any one
adventure on the road worthy the dignity of this history to relate.
Our pen, therefore, shall imitate the expedition which it describes,
and our history shall keep pace with the travellers who are its
subject. Good writers will, indeed, do well to imitate the ingenious
traveller in this instance, who always proportions his stay at any
place to the beauties, elegancies, and curiosities which it affords.
At Eshur, at Stowe, at Wilton, at Eastbury, and at Prior's Park, days
are too short for the ravished imagination; while we admire the
wondrous power of art in improving nature. In some of these, art
chiefly engages our admiration; in others, nature and art contend for
our applause; but, in the last, the former seems to triumph. Here
Nature appears in her richest attire, and Art, dressed with the
modestest simplicity, attends her benignant mistress. Here Nature
indeed pours forth the choicest treasures which she hath lavished on
this world; and here human nature presents you with an object which
can be exceeded only in the other.
The same taste, the same imagination, which luxuriously riots in these
elegant scenes, can be amused with objects of far inferior note. The
woods, the rivers, the lawns of Devon and of Dorset, attract the eye
of the ingenious traveller, and retard his pace, which delay he
afterwards compensates by swiftly scouring over the gloomy heath of
Bagshot, or that pleasant plain which extends itself westward from
Stockbridge, where no other object than one single tree only in
sixteen miles presents itself to the view, unless the clouds, in
compassion to our tired spirits, kindly open their variegated mansions
to our prospect.
Not so travels the money-meditating tradesman, the sagacious justice,
the dignified doctor, the warm-clad grazier, with all the numerous
offspring of wealth and dulness. On they jog, with equal pace, through
the verdant meadows or over the barren heath, their horses measuring
four miles and a half per hour with the utmost exactness; the eyes of
the beast and of his master being alike directed forwards, and
employed in contemplating the same objects in the same manner. With
equal rapture the good rider surveys the proudest boasts of the
architect, and those fair buildings with which some unknown name hath
adorned the rich cloathing town; where heaps of bricks are piled up as
a kind of monument to show that heaps of money have been piled there
before.
And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, we will
leave to thy sagacity to apply all this to the Boeotian writers, and
to those authors who are their opposites. This thou wilt be abundantly
able to perform without our aid. Bestir thyself therefore on this
occasion; for, though we will always lend thee proper assistance in
difficult places, as we do not, like some others, expect thee to use
the arts of divination to discover our meaning, yet we shall not
indulge thy laziness where nothing but thy own attention is required;
for thou art highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we intended,
when we began this great work, to leave thy sagacity nothing to do; or
that, without sometimes exercising this talent, thou wilt be able to
travel through our pages with any pleasure or profit to thyself.
Chapter x.
Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few more concerning
suspicion.
Our company, being arrived at London, were set down at his lordship's
house, where, while they refreshed themselves after the fatigue of
their journey, servants were despatched to provide a lodging for the
two ladies; for, as her ladyship was not then in town, Mrs Fitzpatrick
would by no means consent to accept a bed in the mansion of the peer.
Some readers will, perhaps, condemn this extraordinary delicacy, as I
may call it, of virtue, as too nice and scrupulous; but we must make
allowances for her situation, which must be owned to have been very
ticklish; and, when we consider the malice of censorious tongues, we
must allow, if it was a fault, the fault was an excess on the right
side, and which every woman who is in the self-same situation will do
well to imitate. The most formal appearance of virtue, when it is only
an appearance, may, perhaps, in very abstracted considerations, seem
to be rather less commendable than virtue itself without this
formality; but it will, however, be always more commended; and this, I
believe, will be granted by all, that it is necessary, unless in some
very particular cases, for every woman to support either the one or
the other.
A lodging being prepared, Sophia accompanied her cousin for that
evening; but resolved early in the morning to enquire after the lady
into whose protection, as we have formerly mentioned, she had
determined to throw herself when she quitted her father's house. And
this she was the more eager in doing from some observations she had
made during her journey in the coach.
Now, as we would by no means fix the odious character of suspicion on
Sophia, we are almost afraid to open to our reader the conceits which
filled her mind concerning Mrs Fitzpatrick; of whom she certainly
entertained at present some doubts; which, as they are very apt to
enter into the bosoms of the worst of people, we think proper not to
mention more plainly till we have first suggested a word or two to our
reader touching suspicion in general.
Of this there have always appeared to me to be two degrees. The first
of these I chuse to derive from the heart, as the extreme velocity of
its discernment seems to denote some previous inward impulse, and the
rather as this superlative degree often forms its own objects; sees
what is not, and always more than really exists. This is that
quick-sighted penetration whose hawk's eyes no symptom of evil can
escape; which observes not only upon the actions, but upon the words
and looks, of men; and, as it proceeds from the heart of the observer,
so it dives into the heart of the observed, and there espies evil, as
it were, in the first embryo; nay, sometimes before it can be said to
be conceived. An admirable faculty, if it were infallible; but, as this
degree of perfection is not even claimed by more than one mortal being;
so from the fallibility of such acute discernment have arisen many sad
mischiefs and most grievous heart-aches to innocence and virtue. I
cannot help, therefore, regarding this vast quick-sightedness into evil
as a vicious excess, and as a very pernicious evil in itself. And I am
the more inclined to this opinion, as I am afraid it always proceeds
from a bad heart, for the reasons I have above mentioned, and for one
more, namely, because I never knew it the property of a good one. Now,
from this degree of suspicion I entirely and absolutely acquit Sophia.
A second degree of this quality seems to arise from the head. This is,
indeed, no other than the faculty of seeing what is before your eyes,
and of drawing conclusions from what you see. The former of these is
unavoidable by those who have any eyes, and the latter is perhaps no
less certain and necessary a consequence of our having any brains.
This is altogether as bitter an enemy to guilt as the former is to
innocence: nor can I see it in an unamiable light, even though,
through human fallibility, it should be sometimes mistaken. For
instance, if a husband should accidentally surprize his wife in the
lap or in the embraces of some of those pretty young gentlemen who
profess the art of cuckold-making, I should not highly, I think, blame
him for concluding something more than what he saw, from the
familiarities which he really had seen, and which we are at least
favourable enough to when we call them innocent freedoms. The reader
will easily suggest great plenty of instances to himself; I shall add
but one more, which, however unchristian it may be thought by some, I
cannot help esteeming to be strictly justifiable; and this is a
suspicion that a man is capable of doing what he hath done already,
and that it is possible for one who hath been a villain once to act
the same part again. And, to confess the truth, of this degree of
suspicion I believe Sophia was guilty. From this degree of suspicion
she had, in fact, conceived an opinion that her cousin was really not
better than she should be.
The case, it seems, was this: Mrs Fitzpatrick wisely considered that
the virtue of a young lady is, in the world, in the same situation
with a poor hare, which is certain, whenever it ventures abroad, to
meet its enemies; for it can hardly meet any other. No sooner
therefore was she determined to take the first opportunity of quitting
the protection of her husband, than she resolved to cast herself under
the protection of some other man; and whom could she so properly
choose to be her guardian as a person of quality, of fortune, of
honour; and who, besides a gallant disposition which inclines men to
knight-errantry, that is, to be the champions of ladies in distress,
had often declared a violent attachment to herself, and had already
given her all the instances of it in his power?
But, as the law hath foolishly omitted this office of vice-husband, or
guardian to an eloped lady, and as malice is apt to denominate him by
a more disagreeable appellation, it was concluded that his lordship
should perform all such kind offices to the lady in secret, and
without publickly assuming the character of her protector. Nay, to
prevent any other person from seeing him in this light, it was agreed
that the lady should proceed directly to Bath, and that his lordship
should first go to London, and thence should go down to that place by
the advice of his physicians.
Now all this Sophia very plainly understood, not from the lips or
behaviour of Mrs Fitzpatrick, but from the peer, who was infinitely
less expert at retaining a secret than was the good lady; and perhaps
the exact secrecy which Mrs Fitzpatrick had observed on this head in
her narrative served not a little to heighten those suspicions which
were now risen in the mind of her cousin.
Sophia very easily found out the lady she sought; for indeed there was
not a chairman in town to whom her house was not perfectly well known;
and, as she received, in return of her first message, a most pressing
invitation, she immediately accepted it. Mrs Fitzpatrick, indeed, did
not desire her cousin to stay with her with more earnestness than
civility required. Whether she had discerned and resented the
suspicion above-mentioned, or from what other motive it arose, I
cannot say; but certain it is, she was full as desirous of parting
with Sophia as Sophia herself could be of going.
The young lady, when she came to take leave of her cousin, could not
avoid giving her a short hint of advice. She begged her, for heaven's
sake, to take care of herself, and to consider in how dangerous a
situation she stood; adding, she hoped some method would be found of
reconciling her to her husband. “You must remember, my dear,” says
she, “the maxim which my aunt Western hath so often repeated to us
both; That whenever the matrimonial alliance is broke, and war
declared between husband and wife, she can hardly make a
disadvantageous peace for herself on any conditions. These are my
aunt's very words, and she hath had a great deal of experience in the
world.” Mrs Fitzpatrick answered, with a contemptuous smile, “Never
fear me, child, take care of yourself; for you are younger than I. I
will come and visit you in a few days; but, dear Sophy, let me give
you one piece of advice: leave the character of Graveairs in the
country, for, believe me, it will sit very awkwardly upon you in this
town.”