History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
Allworthy's,” repeated the lad; “the squire's son, I think they call
'un.”--“Whither? which way did he go?” says Sophia.--“Why, a little o'
one side o' Bristol, about twenty miles off,” answered the
lad.--“Guide me,” says Sophia, “to the same place, and I'll give thee
a guinea, or two, if one is not sufficient.”--“To be certain,” said
the boy, “it is honestly worth two, when your ladyship considers what
a risk I run; but, however, if your ladyship will promise me the two
guineas, I'll e'en venture: to be certain it is a sinful thing to ride
about my measter's horses; but one comfort is, I can only be turned
away, and two guineas will partly make me amends.”
The bargain being thus struck, the lad turned aside into the Bristol
road, and Sophia set forward in pursuit of Jones, highly contrary to
the remonstrances of Mrs Honour, who had much more desire to see London
than to see Mr Jones: for indeed she was not his friend with her
mistress, as he had been guilty of some neglect in certain pecuniary
civilities, which are by custom due to the waiting-gentlewoman in all
love affairs, and more especially in those of a clandestine kind. This
we impute rather to the carelessness of his temper than to any want of
generosity; but perhaps she derived it from the latter motive. Certain
it is that she hated him very bitterly on that account, and resolved to
take every opportunity of injuring him with her mistress. It was
therefore highly unlucky for her, that she had gone to the very same
town and inn whence Jones had started, and still more unlucky was she
in having stumbled on the same guide, and on this accidental discovery
which Sophia had made.
Our travellers arrived at Hambrook[*] at the break of day, where
Honour was against her will charged to enquire the route which Mr
Jones had taken. Of this, indeed, the guide himself could have
informed them; but Sophia, I know not for what reason, never asked him
the question.
[*] This was the village where Jones met the Quaker.
When Mrs Honour had made her report from the landlord, Sophia, with
much difficulty, procured some indifferent horses, which brought her
to the inn where Jones had been confined rather by the misfortune of
meeting with a surgeon than by having met with a broken head.
Here Honour, being again charged with a commission of enquiry, had no
sooner applied herself to the landlady, and had described the person
of Mr Jones, than that sagacious woman began, in the vulgar phrase, to
smell a rat. When Sophia therefore entered the room, instead of
answering the maid, the landlady, addressing herself to the mistress,
began the following speech: “Good lack-a-day! why there now, who would
have thought it? I protest the loveliest couple that ever eye beheld.
I-fackins, madam, it is no wonder the squire run on so about your
ladyship. He told me indeed you was the finest lady in the world, and
to be sure so you be. Mercy on him, poor heart! I bepitied him, so I
did, when he used to hug his pillow, and call it his dear Madam
Sophia. I did all I could to dissuade him from going to the wars: I
told him there were men enow that were good for nothing else but to be
killed, that had not the love of such fine ladies.” “Sure,” says
Sophia, “the good woman is distracted.” “No, no,” cries the landlady,
“I am not distracted. What, doth your ladyship think I don't know
then? I assure you he told me all.” “What saucy fellow,” cries Honour,
“told you anything of my lady?” “No saucy fellow,” answered the
landlady, “but the young gentleman you enquired after, and a very
pretty young gentleman he is, and he loves Madam Sophia Western to the
bottom of his soul.” “He love my lady! I'd have you to know, woman,
she is meat for his master.”--“Nay, Honour,” said Sophia, interrupting
her, “don't be angry with the good woman; she intends no harm.” “No,
marry, don't I,” answered the landlady, emboldened by the soft accents
of Sophia; and then launched into a long narrative too tedious to be
here set down, in which some passages dropt that gave a little offence
to Sophia, and much more to her waiting-woman, who hence took occasion
to abuse poor Jones to her mistress the moment they were alone
together, saying, “that he must be a very pitiful fellow, and could
have no love for a lady, whose name he would thus prostitute in an
ale-house.”
Sophia did not see his behaviour in so very disadvantageous a light,
and was perhaps more pleased with the violent raptures of his love
(which the landlady exaggerated as much as she had done every other
circumstance) than she was offended with the rest; and indeed she
imputed the whole to the extravagance, or rather ebullience, of his
passion, and to the openness of his heart.
This incident, however, being afterwards revived in her mind, and
placed in the most odious colours by Honour, served to heighten and
give credit to those unlucky occurrences at Upton, and assisted the
waiting-woman in her endeavours to make her mistress depart from that
inn without seeing Jones.
The landlady finding Sophia intended to stay no longer than till her
horses were ready, and that without either eating or drinking, soon
withdrew; when Honour began to take her mistress to task (for indeed
she used great freedom), and after a long harangue, in which she
reminded her of her intention to go to London, and gave frequent hints
of the impropriety of pursuing a young fellow, she at last concluded
with this serious exhortation: “For heaven's sake, madam, consider
what you are about, and whither you are going.”
This advice to a lady who had already rode near forty miles, and in no
very agreeable season, may seem foolish enough. It may be supposed she
had well considered and resolved this already; nay, Mrs Honour, by the
hints she threw out, seemed to think so; and this I doubt not is the
opinion of many readers, who have, I make no doubt, been long since
well convinced of the purpose of our heroine, and have heartily
condemned her for it as a wanton baggage.
But in reality this was not the case. Sophia had been lately so
distracted between hope and fear, her duty and love to her father, her
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 on 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 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