History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
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