But I have rested too long on a Doctrine which can be of no Use to a Christian Writer: For as he cannot introduce into his Works any of that heavenly Host which make a Part of his Creed; so is it horrid Puerility to search the Heathen Theology for any of those Deities who have been long since dethroned from their Immortality. Lord Shaftesbury observes, that nothing is more cold than the Invocation of a Muse by a Modern;5 he might have added that nothing can be more absurd. A Modern may with much more Elegance invoke a Ballad, as some have thought Homer did, or a Mug of Ale with the Author of Hudibras, which latter may perhaps have inspired much more Poetry as well as Prose, than all the Liquors of Hippocrene or Helicon.6
The only supernatural Agents which can in any Manner be allowed to us Moderns, are Ghosts; but of these I would advise an Author to be extremely sparing. These are indeed like Arsenic, and other dangerous Drugs in Physic, to be used with the utmost Caution; nor would I advise the Introduction of them at all in those Works, or by those Authors to which, or to whom a Horse-Laugh in the Reader would be any great Prejudice or Mortification.
As for Elves and Fairies, and other such Mummery, I purposely omit the Mention of them, as I should be very unwilling to confine within any Bounds those surprizing Imaginations, for whose vast Capacity the Limits of human Nature are too narrow; whose Works are to be considered as a new Creation; and who have consequently just Right to do what they will with their own.
Man therefore is the highest Subject (unless on very extraordinary Occasions indeed) which presents itself to the Pen of our Historian, or of our Poet; and in relating his Actions, great Care is to be taken, that we do not exceed the Capacity of the Agent we describe.
Nor is Possibility alone sufficient to justify us, we must keep likewise within the Rules of Probability. It is, I think, the Opinion of Aristotle, or if not, it is the Opinion of some wise Man, whose Authority will be as weighty, when it is as old; ‘that it is no Excuse for a Poet who relates what is incredible, that the thing related is really Matter of Fact.’7 This may perhaps be allowed true with regard to Poetry, but it may be thought impracticable to extend it to the Historian: For he is obliged to record Matters as he finds them; though they may be of so extraordinary a Nature, as will require no small Degree of historical Faith to swallow them. Such was the successless Armament of Xerxes, described by Herodotus, or the successful Expedition of Alexander related by Arrian. Such of later Years was the Victory of Agincourt obtained by Harry the Fifth, or that of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden.8 All which Instances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the more astonishing.
Such Facts, however, as they occur in the Thread of the Story; nay, indeed, as they constitute the essential Parts of it, the Historian is not only justifiable in recording as they really happened; but indeed would be unpardonable, should he omit or alter them. But there are other Facts not of such Consequence nor so necessary, which tho’ ever so well attested, may nevertheless be sacrificed to Oblivion in Complaisance to the Scepticism of a Reader. Such is that memorable Story of the Ghost of George Villiers, which might with more Propriety have been made a Present of to Dr. Drelincourt, to have kept the Ghost of Mrs. Veale Company, at the Head of his Discourse upon Death, than have been introduced into so solemn a Work as the History of the Rebellion.9
To say the Truth, if the Historian will confine himself to what really happened, and utterly reject any Circumstance, which, tho’ never so well attested, he must be well assured is false, he will sometimes fall into the Marvellous, but never into the Incredible. He will often raise the Wonder and Surprize of his Reader, but never that incredulous Hatred mentioned by Horace.10 It is by falling into Fiction therefore, that we generally offend against this Rule, of deserting Probability, which the Historian seldom if ever quits, till he forsakes his Character, and commences a Writer of Romance. In this, however, those Historians who relate publick Transactions have the Advantage of us who confine ourselves to Scenes of private Life. The Credit of the former is by common Notoriety supported for a long Time; and publick Records, with the concurrent Testimony of many Authors, bear Evidence to their Truth in future Ages. Thus a Trajan and an Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula,11 have all met with the Belief of Posterity; and no one doubts but that Men so very good, and so very bad, were once the Masters of Mankind.
But we who deal in private Character, who search into the most retired Recesses, and draw forth Examples of Virtue and Vice, from Holes and Corners of the World, are in a more dangerous Situation. As we have no publick Notoriety, no concurrent Testimony, no Records to support and corroborate what we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the Limits not only of Possibility, but of Probability too; and this more especially in painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and Folly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet with Assent; for Ill-nature adds great Support and Strength to Faith.
Thus we may, perhaps, with little Danger, relate the History of Fisher,12 who having long owed his Bread to the Generosity of Mr. Derby, and having one Morning received a considerable Bounty from his Hands, yet in order to possess himself of what remained in his Friend’s Scrutore, concealed himself in a publick Office of the Temple, through which there was a Passage into Mr. Derby’s Chambers. Here he overheard Mr. Derby for many Hours solacing himself at an Entertainment which he that Evening gave his Friends, and to which Fisher had been invited. During all this Time, no tender, no grateful Reflections arose to restrain his Purpose; but when the poor Gentleman had let his Company out through the Office, Fisher came suddenly from his lurking Place, and walking softly behind his Friend into his Chamber, discharged a Pistol-Ball into his Head. This may be believed, when the Bones of Fisher are as rotten as his Heart. Nay, perhaps, it will be credited that the Villain went two Days afterwards with some young Ladies to the Play of Hamlet; and with an unaltered Countenance heard one of the Ladies, who little suspected how near she was to the Person, cry out, ‘Good God! if the Man that murdered Mr. Derby was now present!’ Manifesting in this a more seared and callous Conscience than even Nero himself; of whom we are told by Suetonius, ‘that the Consciousness of his Guilt, after the Death of his Mother, became immediately intolerable, and so continued; nor could all the Congratulations of the Soldiers, of the Senate, and the People, allay the Horrors of his Conscience.’13
But now, on the other Hand, should I tell my Reader, that I had known a Man whose penetrating Genius had enabled him to raise a large Fortune in a Way where no Beginning was chaulked out to him: That he had done this with the most perfect Preservation of his Integrity, and not only without the least Injustice or Injury to any one individual Person, but with the highest Advantage to Trade, and a vast Increase of the public Revenue: That he had expended one Part of the Income of this Fortune in discovering a Taste superior to most, by Works where the highest Dignity was united with the purest Simplicity, and another Part in displaying a Degree of Goodness superior to all Men, by Acts of Charity to Objects whose only Recommendations were their Merits, or their Wants: That he was most industrious in searching after Merit in Distress, most eager to relieve it, and then as careful (perhaps too careful) to conceal what he had done: That his House, his Furniture, his Gardens, his Table, his private Hospitality, and his public Beneficence, all denoted the Mind from which they flowed, and were all intrinsically rich and noble, without Tinsel, or external Ostentation: That he filled every Relation in Life with the most adequate Virtue: That he was most piously religious to his Creator, most zealously loyal to his Sovereign; a most tender Husband to his Wife, a kind Relation, a munificent Patron, a warm and firm Friend, a knowing and a chearful Companion, indulgent to his Servants, hospitable to his Neighbours, charitable to the Poor, and benevolent to all Mankind. Should I add to these the Epithets of wise, brave, elegant, and indeed every other amiable Epithet in our Language, I might surely say,
— Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo;
Vel duo, vel nemo.14
And yet I know a Man who is all I have here de
scribed. But a single Instance (and I really know not such another) is not sufficient to justify us, while we are writing to thousands who never heard of the Person, nor of any thing like him. Such Raræ Aves should be remitted to the Epitaph-Writer, or to some Poet, who may condescend to hitch him in a Distich, or to slide him into a Rhime with an Air of Carelessness and Neglect, without giving any Offence to the Reader.15
In the last Place, the Actions should be such as may not only be within the Compass of human Agency, and which human Agents may probably be supposed to do; but they should be likely for the very Actors and Characters themselves to have performed: For what may be only wonderful and surprizing in one Man, may become improbable, or indeed impossible, when related of another.
This last Requisite is what the dramatic Critics call Conservation of Character;16 and it requires a very extraordinary Degree of Judgment, and a most exact Knowledge of human Nature.
It is admirably remarked by a most excellent Writer, That Zeal can no more hurry a Man to act in direct Opposition to itself, than a rapid Stream can carry a Boat against its own Current.17 I will venture to say, that for a Man to act in direct Contradiction to the Dictates of his Nature, is, if not impossible, as improbable and as miraculous as any Thing which can well be conceived. Should the best Parts of the Story of M. Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should the worst Incidents of Nero’s Life be imputed to Antoninus, what would be more shocking to Belief than either Instance? whereas both these being related of their proper Agent, constitute the Truly Marvellous.
Our modern Authors of Comedy have fallen almost universally into the Error here hinted at: Their Heroes generally are notorious Rogues, and their Heroines abandoned Jades, during the first four Acts; but in the fifth, the former become very worthy Gentlemen, and the latter, Women of Virtue and Discretion: Nor is the Writer often so kind as to give himself the least Trouble, to reconcile or account for this monstrous Change and Incongruity. There is, indeed, no other Reason to be assigned for it, than because the Play is drawing to a Conclusion; as if it was no less natural in a Rogue to repent in the last Act of a Play, than in the last of his Life; which we perceive to be generally the Case at Tyburn,18 a Place which might, indeed, close the Scene of some Comedies with much Propriety, as the Heroes in these are most commonly eminent for those very Talents which not only bring Men to the Gallows, but enable them to make an heroic Figure when they are there.
Within these few Restrictions, I think, every Writer may be permitted to deal as much in the Wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keeps within the Rules of Credibility, the more he can surprise the Reader, the more he will engage his Attention, and the more he will charm him. As a Genius of the highest Rank observes in his 5th Chapter of the Bathos, ‘The great Art of all Poetry is to mix Truth with Fiction; in order to join the Credible with the Surprizing.’19
For tho’ every good Author will confine himself within the Bounds of Probability, it is by no means necessary that his Characters, or his Incidents, should be trite, common, or vulgar; such as happen in every Street, or in every House, or which may be met with in the home Articles of a News-Paper. Nor must he be inhibited from shewing many Persons and Things, which may possibly have never fallen within the Knowledge of great Part of his Readers. If the Writer strictly observes the Rules abovementioned, he hath discharged his Part; and is then intitled to some Faith from his Reader, who is indeed guilty of critical Infidelity if he disbelieves him. For want of a Portion of such Faith, I remember the Character of a young Lady of Quality, which was condemned on the Stage for being unnatural, by the unanimous Voice of a very large Assembly of Clerks and Apprentices; tho’ it had the previous Suffrages of many Ladies of the first Rank; one of whom, very eminent for her Understanding, declared it was the Picture of half the young People of her Acquaintance.20
CHAPTER II.
In which the Landlady pays a Visit to Mr. Jones.
When Jones had taken Leave of his Friend the Lieutenant, he endeavoured to close his Eyes, but all in vain; his Spirits were too lively and wakeful to be lulled to Sleep. So having amused, or rather tormented himself with the Thoughts of his Sophia, till it was open Daylight, he called for some Tea; upon which Occasion my Landlady herself vouchsafed to pay him a Visit.
This was indeed the first Time she had seen him, or at least had taken any Notice of him; but as the Lieutenant had assured her that he was certainly some young Gentleman of Fashion, she now determined to shew him all the Respect in her Power: for, to speak truly, this was one of those Houses where Gentlemen, to use the Language of Advertisements, meet with civil Treatment for their Money.
She had no sooner begun to make his Tea, than she likewise began to discourse. ‘La! Sir,’ said she, ‘I think it is great Pity that such a pretty young Gentleman should undervalue himself so, as to go about with these Soldier Fellows. They call themselves Gentlemen, I warrant you; but, as my first Husband used to say, they should remember it is we that pay them. And to be sure it is very hard upon us to be obliged to pay them, and to keep ’em too as we Publicans are.1 I had twenty of ’um last Night besides Officers; nay, for matter o’ that, I had rather have the Soldiers than Officers: For nothing is ever good enough for those Sparks; and I am sure, if you was to see the Bills; La, Sir, it is nothing. I have had less Trouble, I warrant you, with a good Squire’s Family, where we take forty or fifty Shillings of a Night, besides Horses. And yet I warrants me, there is narrow a one of all those Officer Fellows, but looks upon himself to be as good as arrow a Squire of 500l. a Year. To be sure it doth me Good to hear their Men run about after um, crying your Honour, and your Honour. Marry come up with such Honour, and an Ordinary at a Shilling a Head. Then there’s such Swearing among ’um, to be sure, it frightens me out o’ my Wits; I thinks nothing can ever prosper with such wicked People. And here one of ’um has used you in so barbarous a Manner. I thought indeed how well the rest would secure him; wthey all hang together; for if you had been in Danger of Death, which I am glad to see you are not, it would have been all as one to such wicked People. They would have let the Murderer go. Laud have Mercy upon ’um; I would not have such a Sin to answer for, for the whole World. But tho’ you are likely, with the Blessing, to recover, there is Laa for him yet; and if you will employ Lawyer Small, I darest be sworn he’ll make the Fellow fly the Country for him; tho’ perhaps he’ll have fled the Country before; for it is here To-day and gone To-morrow with such Chaps. I hope, however, you will learn more Wit for the future, and return back to your Friends: I warrant they are all miserable for your Loss; and if they was but to know what had happened. La, my seeming! I would not for the World they should. Come, come, we know very well what all the Matter is; but if one won’t, another will; so pretty a Gentleman need never want a Lady. I am sure, if I was as you, I would see the finest She that ever wore a Head hanged, before I would go for a Soldier for her.—Nay, don’t blush so (for indeed he did to a violent Degree;) why, you thought, Sir, I knew nothing of the Matter, I warrant you, about Madam Sophia.’ ‘How,’ says Jones, starting up, ‘do you know my Sophia?’ ‘Do I! ay marry,’ cries the Landlady, ‘many’s the Time hath she lain in this House.’ ‘With her Aunt, I suppose,’ says Jones.—‘Why there it is now,’ cries the Landlady. ‘Ay, ay, ay, I know the old Lady very well. And a sweet young Creature is Madam Sophia, that’s the Truth on’t.’ ‘A sweet Creature!’ cries Jones, ‘O Heavens!
Angels are painted fair to look like her.
There’s in her all that we believe of Heaven,
Amazing Brightness, Purity and Truth,
Eternal Joy, and everlasting Love.2
‘And could I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia!’ ‘I wish,’ says the Landlady, ‘you knew half so much of her. What would you have given to have sat by her Bed-side? What a delicious Neck she hath! Her lovely Limbs have stretched themselves in that very Bed you now lie in.’ ‘Here!’ cries Jones, ‘hath Sophia ever lain here?’—‘Ay, ay, here: there; in that very Bed,’ says the Landl
ady, ‘where I wish you had her this Moment; and she may wish so too for any Thing I know to the contrary: For she hath mentioned your Name to me.’—‘Ha,’ cries he, ‘did she ever mention her poor Jones?—You flatter me now; I can never believe so much.’ ‘Why then,’ answered she, ‘as I hope to be saved, and may the Devil fetch me, if I speak a Syllable more than the Truth. I have heard her mention Mr. Jones; but in a civil and modest Way, I confess; yet I could perceive she thought a great deal more than she said.’ ‘O my dear Woman,’ cries Jones, ‘her Thoughts of me I shall never be worthy of. O she is all Gentleness, Kindness, Goodness. Why was such a Rascal as I born, ever to give her soft Bosom a Moment’s Uneasiness? Why am I cursed? I, who would undergo all the Plagues and Miseries which any Dæmon ever invented for Mankind, to procure her any Good; nay, Torture itself could not be Misery to me, did I but know that she was happy.’ ‘Why, look you there now,’ says the Landlady, ‘I told her you was a constant Lovier.’ ‘But pray, Madam, tell me when or where you knew any thing of me; for I never was here before, nor do I remember ever to have seen you.’ ‘Nor is it possible you should,’ answered she, ‘for you was a little Thing when I had you in my Lap at the Squire’s.’—‘How the Squire’s,’ says Jones, ‘what, do you know that great and good Mr. Allworthy then?’ ‘Yes, marry do I,’ says she; ‘Who in the Country doth not?’—‘The Fame of his Goodness indeed,’ answered Jones, ‘must have extended farther than this; but Heaven only can know him, can know that Benevolence which it copied from itself, and sent upon Earth as its own Pattern. Mankind are as ignorant of such divine Goodness, as they are unworthy of it; but none so unworthy of it as myself. I who was raised by him to such a Height; taken in, as you must well know, a poor base-born Child, adopted by him, and treated as his own Son, to dare by my Follies to disoblige him, to draw his Vengeance upon me. Yes, I deserve it all: For I will never be so ungrateful as ever to think he hath done an Act of Injustice by me. No, I deserve to be turned out of Doors, as I am. And now, Madam, says he, I believe you will not blame me for turning Soldier, especially with such a Fortune as this in my Pocket.’ At which Words he shook a Purse, which had but very little in it, and which still appeared to the Landlady to have less.
The History of Tom Jones (Penguin Classics) Page 47