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 shewn 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 it was once wisely distinguished by our Laws from all other Murders, in the peculiar Severity of the Punishment.1
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, ’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.2
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.3 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 tho’ 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 shew 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,4 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, da—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, tho’ 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.5
For as Martial says, Aliter non fit, Avite, Liber. No Book can be otherwise composed.6 All Beauty of Character, as well as of Countenance, and indeed of every Thing 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 Voi
ce, 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 tho’ Sophia had great Curiosity to know why the other Lady continued to travel on through the same Bye-roads with herself, nay, tho’ 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 tye 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.
Tho’ 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 over-grown 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.
Day-light at length appeared in its full Lustre; and now the two Ladies, who were riding over a Common Side by Side, looking steadfastly 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 Surprise 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 other, namely, whither she was going.
This at last, however, came first from Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but easy and natural as the Question may seem, Sophia found it difficult to give it a very ready and certain Answer. She begged her Cousin therefore to suspend all Curiosity till they arrived at some Inn, ‘which I suppose,’ says she, ‘can hardly be far distant; and believe me, Harriet, I suspend as much Curiosity on my Side; for indeed I believe our Astonishment is pretty equal.’
The Conversation which passed between these Ladies on the Road, was, I apprehend, little worth relating; and less certainly was that between the two Waiting-women: For they likewise began to pay their Compliments to each other. As for the Guides, they were debarred from the Pleasure of Discourse, the one being placed in the Van, and the other obliged to bring up the Rear.
In this Posture they travelled many Hours, till they came into a wide and well-beaten Road, which, as they turned to the Right, soon brought them to a very fair promising Inn;1 where they all alighted: But so fatigued was Sophia, that, as she had sat her Horse during the last five or six Miles with great Difficulty, so was she now incapable of dismounting from him without Assistance. This the Landlord, who had hold of her Horse, presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his Arms from her Saddle; and she too readily accepted the Tender of his Service. Indeed Fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the Blush that Day, and the second malicious Attempt succeeded better than the first; for my Landlord had no sooner received the young Lady in his Arms, than his Feet, which the Gout had lately very severely handled, gave way, and down he tumbled; but at the same Time, with no less Dexterity than Gallantry, contrived to throw himself under his charming Burthen, so that he alone received any Bruise from the Fall; for the greatest Injury which happened to Sophia, was a violent Shock given to her Modesty, by an immoderate Grin, which, at her rising from the Ground, she observed in the Countenances of most of the Bye-Standers. This made her suspect what had really happened, and what we shall not here relate, for the Indulgence of those Readers who are capable of laughing at the Offence given to a young Lady’s Delicacy. Accidents of this Kind we have never regarded in a comical Light; nor will we scruple to say, that he must have a very inadequate Idea of the Modesty of a beautiful young Woman, who would wish to sacrifice it to so paultry a Satisfaction as can arise from Laughter.
This Fright and Shock, joined to the violent Fatigue which both her Mind and Body had undergone, almost overcame the excellent Constitution of Sophia, and she had scarce Strength sufficient to totter into the Inn, leaning on the Arm of her Maid. Here she was no sooner seated than she called for a Glass of Water; but Mrs. Honour, very judiciously, in my Opinion, changed it into a Glass of Wine.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick hearing from Mrs. Honour, that Sophia had not been in Bed during the two last Nights, and observing her to look very pale and wan with her Fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh herself with some Sleep. She was yet a Stranger to her History, or her Apprehensions; but had she known both, she would have given the same Advice; for Rest was visibly necessary for her; and their long Journey through Bye-Roads so entirely removed all Danger of Pursuit, that she was herself perfectly easy on that Account.
Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the Counsel of her Friend, which was heartily seconded by her Maid. Mrs. Fitzpatrick likewise offered to bear her Cousin Company, which Sophia, with much Complaisance, accepted.
The Mistress was no sooner in Bed, than the Maid prepared to follow her Example. She began to make Apologies to her Sister Abigail for leaving her alone in so horrid a Place as an Inn; but the other stopped her short, being as well inclined to a Nap as herself, and desired the Honour of being her Bedfellow. Sophia’s Maid agreed to give her a Share of her Bed, but put in her Claim to all the Honour. So after many Court’sies and Compliments, to Bed together went the Waiting-women, as their Mistresses had done before them.
It was usual with my Landlord (as indeed it is with the whole Fraternity) to enquire particularly of all Coachmen, Footmen, Post-boys, and others, into the Names of all his Guests; what their Estate was, and where it lay. It cannot therefore be wondered at, that the many particular Circumstances which attended our Travellers, and especially their retiring all to Sleep at so extraordinary and unusual an Hour as ten in the Morning, should excite his Curiosity. As soon therefore as the Guides entered the Kitchin, he began to examine who the Ladies were, and whence they came; but the Guides, tho’ they faithfully related all they knew, gave him very little Satisfaction. On the contrary, they rather enflamed h
is Curiosity than extinguished it.
This Landlord had the Character, among all his Neighbours, of being a very sagacious Fellow. He was thought to see farther and deeper into Things than any Man in the Parish, the Parson himself not excepted. Perhaps his Look had contributed not a little to procure him this Reputation; for there was in this something wonderfully wise and significant, especially when he had a Pipe in his Mouth; which, indeed, he seldom was without. His Behaviour, likewise, greatly assisted in promoting the Opinion of his Wisdom. In his Deportment he was solemn, if not sullen; and when he spoke, which was seldom, he always delivered himself in a slow Voice; and though his Sentences were short, they were still interrupted with many Hums and Ha’s, Ay, Ays, and other Expletives: So that though he accompanied his Words with certain explanatory Gestures, such as shaking, or nodding the Head, or pointing with his Forefinger, he generally left his Hearers to understand more than he expressed; nay, he commonly gave them a Hint, that he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose. This last Circumstance alone, may, indeed, very well account for his Character of Wisdom; since Men are strangely inclined to worship what they do not understand. A grand Secret, upon which several Imposers on Mankind have totally relied for the Success of their Frauds.
The History of Tom Jones (Penguin Classics) Page 65