Chapter xii.

In which is seen a more moving spectacle than all the blood in the

bodies of Thwackum and Blifil, and of twenty other such, is capable of

producing.

The rest of Mr Western's company were now come up, being just at the

instant when the action was over. These were the honest clergyman,

whom we have formerly seen at Mr Western's table; Mrs Western, the

aunt of Sophia; and lastly, the lovely Sophia herself.

At this time, the following was the aspect of the bloody field. In one

place lay on the ground, all pale, and almost breathless, the

vanquished Blifil. Near him stood the conqueror Jones, almost covered

with blood, part of which was naturally his own, and part had been

lately the property of the Reverend Mr Thwackum. In a third place

stood the said Thwackum, like King Porus, sullenly submitting to the

conqueror. The last figure in the piece was Western the Great, most

gloriously forbearing the vanquished foe.

Blifil, in whom there was little sign of life, was at first the

principal object of the concern of every one, and particularly of Mrs

Western, who had drawn from her pocket a bottle of hartshorn, and was

herself about to apply it to his nostrils, when on a sudden the

attention of the whole company was diverted from poor Blifil, whose

spirit, if it had any such design, might have now taken an opportunity

of stealing off to the other world, without any ceremony.

For now a more melancholy and a more lovely object lay motionless

before them. This was no other than the charming Sophia herself, who,

from the sight of blood, or from fear for her father, or from some

other reason, had fallen down in a swoon, before any one could get to

her assistance.

Mrs Western first saw her and screamed. Immediately two or three

voices cried out, “Miss Western is dead.” Hartshorn, water, every

remedy was called for, almost at one and the same instant.

The reader may remember, that in our description of this grove we

mentioned a murmuring brook, which brook did not come there, as such

gentle streams flow through vulgar romances, with no other purpose

than to murmur. No! Fortune had decreed to ennoble this little brook

with a higher honour than any of those which wash the plains of

Arcadia ever deserved.

Jones was rubbing Blifil's temples, for he began to fear he had given

him a blow too much, when the words, Miss Western and Dead, rushed at

once on his ear. He started up, left Blifil to his fate, and flew to

Sophia, whom, while all the rest were running against each other,

backward and forward, looking for water in the dry paths, he caught up

in his arms, and then ran away with her over the field to the rivulet

above mentioned; where, plunging himself into the water, he contrived

to besprinkle her face, head, and neck very plentifully.

Happy was it for Sophia that the same confusion which prevented her

other friends from serving her, prevented them likewise from

obstructing Jones. He had carried her half ways before they knew what

he was doing, and he had actually restored her to life before they

reached the waterside. She stretched out her arms, opened her eyes,

and cried, “Oh! heavens!” just as her father, aunt, and the parson

came up.

Jones, who had hitherto held this lovely burthen in his arms, now

relinquished his hold; but gave her at the same instant a tender

caress, which, had her senses been then perfectly restored, could not

have escaped her observation. As she expressed, therefore, no

displeasure at this freedom, we suppose she was not sufficiently

recovered from her swoon at the time.

This tragical scene was now converted into a sudden scene of joy. In

this our heroe was certainly the principal character; for as he

probably felt more ecstatic delight in having saved Sophia than she

herself received from being saved, so neither were the congratulations

paid to her equal to what were conferred on Jones, especially by Mr

Western himself, who, after having once or twice embraced his

daughter, fell to hugging and kissing Jones. He called him the

preserver of Sophia, and declared there was nothing, except her, or

his estate, which he would not give him; but upon recollection, he

afterwards excepted his fox-hounds, the Chevalier, and Miss Slouch

(for so he called his favourite mare).

All fears for Sophia being now removed, Jones became the object of the

squire's consideration.--“Come, my lad,” says Western, “d'off thy

quoat and wash thy feace; for att in a devilish pickle, I promise

thee. Come, come, wash thyself, and shat go huome with me; and we'l

zee to vind thee another quoat.”

Jones immediately complied, threw off his coat, went down to the

water, and washed both his face and bosom; for the latter was as much

exposed and as bloody as the former. But though the water could clear

off the blood, it could not remove the black and blue marks which

Thwackum had imprinted on both his face and breast, and which, being

discerned by Sophia, drew from her a sigh and a look full of

inexpressible tenderness.

Jones received this full in his eyes, and it had infinitely a stronger

effect on him than all the contusions which he had received before. An

effect, however, widely different; for so soft and balmy was it, that,

had all his former blows been stabs, it would for some minutes have

prevented his feeling their smart.

The company now moved backwards, and soon arrived where Thwackum had

got Mr Blifil again on his legs. Here we cannot suppress a pious wish,

that all quarrels were to be decided by those weapons only with which

Nature, knowing what is proper for us, hath supplied us; and that cold

iron was to be used in digging no bowels but those of the earth. Then

would war, the pastime of monarchs, be almost inoffensive, and battles

between great armies might be fought at the particular desire of

several ladies of quality; who, together with the kings themselves,

might be actual spectators of the conflict. Then might the field be

this moment well strewed with human carcasses, and the next, the dead

men, or infinitely the greatest part of them, might get up, like Mr

Bayes's troops, and march off either at the sound of a drum or fiddle,

as should be previously agreed on.

I would avoid, if possible, treating this matter ludicrously, lest

grave men and politicians, whom I know to be offended at a jest, may

cry pish at it; but, in reality, might not a battle be as well decided

by the greater number of broken heads, bloody noses, and black eyes,

as by the greater heaps of mangled and murdered human bodies? Might

not towns be contended for in the same manner? Indeed, this may be

thought too detrimental a scheme to the French interest, since they

would thus lose the advantage they have over other nations in the

superiority of their engineers; but when I consider the gallantry and

generosity of that people, I am persuaded they would never decline

putting themselves upon a par with their adversary; or, as the phrase

is, making themselves his match.

But such reformations are rather to be wished than hoped for: I shall

content myself, therefore, with this short hint, and return to my

narrative.

Western began now to inquire into the original rise of this quarrel.

To which neither Blifil nor Jones gave any answer; but Thwackum said

surlily, “I believe the cause is not far off; if you beat the bushes

well you may find her.”--“Find her?” replied Western: “what! have you

been fighting for a wench?”--“Ask the gentleman in his waistcoat

there,” said Thwackum: “he best knows.” “Nay then,” cries Western, “it

is a wench certainly.--Ah, Tom, Tom, thou art a liquorish dog. But

come, gentlemen, be all friends, and go home with me, and make final

peace over a bottle.” “I ask your pardon, sir,” says Thwackum: “it is

no such slight matter for a man of my character to be thus injuriously

treated, and buffeted by a boy, only because I would have done my

duty, in endeavouring to detect and bring to justice a wanton harlot;

but, indeed, the principal fault lies in Mr Allworthy and yourself;

for if you put the laws in execution, as you ought to do, you will

soon rid the country of these vermin.”

“I would as soon rid the country of foxes,” cries Western. “I think we

ought to encourage the recruiting those numbers which we are every day

losing in the war.--But where is she? Prithee, Tom, show me.” He then

began to beat about, in the same language and in the same manner as if

he had been beating for a hare; and at last cried out, “Soho! Puss is

not far off. Here's her form, upon my soul; I believe I may cry stole

away.” And indeed so he might; for he had now discovered the place

whence the poor girl had, at the beginning of the fray, stolen away,

upon as many feet as a hare generally uses in travelling.

Sophia now desired her father to return home; saying she found herself

very faint, and apprehended a relapse. The squire immediately complied

with his daughter's request (for he was the fondest of parents). He

earnestly endeavoured to prevail with the whole company to go and sup

with him: but Blifil and Thwackum absolutely refused; the former

saying, there were more reasons than he could then mention, why he

must decline this honour; and the latter declaring (perhaps rightly)

that it was not proper for a person of his function to be seen at any

place in his present condition.

Jones was incapable of refusing the pleasure of being with his Sophia;

so on he marched with Squire Western and his ladies, the parson

bringing up the rear. This had, indeed, offered to tarry with his

brother Thwackum, professing his regard for the cloth would not permit

him to depart; but Thwackum would not accept the favour, and, with no

great civility, pushed him after Mr Western.

Thus ended this bloody fray; and thus shall end the fifth book of this

history.