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The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

H >> Henry Fielding >> The History of Tom Jones, a foundling




He was now searching his pockets for his wax, but found none, nor
indeed anything else, therein; for in truth he had, in his frantic
disposition, tossed everything from him, and amongst the rest, his
pocket-book, which he had received from Mr Allworthy, which he had
never opened, and which now first occurred to his memory.

The house supplied him with a wafer for his present purpose, with
which, having sealed his letter, he returned hastily towards the brook
side, in order to search for the things which he had there lost. In
his way he met his old friend Black George, who heartily condoled with
him on his misfortune; for this had already reached his ears, and
indeed those of all the neighbourhood.

Jones acquainted the gamekeeper with his loss, and he as readily went
back with him to the brook, where they searched every tuft of grass in
the meadow, as well where Jones had not been as where he had been; but
all to no purpose, for they found nothing; for, indeed, though the
things were then in the meadow, they omitted to search the only place
where they were deposited; to wit, in the pockets of the said George;
for he had just before found them, and being luckily apprized of their
value, had very carefully put them up for his own use.

The gamekeeper having exerted as much diligence in quest of the lost
goods, as if he had hoped to find them, desired Mr Jones to recollect
if he had been in no other place: "For sure," said he, "if you had
lost them here so lately, the things must have been here still; for
this is a very unlikely place for any one to pass by." And indeed it
was by great accident that he himself had passed through that field,
in order to lay wires for hares, with which he was to supply a
poulterer at Bath the next morning.

Jones now gave over all hopes of recovering his loss, and almost all
thoughts concerning it, and turning to Black George, asked him
earnestly if he would do him the greatest favour in the world?

George answered with some hesitation, "Sir, you know you may command
me whatever is in my power, and I heartily wish it was in my power to
do you any service." In fact, the question staggered him; for he had,
by selling game, amassed a pretty good sum of money in Mr Western's
service, and was afraid that Jones wanted to borrow some small matter
of him; but he was presently relieved from his anxiety, by being
desired to convey a letter to Sophia, which with great pleasure he
promised to do. And indeed I believe there are few favours which he
would not have gladly conferred on Mr Jones; for he bore as much
gratitude towards him as he could, and was as honest as men who love
money better than any other thing in the universe, generally are.

Mrs Honour was agreed by both to be the proper means by which this
letter should pass to Sophia. They then separated; the gamekeeper
returned home to Mr Western's, and Jones walked to an alehouse at half
a mile's distance, to wait for his messenger's return.

George no sooner came home to his master's house than he met with Mrs
Honour; to whom, having first sounded her with a few previous
questions, he delivered the letter for her mistress, and received at
the same time another from her, for Mr Jones; which Honour told him
she had carried all that day in her bosom, and began to despair of
finding any means of delivering it.

The gamekeeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who, having
received Sophia's letter from him, instantly withdrew, and eagerly
breaking it open, read as follows:--

"SIR,

"It is impossible to express what I have felt since I saw you. Your
submitting, on my account, to such cruel insults from my father,
lays me under an obligation I shall ever own. As you know his
temper, I beg you will, for my sake, avoid him. I wish I had any
comfort to send you; but believe this, that nothing but the last
violence shall ever give my hand or heart where you would be sorry
to see them bestowed."

Jones read this letter a hundred times over, and kissed it a hundred
times as often. His passion now brought all tender desires back into
his mind. He repented that he had writ to Sophia in the manner we have
seen above; but he repented more that he had made use of the interval
of his messenger's absence to write and dispatch a letter to Mr
Allworthy, in which he had faithfully promised and bound himself to
quit all thoughts of his love. However, when his cool reflections
returned, he plainly perceived that his case was neither mended nor
altered by Sophia's billet, unless to give him some little glimpse of
hope, from her constancy, of some favourable accident hereafter. He
therefore resumed his resolution, and taking leave of Black George,
set forward to a town about five miles distant, whither he had desired
Mr Allworthy, unless he pleased to revoke his sentence, to send his
things after him.



Chapter xiii.

The behaviour of Sophia on the present occasion; which none of her sex
will blame, who are capable of behaving in the same manner. And the
discussion of a knotty point in the court of conscience.


Sophia had passed the last twenty-four hours in no very desirable
manner. During a large part of them she had been entertained by her
aunt with lectures of prudence, recommending to her the example of the
polite world, where love (so the good lady said) is at present
entirely laughed at, and where women consider matrimony, as men do
offices of public trust, only as the means of making their fortunes,
and of advancing themselves in the world. In commenting on which text
Mrs Western had displayed her eloquence during several hours.

These sagacious lectures, though little suited either to the taste or
inclination of Sophia, were, however, less irksome to her than her own
thoughts, that formed the entertainment of the night, during which she
never once closed her eyes.

But though she could neither sleep nor rest in her bed, yet, having no
avocation from it, she was found there by her father at his return
from Allworthy's, which was not till past ten o'clock in the morning.
He went directly up to her apartment, opened the door, and seeing she
was not up, cried, "Oh! you are safe then, and I am resolved to keep
you so." He then locked the door, and delivered the key to Honour,
having first given her the strictest charge, with great promises of
rewards for her fidelity, and most dreadful menaces of punishment in
case she should betray her trust.

Honour's orders were, not to suffer her mistress to come out of her
room without the authority of the squire himself, and to admit none to
her but him and her aunt; but she was herself to attend her with
whatever Sophia pleased, except only pen, ink, and paper, of which she
was forbidden the use.

The squire ordered his daughter to dress herself and attend him at
dinner; which she obeyed; and having sat the usual time, was again
conducted to her prison.

In the evening the gaoler Honour brought her the letter which she
received from the gamekeeper. Sophia read it very attentively twice or
thrice over, and then threw herself upon the bed, and burst into a
flood of tears. Mrs Honour expressed great astonishment at this
behaviour in her mistress; nor could she forbear very eagerly begging
to know the cause of this passion. Sophia made her no answer for some
time, and then, starting suddenly up, caught her maid by the hand, and
cried, "O Honour! I am undone." "Marry forbid," cries Honour: "I wish
the letter had been burnt before I had brought it to your la'ship. I'm
sure I thought it would have comforted your la'ship, or I would have
seen it at the devil before I would have touched it." "Honour," says
Sophia, "you are a good girl, and it is vain to attempt concealing
longer my weakness from you; I have thrown away my heart on a man who
hath forsaken me." "And is Mr Jones," answered the maid, "such a
perfidy man?" "He hath taken his leave of me," says Sophia, "for ever
in that letter. Nay, he hath desired me to forget him. Could he have
desired that if he had loved me? Could he have borne such a thought?
Could he have written such a word?" "No, certainly, ma'am," cries
Honour; "and to be sure, if the best man in England was to desire me
to forget him, I'd take him at his word. Marry, come up! I am sure
your la'ship hath done him too much honour ever to think on him;--a
young lady who may take her choice of all the young men in the
country. And to be sure, if I may be so presumptuous as to offer my
poor opinion, there is young Mr Blifil, who, besides that he is come
of honest parents, and will be one of the greatest squires all
hereabouts, he is to be sure, in my poor opinion, a more handsomer and
a more politer man by half; and besides, he is a young gentleman of a
sober character, and who may defy any of the neighbours to say black
is his eye; he follows no dirty trollops, nor can any bastards be laid
at his door. Forget him, indeed! I thank Heaven I myself am not so
much at my last prayers as to suffer any man to bid me forget him
twice. If the best he that wears a head was for to go for to offer to
say such an affronting word to me, I would never give him my company
afterwards, if there was another young man in the kingdom. And as I
was a saying, to be sure, there is young Mr Blifil." "Name not his
detested name," cries Sophia. "Nay, ma'am," says Honour, "if your
la'ship doth not like him, there be more jolly handsome young men that
would court your la'ship, if they had but the least encouragement. I
don't believe there is arrow young gentleman in this county, or in the
next to it, that if your la'ship was but to look as if you had a mind
to him, would not come about to make his offers directly." "What a
wretch dost thou imagine me," cries Sophia, "by affronting my ears
with such stuff! I detest all mankind." "Nay, to be sure, ma'am,"
answered Honour, "your la'ship hath had enough to give you a surfeit
of them. To be used ill by such a poor, beggarly, bastardly
fellow."--"Hold your blasphemous tongue," cries Sophia: "how dare you
mention his name with disrespect before me? He use me ill? No, his
poor bleeding heart suffered more when he writ the cruel words than
mine from reading them. O! he is all heroic virtue and angelic
goodness. I am ashamed of the weakness of my own passion, for blaming
what I ought to admire. O, Honour! it is my good only which he
consults. To my interest he sacrifices both himself and me. The
apprehension of ruining me hath driven him to despair." "I am very
glad," says Honour, "to hear your la'ship takes that into your
consideration; for to be sure, it must be nothing less than ruin to
give your mind to one that is turned out of doors, and is not worth a
farthing in the world." "Turned out of doors!" cries Sophia hastily:
"how! what dost thou mean?" "Why, to be sure, ma'am, my master no
sooner told Squire Allworthy about Mr Jones having offered to make
love to your la'ship than the squire stripped him stark naked, and
turned him out of doors!" "Ha!" says Sophia, "I have been the cursed,
wretched cause of his destruction! Turned naked out of doors! Here,
Honour, take all the money I have; take the rings from my fingers.
Here, my watch: carry him all. Go find him immediately." "For Heaven's
sake, ma'am," answered Mrs Honour, "do but consider, if my master
should miss any of these things, I should be made to answer for them.
Therefore let me beg your la'ship not to part with your watch and
jewels. Besides, the money, I think, is enough of all conscience; and
as for that, my master can never know anything of the matter." "Here,
then," cries Sophia, "take every farthing I am worth, find him out
immediately, and give it him. Go, go, lose not a moment."

Mrs Honour departed according to orders, and finding Black George
below-stairs, delivered him the purse, which contained sixteen
guineas, being, indeed, the whole stock of Sophia; for though her
father was very liberal to her, she was much too generous to be rich.

Black George having received the purse, set forward towards the
alehouse; but in the way a thought occurred to him, whether he should
not detain this money likewise. His conscience, however, immediately
started at this suggestion, and began to upbraid him with ingratitude
to his benefactor. To this his avarice answered, That his conscience
should have considered the matter before, when he deprived poor Jones
of his £500. That having quietly acquiesced in what was of so much
greater importance, it was absurd, if not downright hypocrisy, to
affect any qualms at this trifle. In return to which, Conscience, like
a good lawyer, attempted to distinguish between an absolute breach of
trust, as here, where the goods were delivered, and a bare concealment
of what was found, as in the former case. Avarice presently treated
this with ridicule, called it a distinction without a difference, and
absolutely insisted that when once all pretensions of honour and
virtue were given up in any one instance, that there was no precedent
for resorting to them upon a second occasion. In short, poor
Conscience had certainly been defeated in the argument, had not Fear
stept in to her assistance, and very strenuously urged that the real
distinction between the two actions, did not lie in the different
degrees of honour but of safety: for that the secreting the £500 was a
matter of very little hazard; whereas the detaining the sixteen
guineas was liable to the utmost danger of discovery.

By this friendly aid of Fear, Conscience obtained a compleat victory
in the mind of Black George, and, after making him a few compliments
on his honesty, forced him to deliver the money to Jones.



Chapter xiv.

A short chapter, containing a short dialogue between Squire Western
and his sister.


Mrs Western had been engaged abroad all that day. The squire met her
at her return home; and when she enquired after Sophia, he acquainted
her that he had secured her safe enough. "She is locked up in
chamber," cries he, "and Honour keeps the key." As his looks were full
of prodigious wisdom and sagacity when he gave his sister this
information, it is probable he expected much applause from her for
what he had done; but how was he disappointed when, with a most
disdainful aspect, she cried, "Sure, brother, you are the weakest of
all men. Why will you not confide in me for the management of my
niece? Why will you interpose? You have now undone all that I have
been spending my breath in order to bring about. While I have been
endeavouring to fill her mind with maxims of prudence, you have been
provoking her to reject them. English women, brother, I thank heaven,
are no slaves. We are not to be locked up like the Spanish and Italian
wives. We have as good a right to liberty as yourselves. We are to be
convinced by reason and persuasion only, and not governed by force. I
have seen the world, brother, and know what arguments to make use of;
and if your folly had not prevented me, should have prevailed with her
to form her conduct by those rules of prudence and discretion which I
formerly taught her." "To be sure," said the squire, "I am always in
the wrong." "Brother," answered the lady, "you are not in the wrong,
unless when you meddle with matters beyond your knowledge. You must
agree that I have seen most of the world; and happy had it been for my
niece if she had not been taken from under my care. It is by living at
home with you that she hath learnt romantic notions of love and
nonsense." "You don't imagine, I hope," cries the squire, "that I have
taught her any such things." "Your ignorance, brother," returned she,
"as the great Milton says, almost subdues my patience."[*] "D--n
Milton!" answered the squire: "if he had the impudence to say so to my
face, I'd lend him a douse, thof he was never so great a man.
Patience! An you come to that, sister, I have more occasion of
patience, to be used like an overgrown schoolboy, as I am by you. Do
you think no one hath any understanding, unless he hath been about at
court. Pox! the world is come to a fine pass indeed, if we are all
fools, except a parcel of round-heads and Hanover rats. Pox! I hope
the times are a coming when we shall make fools of them, and every man
shall enjoy his own. That's all, sister; and every man shall enjoy his
own. I hope to zee it, sister, before the Hanover rats have eat up all
our corn, and left us nothing but turneps to feed upon."--"I protest,
brother," cries she, "you are now got beyond my understanding. Your
jargon of turneps and Hanover rats is to me perfectly
unintelligible."--"I believe," cries he, "you don't care to hear o'em;
but the country interest may succeed one day or other for all
that."--"I wish," answered the lady, "you would think a little of your
daughter's interest; for, believe me, she is in greater danger than
the nation."--"Just now," said he, "you chid me for thinking on her,
and would ha' her left to you."--"And if you will promise to interpose
no more," answered she, "I will, out of my regard to my niece,
undertake the charge."--"Well, do then," said the squire, "for you
know I always agreed, that women are the properest to manage women."

[*] The reader may, perhaps, subdue his own patience, if he searches
for this in Milton.]

Mrs Western then departed, muttering something with an air of disdain,
concerning women and management of the nation. She immediately
repaired to Sophia's apartment, who was now, after a day's
confinement, released again from her captivity.




BOOK VII.

CONTAINING THREE DAYS.



Chapter i.

A comparison between the world and the stage.


The world hath been often compared to the theatre; and many grave
writers, as well as the poets, have considered human life as a great
drama, resembling, in almost every particular, those scenical
representations which Thespis is first reported to have invented, and
which have been since received with so much approbation and delight in
all polite countries.

This thought hath been carried so far, and is become so general, that
some words proper to the theatre, and which were at first
metaphorically applied to the world, are now indiscriminately and
literally spoken of both; thus stage and scene are by common use grown
as familiar to us, when we speak of life in general, as when we
confine ourselves to dramatic performances: and when transactions
behind the curtain are mentioned, St James's is more likely to occur
to our thoughts than Drury-lane.

It may seem easy enough to account for all this, by reflecting that
the theatrical stage is nothing more than a representation, or, as
Aristotle calls it, an imitation of what really exists; and hence,
perhaps, we might fairly pay a very high compliment to those who by
their writings or actions have been so capable of imitating life, as
to have their pictures in a manner confounded with, or mistaken for,
the originals.

But, in reality, we are not so fond of paying compliments to these
people, whom we use as children frequently do the instruments of their
amusement; and have much more pleasure in hissing and buffeting them,
than in admiring their excellence. There are many other reasons which
have induced us to see this analogy between the world and the stage.

Some have considered the larger part of mankind in the light of
actors, as personating characters no more their own, and to which in
fact they have no better title, than the player hath to be in earnest
thought the king or emperor whom he represents. Thus the hypocrite may
be said to be a player; and indeed the Greeks called them both by one
and the same name.

The brevity of life hath likewise given occasion to this comparison.
So the immortal Shakespear--

--Life's a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.

For which hackneyed quotation I will make the reader amends by a very
noble one, which few, I believe, have read. It is taken from a poem
called the Deity, published about nine years ago, and long since
buried in oblivion; a proof that good books, no more than good men, do
always survive the bad.

From Thee[*] all human actions take their springs,
The rise of empires and the fall of kings!
See the vast Theatre of Time display'd,
While o'er the scene succeeding heroes tread!
With pomp the shining images succeed,
What leaders triumph, and what monarchs bleed!
Perform the parts thy providence assign'd,
Their pride, their passions, to thy ends inclin'd:
Awhile they glitter in the face of day,
Then at thy nod the phantoms pass away;
No traces left of all the busy scene,
But that remembrance says--_The things have been!_

[*] The Deity.

In all these, however, and in every other similitude of life to the
theatre, the resemblance hath been always taken from the stage only.
None, as I remember, have at all considered the audience at this great
drama.

But as Nature often exhibits some of her best performances to a very
full house, so will the behaviour of her spectators no less admit the
above-mentioned comparison than that of her actors. In this vast
theatre of time are seated the friend and the critic; here are claps
and shouts, hisses and groans; in short, everything which was ever
seen or heard at the Theatre-Royal.

Let us examine this in one example; for instance, in the behaviour of
the great audience on that scene which Nature was pleased to exhibit
in the twelfth chapter of the preceding book, where she introduced
Black George running away with the £500 from his friend and
benefactor.

Those who sat in the world's upper gallery treated that incident, I am
well convinced, with their usual vociferation; and every term of
scurrilous reproach was most probably vented on that occasion.

If we had descended to the next order of spectators, we should have
found an equal degree of abhorrence, though less of noise and
scurrility; yet here the good women gave Black George to the devil,
and many of them expected every minute that the cloven-footed
gentleman would fetch his own.

The pit, as usual, was no doubt divided; those who delight in heroic
virtue and perfect character objected to the producing such instances
of villany, without punishing them very severely for the sake of
example. Some of the author's friends cryed, "Look'e, gentlemen, the
man is a villain, but it is nature for all that." And all the young
critics of the age, the clerks, apprentices, &c., called it low, and
fell a groaning.

As for the boxes, they behaved with their accustomed politeness. Most
of them were attending to something else. Some of those few who
regarded the scene at all, declared he was a bad kind of man; while
others refused to give their opinion, till they had heard that of the
best judges.

Now we, who are admitted behind the scenes of this great theatre of
Nature (and no author ought to write anything besides dictionaries and
spelling-books who hath not this privilege), can censure the action,
without conceiving any absolute detestation of the person, whom
perhaps Nature may not have designed to act an ill part in all her
dramas; for in this instance life most exactly resembles the stage,
since it is often the same person who represents the villain and the
heroe; and he who engages your admiration to-day will probably attract
your contempt to-morrow. As Garrick, whom I regard in tragedy to be
the greatest genius the world hath ever produced, sometimes
condescends to play the fool; so did Scipio the Great, and Laelius the
Wise, according to Horace, many years ago; nay, Cicero reports them to
have been "incredibly childish." These, it is true, played the fool,
like my friend Garrick, in jest only; but several eminent characters
have, in numberless instances of their lives, played the fool
egregiously in earnest; so far as to render it a matter of some doubt
whether their wisdom or folly was predominant; or whether they were
better intitled to the applause or censure, the admiration or
contempt, the love or hatred, of mankind.

Those persons, indeed, who have passed any time behind the scenes of
this great theatre, and are thoroughly acquainted not only with the
several disguises which are there put on, but also with the fantastic
and capricious behaviour of the Passions, who are the managers and
directors of this theatre (for as to Reason, the patentee, he is known
to be a very idle fellow and seldom to exert himself), may most
probably have learned to understand the famous _nil admirari_ of
Horace, or in the English phrase, to stare at nothing.

A single bad act no more constitutes a villain in life, than a single
bad part on the stage. The passions, like the managers of a playhouse,
often force men upon parts without consulting their judgment, and
sometimes without any regard to their talents. Thus the man, as well
as the player, may condemn what he himself acts; nay, it is common to
see vice sit as awkwardly on some men, as the character of Iago would
on the honest face of Mr William Mills.

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