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The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

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




Mrs Western's maid claimed great superiority over Mrs Honour on
several accounts. First, her birth was higher; for her great-grandmother
by the mother's side was a cousin, not far removed, to an Irish peer.
Secondly, her wages were greater. And lastly, she had been at London,
and had of consequence seen more of the world. She had always behaved,
therefore, to Mrs Honour with that reserve, and had always exacted of
her those marks of distinction, which every order of females preserves
and requires in conversation with those of an inferior order. Now as
Honour did not at all times agree with this doctrine, but would
frequently break in upon the respect which the other demanded, Mrs
Western's maid was not at all pleased with her company; indeed, she
earnestly longed to return home to the house of her mistress, where
she domineered at will over all the other servants. She had been
greatly, therefore, disappointed in the morning, when Mrs Western had
changed her mind on the very point of departure; and had been in what
is vulgarly called a glouting humour ever since.

In this humour, which was none of the sweetest, she came into the room
where Honour was debating with herself in the manner we have above
related. Honour no sooner saw her, than she addressed her in the
following obliging phrase: "Soh, madam, I find we are to have the
pleasure of your company longer, which I was afraid the quarrel
between my master and your lady would have robbed us of."--"I don't
know, madam," answered the other, "what you mean by we and us. I
assure you I do not look on any of the servants in this house to be
proper company for me. I am company, I hope, for their betters every
day in the week. I do not speak on your account, Mrs Honour; for you
are a civilized young woman; and when you have seen a little more of
the world, I should not be ashamed to walk with you in St James's
Park."--"Hoity toity!" cries Honour, "madam is in her airs, I protest.
Mrs Honour, forsooth! sure, madam, you might call me by my sir-name;
for though my lady calls me Honour, I have a sir-name as well as other
folks. Ashamed to walk with me, quotha! marry, as good as yourself, I
hope."--"Since you make such a return to my civility," said the other,
"I must acquaint you, Mrs Honour, that you are not so good as me. In
the country, indeed, one is obliged to take up with all kind of
trumpery; but in town I visit none but the women of women of quality.
Indeed, Mrs Honour, there is some difference, I hope, between you and
me."--"I hope so too," answered Honour: "there is some difference in
our ages, and--I think in our persons." Upon speaking which last
words, she strutted by Mrs Western's maid with the most provoking air
of contempt; turning up her nose, tossing her head, and violently
brushing the hoop of her competitor with her own. The other lady put
on one of her most malicious sneers, and said, "Creature! you are
below my anger; and it is beneath me to give ill words to such an
audacious saucy trollop; but, hussy, I must tell you, your breeding
shows the meanness of your birth as well as of your education; and
both very properly qualify you to be the mean serving-woman of a
country girl."--"Don't abuse my lady," cries Honour: "I won't take
that of you; she's as much better than yours as she is younger, and
ten thousand times more handsomer."

Here ill luck, or rather good luck, sent Mrs Western to see her maid
in tears, which began to flow plentifully at her approach; and of
which being asked the reason by her mistress, she presently acquainted
her that her tears were occasioned by the rude treatment of that
creature there--meaning Honour. "And, madam," continued she, "I could
have despised all she said to me; but she hath had the audacity to
affront your ladyship, and to call you ugly--Yes, madam, she called
you ugly old cat to my face. I could not bear to hear your ladyship
called ugly."--"Why do you repeat her impudence so often?" said Mrs
Western. And then turning to Mrs Honour, she asked her "How she had
the assurance to mention her name with disrespect?"--"Disrespect,
madam!" answered Honour; "I never mentioned your name at all: I said
somebody was not as handsome as my mistress, and to be sure you know
that as well as I."--"Hussy," replied the lady, "I will make such a
saucy trollop as yourself know that I am not a proper subject of your
discourse. And if my brother doth not discharge you this moment, I
will never sleep in his house again. I will find him out, and have you
discharged this moment."--"Discharged!" cries Honour; "and suppose I
am: there are more places in the world than one. Thank Heaven, good
servants need not want places; and if you turn away all who do not
think you handsome, you will want servants very soon; let me tell you
that."

Mrs Western spoke, or rather thundered, in answer; but as she was
hardly articulate, we cannot be very certain of the identical words;
we shall therefore omit inserting a speech which at best would not
greatly redound to her honour. She then departed in search of her
brother, with a countenance so full of rage, that she resembled one of
the furies rather than a human creature.

The two chambermaids being again left alone, began a second bout at
altercation, which soon produced a combat of a more active kind. In
this the victory belonged to the lady of inferior rank, but not
without some loss of blood, of hair, and of lawn and muslin.



Chapter ix.

The wise demeanour of Mr Western in the character of a magistrate. A
hint to justices of peace, concerning the necessary qualifications of
a clerk; with extraordinary instances of paternal madness and filial
affection.


Logicians sometimes prove too much by an argument, and politicians
often overreach themselves in a scheme. Thus had it like to have
happened to Mrs Honour, who, instead of recovering the rest of her
clothes, had like to have stopped even those she had on her back from
escaping; for the squire no sooner heard of her having abused his
sister, than he swore twenty oaths he would send her to Bridewell.

Mrs Western was a very good-natured woman, and ordinarily of a
forgiving temper. She had lately remitted the trespass of a
stage-coachman, who had overturned her post-chaise into a ditch; nay,
she had even broken the law, in refusing to prosecute a highwayman who
had robbed her, not only of a sum of money, but of her ear-rings; at
the same time d--ning her, and saying, "Such handsome b--s as you
don't want jewels to set them off, and be d--n'd to you." But now, so
uncertain are our tempers, and so much do we at different times differ
from ourselves, she would hear of no mitigation; nor could all the
affected penitence of Honour, nor all the entreaties of Sophia for her
own servant, prevail with her to desist from earnestly desiring her
brother to execute justiceship (for it was indeed a syllable more than
justice) on the wench.

But luckily the clerk had a qualification, which no clerk to a justice
of peace ought ever to be without, namely, some understanding in the
law of this realm. He therefore whispered in the ear of the justice
that he would exceed his authority by committing the girl to
Bridewell, as there had been no attempt to break the peace; "for I am
afraid, sir," says he, "you cannot legally commit any one to Bridewell
only for ill-breeding."

In matters of high importance, particularly in cases relating to the
game, the justice was not always attentive to these admonitions of his
clerk; for, indeed, in executing the laws under that head, many
justices of peace suppose they have a large discretionary power, by
virtue of which, under the notion of searching for and taking away
engines for the destruction of the game, they often commit trespasses,
and sometimes felony, at their pleasure.

But this offence was not of quite so high a nature, nor so dangerous
to the society. Here, therefore, the justice behaved with some
attention to the advice of his clerk; for, in fact, he had already had
two informations exhibited against him in the King's Bench, and had no
curiosity to try a third.

The squire, therefore, putting on a most wise and significant
countenance, after a preface of several hums and hahs, told his
sister, that upon more mature deliberation, he was of opinion, that
"as there was no breaking up of the peace, such as the law," says he,
"calls breaking open a door, or breaking a hedge, or breaking a head,
or any such sort of breaking, the matter did not amount to a felonious
kind of a thing, nor trespasses, nor damages, and, therefore, there
was no punishment in the law for it."

Mrs Western said, "she knew the law much better; that she had known
servants very severely punished for affronting their masters;" and
then named a certain justice of the peace in London, "who," she said,
"would commit a servant to Bridewell at any time when a master or
mistress desired it."

"Like enough," cries the squire; "it may be so in London; but the law
is different in the country." Here followed a very learned dispute
between the brother and sister concerning the law, which we would
insert, if we imagined many of our readers could understand it. This
was, however, at length referred by both parties to the clerk, who
decided it in favour of the magistrate; and Mrs Western was, in the
end, obliged to content herself with the satisfaction of having Honour
turned away; to which Sophia herself very readily and cheerfully
consented.

Thus Fortune, after having diverted herself, according to custom, with
two or three frolicks, at last disposed all matters to the advantage
of our heroine; who indeed succeeded admirably well in her deceit,
considering it was the first she had ever practised. And, to say the
truth, I have often concluded, that the honest part of mankind would
be much too hard for the knavish, if they could bring themselves to
incur the guilt, or thought it worth their while to take the trouble.

Honour acted her part to the utmost perfection. She no sooner saw
herself secure from all danger of Bridewell, a word which had raised
most horrible ideas in her mind, than she resumed those airs which her
terrors before had a little abated; and laid down her place, with as
much affectation of content, and indeed of contempt, as was ever
practised at the resignation of places of much greater importance. If
the reader pleases, therefore, we chuse rather to say she
resigned--which hath, indeed, been always held a synonymous expression
with being turned out, or turned away.

Mr Western ordered her to be very expeditious in packing; for his
sister declared she would not sleep another night under the same roof
with so impudent a slut. To work therefore she went, and that so
earnestly, that everything was ready early in the evening; when,
having received her wages, away packed bag and baggage, to the great
satisfaction of every one, but of none more than of Sophia; who,
having appointed her maid to meet her at a certain place not far from
the house, exactly at the dreadful and ghostly hour of twelve, began
to prepare for her own departure.

But first she was obliged to give two painful audiences, the one to
her aunt, and the other to her father. In these Mrs Western herself
began to talk to her in a more peremptory stile than before: but her
father treated her in so violent and outrageous a manner, that he
frightened her into an affected compliance with his will; which so
highly pleased the good squire, that he changed his frowns into
smiles, and his menaces into promises: he vowed his whole soul was
wrapt in hers; that her consent (for so he construed the words, "You
know, sir, I must not, nor can, refuse to obey any absolute command of
yours") had made him the happiest of mankind. He then gave her a large
bank-bill to dispose of in any trinkets she pleased, and kissed and
embraced her in the fondest manner, while tears of joy trickled from
those eyes which a few moments before had darted fire and rage against
the dear object of all his affection.

Instances of this behaviour in parents are so common, that the reader,
I doubt not, will be very little astonished at the whole conduct of Mr
Western. If he should, I own I am not able to account for it; since
that he loved his daughter most tenderly, is, I think, beyond dispute.
So indeed have many others, who have rendered their children most
completely miserable by the same conduct; which, though it is almost
universal in parents, hath always appeared to me to be the most
unaccountable of all the absurdities which ever entered into the brain
of that strange prodigious creature man.

The latter part of Mr Western's behaviour had so strong an effect on
the tender heart of Sophia, that it suggested a thought to her, which
not all the sophistry of her politic aunt, nor all the menaces of her
father, had ever once brought into her head. She reverenced her father
so piously, and loved him so passionately, that she had scarce ever
felt more pleasing sensations, than what arose from the share she
frequently had of contributing to his amusement, and sometimes,
perhaps, to higher gratifications; for he never could contain the
delight of hearing her commended, which he had the satisfaction of
hearing almost every day of her life. The idea, therefore, of the
immense happiness she should convey to her father by her consent to
this match, made a strong impression on her mind. Again, the extreme
piety of such an act of obedience worked very forcibly, as she had a
very deep sense of religion. Lastly, when she reflected how much she
herself was to suffer, being indeed to become little less than a
sacrifice, or a martyr, to filial love and duty, she felt an agreeable
tickling in a certain little passion, which though it bears no
immediate affinity either to religion or virtue, is often so kind as
to lend great assistance in executing the purposes of both.

Sophia was charmed with the contemplation of so heroic an action, and
began to compliment herself with much premature flattery, when Cupid,
who lay hid in her muff, suddenly crept out, and like Punchinello in a
puppet-show, kicked all out before him. In truth (for we scorn to
deceive our reader, or to vindicate the character of our heroine by
ascribing her actions to supernatural impulse) the thoughts of her
beloved Jones, and some hopes (however distant) in which he was very
particularly concerned, immediately destroyed all which filial love,
piety, and pride had, with their joint endeavours, been labouring to
bring about.

But before we proceed any farther with Sophia, we must now look back
to Mr Jones.



Chapter x.

Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but low.


The reader will be pleased to remember, that we left Mr Jones, in the
beginning of this book, on his road to Bristol; being determined to
seek his fortune at sea, or rather, indeed, to fly away from his
fortune on shore.

It happened (a thing not very unusual), that the guide who undertook
to conduct him on his way, was unluckily unacquainted with the road;
so that having missed his right track, and being ashamed to ask
information, he rambled about backwards and forwards till night came
on, and it began to grow dark. Jones suspecting what had happened,
acquainted the guide with his apprehensions; but he insisted on it,
that they were in the right road, and added, it would be very strange
if he should not know the road to Bristol; though, in reality, it
would have been much stranger if he had known it, having never past
through it in his life before.

Jones had not such implicit faith in his guide, but that on their
arrival at a village he inquired of the first fellow he saw, whether
they were in the road to Bristol. "Whence did you come?" cries the
fellow. "No matter," says Jones, a little hastily; "I want to know if
this be the road to Bristol?"--"The road to Bristol!" cries the
fellow, scratching his head: "why, measter, I believe you will hardly
get to Bristol this way to-night."--"Prithee, friend, then," answered
Jones, "do tell us which is the way."--"Why, measter," cries the
fellow, "you must be come out of your road the Lord knows whither; for
thick way goeth to Glocester."--"Well, and which way goes to Bristol?"
said Jones. "Why, you be going away from Bristol," answered the
fellow. "Then," said Jones, "we must go back again?"--"Ay, you must,"
said the fellow. "Well, and when we come back to the top of the hill,
which way must we take?"--"Why, you must keep the strait road."--"But
I remember there are two roads, one to the right and the other to the
left."--"Why, you must keep the right-hand road, and then gu strait
vorwards; only remember to turn vurst to your right, and then to your
left again, and then to your right, and that brings you to the
squire's; and then you must keep strait vorwards, and turn to the
left."

Another fellow now came up, and asked which way the gentlemen were
going; of which being informed by Jones, he first scratched his head,
and then leaning upon a pole he had in his hand, began to tell him,
"That he must keep the right-hand road for about a mile, or a mile and
a half, or such a matter, and then he must turn short to the left,
which would bring him round by Measter Jin Bearnes's."--"But which is
Mr John Bearnes's?" says Jones. "O Lord!" cries the fellow, "why,
don't you know Measter Jin Bearnes? Whence then did you come?"

These two fellows had almost conquered the patience of Jones, when a
plain well-looking man (who was indeed a Quaker) accosted him thus:
"Friend, I perceive thou hast lost thy way; and if thou wilt take my
advice, thou wilt not attempt to find it to-night. It is almost dark,
and the road is difficult to hit; besides, there have been several
robberies committed lately between this and Bristol. Here is a very
creditable good house just by, where thou may'st find good
entertainment for thyself and thy cattle till morning." Jones, after a
little persuasion, agreed to stay in this place till the morning, and
was conducted by his friend to the public-house.

The landlord, who was a very civil fellow, told Jones, "He hoped he
would excuse the badness of his accommodation; for that his wife was
gone from home, and had locked up almost everything, and carried the
keys along with her." Indeed the fact was, that a favourite daughter
of hers was just married, and gone that morning home with her husband;
and that she and her mother together had almost stript the poor man of
all his goods, as well as money; for though he had several children,
this daughter only, who was the mother's favourite, was the object of
her consideration; and to the humour of this one child she would with
pleasure have sacrificed all the rest, and her husband into the
bargain.

Though Jones was very unfit for any kind of company, and would have
preferred being alone, yet he could not resist the importunities of
the honest Quaker; who was the more desirous of sitting with him, from
having remarked the melancholy which appeared both in his countenance
and behaviour; and which the poor Quaker thought his conversation
might in some measure relieve.

After they had past some time together, in such a manner that my
honest friend might have thought himself at one of his silent
meetings, the Quaker began to be moved by some spirit or other,
probably that of curiosity, and said, "Friend, I perceive some sad
disaster hath befallen thee; but pray be of comfort. Perhaps thou hast
lost a friend. If so, thou must consider we are all mortal. And why
shouldst thou grieve, when thou knowest thy grief will do thy friend
no good? We are all born to affliction. I myself have my sorrows as
well as thee, and most probably greater sorrows. Though I have a clear
estate of £100 a year, which is as much as I want, and I have a
conscience, I thank the Lord, void of offence; my constitution is
sound and strong, and there is no man can demand a debt of me, nor
accuse me of an injury; yet, friend, I should be concerned to think
thee as miserable as myself."

Here the Quaker ended with a deep sigh; and Jones presently answered,
"I am very sorry, sir, for your unhappiness, whatever is the occasion
of it."--"Ah! friend," replied the Quaker, "one only daughter is the
occasion; one who was my greatest delight upon earth, and who within
this week is run away from me, and is married against my consent. I
had provided her a proper match, a sober man and one of substance; but
she, forsooth, would chuse for herself, and away she is gone with a
young fellow not worth a groat. If she had been dead, as I suppose thy
friend is, I should have been happy."--"That is very strange, sir,"
said Jones. "Why, would it not be better for her to be dead, than to
be a beggar?" replied the Quaker: "for, as I told you, the fellow is
not worth a groat; and surely she cannot expect that I shall ever give
her a shilling. No, as she hath married for love, let her live on love
if she can; let her carry her love to market, and see whether any one
will change it into silver, or even into halfpence."--"You know your
own concerns best, sir," said Jones. "It must have been," continued
the Quaker, "a long premeditated scheme to cheat me: for they have
known one another from their infancy; and I always preached to her
against love, and told her a thousand times over it was all folly and
wickedness. Nay, the cunning slut pretended to hearken to me, and to
despise all wantonness of the flesh; and yet at last broke out at a
window two pair of stairs: for I began, indeed, a little to suspect
her, and had locked her up carefully, intending the very next morning
to have married her up to my liking. But she disappointed me within a
few hours, and escaped away to the lover of her own chusing; who lost
no time, for they were married and bedded and all within an hour. But
it shall be the worst hour's work for them both that ever they did;
for they may starve, or beg, or steal together, for me. I will never
give either of them a farthing." Here Jones starting up cried, "I
really must be excused: I wish you would leave me."--"Come, come,
friend," said the Quaker, "don't give way to concern. You see there
are other people miserable besides yourself."--"I see there are
madmen, and fools, and villains in the world," cries Jones. "But let
me give you a piece of advice: send for your daughter and son-in-law
home, and don't be yourself the only cause of misery to one you
pretend to love."--"Send for her and her husband home!" cries the
Quaker loudly; "I would sooner send for the two greatest enemies I
have in the world!"--"Well, go home yourself, or where you please,"
said Jones, "for I will sit no longer in such company."--"Nay,
friend," answered the Quaker, "I scorn to impose my company on any
one." He then offered to pull money from his pocket, but Jones pushed
him with some violence out of the room.

The subject of the Quaker's discourse had so deeply affected Jones,
that he stared very wildly all the time he was speaking. This the
Quaker had observed, and this, added to the rest of his behaviour,
inspired honest Broadbrim with a conceit, that his companion was in
reality out of his senses. Instead of resenting the affront,
therefore, the Quaker was moved with compassion for his unhappy
circumstances; and having communicated his opinion to the landlord, he
desired him to take great care of his guest, and to treat him with the
highest civility.

"Indeed," says the landlord, "I shall use no such civility towards
him; for it seems, for all his laced waistcoat there, he is no more a
gentleman than myself, but a poor parish bastard, bred up at a great
squire's about thirty miles off, and now turned out of doors (not for
any good to be sure). I shall get him out of my house as soon as
possible. If I do lose my reckoning, the first loss is always the
best. It is not above a year ago that I lost a silver spoon."

"What dost thou talk of a parish bastard, Robin?" answered the Quaker.
"Thou must certainly be mistaken in thy man."

"Not at all," replied Robin; "the guide, who knows him very well, told
it me." For, indeed, the guide had no sooner taken his place at the
kitchen fire, than he acquainted the whole company with all he knew or
had ever heard concerning Jones.

The Quaker was no sooner assured by this fellow of the birth and low
fortune of Jones, than all compassion for him vanished; and the honest
plain man went home fired with no less indignation than a duke would
have felt at receiving an affront from such a person.

The landlord himself conceived an equal disdain for his guest; so that
when Jones rung the bell in order to retire to bed, he was acquainted
that he could have no bed there. Besides disdain of the mean condition
of his guest, Robin entertained violent suspicion of his intentions,
which were, he supposed, to watch some favourable opportunity of
robbing the house. In reality, he might have been very well eased of
these apprehensions, by the prudent precautions of his wife and
daughter, who had already removed everything which was not fixed to
the freehold; but he was by nature suspicious, and had been more
particularly so since the loss of his spoon. In short, the dread of
being robbed totally absorbed the comfortable consideration that he
had nothing to lose.

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