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The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

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




But whether Northerton was carried away in thunder or fire, or in
whatever other manner he was gone, it was now certain that his body
was no longer in custody. Upon this occasion the lieutenant formed a
conclusion not very different from what the serjeant is just mentioned
to have made before, and immediately ordered the centinel to be taken
prisoner. So that, by a strange reverse of fortune (though not very
uncommon in a military life), the guard became the guarded.



Chapter xv.

The conclusion of the foregoing adventure.


Besides the suspicion of sleep, the lieutenant harboured another and
worse doubt against the poor centinel, and this was, that of
treachery; for as he believed not one syllable of the apparition, so
he imagined the whole to be an invention formed only to impose upon
him, and that the fellow had in reality been bribed by Northerton to
let him escape. And this he imagined the rather, as the fright
appeared to him the more unnatural in one who had the character of as
brave and bold a man as any in the regiment, having been in several
actions, having received several wounds, and, in a word, having
behaved himself always like a good and valiant soldier.

That the reader, therefore, may not conceive the least ill opinion of
such a person, we shall not delay a moment in rescuing his character
from the imputation of this guilt.

Mr Northerton then, as we have before observed, was fully satisfied
with the glory which he had obtained from this action. He had perhaps
seen, or heard, or guessed, that envy is apt to attend fame. Not that
I would here insinuate that he was heathenishly inclined to believe in
or to worship the goddess Nemesis; for, in fact, I am convinced he
never heard of her name. He was, besides, of an active disposition,
and had a great antipathy to those close quarters in the castle of
Gloucester, for which a justice of peace might possibly give him a
billet. Nor was he moreover free from some uneasy meditations on a
certain wooden edifice, which I forbear to name, in conformity to the
opinion of mankind, who, I think, rather ought to honour than to be
ashamed of this building, as it is, or at least might be made, of more
benefit to society than almost any other public erection. In a word,
to hint at no more reasons for his conduct, Mr Northerton was desirous
of departing that evening, and nothing remained for him but to
contrive the quomodo, which appeared to be a matter of some
difficulty.

Now this young gentleman, though somewhat crooked in his morals, was
perfectly straight in his person, which was extremely strong and well
made. His face too was accounted handsome by the generality of women,
for it was broad and ruddy, with tolerably good teeth. Such charms did
not fail making an impression on my landlady, who had no little relish
for this kind of beauty. She had, indeed, a real compassion for the
young man; and hearing from the surgeon that affairs were like to go
ill with the volunteer, she suspected they might hereafter wear no
benign aspect with the ensign. Having obtained, therefore, leave to
make him a visit, and finding him in a very melancholy mood, which she
considerably heightened by telling him there were scarce any hopes of
the volunteer's life, she proceeded to throw forth some hints, which
the other readily and eagerly taking up, they soon came to a right
understanding; and it was at length agreed that the ensign should, at
a certain signal, ascend the chimney, which communicating very soon
with that of the kitchen, he might there again let himself down; for
which she would give him an opportunity by keeping the coast clear.

But lest our readers, of a different complexion, should take this
occasion of too hastily condemning all compassion as a folly, and
pernicious to society, we think proper to mention another particular
which might possibly have some little share in this action. The ensign
happened to be at this time possessed of the sum of fifty pounds,
which did indeed belong to the whole company; for the captain having
quarrelled with his lieutenant, had entrusted the payment of his
company to the ensign. This money, however, he thought proper to
deposit in my landlady's hand, possibly by way of bail or security
that he would hereafter appear and answer to the charge against him;
but whatever were the conditions, certain it is, that she had the
money and the ensign his liberty.

The reader may perhaps expect, from the compassionate temper of this
good woman, that when she saw the poor centinel taken prisoner for a
fact of which she knew him innocent, she should immediately have
interposed in his behalf; but whether it was that she had already
exhausted all her compassion in the above-mentioned instance, or that
the features of this fellow, though not very different from those of
the ensign, could not raise it, I will not determine; but, far from
being an advocate for the present prisoner, she urged his guilt to his
officer, declaring, with uplifted eyes and hands, that she would not
have had any concern in the escape of a murderer for all the world.

Everything was now once more quiet, and most of the company returned
again to their beds; but the landlady, either from the natural
activity of her disposition, or from her fear for her plate, having no
propensity to sleep, prevailed with the officers, as they were to
march within little more than an hour, to spend that time with her
over a bowl of punch.

Jones had lain awake all this while, and had heard great part of the
hurry and bustle that had passed, of which he had now some curiosity
to know the particulars. He therefore applied to his bell, which he
rung at least twenty times without any effect: for my landlady was in
such high mirth with her company, that no clapper could be heard there
but her own; and the drawer and chambermaid, who were sitting together
in the kitchen (for neither durst he sit up nor she lie in bed alone),
the more they heard the bell ring the more they were frightened, and
as it were nailed down in their places.

At last, at a lucky interval of chat, the sound reached the ears of
our good landlady, who presently sent forth her summons, which both
her servants instantly obeyed. "Joe," says the mistress, "don't you
hear the gentleman's bell ring? Why don't you go up?"--"It is not my
business," answered the drawer, "to wait upon the chambers--it is
Betty Chambermaid's."--"If you come to that," answered the maid, "it
is not my business to wait upon gentlemen. I have done it indeed
sometimes; but the devil fetch me if ever I do again, since you make
your preambles about it." The bell still ringing violently, their
mistress fell into a passion, and swore, if the drawer did not go up
immediately, she would turn him away that very morning. "If you do,
madam," says he, "I can't help it. I won't do another servant's
business." She then applied herself to the maid, and endeavoured to
prevail by gentle means; but all in vain: Betty was as inflexible as
Joe. Both insisted it was not their business, and they would not do
it.

The lieutenant then fell a laughing, and said, "Come, I will put an
end to this contention;" and then turning to the servants, commended
them for their resolution in not giving up the point; but added, he
was sure, if one would consent to go the other would. To which
proposal they both agreed in an instant, and accordingly went up very
lovingly and close together. When they were gone, the lieutenant
appeased the wrath of the landlady, by satisfying her why they were
both so unwilling to go alone.

They returned soon after, and acquainted their mistress, that the sick
gentleman was so far from being dead, that he spoke as heartily as if
he was well; and that he gave his service to the captain, and should
be very glad of the favour of seeing him before he marched.

The good lieutenant immediately complied with his desires, and sitting
down by his bed-side, acquainted him with the scene which had happened
below, concluding with his intentions to make an example of the
centinel.

Upon this Jones related to him the whole truth, and earnestly begged
him not to punish the poor soldier, "who, I am confident," says he,
"is as innocent of the ensign's escape, as he is of forging any lie,
or of endeavouring to impose on you."

The lieutenant hesitated a few moments, and then answered: "Why, as
you have cleared the fellow of one part of the charge, so it will be
impossible to prove the other, because he was not the only centinel.
But I have a good mind to punish the rascal for being a coward. Yet
who knows what effect the terror of such an apprehension may have?
and, to say the truth, he hath always behaved well against an enemy.
Come, it is a good thing to see any sign of religion in these fellows;
so I promise you he shall be set at liberty when we march. But hark,
the general beats. My dear boy, give me another buss. Don't discompose
nor hurry yourself; but remember the Christian doctrine of patience,
and I warrant you will soon be able to do yourself justice, and to
take an honourable revenge on the fellow who hath injured you." The
lieutenant then departed, and Jones endeavoured to compose himself to
rest.




BOOK VIII.

CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS.



Chapter i.

A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being much the
longest of all our introductory chapters.


As we are now entering upon a book in which the course of our history
will oblige us to relate some matters of a more strange and surprizing
kind than any which have hitherto occurred, it may not be amiss, in
the prolegomenous or introductory chapter, to say something of that
species of writing which is called the marvellous. To this we shall,
as well for the sake of ourselves as of others, endeavour to set some
certain bounds, and indeed nothing can be more necessary, as
critics[*] of different complexions are here apt to run into very
different extremes; for while some are, with M. Dacier, ready to
allow, that the same thing which is impossible may be yet
probable,[**] others have so little historic or poetic faith, that they
believe nothing to be either possible or probable, the like to which
hath not occurred to their own observation.

[*] By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean
every reader in the world.
[**] It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.

First, then, I think it may very reasonably be required of every
writer, that he keeps within the bounds of possibility; and still
remembers that what it is not possible for man to perform, it is
scarce possible for man to believe he did perform. This conviction
perhaps gave birth to many stories of the antient heathen deities (for
most of them are of poetical original). The poet, being desirous to
indulge a wanton and extravagant imagination, took refuge in that
power, of the extent of which his readers were no judges, or rather
which they imagined to be infinite, and consequently they could not be
shocked at any prodigies related of it. This hath been strongly urged
in defence of Homer's miracles; and it is perhaps a defence; not, as
Mr Pope would have it, because Ulysses told a set of foolish lies to
the Phaeacians, who were a very dull nation; but because the poet
himself wrote to heathens, to whom poetical fables were articles of
faith. For my own part, I must confess, so compassionate is my temper,
I wish Polypheme had confined himself to his milk diet, and preserved
his eye; nor could Ulysses be much more concerned than myself, when
his companions were turned into swine by Circe, who showed, I think,
afterwards, too much regard for man's flesh to be supposed capable of
converting it into bacon. I wish, likewise, with all my heart, that
Homer could have known the rule prescribed by Horace, to introduce
supernatural agents as seldom as possible. We should not then have
seen his gods coming on trivial errands, and often behaving themselves
so as not only to forfeit all title to respect, but to become the
objects of scorn and derision. A conduct which must have shocked the
credulity of a pious and sagacious heathen; and which could never have
been defended, unless by agreeing with a supposition to which I have
been sometimes almost inclined, that this most glorious poet, as he
certainly was, had an intent to burlesque the superstitious faith of
his own age and country.

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 it is 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; 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.

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." 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. 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, though
ever so well attested, may nevertheless be sacrificed to oblivion in
complacence 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.

To say the truth, if the historian will confine himself to what really
happened, and utterly reject any circumstance, which, though 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. 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 public 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 public 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, 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
public 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; 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 public 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."

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;_

and yet I know a man who is all I have here described. 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 anything like him. Such _rarae 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.

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 conversation of
character; 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. 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
anything 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, 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 surprize 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 fifth 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."

For though 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 newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from showing 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 above-mentioned, 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; though 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.

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