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The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

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"I promise you, sir," says Jones, "all these facts, and more, I have
read in history, but I will tell you a fact which is not yet
recorded and of which I suppose you are ignorant. There is actually
now a rebellion on foot in this kingdom in favour of the son of that
very King James, a professed papist, more bigoted, if possible, than
his father, and this carried on by Protestants against a king who
hath never in one single instance made the least invasion on our
liberties."

"Prodigious indeed!" answered the stranger. "You tell me what would
be incredible of a nation which did not deserve the character that
Virgil gives of a woman, _varium et mutabile semper_. Surely this is
to be unworthy of the care which Providence seems to have taken of
us in the preservation of our religion against the powerful designs
and constant machinations of Popery, a preservation so strange and
unaccountable that I almost think we may appeal to it as to a
miracle for the proof of its holiness. Prodigious indeed! A
Protestant rebellion in favour of a popish prince! The folly of
mankind is as wonderful as their knavery--But to conclude my story:
I resolved to take arms in defence of my country, of my religion,
and my liberty, and Mr. Watson joined in the same resolution. We
soon provided ourselves with an necessaries and joined the Duke at
Bridgewater."

"The unfortunate event of this enterprise you are perhaps better
acquainted with than myself. I escaped together with Mr. Watson from
the battle at Sedgemore,...



Chapter xv.

A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse between Mr Jones
and the Man of the Hill.


"In Italy the landlords are very silent. In France they are more
talkative, but yet civil. In Germany and Holland they are generally
very impertinent. And as for their honesty, I believe it is pretty
equal in all those countries. The _laquais à louange_ are sure to lose
no opportunity of cheating you; and as for the postilions, I think
they are pretty much alike all the world over. These, sir, are the
observations on men which I made in my travels; for these were the
only men I ever conversed with. My design, when I went abroad, was to
divert myself by seeing the wondrous variety of prospects, beasts,
birds, fishes, insects, and vegetables, with which God has been
pleased to enrich the several parts of this globe; a variety which, as
it must give great pleasure to a contemplative beholder, so doth it
admirably display the power, and wisdom, and goodness of the Creator.
Indeed, to say the truth, there is but one work in his whole creation
that doth him any dishonour, and with that I have long since avoided
holding any conversation."

"You will pardon me," cries Jones; "but I have always imagined that
there is in this very work you mention as great variety as in all the
rest; for, besides the difference of inclination, customs and climates
have, I am told, introduced the utmost diversity into human nature."

"Very little indeed," answered the other: "those who travel in order
to acquaint themselves with the different manners of men might spare
themselves much pains by going to a carnival at Venice; for there they
will see at once all which they can discover in the several courts of
Europe. The same hypocrisy, the same fraud; in short, the same follies
and vices dressed in different habits. In Spain, these are equipped
with much gravity; and in Italy, with vast splendor. In France, a
knave is dressed like a fop; and in the northern countries, like a
sloven. But human nature is everywhere the same, everywhere the object
of detestation and scorn.

"As for my own part, I past through all these nations as you perhaps
may have done through a croud at a shew-jostling to get by them,
holding my nose with one hand, and defending my pockets with the
other, without speaking a word to any of them, while I was pressing on
to see what I wanted to see; which, however entertaining it might be
in itself, scarce made me amends for the trouble the company gave me."

"Did not you find some of the nations among which you travelled less
troublesome to you than others?" said Jones. "O yes," replied the old
man: "the Turks were much more tolerable to me than the Christians;
for they are men of profound taciturnity, and never disturb a stranger
with questions. Now and then indeed they bestow a short curse upon
him, or spit in his face as he walks the streets, but then they have
done with him; and a man may live an age in their country without
hearing a dozen words from them. But of all the people I ever saw,
heaven defend me from the French! With their damned prate and
civilities, and doing the honour of their nation to strangers (as they
are pleased to call it), but indeed setting forth their own vanity;
they are so troublesome, that I had infinitely rather pass my life
with the Hottentots than set my foot in Paris again. They are a nasty
people, but their nastiness is mostly without; whereas, in France, and
some other nations that I won't name, it is all within, and makes them
stink much more to my reason than that of Hottentots does to my nose.

"Thus, sir, I have ended the history of my life; for as to all that
series of years during which I have lived retired here, it affords no
variety to entertain you, and may be almost considered as one
day.[*] The retirement has been so compleat, that I could hardly have
enjoyed a more absolute solitude in the deserts of the Thebais than
here in the midst of this populous kingdom. As I have no estate, I am
plagued with no tenants or stewards: my annuity is paid me pretty
regularly, as indeed it ought to be; for it is much less than what I
might have expected in return for what I gave up. Visits I admit none;
and the old woman who keeps my house knows that her place entirely
depends upon her saving me all the trouble of buying the things that I
want, keeping off all sollicitation or business from me, and holding
her tongue whenever I am within hearing. As my walks are all by night,
I am pretty secure in this wild unfrequented place from meeting any
company. Some few persons I have met by chance, and sent them home
heartily frighted, as from the oddness of my dress and figure they
took me for a ghost or a hobgoblin. But what has happened to-night
shows that even here I cannot be safe from the villany of men; for
without your assistance I had not only been robbed, but very probably
murdered."

[*] the rest of this paragraph is omitted in the third edition

Jones thanked the stranger for the trouble he had taken in relating
his story, and then expressed some wonder how he could possibly endure
a life of such solitude; "in which," says he, "you may well complain
of the want of variety. Indeed I am astonished how you have filled up,
or rather killed, so much of your time."

"I am not at all surprized," answered the other, "that to one whose
affections and thoughts are fixed on the world my hours should appear
to have wanted employment in this place: but there is one single act,
for which the whole life of man is infinitely too short: what time can
suffice for the contemplation and worship of that glorious, immortal,
and eternal Being, among the works of whose stupendous creation not
only this globe, but even those numberless luminaries which we may
here behold spangling all the sky, though they should many of them be
suns lighting different systems of worlds, may possibly appear but as
a few atoms opposed to the whole earth which we inhabit? Can a man who
by divine meditations is admitted as it were into the conversation of
this ineffable, incomprehensible Majesty, think days, or years, or
ages, too long for the continuance of so ravishing an honour? Shall
the trifling amusements, the palling pleasures, the silly business of
the world, roll away our hours too swiftly from us; and shall the pace
of time seem sluggish to a mind exercised in studies so high, so
important, and so glorious? As no time is sufficient, so no place is
improper, for this great concern. On what object can we cast our eyes
which may not inspire us with ideas of his power, of his wisdom, and
of his goodness? It is not necessary that the rising sun should dart
his fiery glories over the eastern horizon; nor that the boisterous
winds should rush from their caverns, and shake the lofty forest; nor
that the opening clouds should pour their deluges on the plains: it is
not necessary, I say, that any of these should proclaim his majesty:
there is not an insect, not a vegetable, of so low an order in the
creation as not to be honoured with bearing marks of the attributes of
its great Creator; marks not only of his power, but of his wisdom and
goodness. Man alone, the king of this globe, the last and greatest
work of the Supreme Being, below the sun; man alone hath basely
dishonoured his own nature; and by dishonesty, cruelty, ingratitude,
and treachery, hath called his Maker's goodness in question, by
puzzling us to account how a benevolent being should form so foolish
and so vile an animal. Yet this is the being from whose conversation
you think, I suppose, that I have been unfortunately restrained, and
without whose blessed society, life, in your opinion, must be tedious
and insipid."

"In the former part of what you said," replied Jones, "I most heartily
and readily concur; but I believe, as well as hope, that the
abhorrence which you express for mankind in the conclusion, is much
too general. Indeed, you here fall into an error, which in my little
experience I have observed to be a very common one, by taking the
character of mankind from the worst and basest among them; whereas,
indeed, as an excellent writer observes, nothing should be esteemed as
characteristical of a species, but what is to be found among the best
and most perfect individuals of that species. This error, I believe,
is generally committed by those who from want of proper caution in the
choice of their friends and acquaintance, have suffered injuries from
bad and worthless men; two or three instances of which are very
unjustly charged on all human nature."

"I think I had experience enough of it," answered the other: "my first
mistress and my first friend betrayed me in the basest manner, and in
matters which threatened to be of the worst of consequences--even to
bring me to a shameful death."

"But you will pardon me," cries Jones, "if I desire you to reflect who
that mistress and who that friend were. What better, my good sir,
could be expected in love derived from the stews, or in friendship
first produced and nourished at the gaming-table? To take the
characters of women from the former instance, or of men from the
latter, would be as unjust as to assert that air is a nauseous and
unwholesome element, because we find it so in a jakes. I have lived
but a short time in the world, and yet have known men worthy of the
highest friendship, and women of the highest love."

"Alas! young man," answered the stranger, "you have lived, you
confess, but a very short time in the world: I was somewhat older than
you when I was of the same opinion."

"You might have remained so still," replies Jones, "if you had not
been unfortunate, I will venture to say incautious, in the placing
your affections. If there was, indeed, much more wickedness in the
world than there is, it would not prove such general assertions
against human nature, since much of this arrives by mere accident, and
many a man who commits evil is not totally bad and corrupt in his
heart. In truth, none seem to have any title to assert human nature to
be necessarily and universally evil, but those whose own minds afford
them one instance of this natural depravity; which is not, I am
convinced, your case."

"And such," said the stranger, "will be always the most backward to
assert any such thing. Knaves will no more endeavour to persuade us of
the baseness of mankind, than a highwayman will inform you that there
are thieves on the road. This would, indeed, be a method to put you on
your guard, and to defeat their own purposes. For which reason, though
knaves, as I remember, are very apt to abuse particular persons, yet
they never cast any reflection on human nature in general." The old
gentleman spoke this so warmly, that as Jones despaired of making a
convert, and was unwilling to offend, he returned no answer.

The day now began to send forth its first streams of light, when Jones
made an apology to the stranger for having staid so long, and perhaps
detained him from his rest. The stranger answered, "He never wanted
rest less than at present; for that day and night were indifferent
seasons to him; and that he commonly made use of the former for the
time of his repose and of the latter for his walks and lucubrations.
However," said he, "it is now a most lovely morning, and if you can
bear any longer to be without your own rest or food, I will gladly
entertain you with the sight of some very fine prospects which I
believe you have not yet seen."

Jones very readily embraced this offer, and they immediately set
forward together from the cottage. As for Partridge, he had fallen
into a profound repose just as the stranger had finished his story;
for his curiosity was satisfied, and the subsequent discourse was not
forcible enough in its operation to conjure down the charms of sleep.
Jones therefore left him to enjoy his nap; and as the reader may
perhaps be at this season glad of the same favour, we will here put an
end to the eighth book of our history.




BOOK IX.

CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.



Chapter i.

Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not, write such
histories as this.


Among other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute
these several introductory chapters, I have considered them as a kind
of mark or stamp, which may hereafter enable a very indifferent reader
to distinguish what is true and genuine in this historic kind of
writing, from what is false and counterfeit. Indeed, it seems likely
that some such mark may shortly become necessary, since the favourable
reception which two or three authors have lately procured for their
works of this nature from the public, will probably serve as an
encouragement to many others to undertake the like. Thus a swarm of
foolish novels and monstrous romances will be produced, either to the
great impoverishing of booksellers, or to the great loss of time and
depravation of morals in the reader; nay, often to the spreading of
scandal and calumny, and to the prejudice of the characters of many
worthy and honest people.

I question not but the ingenious author of the Spectator was
principally induced to prefix Greek and Latin mottos to every paper,
from the same consideration of guarding against the pursuit of those
scribblers, who having no talents of a writer but what is taught by
the writing-master, are yet nowise afraid nor ashamed to assume the
same titles with the greatest genius, than their good brother in the
fable was of braying in the lion's skin.

By the device therefore of his motto, it became impracticable for any
man to presume to imitate the Spectators, without understanding at
least one sentence in the learned languages. In the same manner I have
now secured myself from the imitation of those who are utterly
incapable of any degree of reflection, and whose learning is not equal
to an essay.

I would not be here understood to insinuate, that the greatest merit
of such historical productions can ever lie in these introductory
chapters; but, in fact, those parts which contain mere narrative only,
afford much more encouragement to the pen of an imitator, than those
which are composed of observation and reflection. Here I mean such
imitators as Rowe was of Shakespear, or as Horace hints some of the
Romans were of Cato, by bare feet and sour faces.

To invent good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very rare
talents, and yet I have observed few persons who have scrupled to aim
at both: and if we examine the romances and novels with which the
world abounds, I think we may fairly conclude, that most of the
authors would not have attempted to show their teeth (if the
expression may be allowed me) in any other way of writing; nor could
indeed have strung together a dozen sentences on any other subject
whatever.

_Scribimus indocti doctique passim_,[*]

[*] --Each desperate blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the trade of every living wight.--FRANCIS.

may be more truly said of the historian and biographer, than of any
other species of writing; for all the arts and sciences (even
criticism itself) require some little degree of learning and
knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may perhaps be thought an exception; but
then it demands numbers, or something like numbers: whereas, to the
composition of novels and romances, nothing is necessary but paper,
pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using them. This, I
conceive, their productions show to be the opinion of the authors
themselves: and this must be the opinion of their readers, if indeed
there be any such.

Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world, who
always denominate the whole from the majority, have cast on all
historical writers who do not draw their materials from records. And
it is the apprehension of this contempt that hath made us so
cautiously avoid the term romance, a name with which we might
otherwise have been well enough contented. Though, as we have good
authority for all our characters, no less indeed than the vast
authentic doomsday-book of nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our labours
have sufficient title to the name of history. Certainly they deserve
some distinction from those works, which one of the wittiest of men
regarded only as proceeding from a _pruritus_, or indeed rather from a
looseness of the brain.

But besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful
as well as entertaining of all kinds of writing, there is just reason
to apprehend, that by encouraging such authors we shall propagate much
dishonour of another kind; I mean to the characters of many good and
valuable members of society; for the dullest writers, no more than the
dullest companions, are always inoffensive. They have both enough of
language to be indecent and abusive. And surely if the opinion just
above cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so nastily derived
should be nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make others so.

To prevent therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of
leisure, of letters, and of the liberty of the press, especially as
the world seems at present to be more than usually threatened with
them, I shall here venture to mention some qualifications, every one
of which are in a pretty high degree necessary to this order of
historians.

The first is, genius, without a full vein of which no study, says
Horace, can avail us. By genius I would understand that power or
rather those powers of the mind, which are capable of penetrating into
all things within our reach and knowledge, and of distinguishing their
essential differences. These are no other than invention and judgment;
and they are both called by the collective name of genius, as they are
of those gifts of nature which we bring with us into the world.
Concerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very great
errors; for by invention, I believe, is generally understood a
creative faculty, which would indeed prove most romance writers to
have the highest pretensions to it; whereas by invention is really
meant no more (and so the word signifies) than discovery, or finding
out; or to explain it at large, a quick and sagacious penetration into
the true essence of all the objects of our contemplation. This, I
think, can rarely exist without the concomitancy of judgment; for how
we can be said to have discovered the true essence of two things,
without discerning their difference, seems to me hard to conceive. Now
this last is the undisputed province of judgment, and yet some few men
of wit have agreed with all the dull fellows in the world in
representing these two to have been seldom or never the property of
one and the same person.

But though they should be so, they are not sufficient for our purpose,
without a good share of learning; for which I could again cite the
authority of Horace, and of many others, if any was necessary to prove
that tools are of no service to a workman, when they are not sharpened
by art, or when he wants rules to direct him in his work, or hath no
matter to work upon. All these uses are supplied by learning; for
nature can only furnish us with capacity; or, as I have chose to
illustrate it, with the tools of our profession; learning must fit
them for use, must direct them in it, and, lastly, must contribute
part at least of the materials. A competent knowledge of history and
of the belles-lettres is here absolutely necessary; and without this
share of knowledge at least, to affect the character of an historian,
is as vain as to endeavour at building a house without timber or
mortar, or brick or stone. Homer and Milton, who, though they added
the ornament of numbers to their works, were both historians of our
order, were masters of all the learning of their times.

Again, there is another sort of knowledge, beyond the power of
learning to bestow, and this is to be had by conversation. So
necessary is this to the understanding the characters of men, that
none are more ignorant of them than those learned pedants whose lives
have been entirely consumed in colleges, and among books; for however
exquisitely human nature may have been described by writers, the true
practical system can be learnt only in the world. Indeed the like
happens in every other kind of knowledge. Neither physic nor law are
to be practically known from books. Nay, the farmer, the planter, the
gardener, must perfect by experience what he hath acquired the
rudiments of by reading. How accurately soever the ingenious Mr Miller
may have described the plant, he himself would advise his disciple to
see it in the garden. As we must perceive, that after the nicest
strokes of a Shakespear or a Jonson, of a Wycherly or an Otway, some
touches of nature will escape the reader, which the judicious action
of a Garrick, of a Cibber, or a Clive,[*] can convey to him; so, on the
real stage, the character shows himself in a stronger and bolder light
than he can be described. And if this be the case in those fine and
nervous descriptions which great authors themselves have taken from
life, how much more strongly will it hold when the writer himself
takes his lines not from nature, but from books? Such characters are
only the faint copy of a copy, and can have neither the justness nor
spirit of an original.

[*] There is a peculiar propriety in mentioning this great actor,
and these two most justly celebrated actresses, in this place, as
they have all formed themselves on the study of nature only, and not
on the imitation of their predecessors. Hence they have been able to
excel all who have gone before them; a degree of merit which the
servile herd of imitators can never possibly arrive at.

Now this conversation in our historian must be universal, that is,
with all ranks and degrees of men; for the knowledge of what is called
high life will not instruct him in low; nor, _e converso_, will his
being acquainted with the inferior part of mankind teach him the
manners of the superior. And though it may be thought that the
knowledge of either may sufficiently enable him to describe at least
that in which he hath been conversant, yet he will even here fall
greatly short of perfection; for the follies of either rank do in
reality illustrate each other. For instance, the affectation of high
life appears more glaring and ridiculous from the simplicity of the
low; and again, the rudeness and barbarity of this latter, strikes
with much stronger ideas of absurdity, when contrasted with, and
opposed to, the politeness which controuls the former. Besides, to say
the truth, the manners of our historian will be improved by both these
conversations; for in the one he will easily find examples of
plainness, honesty, and sincerity; in the other of refinement,
elegance, and a liberality of spirit; which last quality I myself have
scarce ever seen in men of low birth and education.

Nor will all the qualities I have hitherto given my historian avail
him, unless he have what is generally meant by a good heart, and be
capable of feeling. The author who will make me weep, says Horace,
must first weep himself. In reality, no man can paint a distress well
which he doth not feel while he is painting it; nor do I doubt, but
that the most pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears.
In the same manner it is with the ridiculous. I am convinced I never
make my reader laugh heartily but where I have laughed before him;
unless it should happen at any time, that instead of laughing with me
he should be inclined to laugh at me. Perhaps this may have been the
case at some passages in this chapter, from which apprehension I will
here put an end to it.

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