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The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

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




If anything could add to the satisfaction which the poor man now
enjoyed, he received this addition by the arrival of an excellent
shoulder of mutton, that at this instant came smoaking to the table.
On which, having both plentifully feasted, they again mounted their
horses, and set forward for London.



Chapter xiv.

What happened to Mr Jones in his journey from St Albans.


They were got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the dusk
of the evening, when a genteel-looking man, but upon a very shabby
horse, rode up to Jones, and asked him whether he was going to London;
to which Jones answered in the affirmative. The gentleman replied, "I
should be obliged to you, sir, if you will accept of my company; for
it is very late, and I am a stranger to the road." Jones readily
complied with the request; and on they travelled together, holding
that sort of discourse which is usual on such occasions.

Of this, indeed, robbery was the principal topic: upon which subject
the stranger expressed great apprehensions; but Jones declared he had
very little to lose, and consequently as little to fear. Here
Partridge could not forbear putting in his word. "Your honour," said
he, "may think it a little, but I am sure, if I had a hundred-pound
bank-note in my pocket, as you have, I should be very sorry to lose
it; but, for my part, I never was less afraid in my life; for we are
four of us, and if we all stand by one another, the best man in
England can't rob us. Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but
one of us, and a man can die but once.--That's my comfort, a man can
die but once."

Besides the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valour which hath
raised a certain nation among the moderns to a high pitch of glory,
there was another reason for the extraordinary courage which Partridge
now discovered; for he had at present as much of that quality as was
in the power of liquor to bestow.

Our company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, when the
stranger turned short upon Jones, and pulling out a pistol, demanded
that little bank-note which Partridge had mentioned.

Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected demand;
however, he presently recollected himself, and told the highwayman,
all the money he had in his pocket was entirely at his service; and so
saying, he pulled out upwards of three guineas, and offered to deliver
it; but the other answered with an oath, That would not do. Jones
answered coolly, he was very sorry for it, and returned the money into
his pocket.

The highwayman then threatened, if he did not deliver the bank-note
that moment, he must shoot him; holding his pistol at the same time
very near to his breast. Jones instantly caught hold of the fellow's
hand, which trembled so that he could scarce hold the pistol in it,
and turned the muzzle from him. A struggle then ensued, in which the
former wrested the pistol from the hand of his antagonist, and both
came from their horses on the ground together, the highwayman upon his
back, and the victorious Jones upon him.

The poor fellow now began to implore mercy of the conqueror: for, to
say the truth, he was in strength by no means a match for Jones.
"Indeed, sir," says he, "I could have had no intention to shoot you;
for you will find the pistol was not loaded. This is the first robbery
I ever attempted, and I have been driven by distress to this."

At this instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards' distance, lay
another person on the ground, roaring for mercy in a much louder voice
than the highwayman. This was no other than Partridge himself, who,
endeavouring to make his escape from the engagement, had been thrown
from his horse, and lay flat on his face, not daring to look up, and
expecting every minute to be shot.

In this posture he lay, till the guide, who was no otherwise concerned
than for his horses, having secured the stumbling beast, came up to
him, and told him his master had got the better of the highwayman.

Partridge leapt up at this news, and ran back to the place where Jones
stood with his sword drawn in his hand to guard the poor fellow; which
Partridge no sooner saw than he cried out, "Kill the villain, sir, run
him through the body, kill him this instant!"

Luckily, however, for the poor wretch, he had fallen into more
merciful hands; for Jones having examined the pistol, and found it to
be really unloaded, began to believe all the man had told him, before
Partridge came up: namely, that he was a novice in the trade, and that
he had been driven to it by the distress he mentioned, the greatest
indeed imaginable, that of five hungry children, and a wife lying in
of the sixth, in the utmost want and misery. The truth of all which
the highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered to convince Mr
Jones of it, if he would take the trouble to go to his house, which
was not above two miles off; saying, "That he desired no favour, but
upon condition of proving all he had all alledged."

Jones at first pretended that he would take the fellow at his word,
and go with him, declaring that his fate should depend entirely on the
truth of his story. Upon this the poor fellow immediately expressed so
much alacrity, that Jones was perfectly satisfied with his veracity,
and began now to entertain sentiments of compassion for him. He
returned the fellow his empty pistol, advised him to think of honester
means of relieving his distress, and gave him a couple of guineas for
the immediate support of his wife and his family; adding, "he wished
he had more for his sake, for the hundred pound that had been
mentioned was not his own."

Our readers will probably be divided in their opinions concerning this
action; some may applaud it perhaps as an act of extraordinary
humanity, while those of a more saturnine temper will consider it as a
want of regard to that justice which every man owes his country.
Partridge certainly saw it in that light; for he testified much
dissatisfaction on the occasion, quoted an old proverb, and said, he
should not wonder if the rogue attacked them again before they reached
London.

The highwayman was full of expressions of thankfulness and gratitude.
He actually dropt tears, or pretended so to do. He vowed he would
immediately return home, and would never afterwards commit such a
transgression: whether he kept his word or no, perhaps may appear
hereafter.

Our travellers having remounted their horses, arrived in town without
encountering any new mishap. On the road much pleasant discourse
passed between Jones and Partridge, on the subject of their last
adventure: in which Jones exprest a great compassion for those
highwaymen who are, by unavoidable distress, driven, as it were, to
such illegal courses, as generally bring them to a shameful death: "I
mean," said he, "those only whose highest guilt extends no farther
than to robbery, and who are never guilty of cruelty nor insult to any
person, which is a circumstance that, I must say, to the honour of our
country, distinguishes the robbers of England from those of all other
nations; for murder is, amongst those, almost inseparably incident to
robbery."

"No doubt," answered Partridge, "it is better to take away one's money
than one's life; and yet it is very hard upon honest men, that they
can't travel about their business without being in danger of these
villains. And to be sure it would be better that all rogues were
hanged out of the way, than that one honest man should suffer. For my
own part, indeed, I should not care to have the blood of any of them
on my own hands; but it is very proper for the law to hang them all.
What right hath any man to take sixpence from me, unless I give it
him? Is there any honesty in such a man?"

"No, surely," cries Jones, "no more than there is in him who takes the
horses out of another man's stable, or who applies to his own use the
money which he finds, when he knows the right owner."

These hints stopt the mouth of Partridge; nor did he open it again
till Jones, having thrown some sarcastical jokes on his cowardice, he
offered to excuse himself on the inequality of fire-arms, saying, "A
thousand naked men are nothing to one pistol; for though it is true it
will kill but one at a single discharge, yet who can tell but that one
may be himself?"




BOOK XIII.

CONTAINING THE SPACE OF TWELVE DAYS.



Chapter i.

An Invocation.


Come, bright love of fame, inspire my glowing breast: not thee I will
call, who, over swelling tides of blood and tears, dost bear the heroe
on to glory, while sighs of millions waft his spreading sails; but
thee, fair, gentle maid, whom Mnesis, happy nymph, first on the banks
of Hebrus did produce. Thee, whom Maeonia educated, whom Mantua
charmed, and who, on that fair hill which overlooks the proud
metropolis of Britain, sat'st, with thy Milton, sweetly tuning the
heroic lyre; fill my ravished fancy with the hopes of charming ages
yet to come. Foretel me that some tender maid, whose grandmother is
yet unborn, hereafter, when, under the fictitious name of Sophia, she
reads the real worth which once existed in my Charlotte, shall from
her sympathetic breast send forth the heaving sigh. Do thou teach me
not only to foresee, but to enjoy, nay, even to feed on future praise.
Comfort me by a solemn assurance, that when the little parlour in
which I sit at this instant shall be reduced to a worse furnished box,
I shall be read with honour by those who never knew nor saw me, and
whom I shall neither know nor see.

And thou, much plumper dame, whom no airy forms nor phantoms of
imagination cloathe; whom the well-seasoned beef, and pudding richly
stained with plums, delight: thee I call: of whom in a treckschuyte,
in some Dutch canal, the fat ufrow gelt, impregnated by a jolly
merchant of Amsterdam, was delivered: in Grub-street school didst thou
suck in the elements of thy erudition. Here hast thou, in thy maturer
age, taught poetry to tickle not the fancy, but the pride of the
patron. Comedy from thee learns a grave and solemn air; while tragedy
storms aloud, and rends th' affrighted theatres with its thunders. To
soothe thy wearied limbs in slumber, Alderman History tells his
tedious tale; and, again, to awaken thee, Monsieur Romance performs
his surprizing tricks of dexterity. Nor less thy well-fed bookseller
obeys thy influence. By thy advice the heavy, unread, folio lump,
which long had dozed on the dusty shelf, piecemealed into numbers,
runs nimbly through the nation. Instructed by thee, some books, like
quacks, impose on the world by promising wonders; while others turn
beaus, and trust all their merits to a gilded outside. Come, thou
jolly substance, with thy shining face, keep back thy inspiration, but
hold forth thy tempting rewards; thy shining, chinking heap; thy
quickly convertible bank-bill, big with unseen riches; thy
often-varying stock; the warm, the comfortable house; and, lastly, a
fair portion of that bounteous mother, whose flowing breasts yield
redundant sustenance for all her numerous offspring, did not some too
greedily and wantonly drive their brethren from the teat. Come thou,
and if I am too tasteless of thy valuable treasures, warm my heart
with the transporting thought of conveying them to others. Tell me,
that through thy bounty, the pratling babes, whose innocent play hath
often been interrupted by my labours, may one time be amply rewarded
for them.

And now, this ill-yoked pair, this lean shadow and this fat substance,
have prompted me to write, whose assistance shall I invoke to direct
my pen?

First, Genius; thou gift of Heaven; without whose aid in vain we
struggle against the stream of nature. Thou who dost sow the generous
seeds which art nourishes, and brings to perfection. Do thou kindly
take me by the hand, and lead me through all the mazes, the winding
labyrinths of nature. Initiate me into all those mysteries which
profane eyes never beheld. Teach me, which to thee is no difficult
task, to know mankind better than they know themselves. Remove that
mist which dims the intellects of mortals, and causes them to adore
men for their art, or to detest them for their cunning, in deceiving
others, when they are, in reality, the objects only of ridicule, for
deceiving themselves. Strip off the thin disguise of wisdom from
self-conceit, of plenty from avarice, and of glory from ambition.
Come, thou that hast inspired thy Aristophanes, thy Lucian, thy
Cervantes, thy Rabelais, thy Molière, thy Shakespear, thy Swift, thy
Marivaux, fill my pages with humour; till mankind learn the
good-nature to laugh only at the follies of others, and the humility
to grieve at their own.

And thou, almost the constant attendant on true genius, Humanity,
bring all thy tender sensations. If thou hast already disposed of them
all between thy Allen and thy Lyttleton, steal them a little while
from their bosoms. Not without these the tender scene is painted. From
these alone proceed the noble, disinterested friendship, the melting
love, the generous sentiment, the ardent gratitude, the soft
compassion, the candid opinion; and all those strong energies of a
good mind, which fill the moistened eyes with tears, the glowing
cheeks with blood, and swell the heart with tides of grief, joy, and
benevolence.

And thou, O Learning! (for without thy assistance nothing pure,
nothing correct, can genius produce) do thou guide my pen. Thee in thy
favourite fields, where the limpid, gently-rolling Thames washes thy
Etonian banks, in early youth I have worshipped. To thee, at thy
birchen altar, with true Spartan devotion, I have sacrificed my blood.
Come then, and from thy vast, luxuriant stores, in long antiquity
piled up, pour forth the rich profusion. Open thy Maeonian and thy
Mantuan coffers, with whatever else includes thy philosophic, thy
poetic, and thy historical treasures, whether with Greek or Roman
characters thou hast chosen to inscribe the ponderous chests: give me
a while that key to all thy treasures, which to thy Warburton thou
hast entrusted.

Lastly, come Experience, long conversant with the wise, the good, the
learned, and the polite. Nor with them only, but with every kind of
character, from the minister at his levee, to the bailiff in his
spunging-house; from the dutchess at her drum, to the landlady behind
her bar. From thee only can the manners of mankind be known; to which
the recluse pedant, however great his parts or extensive his learning
may be, hath ever been a stranger.

Come all these, and more, if possible; for arduous is the task I have
undertaken; and, without all your assistance, will, I find, be too
heavy for me to support. But if you all smile on my labours I hope
still to bring them to a happy conclusion.



Chapter ii.

What befel Mr Jones on his arrival in London.


The learned Dr Misaubin used to say, that the proper direction to him
was _To Dr_ Misaubin, _in the World_; intimating that there were few
people in it to whom his great reputation was not known. And, perhaps,
upon a very nice examination into the matter, we shall find that this
circumstance bears no inconsiderable part among the many blessings of
grandeur.

The great happiness of being known to posterity, with the hopes of
which we so delighted ourselves in the preceding chapter, is the
portion of few. To have the several elements which compose our names,
as Sydenham expresses it, repeated a thousand years hence, is a gift
beyond the power of title and wealth; and is scarce to be purchased,
unless by the sword and the pen. But to avoid the scandalous
imputation, while we yet live, of being _one whom nobody knows_ (a
scandal, by the bye, as old as the days of Homer[*]) will always be the
envied portion of those, who have a legal title either to honour or
estate.

[*] See the 2d Odyssey, ver. 175.

From that figure, therefore, which the Irish peer, who brought Sophia
to town, hath already made in this history, the reader will conclude,
doubtless, it must have been an easy matter to have discovered his
house in London without knowing the particular street or square which
he inhabited, since he must have been one _whom everybody knows_. To
say the truth, so it would have been to any of those tradesmen who are
accustomed to attend the regions of the great; for the doors of the
great are generally no less easy to find than it is difficult to get
entrance into them. But Jones, as well as Partridge, was an entire
stranger in London; and as he happened to arrive first in a quarter of
the town, the inhabitants of which have very little intercourse with
the householders of Hanover or Grosvenor-square (for he entered
through Gray's-inn-lane), so he rambled about some time before he
could even find his way to those happy mansions where fortune
segregates from the vulgar those magnanimous heroes, the descendants
of antient Britons, Saxons, or Danes, whose ancestors, being born in
better days, by sundry kinds of merit, have entailed riches and honour
on their posterity.

Jones, being at length arrived at those terrestrial Elysian fields,
would now soon have discovered his lordship's mansion; but the peer
unluckily quitted his former house when he went for Ireland; and as he
was just entered into a new one, the fame of his equipage had not yet
sufficiently blazed in the neighbourhood; so that, after a successless
enquiry till the clock had struck eleven, Jones at last yielded to the
advice of Partridge, and retreated to the Bull and Gate in Holborn,
that being the inn where he had first alighted, and where he retired
to enjoy that kind of repose which usually attends persons in his
circumstances.

Early in the morning he again set forth in pursuit of Sophia; and many
a weary step he took to no better purpose than before. At last,
whether it was that Fortune relented, or whether it was no longer in
her power to disappoint him, he came into the very street which was
honoured by his lordship's residence; and, being directed to the
house, he gave one gentle rap at the door.

The porter, who, from the modesty of the knock, had conceived no high
idea of the person approaching, conceived but little better from the
appearance of Mr Jones, who was drest in a suit of fustian, and had by
his side the weapon formerly purchased of the serjeant; of which,
though the blade might be composed of well-tempered steel, the handle
was composed only of brass, and that none of the brightest. When
Jones, therefore, enquired after the young lady who had come to town
with his lordship, this fellow answered surlily, "That there were no
ladies there." Jones then desired to see the master of the house; but
was informed that his lordship would see nobody that morning. And upon
growing more pressing the porter said, "he had positive orders to let
no person in; but if you think proper," said he, "to leave your name,
I will acquaint his lordship; and if you call another time you shall
know when he will see you."

Jones now declared, "that he had very particular business with the
young lady, and could not depart without seeing her." Upon which the
porter, with no very agreeable voice or aspect, affirmed, "that there
was no young lady in that house, and consequently none could he see;"
adding, "sure you are the strangest man I ever met with, for you will
not take an answer."

I have often thought that, by the particular description of Cerberus,
the porter of hell, in the 6th Aeneid, Virgil might possibly intend to
satirize the porters of the great men in his time; the picture, at
least, resembles those who have the honour to attend at the doors of
our great men. The porter in his lodge answers exactly to Cerberus in
his den, and, like him, must be appeased by a sop before access can be
gained to his master. Perhaps Jones might have seen him in that light,
and have recollected the passage where the Sibyl, in order to procure
an entrance for Aeneas, presents the keeper of the Stygian avenue with
such a sop. Jones, in like manner, now began to offer a bribe to the
human Cerberus, which a footman, overhearing, instantly advanced, and
declared, "if Mr Jones would give him the sum proposed, he would
conduct him to the lady." Jones instantly agreed, and was forthwith
conducted to the lodging of Mrs Fitzpatrick by the very fellow who had
attended the ladies thither the day before.

Nothing more aggravates ill success than the near approach to good.
The gamester, who loses his party at piquet by a single point, laments
his bad luck ten times as much as he who never came within a prospect
of the game. So in a lottery, the proprietors of the next numbers to
that which wins the great prize are apt to account themselves much
more unfortunate than their fellow-sufferers. In short, these kind of
hairbreadth missings of happiness look like the insults of Fortune,
who may be considered as thus playing tricks with us, and wantonly
diverting herself at our expense.

Jones, who more than once already had experienced this frolicsome
disposition of the heathen goddess, was now again doomed to be
tantalized in the like manner; for he arrived at the door of Mrs
Fitzpatrick about ten minutes after the departure of Sophia. He now
addressed himself to the waiting-woman belonging to Mrs Fitzpatrick;
who told him the disagreeable news that the lady was gone, but could
not tell him whither; and the same answer he afterwards received from
Mrs Fitzpatrick herself. For as that lady made no doubt but that Mr
Jones was a person detached from her uncle Western, in pursuit of his
daughter, so she was too generous to betray her.

Though Jones had never seen Mrs Fitzpatrick, yet he had heard that a
cousin of Sophia was married to a gentleman of that name. This,
however, in the present tumult of his mind, never once recurred to his
memory; but when the footman, who had conducted him from his
lordship's, acquainted him with the great intimacy between the ladies,
and with their calling each other cousin, he then recollected the
story of the marriage which he had formerly heard; and as he was
presently convinced that this was the same woman, he became more
surprized at the answer which he had received, and very earnestly
desired leave to wait on the lady herself; but she as positively
refused him that honour.

Jones, who, though he had never seen a court, was better bred than
most who frequent it, was incapable of any rude or abrupt behaviour to
a lady. When he had received, therefore, a peremptory denial, he
retired for the present, saying to the waiting-woman, "That if this
was an improper hour to wait on her lady, he would return in the
afternoon; and that he then hoped to have the honour of seeing her."
The civility with which he uttered this, added to the great comeliness
of his person, made an impression on the waiting-woman, and she could
not help answering; "Perhaps, sir, you may;" and, indeed, she
afterwards said everything to her mistress, which she thought most
likely to prevail on her to admit a visit from the handsome young
gentleman; for so she called him.

Jones very shrewdly suspected that Sophia herself was now with her
cousin, and was denied to him; which he imputed to her resentment of
what had happened at Upton. Having, therefore, dispatched Partridge to
procure him lodgings, he remained all day in the street, watching the
door where he thought his angel lay concealed; but no person did he
see issue forth, except a servant of the house, and in the evening he
returned to pay his visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick, which that good lady at
last condescended to admit.

There is a certain air of natural gentility, which it is neither in
the power of dress to give, nor to conceal. Mr Jones, as hath been
before hinted, was possessed of this in a very eminent degree. He met,
therefore, with a reception from the lady somewhat different from what
his apparel seemed to demand; and after he had paid her his proper
respects, was desired to sit down.

The reader will not, I believe, be desirous of knowing all the
particulars of this conversation, which ended very little to the
satisfaction of poor Jones. For though Mrs Fitzpatrick soon discovered
the lover (as all women have the eyes of hawks in those matters), yet
she still thought it was such a lover, as a generous friend of the
lady should not betray her to. In short, she suspected this was the
very Mr Blifil, from whom Sophia had flown; and all the answers which
she artfully drew from Jones, concerning Mr Allworthy's family,
confirmed her in this opinion. She therefore strictly denied any
knowledge concerning the place whither Sophia was gone; nor could
Jones obtain more than a permission to wait on her again the next
evening.

When Jones was departed Mrs Fitzpatrick communicated her suspicion
concerning Mr Blifil to her maid; who answered, "Sure, madam, he is
too pretty a man, in my opinion, for any woman in the world to run
away from. I had rather fancy it is Mr Jones."--"Mr Jones!" said the
lady, "what Jones?" For Sophia had not given the least hint of any
such person in all their conversation; but Mrs Honour had been much
more communicative, and had acquainted her sister Abigail with the
whole history of Jones, which this now again related to her mistress.

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