A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

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




To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr Jones, and to do justice to the
liberality of the lady, he had really received this present from her,
who, though she did not give much into the hackney charities of the
age, such as building hospitals, &c., was not, however, entirely void
of that Christian virtue; and conceived (very rightly I think) that a
young fellow of merit, without a shilling in the world, was no
improper object of this virtue.

Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with Mrs
Miller. At the appointed hour, therefore, the two young gentlemen,
with the two girls, attended in the parlour, where they waited from
three till almost five before the good woman appeared. She had been
out of town to visit a relation, of whom, at her return, she gave the
following account.

"I hope, gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure if
you knew the occasion--I have been to see a cousin of mine, about six
miles off, who now lies in.--It should be a warning to all persons
(says she, looking at her daughters) how they marry indiscreetly.
There is no happiness in this world without a competency. O Nancy! how
shall I describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor
cousin? she hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this
dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and
not a bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire; her second
son, that sweet little fellow, lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed
with his mother; for there is no other bed in the house. Poor little
Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you will never see your favourite any more;
for he is really very ill. The rest of the children are in pretty good
health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself an injury: she is but
thirteen years old, Mr Nightingale, and yet, in my life, I never saw a
better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother; and, what is
wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the chearfulness in
the world to her mother; and yet I saw her--I saw the poor child, Mr
Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the tears from her eyes."
Here Mrs Miller was prevented, by her own tears, from going on, and
there was not, I believe, a person present who did not accompany her
in them; at length she a little recovered herself, and proceeded thus:
"In all this distress the mother supports her spirits in a surprizing
manner. The danger of her son sits heaviest upon her, and yet she
endeavours as much as possible to conceal even this concern, on her
husband's account. Her grief, however, sometimes gets the better of
all her endeavours; for she was always extravagantly fond of this boy,
and a most sensible, sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest I was
never more affected in my life than when I heard the little wretch,
who is hardly yet seven years old, while his mother was wetting him
with her tears, beg her to be comforted. `Indeed, mamma,' cried the
child, `I shan't die; God Almighty, I'm sure, won't take Tommy away;
let heaven be ever so fine a place, I had rather stay here and starve
with you and my papa than go to it.' Pardon me, gentlemen, I can't
help it" (says she, wiping her eyes), "such sensibility and affection
in a child.--And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a
day or two will, most probably, place him beyond the reach of all
human evils. The father is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor
man, his countenance is the very picture of horror, and he looks like
one rather dead than alive. Oh heavens! what a scene did I behold at
my first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the
bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife. He had
nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed,
to supply the want of blankets.--When he rose up at my entrance, I
scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr Jones, within this fortnight, as
you ever beheld; Mr Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his face
pale, with a long beard. His body shivering with cold, and worn with
hunger too; for my cousin says she can hardly prevail upon him to
eat.--He told me himself in a whisper--he told me--I can't repeat
it--he said he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted.
And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery his wife
has as good caudle as if she lay in the midst of the greatest
affluence; I tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better.--The means of
procuring her this, he said, he believed was sent him by an angel from
heaven. I know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask
a single question.

"This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a
match between two beggars. I must, indeed, say, I never saw a fonder
couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to torment each
other?" "Indeed, mamma," cries Nancy, "I have always looked on my
cousin Anderson" (for that was her name) "as one of the happiest of
women." "I am sure," says Mrs Miller, "the case at present is much
otherwise; for any one might have discerned that the tender
consideration of each other's sufferings makes the most intolerable
part of their calamity, both to the husband and wife. Compared to
which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons only, are
scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is not two
years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a most
loving family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be the
happiest people in the world." "I never saw the least sign of misery
at her house," replied Nancy; "I am sure my heart bleeds for what you
now tell me."--"O child," answered the mother, "she hath always
endeavoured to make the best of everything. They have always been in
great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath been brought upon
them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his brother; and
about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in, their goods were
all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a letter to me of
it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered.--What
must he think of my suffering a week to pass before he heard of me?"

It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it was
ended he took Mrs Miller apart with him into another room, and,
delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of £50, desired her to
send as much of it as she thought proper to these poor people. The
look which Mrs Miller gave Jones, on this occasion, is not easy to be
described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and cryed
out--"Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?"--But
recollecting herself, she said, "Indeed I know one such; but can there
be another?" "I hope, madam," cries Jones, "there are many who have
common humanity; for to relieve such distresses in our fellow-creatures,
can hardly be called more." Mrs Miller then took ten guineas, which
were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, "She
would find some means of conveying them early the next morning;"
adding, "that she had herself done some little matter for the poor
people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found
them."

They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed much
concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom indeed he
knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs Miller's. He
inveighed against the folly of making oneself liable for the debts of
others; vented many bitter execrations against the brother; and
concluded with wishing something could be done for the unfortunate
family. "Suppose, madam," said he, "you should recommend them to Mr
Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will give them a
guinea with all my heart."

Mrs Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had whispered
the generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion; though, if
either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely without
reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was not an
example which he had any obligation to follow; and there are thousands
who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed he did
not in effect, for he made no tender of anything; and therefore, as
the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his money in his
pocket.

I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better opportunity
than at present to communicate my observation, that the world are in
general divided into two opinions concerning charity, which are the
very reverse of each other. One party seems to hold, that all acts of
this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and, however little
you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes), you acquire a
great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the contrary, appear to
be as firmly persuaded, that beneficence is a positive duty, and that
whenever the rich fall greatly short of their ability in relieving the
distresses of the poor, their pitiful largesses are so far from being
meritorious, that they have only performed their duty by halves, and
are in some sense more contemptible than those who have entirely
neglected it.

To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall only
add, that the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and the
receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.



Chapter ix.

Which treats of matters of a very different kind from those in the
preceding chapter.


In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation again
ensued between them: but as it consisted only of the same ordinary
occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning particulars, which we
despair of rendering agreeable to the reader; unless he is one whose
devotion to the fair sex, like that of the papists to their saints,
wants to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am so far from
desiring to exhibit such pictures to the public, that I would wish to
draw a curtain over those that have been lately set forth in certain
French novels; very bungling copies of which have been presented us
here under the name of translations.

Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding,
after repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston, no likelihood of
obtaining this by her means (for, on the contrary, the lady began to
treat even the mention of the name of Sophia with resentment), he
resolved to try some other method. He made no doubt but that Lady
Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he thought it most likely that
some of her servants should be acquainted with the same secret.
Partridge therefore was employed to get acquainted with those
servants, in order to fish this secret out of them.

Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his poor
master was at present reduced; for besides the difficulties he met
with in discovering Sophia, besides the fears he had of having
disobliged her, and the assurances he had received from Lady Bellaston
of the resolution which Sophia had taken against him, and of her
having purposely concealed herself from him, which he had sufficient
reason to believe might be true; he had still a difficulty to combat
which it was not in the power of his mistress to remove, however kind
her inclination might have been. This was the exposing of her to be
disinherited of all her father's estate, the almost inevitable
consequence of their coming together without a consent, which he had
no hopes of ever obtaining.

Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose
violent fondness we can no longer conceal, had heaped upon him; so
that by her means he was now become one of the best-dressed men about
town; and was not only relieved from those ridiculous distresses we
have before mentioned, but was actually raised to a state of affluence
beyond what he had ever known.

Now, though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to
their consciences to possess themselves of the whole fortune of a
woman, without making her any kind of return; yet to a mind, the
proprietor of which doth not deserved to be hanged, nothing is, I
believe, more irksome than to support love with gratitude only;
especially where inclination pulls the heart a contrary way. Such was
the unhappy case of Jones; for though the virtuous love he bore to
Sophia, and which left very little affection for any other woman, had
been entirely out of the question, he could never have been able to
have made any adequate return to the generous passion of this lady,
who had indeed been once an object of desire, but was now entered at
least into the autumn of life, though she wore all the gaiety of
youth, both in her dress and manner; nay, she contrived still to
maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out
of season by art, had none of that lively blooming freshness with
which Nature, at the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She
had, besides, a certain imperfection, which renders some flowers,
though very beautiful to the eye, very improper to be placed in a
wilderness of sweets, and what above all others is most disagreeable
to the breath of love.

Though Jones saw all these discouragements on the one side, he felt
his obligations full as strongly on the other; nor did he less plainly
discern the ardent passion whence those obligations proceeded, the
extreme violence of which if he failed to equal, he well knew the lady
would think him ungrateful; and, what is worse, he would have thought
himself so. He knew the tacit consideration upon which all her favours
were conferred; and as his necessity obliged him to accept them, so
his honour, he concluded, forced him to pay the price. This therefore
he resolved to do, whatever misery it cost him, and to devote himself
to her, from that great principle of justice, by which the laws of
some countries oblige a debtor, who is no otherwise capable of
discharging his debt, to become the slave of his creditor.

While he was meditating on these matters, he received the following
note from the lady:--

"A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened since
our last meeting, which makes it improper I should see you any more
at the usual place. I will, if possible, contrive some other place
by to-morrow. In the meantime, adieu."

This disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was not very
great; but if it was, he was quickly relieved; for in less than an
hour afterwards another note was brought him from the same hand, which
contained as follows:--

"I have altered my mind since I wrote; a change which, if you are no
stranger to the tenderest of all passions, you will not wonder at. I
am now resolved to see you this evening at my own house, whatever
may be the consequence. Come to me exactly at seven; I dine abroad,
but will be at home by that time. A day, I find, to those that
sincerely love, seems longer than I imagined.

"If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid them
show you into the drawing-room."

To confess the truth, Jones was less pleased with this last epistle
than he had been with the former, as he was prevented by it from
complying with the earnest entreaties of Mr Nightingale, with whom he
had now contracted much intimacy and friendship. These entreaties were
to go with that young gentleman and his company to a new play, which
was to be acted that evening, and which a very large party had agreed
to damn, from some dislike they had taken to the author, who was a
friend to one of Mr Nightingale's acquaintance. And this sort of fun,
our heroe, we are ashamed to confess, would willingly have preferred
to the above kind appointment; but his honour got the better of his
inclination.

Before we attend him to this intended interview with the lady, we
think proper to account for both the preceding notes, as the reader
may possibly be not a little surprized at the imprudence of Lady
Bellaston, in bringing her lover to the very house where her rival was
lodged.

First, then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had hitherto
met, and who had been for some years a pensioner to that lady, was now
become a methodist, and had that very morning waited upon her
ladyship, and after rebuking her very severely for her past life, had
positively declared that she would, on no account, be instrumental in
carrying on any of her affairs for the future.

The hurry of spirits into which this accident threw the lady made her
despair of possibly finding any other convenience to meet Jones that
evening; but as she began a little to recover from her uneasiness at
the disappointment, she set her thoughts to work, when luckily it came
into her head to propose to Sophia to go to the play, which was
immediately consented to, and a proper lady provided for her
companion. Mrs Honour was likewise despatched with Mrs Etoff on the
same errand of pleasure; and thus her own house was left free for the
safe reception of Mr Jones, with whom she promised herself two or
three hours of uninterrupted conversation after her return from the
place where she dined, which was at a friend's house in a pretty
distant part of the town, near her old place of assignation, where she
had engaged herself before she was well apprized of the revolution
that had happened in the mind and morals of her late confidante.



Chapter x.

A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some eyes.


Mr Jones was just dressed to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs Miller
rapped at his door; and, being admitted, very earnestly desired his
company below-stairs, to drink tea in the parlour.

Upon his entrance into the room, she presently introduced a person to
him, saying, "This, sir, is my cousin, who hath been so greatly
beholden to your goodness, for which he begs to return you his
sincerest thanks."

The man had scarce entered upon that speech which Mrs Miller had so
kindly prefaced, when both Jones and he, looking stedfastly at each
other, showed at once the utmost tokens of surprize. The voice of the
latter began instantly to faulter; and, instead of finishing his
speech, he sunk down into a chair, crying, "It is so, I am convinced
it is so!"

"Bless me! what's the meaning of this?" cries Mrs Miller; "you are not
ill, I hope, cousin? Some water, a dram this instant."

"Be not frighted, madam," cries Jones, "I have almost as much need of
a dram as your cousin. We are equally surprized at this unexpected
meeting. Your cousin is an acquaintance of mine, Mrs Miller."

"An acquaintance!" cries the man.--"Oh, heaven!"

"Ay, an acquaintance," repeated Jones, "and an honoured acquaintance
too. When I do not love and honour the man who dares venture
everything to preserve his wife and children from instant destruction,
may I have a friend capable of disowning me in adversity!"

"Oh, you are an excellent young man," cries Mrs Miller:--"Yes, indeed,
poor creature! he hath ventured everything.--If he had not had one of
the best of constitutions, it must have killed him."

"Cousin," cries the man, who had now pretty well recovered himself,
"this is the angel from heaven whom I meant. This is he to whom,
before I saw you, I owed the preservation of my Peggy. He it was to
whose generosity every comfort, every support which I have procured
for her, was owing. He is, indeed, the worthiest, bravest, noblest; of
all human beings. O cousin, I have obligations to this gentleman of
such a nature!"

"Mention nothing of obligations," cries Jones eagerly; "not a word, I
insist upon it, not a word" (meaning, I suppose, that he would not
have him betray the affair of the robbery to any person). "If, by the
trifle you have received from me, I have preserved a whole family,
sure pleasure was never bought so cheap."

"Oh, sir!" cries the man, "I wish you could this instant see my house.
If any person had ever a right to the pleasure you mention, I am
convinced it is yourself. My cousin tells me she acquainted you with
the distress in which she found us. That, sir, is all greatly removed,
and chiefly by your goodness.----My children have now a bed to lie
on----and they have----they have----eternal blessings reward you for
it!----they have bread to eat. My little boy is recovered; my wife is
out of danger, and I am happy. All, all owing to you, sir, and to my
cousin here, one of the best of women. Indeed, sir, I must see you at
my house.--Indeed my wife must see you, and thank you.--My children
too must express their gratitude.----Indeed, sir, they are not without
a sense of their obligation; but what is my feeling when I reflect to
whom I owe that they are now capable of expressing their
gratitude.----Oh, sir, the little hearts which you have warmed had now
been cold as ice without your assistance."

Here Jones attempted to prevent the poor man from proceeding; but
indeed the overflowing of his own heart would of itself have stopped
his words. And now Mrs Miller likewise began to pour forth
thanksgivings, as well in her own name, as in that of her cousin, and
concluded with saying, "She doubted not but such goodness would meet a
glorious reward."

Jones answered, "He had been sufficiently rewarded already. Your
cousin's account, madam," said he, "hath given me a sensation more
pleasing than I have ever known. He must be a wretch who is unmoved at
hearing such a story; how transporting then must be the thought of
having happily acted a part in this scene! If there are men who cannot
feel the delight of giving happiness to others, I sincerely pity them,
as they are incapable of tasting what is, in my opinion, a greater
honour, a higher interest, and a sweeter pleasure than the ambitious,
the avaricious, or the voluptuous man can ever obtain."

The hour of appointment being now come, Jones was forced to take a
hasty leave, but not before he had heartily shaken his friend by the
hand, and desired to see him again as soon as possible; promising that
he would himself take the first opportunity of visiting him at his own
house. He then stept into his chair, and proceeded to Lady
Bellaston's, greatly exulting in the happiness which he had procured
to this poor family; nor could he forbear reflecting, without horror,
on the dreadful consequences which must have attended them, had he
listened rather to the voice of strict justice than to that of mercy,
when he was attacked on the high road.

Mrs Miller sung forth the praises of Jones during the whole evening,
in which Mr Anderson, while he stayed, so passionately accompanied
her, that he was often on the very point of mentioning the
circumstance of the robbery. However, he luckily recollected himself,
and avoided an indiscretion which would have been so much the greater,
as he knew Mrs Miller to be extremely strict and nice in her
principles. He was likewise well apprized of the loquacity of this
lady; and yet such was his gratitude, that it had almost got the
better both of discretion and shame, and made him publish that which
would have defamed his own character, rather than omit any
circumstances which might do the fullest honour to his benefactor.



Chapter xi.

In which the reader will be surprized.


Mr Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than
the lady; whose arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of the
place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents very
vexatious to one in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown
into the drawing-room, where he had not been many minutes before the
door opened, and in came----no other than Sophia herself, who had left
the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have already
said, being, a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to
damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement
between the two parties, had so terrified our heroine, that she was
glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman who
safely conveyed her to her chair.

As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home
till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily
in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her, without
once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of
Jones now stood motionless.---In this glass it was, after
contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the said
statue; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the reality of
the vision: upon which she gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved
herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to her, and support
her in his arms.

To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is beyond my
power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged
to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed
that I should be able to express them: and the misfortune is, that few
of my readers have been enough in love to feel by their own hearts
what past at this time in theirs.

After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said--"I see,
madam, you are surprized."--"Surprized!" answered she; "Oh heavens!
Indeed, I am surprized. I almost doubt whether you are the person you
seem."--"Indeed," cries he, "my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for this
once calling you so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom fortune,
after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you.
Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in
this long, fruitless pursuit."--"Pursuit of whom?" said Sophia, a
little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved air.--"Can you be
so cruel to ask that question?" cries Jones; "Need I say, of you?" "Of
me!" answered Sophia: "Hath Mr Jones, then, any such important
business with me?"--"To some, madam," cries Jones, "this might seem an
important business" (giving her the pocket-book). "I hope, madam, you
will find it of the same value as when it was lost." Sophia took the
pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her
thus:--"Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments
which fortune hath so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of
a much superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon."--"My
pardon!" cries she; "Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect,
after what I have heard."--"I scarce know what I say," answered Jones.
"By heavens! I scarce wish you should pardon me. O my Sophia!
henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am. If any
remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to
that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance
of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind."

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.