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The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

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




Though vexation hath not the same effect on all persons as it usually
hath on a widow, whose appetite it often renders sharper than it can
be rendered by the air on Bansted Downs, or Salisbury Plain; yet the
sublimest grief, notwithstanding what some people may say to the
contrary, will eat at last. And Sophia, herself, after some little
consideration, began to dissect the fowl, which she found to be as
full of eggs as George had reported it.

But, if she was pleased with these, it contained something which would
have delighted the Royal Society much more; for if a fowl with three
legs be so invaluable a curiosity, when perhaps time hath produced a
thousand such, at what price shall we esteem a bird which so totally
contradicts all the laws of animal oeconomy, as to contain a letter in
its belly? Ovid tells us of a flower into which Hyacinthus was
metamorphosed, that bears letters on its leaves, which Virgil
recommended as a miracle to the Royal Society of his day; but no age
nor nation hath ever recorded a bird with a letter in its maw.

But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the
_Académies des Sciences_ in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless
enquiry; yet the reader, by barely recollecting the last dialogue
which passed between Messieurs Jones and Partridge, will be very
easily satisfied from whence this letter came, and how it found its
passage into the fowl.

Sophia, notwithstanding her long fast, and notwithstanding her
favourite dish was there before her, no sooner saw the letter than she
immediately snatched it up, tore it open, and read as follows:--

"MADAM,

"Was I not sensible to whom I have the honour of writing, I should
endeavour, however difficult, to paint the horrors of my mind at the
account brought me by Mrs Honour; but as tenderness alone can have
any true idea of the pangs which tenderness is capable of feeling,
so can this most amiable quality, which my Sophia possesses in the
most eminent degree, sufficiently inform her what her Jones must
have suffered on this melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance
in the world which can heighten my agonies, when I hear of any
misfortune which hath befallen you? Surely there is one only, and
with that I am accursed. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful
consideration that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I here do
myself too much honour, but none will envy me an honour which costs
me so extremely dear. Pardon me this presumption, and pardon me a
greater still, if I ask you, whether my advice, my assistance, my
presence, my absence, my death, or my tortures can bring you any
relief? Can the most perfect admiration, the most watchful
observance, the most ardent love, the most melting tenderness, the
most resigned submission to your will, make you amends for what you
are to sacrifice to my happiness? If they can, fly, my lovely angel,
to those arms which are ever open to receive and protect you; and to
which, whether you bring yourself alone, or the riches of the world
with you, is, in my opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If,
on the contrary, wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature
reflection, inform you, that the sacrifice is too great; and if
there be no way left to reconcile your father, and restore the peace
of your dear mind, but by abandoning me, I conjure you drive me for
ever from your thoughts, exert your resolution, and let no
compassion for my sufferings bear the least weight in that tender
bosom. Believe me, madam, I so sincerely love you better than
myself, that my great and principal end is your happiness. My first
wish (why would not fortune indulge me in it?) was, and pardon me if
I say, still is, to see you every moment the happiest of women; my
second wish is, to hear you are so; but no misery on earth can equal
mine, while I think you owe an uneasy moment to him who is,

Madam,
in every sense, and to every purpose,
your devoted,
THOMAS JONES."

What Sophia said, or did, or thought, upon this letter, how often she
read it, or whether more than once, shall all be left to our reader's
imagination. The answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter, but not at
present: for this reason, among others, that she did not now write
any, and that for several good causes, one of which was this, she had
no paper, pen, nor ink.

In the evening, while Sophia was meditating on the letter she had
received, or on something else, a violent noise from below disturbed
her meditations. This noise was no other than a round bout at
altercation between two persons. One of the combatants, by his voice,
she immediately distinguished to be her father; but she did not so
soon discover the shriller pipes to belong to the organ of her aunt
Western, who was just arrived in town, where having, by means of one
of her servants, who stopt at the Hercules Pillars, learned where her
brother lodged, she drove directly to his lodgings.

We shall therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and, with our
usual good-breeding, attend her ladyship.



Chapter iv.

In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement.


The squire and the parson (for the landlord was now otherwise engaged)
were smoaking their pipes together, when the arrival of the lady was
first signified. The squire no sooner heard her name, than he
immediately ran down to usher her upstairs; for he was a great
observer of such ceremonials, especially to his sister, of whom he
stood more in awe than of any other human creature, though he never
would own this, nor did he perhaps know it himself.

Mrs Western, on her arrival in the dining-room, having flung herself
into a chair, began thus to harangue: "Well, surely, no one ever had
such an intolerable journey. I think the roads, since so many turnpike
acts, are grown worse than ever. La, brother, how could you get into
this odious place? no person of condition, I dare swear, ever set foot
here before." "I don't know," cries the squire, "I think they do well
enough; it was landlord recommended them. I thought, as he knew most
of the quality, he could best shew me where to get among um." "Well,
and where's my niece?" says the lady; "have you been to wait upon Lady
Bellaston yet?" "Ay, ay," cries the squire, "your niece is safe
enough; she is upstairs in chamber." "How!" answered the lady, "is my
niece in this house, and does she not know of my being here?" "No,
nobody can well get to her," says the squire, "for she is under lock
and key. I have her safe; I vetched her from my lady cousin the first
night I came to town, and I have taken care o' her ever since; she is
as secure as a fox in a bag, I promise you." "Good heaven!" returned
Mrs Western, "what do I hear? I thought what a fine piece of work
would be the consequence of my consent to your coming to town
yourself; nay, it was indeed your own headstrong will, nor can I
charge myself with having ever consented to it. Did not you promise
me, brother, that you would take none of these headstrong measures?
Was it not by these headstrong measures that you forced my niece to
run away from you in the country? Have you a mind to oblige her to
take such another step?" "Z--ds and the devil!" cries the squire,
dashing his pipe on the ground; "did ever mortal hear the like? when I
expected you would have commended me for all I have done, to be fallen
upon in this manner!" "How, brother!" said the lady, "have I ever
given you the least reason to imagine I should commend you for locking
up your daughter? Have I not often told you that women in a free
country are not to be treated with such arbitrary power? We are as
free as the men, and I heartily wish I could not say we deserve that
freedom better. If you expect I should stay a moment longer in this
wretched house, or that I should ever own you again as my relation, or
that I should ever trouble myself again with the affairs of your
family, I insist upon it that my niece be set at liberty this
instant." This she spoke with so commanding an air, standing with her
back to the fire, with one hand behind her, and a pinch of snuff in
the other, that I question whether Thalestris, at the head of her
Amazons, ever made a more tremendous figure. It is no wonder,
therefore, that the poor squire was not proof against the awe which
she inspired. "There," he cried, throwing down the key, "there it is,
do whatever you please. I intended only to have kept her up till
Blifil came to town, which can't be long; and now if any harm happens
in the mean time, remember who is to be blamed for it."

"I will answer it with my life," cried Mrs Western, "but I shall not
intermeddle at all, unless upon one condition, and that is, that you
will commit the whole entirely to my care, without taking any one
measure yourself, unless I shall eventually appoint you to act. If you
ratify these preliminaries, brother, I yet will endeavour to preserve
the honour of your family; if not, I shall continue in a neutral
state."

"I pray you, good sir," said the parson, "permit yourself this once to
be admonished by her ladyship: peradventure, by communing with young
Madam Sophia, she will effect more than you have been able to
perpetrate by more rigorous measures."

"What, dost thee open upon me?" cries the squire: "if thee dost begin
to babble, I shall whip thee in presently."

"Fie, brother," answered the lady, "is this language to a clergyman?
Mr Supple is a man of sense, and gives you the best advice; and the
whole world, I believe, will concur in his opinion; but I must tell
you I expect an immediate answer to my categorical proposals. Either
cede your daughter to my disposal, or take her wholly to your own
surprizing discretion, and then I here, before Mr Supple, evacuate the
garrison, and renounce you and your family for ever."

"I pray you let me be a mediator," cries the parson, "let me
supplicate you."

"Why, there lies the key on the table," cries the squire. "She may
take un up, if she pleases: who hinders her?"

"No, brother," answered the lady, "I insist on the formality of its
being delivered me, with a full ratification of all the concessions
stipulated."

"Why then I will deliver it to you.--There 'tis," cries the squire. "I
am sure, sister, you can't accuse me of ever denying to trust my
daughter to you. She hath a-lived wi' you a whole year and muore to a
time, without my ever zeeing her."

"And it would have been happy for her," answered the lady, "if she had
always lived with me. Nothing of this kind would have happened under
my eye."

"Ay, certainly," cries he, "I only am to blame."

"Why, you are to blame, brother," answered she. "I have been often
obliged to tell you so, and shall always be obliged to tell you so.
However, I hope you will now amend, and gather so much experience from
past errors, as not to defeat my wisest machinations by your blunders.
Indeed, brother, you are not qualified for these negociations. All
your whole scheme of politics is wrong. I once more, therefore,
insist, that you do not intermeddle. Remember only what is past."----

"Z--ds and bl--d, sister," cries the squire, "what would you have me
say? You are enough to provoke the devil."

"There, now," said she, "just according to the old custom. I see,
brother, there is no talking to you. I will appeal to Mr Supple, who
is a man of sense, if I said anything which could put any human
creature into a passion; but you are so wrongheaded every way."

"Let me beg you, madam," said the parson, "not to irritate his
worship."

"Irritate him?" said the lady; "sure, you are as great a fool as
himself. Well, brother, since you have promised not to interfere, I
will once more undertake the management of my niece. Lord have mercy
upon all affairs which are under the directions of men! The head of
one woman is worth a thousand of yours." And now having summoned a
servant to show her to Sophia, she departed, bearing the key with her.

She was no sooner gone, than the squire (having first shut the door)
ejaculated twenty bitches, and as many hearty curses against her, not
sparing himself for having ever thought of her estate; but added, "Now
one hath been a slave so long, it would be pity to lose it at last,
for want of holding out a little longer. The bitch can't live for
ever, and I know I am down for it upon the will."

The parson greatly commended this resolution: and now the squire
having ordered in another bottle, which was his usual method when
anything either pleased or vexed him, did, by drinking plentifully of
this medicinal julap, so totally wash away his choler, that his temper
was become perfectly placid and serene, when Mrs Western returned with
Sophia into the room. The young lady had on her hat and capuchin, and
the aunt acquainted Mr Western, "that she intended to take her niece
with her to her own lodgings; for, indeed, brother," says she, "these
rooms are not fit to receive a Christian soul in."

"Very well, madam," quoth Western, "whatever you please. The girl can
never be in better hands than yours; and the parson here can do me the
justice to say, that I have said fifty times behind your back, that
you was one of the most sensible women in the world."

"To this," cries the parson, "I am ready to bear testimony."

"Nay, brother," says Mrs Western, "I have always, I'm sure, given you
as favourable a character. You must own you have a little too much
hastiness in your temper; but when you will allow yourself time to
reflect I never knew a man more reasonable."

"Why then, sister, if you think so," said the squire, "here's your
good health with all my heart. I am a little passionate sometimes, but
I scorn to bear any malice. Sophy, do you be a good girl, and do
everything your aunt orders you."

"I have not the least doubt of her," answered Mrs Western. "She hath
had already an example before her eyes in the behaviour of that wretch
her cousin Harriet, who ruined herself by neglecting my advice. O
brother, what think you? You was hardly gone out of hearing, when you
set out for London, when who should arrive but that impudent fellow
with the odious Irish name--that Fitzpatrick. He broke in abruptly
upon me without notice, or I would not have seen him. He ran on a
long, unintelligible story about his wife, to which he forced me to
give him a hearing; but I made him very little answer, and delivered
him the letter from his wife, which I bid him answer himself. I
suppose the wretch will endeavour to find us out, but I beg you will
not see her, for I am determined I will not."

"I zee her!" answered the squire; "you need not fear me. I'll ge no
encouragement to such undutiful wenches. It is well for the fellow,
her husband, I was not at huome. Od rabbit it, he should have taken a
dance thru the horse-pond, I promise un. You zee, Sophy, what
undutifulness brings volks to. You have an example in your own
family."

"Brother," cries the aunt, "you need not shock my niece by such odious
repetitions. Why will you not leave everything entirely to me?" "Well,
well, I wull, I wull," said the squire.

And now Mrs Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to the
conversation by ordering chairs to be called. I say luckily, for had
it continued much longer, fresh matter of dissension would, most
probably, have arisen between the brother and sister; between whom
education and sex made the only difference; for both were equally
violent and equally positive: they had both a vast affection for
Sophia, and both a sovereign contempt for each other.



Chapter v.

In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to a play with
Mrs Miller and Partridge.


The arrival of Black George in town, and the good offices which that
grateful fellow had promised to do for his old benefactor, greatly
comforted Jones in the midst of all the anxiety and uneasiness which
he had suffered on the account of Sophia; from whom, by the means of
the said George, he received the following answer to his letter, which
Sophia, to whom the use of pen, ink, and paper was restored with her
liberty, wrote the very evening when she departed from her
confinement:

"Sir,

"As I do not doubt your sincerity in what you write, you will be
pleased to hear that some of my afflictions are at an end, by the
arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am at present, and with whom
I enjoy all the liberty I can desire. One promise my aunt hath
insisted on my making, which is, that I will not see or converse
with any person without her knowledge and consent. This promise I
have most solemnly given, and shall most inviolably keep: and though
she hath not expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an
omission from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the
word conversing. However, as I cannot but consider this as a breach
of her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that I
shall, after this, continue to write myself or to receive letters,
without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred thing, and
to be extended to everything understood from it, as well as to what
is expressed by it; and this consideration may, perhaps, on
reflection, afford you some comfort. But why should I mention a
comfort to you of this kind; for though there is one thing in which
I can never comply with the best of fathers, yet am I firmly
resolved never to act in defiance of him, or to take any step of
consequence without his consent. A firm persuasion of this must
teach you to divert your thoughts from what fortune hath (perhaps)
made impossible. This your own interest persuades you. This may
reconcile, I hope, Mr Allworthy to you; and if it will, you have my
injunctions to pursue it. Accidents have laid some obligations on
me, and your good intentions probably more. Fortune may, perhaps, be
some time kinder to us both than at present. Believe this, that I
shall always think of you as I think you deserve, and am,

Sir,
your obliged humble servant,
Sophia Western.

"I charge you write to me no more--at present at least; and accept
this, which is now of no service to me, which I know you must want,
and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune by which you found
it."[*]

[*] Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for £100.

A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this letter
out in less time than Jones took in reading it. The sensations it
occasioned were a mixture of joy and grief; somewhat like what divide
the mind of a good man when he peruses the will of his deceased
friend, in which a large legacy, which his distresses make the more
welcome, is bequeathed to him. Upon the whole, however, he was more
pleased than displeased; and, indeed, the reader may probably wonder
that he was displeased at all; but the reader is not quite so much in
love as was poor Jones; and love is a disease which, though it may, in
some instances, resemble a consumption (which it sometimes causes), in
others proceeds in direct opposition to it, and particularly in this,
that it never flatters itself, or sees any one symptom in a favourable
light.

One thing gave him complete satisfaction, which was, that his mistress
had regained her liberty, and was now with a lady where she might at
least assure herself of a decent treatment. Another comfortable
circumstance was the reference which she made to her promise of never
marrying any other man; for however disinterested he might imagine his
passion, and notwithstanding all the generous overtures made in his
letter, I very much question whether he could have heard a more
afflicting piece of news than that Sophia was married to another,
though the match had been never so great, and never so likely to end
in making her completely happy. That refined degree of Platonic
affection which is absolutely detached from the flesh, and is, indeed,
entirely and purely spiritual, is a gift confined to the female part
of the creation; many of whom I have heard declare (and, doubtless,
with great truth), that they would, with the utmost readiness, resign
a lover to a rival, when such resignation was proved to be necessary
for the temporal interest of such lover. Hence, therefore, I conclude
that this affection is in nature, though I cannot pretend to say I
have ever seen an instance of it.

Mr Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the aforesaid
letter, and being, at last, in a state of good spirits, from the
last-mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an appointment,
which he had before made, into execution. This was, to attend Mrs
Miller, and her younger daughter, into the gallery at the play-house,
and to admit Mr Partridge as one of the company. For as Jones had
really that taste for humour which many affect, he expected to enjoy
much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge, from whom he
expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but
likewise unadulterated, by art.

In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr Jones, Mrs Miller,
her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge
immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When
the first music was played, he said, "It was a wonder how so many
fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one another out."
While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs
Miller, "Look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of
the common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service." Nor
could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were
lighted, "That here were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an
honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth."

As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began,
Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the
entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What man that was
in the strange dress; something," said he, "like what I have seen in a
picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?" Jones answered, "That is the
ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, "Persuade me to that,
sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in my
life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than
that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as
that, neither." In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the
neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the
scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to
Mr Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a
trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him
what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the
stage? "O la! sir," said he, "I perceive now it is what you told me. I
am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if it was
really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and in so
much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person."
"Why, who," cries Jones, "dost thou take to be such a coward here
besides thyself?" "Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if
that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw
any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to be
sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such
fool-hardiness!--Whatever happens, it is good enough for
you.----Follow you? I'd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is
the devil----for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.--Oh!
here he is again.----No farther! No, you have gone far enough already;
farther than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions." Jones
offered to speak, but Partridge cried "Hush, hush! dear sir, don't you
hear him?" And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his
eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his
mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet,
succeeding likewise in him.

When the scene was over Jones said, "Why, Partridge, you exceed my
expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible."
"Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "if you are not afraid of the devil, I
can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprized at such
things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that it was the
ghost that surprized me, neither; for I should have known that to have
been only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little man so
frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me." "And dost thou
imagine, then, Partridge," cries Jones, "that he was really
frightened?" "Nay, sir," said Partridge, "did not you yourself observe
afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he
was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and
he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have
been, had it been my own case?--But hush! O la! what noise is that?
There he is again.----Well, to be certain, though I know there is
nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those men
are." Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, "Ay, you may draw your
sword; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil?"

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