History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
by Henry Fielding · English · Gutenberg #6593 · 1,980,614 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
Author: Henry Fielding
Release date: September 1, 2004 [eBook #6593]
Most recently updated: December 23, 2025
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6593
Credits: Text file produced by Carlo Traverso, Charles Franks, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team. This file has been cross-checked with
two other different editions available on-line
HTML file produced by David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING ***
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING
By Henry Fielding
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
BOOK I -- CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS
NECESSARY OR PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF
THIS HISTORY.
Chapter i -- The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the
feast.
Chapter ii -- A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller
account of Miss Bridget Allworthy, his sister.
Chapter iii -- An odd accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his return
home. The decent behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper
animadversions on bastards.
Chapter iv -- The reader's neck brought into danger by a description;
his escape; and the great condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy.
Chapter v -- Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon
observation upon them.
Chapter vi -- Mrs Deborah is introduced into the parish with a
simile. A short account of Jenny Jones, with the difficulties and
discouragements which may attend young women in the pursuit of
learning.
Chapter vii -- Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot
laugh once through the whole chapter, unless peradventure he should
laugh at the author.
Chapter viii -- A dialogue between Mesdames Bridget and Deborah;
containing more amusement, but less instruction, than the former.
Chapter ix -- Containing matters which will surprize the reader.
Chapter x -- The hospitality of Allworthy; with a short sketch of the
characters of two brothers, a doctor and a captain, who were
entertained by that gentleman.
Chapter xi -- Containing many rules, and some examples, concerning
falling in love: descriptions of beauty, and other more prudential
inducements to matrimony.
Chapter xii -- Containing what the reader may, perhaps, expect to find
in it.
Chapter xiii -- Which concludes the first book; with an instance of
ingratitude, which, we hope, will appear unnatural.
BOOK II -- CONTAINING SCENES OF MATRIMONIAL FELICITY IN DIFFERENT
DEGREES OF LIFE; AND VARIOUS OTHER TRANSACTIONS DURING THE FIRST TWO
YEARS AFTER THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN CAPTAIN BLIFIL AND MISS BRIDGET
ALLWORTHY.
Chapter i -- Showing what kind of a history this is; what it is like,
and what it is not like.
Chapter ii -- Religious cautions against showing too much favour to
bastards; and a great discovery made by Mrs Deborah Wilkins.
Chapter iii -- The description of a domestic government founded upon
rules directly contrary to those of Aristotle.
Chapter iv -- Containing one of the most bloody battles, or rather
duels, that were ever recorded in domestic history.
Chapter v -- Containing much matter to exercise the judgment and
reflection of the reader.
Chapter vi -- The trial of Partridge, the schoolmaster, for
incontinency; the evidence of his wife; a short reflection on the
wisdom of our law; with other grave matters, which those will like
best who understand them most.
Chapter vii -- A short sketch of that felicity which prudent couples
may extract from hatred: with a short apology for those people who
overlook imperfections in their friends.
Chapter viii -- A receipt to regain the lost affections of a wife,
which hath never been known to fail in the most desperate cases.
Chapter ix -- A proof of the infallibility of the foregoing receipt,
in the lamentations of the widow; with other suitable decorations of
death, such as physicians, &c., and an epitaph in the true stile.
BOOK III -- CONTAINING THE MOST MEMORABLE TRANSACTIONS WHICH PASSED IN
THE FAMILY OF MR ALLWORTHY, FROM THE TIME WHEN TOMMY JONES ARRIVED AT
THE AGE OF FOURTEEN, TILL HE ATTAINED THE AGE OF NINETEEN. IN THIS
BOOK THE READER MAY PICK UP SOME HINTS CONCERNING THE EDUCATION OF
CHILDREN.
Chapter i -- Containing little or nothing.
Chapter ii -- The heroe of this great history appears with very bad
omens. A little tale of so LOW a kind that some may think it not worth
their notice. A word or two concerning a squire, and more relating to
a gamekeeper and a schoolmaster.
Chapter iii -- The character of Mr Square the philosopher, and of Mr
Thwackum the divine; with a dispute concerning----
Chapter iv.
Containing a necessary apology for the author; and a childish
incident, which perhaps requires an apology likewise --
Chapter v. -- The opinions of the divine and the philosopher
concerning the two boys; with some reasons for their opinions, and
other matters.
Chapter vi -- Containing a better reason still for the
before-mentioned opinions.
Chapter vii -- In which the author himself makes his appearance on the
stage.
Chapter viii -- A childish incident, in which, however, is seen a
good-natured disposition in Tom Jones.
Chapter ix -- Containing an incident of a more heinous kind, with the
comments of Thwackum and Square.
Chapter x -- In which Master Blifil and Jones appear in different
lights.
BOOK IV -- CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR.
Chapter i -- Containing five pages of paper.
Chapter ii -- A short hint of what we can do in the sublime, and a
description of Miss Sophia Western.
Chapter iii -- Wherein the history goes back to commemorate a trifling
incident that happened some years since; but which, trifling as it
was, had some future consequences.
Chapter iv -- Containing such very deep and grave matters, that some
readers, perhaps, may not relish it.
Chapter v -- Containing matter accommodated to every taste.
Chapter vi -- An apology for the insensibility of Mr Jones to all the
charms of the lovely Sophia; in which possibly we may, in a
considerable degree, lower his character in the estimation of those
men of wit and gallantry who approve the heroes in most of our modern
comedies.
Chapter vii -- Being the shortest chapter in this book.
Chapter viii -- A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican style, and
which none but the classical reader can taste.
Chapter ix -- Containing matter of no very peaceable colour.
Chapter x -- A story told by Mr Supple, the curate. The penetration of
Squire Western. His great love for his daughter, and the return to it
made by her.
Chapter xi -- The narrow escape of Molly Seagrim, with some
observations for which we have been forced to dive pretty deep into
nature.
Chapter xii -- Containing much clearer matters; but which flowed from
the same fountain with those in the preceding chapter.
Chapter xiii -- A dreadful accident which befel Sophia. The gallant
behaviour of Jones, and the more dreadful consequence of that
behaviour to the young lady; with a short digression in favour of the
female sex.
Chapter xiv -- The arrival of a surgeon.--His operations, and a long
dialogue between Sophia and her maid.
BOOK V -- CONTAINING A PORTION OF TIME SOMEWHAT LONGER THAN HALF A
YEAR.
Chapter i -- Of the SERIOUS in writing, and for what purpose it is
introduced.
Chapter ii -- In which Mr Jones receives many friendly visits during
his confinement; with some fine touches of the passion of love, scarce
visible to the naked eye.
Chapter iii -- Which all who have no heart will think to contain much
ado about nothing.
Chapter iv -- A little chapter, in which is contained a little
incident.
Chapter v -- A very long chapter, containing a very great incident.
Chapter vi -- By comparing which with the former, the reader may
possibly correct some abuse which he hath formerly been guilty of in
the application of the word love.
Chapter vii -- In which Mr Allworthy appears on a sick-bed.
Chapter viii -- Containing matter rather natural than pleasing.
Chapter ix -- Which, among other things, may serve as a comment on
that saying of Aeschines, that “drunkenness shows the mind of a man,
as a mirrour reflects his person.”
Chapter x -- Showing the truth of many observations of Ovid, and of
other more grave writers, who have proved beyond contradiction, that
wine is often the forerunner of incontinency.
Chapter xi -- In which a simile in Mr Pope's period of a mile
introduces as bloody a battle as can possibly be fought without the
assistance of steel or cold iron.
Chapter xii -- In which is seen a more moving spectacle than all the
blood in the bodies of Thwackum and Blifil, and of twenty other such,
is capable of producing.
BOOK VI -- CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS.
Chapter i -- Of love.
Chapter ii -- The character of Mrs Western. Her great learning and
knowledge of the world, and an instance of the deep penetration which
she derived from those advantages.
Chapter iii -- Containing two defiances to the critics.
Chapter iv -- Containing sundry curious matters.
Chapter v -- In which is related what passed between Sophia and her
aunt.
Chapter vi -- Containing a dialogue between Sophia and Mrs Honour,
which may a little relieve those tender affections which the foregoing
scene may have raised in the mind of a good-natured reader.
Chapter vii -- A picture of formal courtship in miniature, as it
always ought to be drawn, and a scene of a tenderer kind painted at
full length.
Chapter viii -- The meeting between Jones and Sophia.
Chapter ix -- Being of a much more tempestuous kind than the former.
Chapter x -- In which Mr Western visits Mr Allworthy.
Chapter xi -- A short chapter; but which contains sufficient matter to
affect the good-natured reader.
Chapter xii -- Containing love-letters, &c.
Chapter xiii -- The behaviour of Sophia on the present occasion; which
none of her sex will blame, who are capable of behaving in the same
manner. And the discussion of a knotty point in the court of
conscience.
Chapter xiv -- A short chapter, containing a short dialogue between
Squire Western and his sister.
BOOK VII -- CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i -- A comparison between the world and the stage.
Chapter ii -- Containing a conversation which Mr Jones had with
himself.
Chapter iii -- Containing several dialogues.
Chapter iv -- A picture of a country gentlewoman taken from the life.
Chapter v -- The generous behaviour of Sophia towards her aunt.
Chapter vi -- Containing great variety of matter.
Chapter vii -- A strange resolution of Sophia, and a more strange
stratagem of Mrs Honour.
Chapter viii -- Containing scenes of altercation, of no very uncommon
kind.
Chapter ix -- The wise demeanour of Mr Western in the character of a
magistrate. A hint to justices of peace, concerning the necessary
qualifications of a clerk; with extraordinary instances of paternal
madness and filial affection.
Chapter x -- Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but
low.
Chapter xi -- The adventure of a company of soldiers.
Chapter xii -- The adventure of a company of officers.
Chapter xiii -- Containing the great address of the landlady, the
great learning of a surgeon, and the solid skill in casuistry of the
worthy lieutenant.
Chapter xiv -- A most dreadful chapter indeed; and which few readers
ought to venture upon in an evening, especially when alone.
Chapter xv -- The conclusion of the foregoing adventure.
BOOK VIII -- CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i -- A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being
much the longest of all our introductory chapters.
Chapter ii -- In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones.
Chapter iii -- In which the surgeon makes his second appearance.
Chapter iv -- In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers
that was ever recorded in history, the barber of Bagdad, or he in Don
Quixote, not excepted.
Chapter v -- A dialogue between Mr Jones and the barber.
Chapter vi -- In which more of the talents of Mr Benjamin will appear,
as well as who this extraordinary person was.
Chapter vii -- Containing better reasons than any which have yet
appeared for the conduct of Partridge; an apology for the weakness of
Jones; and some further anecdotes concerning my landlady.
Chapter viii -- Jones arrives at Gloucester, and goes to the Bell; the
character of that house, and of a petty-fogger which he there meets
with.
Chapter ix -- Containing several dialogues between Jones and
Partridge, concerning love, cold, hunger, and other matters; with the
lucky and narrow escape of Partridge, as he was on the very brink of
making a fatal discovery to his friend.
Chapter x -- In which our travellers meet with a very extraordinary
adventure.
Chapter xi -- In which the Man of the Hill begins to relate his
history.
Chapter xii -- In which the Man of the Hill continues his history.
Chapter xiii -- In which the foregoing story is farther continued.
Chapter xiv -- In which the Man of the Hill concludes his history.
Chapter xv -- A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse
between Mr Jones and the Man of the Hill.
BOOK IX -- CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i -- Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not,
write such histories as this.
Chapter ii -- Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed, which Mr
Jones met with in his walk with the Man of the Hill.
Chapter iii -- The arrival of Mr Jones with his lady at the inn; with
a very full description of the battle of Upton.
Chapter iv -- In which the arrival of a man of war puts a final end to
hostilities, and causes the conclusion of a firm and lasting peace
between all parties.
Chapter v -- An apology for all heroes who have good stomachs, with a
description of a battle of the amorous kind.
Chapter vi -- A friendly conversation in the kitchen, which had a very
common, though not very friendly, conclusion.
Chapter vii -- Containing a fuller account of Mrs Waters, and by what
means she came into that distressful situation from which she was
rescued by Jones.
BOOK X -- IN WHICH THE HISTORY GOES FORWARD ABOUT TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i -- Containing instructions very necessary to be perused by
modern critics.
Chapter ii -- Containing the arrival of an Irish gentleman, with very
extraordinary adventures which ensued at the inn.
Chapter iii -- A dialogue between the landlady and Susan the
chamber-maid, proper to be read by all inn-keepers and their servants;
with the arrival, and affable behaviour of a beautiful young lady;
which may teach persons of condition how they may acquire the love of
the whole world.
Chapter iv -- Containing infallible nostrums for procuring universal
disesteem and hatred.
Chapter v -- Showing who the amiable lady, and her unamiable maid,
were.
Chapter vi -- Containing, among other things, the ingenuity of
Partridge, the madness of Jones, and the folly of Fitzpatrick.
Chapter vii -- In which are concluded the adventures that happened at
the inn at Upton.
Chapter viii -- In which the history goes backward.
Chapter ix -- The escape of Sophia.
BOOK XI -- CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS.
Chapter i -- A crust for the critics.
Chapter ii -- The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving
Upton.
Chapter iii -- A very short chapter, in which however is a sun, a
moon, a star, and an angel.
Chapter iv -- The history of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Chapter v -- In which the history of Mrs Fitzpatrick is continued.
Chapter vi -- In which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia into
a dreadful consternation.
Chapter vii -- In which Mrs Fitzpatrick concludes her history.
Chapter viii -- A dreadful alarm in the inn, with the arrival of an
unexpected friend of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Chapter ix -- The morning introduced in some pretty writing. A
stagecoach. The civility of chambermaids. The heroic temper of
Sophia. Her generosity. The return to it. The departure of the
company, and their arrival at London; with some remarks for the use of
travellers.
Chapter x -- Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few
more concerning suspicion.
BOOK XII -- CONTAINING THE SAME INDIVIDUAL TIME WITH THE FORMER.
Chapter i -- Showing what is to be deemed plagiarism in a modern
author, and what is to be considered as lawful prize.
Chapter ii -- In which, though the squire doth not find his daughter,
something is found which puts an end to his pursuit.
Chapter iii -- The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed
between him and Partridge on the road.
Chapter iv -- The adventure of a beggar-man.
Chapter v -- Containing more adventures which Mr Jones and his
companion met on the road.
Chapter vi -- From which it may be inferred that the best things are
liable to be misunderstood and misinterpreted.
Chapter vii -- Containing a remark or two of our own and many more of
the good company assembled in the kitchen.
Chapter viii -- In which fortune seems to have been in a better humour
with Jones than we have hitherto seen her.
Chapter ix -- Containing little more than a few odd observations.
Chapter x -- In which Mr Jones and Mr Dowling drink a bottle together.
Chapter xi -- The disasters which befel Jones on his departure for
Coventry; with the sage remarks of Partridge.
Chapter xii -- Relates that Mr Jones continued his journey, contrary
to the advice of Partridge, with what happened on that occasion.
Chapter xiii -- A dialogue between Jones and Partridge.
Chapter xiv -- What happened to Mr Jones in his journey from St
Albans.
BOOK XIII -- CONTAINING THE SPACE OF TWELVE DAYS.
Chapter i -- An Invocation.
Chapter ii -- What befel Mr Jones on his arrival in London.
Chapter iii -- A project of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and her visit to Lady
Bellaston.
Chapter iv -- Which consists of visiting.
Chapter v -- An adventure which happened to Mr Jones at his lodgings,
with some account of a young gentleman who lodged there, and of the
mistress of the house, and her two daughters.
Chapter vi -- What arrived while the company were at breakfast, with
some hints concerning the government of daughters.
Chapter vii -- Containing the whole humours of a masquerade.
Chapter viii -- Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very
extraordinary to most of our readers.
Chapter ix -- Which treats of matters of a very different kind from
those in the preceding chapter.
Chapter x -- A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some
eyes.
Chapter xi -- In which the reader will be surprized.
Chapter xii -- In which the thirteenth book is concluded.
BOOK XIV -- CONTAINING TWO DAYS.
Chapter i -- An essay to prove that an author will write the better
for having some knowledge of the subject on which he writes.
Chapter ii -- Containing letters and other matters which attend
amours.
Chapter iii -- Containing various matters.
Chapter iv -- Which we hope will be very attentively perused by young
people of both sexes.
Chapter v -- A short account of the history of Mrs Miller.
Chapter vi -- Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all
our readers.
Chapter vii -- The interview between Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale.
Chapter viii -- What passed between Jones and old Mr Nightingale; with
the arrival of a person not yet mentioned in this history.
Chapter ix -- Containing strange matters.
Chapter x -- A short chapter, which concludes the book.
BOOK XV -- IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i -- Too short to need a preface.
Chapter ii -- In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.
Chapter iii -- A further explanation of the foregoing design.
Chapter iv -- By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a lady
is when she applies her eloquence to an ill purpose.
Chapter v -- Containing some matters which may affect, and others
which may surprize, the reader.
Chapter vi -- By what means the squire came to discover his daughter.
Chapter vii -- In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.
Chapter viii -- Short and sweet.
Chapter ix -- Containing love-letters of several sorts.
Chapter x -- Consisting partly of facts, and partly of observations
upon them.
Chapter xi -- Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter.
Chapter xii -- A discovery made by Partridge.
BOOK XVI -- CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS.
Chapter i -- Of prologues.
Chapter ii -- A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the
distressed situation of Sophia.
Chapter iii -- What happened to Sophia during her confinement.
Chapter iv -- In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement.
Chapter v -- In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to
a play with Mrs Miller and Partridge.
Chapter vi -- In which the history is obliged to look back.
Chapter vii -- In which Mr Western pays a visit to his sister, in
company with Mr Blifil.
Chapter viii -- Schemes of Lady Bellaston for the ruin of Jones.
Chapter ix -- In which Jones pays a visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Chapter x -- The consequence of the preceding visit.
BOOK XVII -- CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i -- Containing a portion of introductory writing.
Chapter ii -- The generous and grateful behaviour of Mrs Miller.
Chapter iii -- The arrival of Mr Western, with some matters concerning
the paternal authority.
Chapter iv -- An extraordinary scene between Sophia and her aunt.
Chapter v -- Mrs Miller and Mr Nightingale visit Jones in the prison.
Chapter vi -- In which Mrs Miller pays a visit to Sophia.
Chapter vii -- A pathetic scene between Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller.
Chapter viii -- Containing various matters.
Chapter ix -- What happened to Mr Jones in the prison.
BOOK XVIII -- CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS.
Chapter i -- A farewel to the reader.
Chapter ii -- Containing a very tragical incident.
Chapter iii -- Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange
discovery that he made on that occasion.
Chapter iv -- Containing two letters in very different stiles.
Chapter v -- In which the history is continued.
Chapter vi -- In which the history is farther continued.
Chapter vii -- Continuation of the history.
Chapter viii -- Further continuation.
Chapter ix -- A further continuation.
Chapter x -- Wherein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion.
Chapter xi -- The history draws nearer to a conclusion.
Chapter xii -- Approaching still nearer to the end.
Chapter the last -- In which the history is concluded.
To the Honourable
GEORGE LYTTLETON, ESQ;
One of the Lords Commissioners of the Treasury.
Sir,
Notwithstanding your constant refusal, when I have asked leave to
prefix your name to this dedication, I must still insist on my right
to desire your protection of this work.
To you, Sir, it is owing that this history was ever begun. It was by
your desire that I first thought of such a composition. So many years
have since past, that you may have, perhaps, forgotten this
circumstance: but your desires are to me in the nature of commands;
and the impression of them is never to be erased from my memory.
Again, Sir, without your assistance this history had never been
completed. Be not startled at the assertion. I do not intend to draw
on you the suspicion of being a romance writer. I mean no more than
that I partly owe to you my existence during great part of the time
which I have employed in composing it: another matter which it may be
necessary to remind you of; since there are certain actions of which
you are apt to be extremely forgetful; but of these I hope I shall
always have a better memory than yourself.
Lastly, It is owing to you that the history appears what it now is. If
there be in this work, as some have been pleased to say, a stronger
picture of a truly benevolent mind than is to be found in any other,
who that knows you, and a particular acquaintance of yours, will doubt
whence that benevolence hath been copied? The world will not, I
believe, make me the compliment of thinking I took it from myself. I
care not: this they shall own, that the two persons from whom I have
taken it, that is to say, two of the best and worthiest men in the
world, are strongly and zealously my friends. I might be contented
with this, and yet my vanity will add a third to the number; and him
one of the greatest and noblest, not only in his rank, but in every
public and private virtue. But here, whilst my gratitude for the
princely benefactions of the Duke of Bedford bursts from my heart, you
must forgive my reminding you that it was you who first recommended me
to the notice of my benefactor.
And what are your objections to the allowance of the honour which I
have sollicited? Why, you have commended the book so warmly, that you
should be ashamed of reading your name before the dedication. Indeed,
sir, if the book itself doth not make you ashamed of your
commendations, nothing that I can here write will, or ought. I am not
to give up my right to your protection and patronage, because you have
commended my book: for though I acknowledge so many obligations to
you, I do not add this to the number; in which friendship, I am
convinced, hath so little share: since that can neither biass your
judgment, nor pervert your integrity. An enemy may at any time obtain
your commendation by only deserving it; and the utmost which the
faults of your friends can hope for, is your silence; or, perhaps, if
too severely accused, your gentle palliation.
In short, sir, I suspect, that your dislike of public praise is your
true objection to granting my request. I have observed that you have,
in common with my two other friends, an unwillingness to hear the
least mention of your own virtues; that, as a great poet says of one
of you, (he might justly have said it of all three), you
_Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame_.
If men of this disposition are as careful to shun applause, as others
are to escape censure, how just must be your apprehension of your
character falling into my hands; since what would not a man have
reason to dread, if attacked by an author who had received from him
injuries equal to my obligations to you!
And will not this dread of censure increase in proportion to the
matter which a man is conscious of having afforded for it? If his
whole life, for instance, should have been one continued subject of
satire, he may well tremble when an incensed satirist takes him in
hand. Now, sir, if we apply this to your modest aversion to panegyric,
how reasonable will your fears of me appear!
Yet surely you might have gratified my ambition, from this single
confidence, that I shall always prefer the indulgence of your
inclinations to the satisfaction of my own. A very strong instance of
which I shall give you in this address, in which I am determined to
follow the example of all other dedicators, and will consider not what
my patron really deserves to have written, but what he will be best
pleased to read.
Without further preface then, I here present you with the labours of
some years of my life. What merit these labours have is already known
to yourself. If, from your favourable judgment, I have conceived some
esteem for them, it cannot be imputed to vanity; since I should have
agreed as implicitly to your opinion, had it been given in favour of
any other man's production. Negatively, at least, I may be allowed to
say, that had I been sensible of any great demerit in the work, you
are the last person to whose protection I would have ventured to
recommend it.
From the name of my patron, indeed, I hope my reader will be
convinced, at his very entrance on this work, that he will find in the
whole course of it nothing prejudicial to the cause of religion and
virtue, nothing inconsistent with the strictest rules of decency, nor
which can offend even the chastest eye in the perusal. On the
contrary, I declare, that to recommend goodness and innocence hath
been my sincere endeavour in this history. This honest purpose you
have been pleased to think I have attained: and to say the truth, it
is likeliest to be attained in books of this kind; for an example is a
kind of picture, in which virtue becomes, as it were, an object of
sight, and strikes us with an idea of that loveliness, which Plato
asserts there is in her naked charms.
Besides displaying that beauty of virtue which may attract the
admiration of mankind, I have attempted to engage a stronger motive to
human action in her favour, by convincing men, that their true
interest directs them to a pursuit of her. For this purpose I have
shown that no acquisitions of guilt can compensate the loss of that
solid inward comfort of mind, which is the sure companion of innocence
and virtue; nor can in the least balance the evil of that horror and
anxiety which, in their room, guilt introduces into our bosoms. And
again, that as these acquisitions are in themselves generally
worthless, so are the means to attain them not only base and infamous,
but at best incertain, and always full of danger. Lastly, I have
endeavoured strongly to inculcate, that virtue and innocence can
scarce ever be injured but by indiscretion; and that it is this alone
which often betrays them into the snares that deceit and villainy
spread for them. A moral which I have the more industriously laboured,
as the teaching it is, of all others, the likeliest to be attended
with success; since, I believe, it is much easier to make good men
wise, than to make bad men good.
For these purposes I have employed all the wit and humour of which I
am master in the following history; wherein I have endeavoured to
laugh mankind out of their favourite follies and vices. How far I have
succeeded in this good attempt, I shall submit to the candid reader,
with only two requests: First, that he will not expect to find
perfection in this work; and Secondly, that he will excuse some parts
of it, if they fall short of that little merit which I hope may appear
in others.
I will detain you, sir, no longer. Indeed I have run into a preface,
while I professed to write a dedication. But how can it be otherwise?
I dare not praise you; and the only means I know of to avoid it, when
you are in my thoughts, are either to be entirely silent, or to turn
my thoughts to some other subject.
Pardon, therefore, what I have said in this epistle, not only without
your consent, but absolutely against it; and give me at least leave,
in this public manner, to declare that I am, with the highest respect
and gratitude,--
Sir,
Your most obliged,
Obedient, humble servant,
HENRY FIELDING.
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING.
BOOK I.
CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS NECESSARY OR
PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS HISTORY.
Chapter i.
The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast.
An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a
private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public
ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. In the
former case, it is well known that the entertainer provides what fare
he pleases; and though this should be very indifferent, and utterly
disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not find any
fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to
approve and to commend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary
of this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what
they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and
whimsical these may prove; and if everything is not agreeable to their
taste, will challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to d--n their
dinner without controul.
To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such
disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and well-meaning
host to provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse at their
first entrance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves
with the entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and
regale with what is provided for them, or may depart to some other
ordinary better accommodated to their taste.
As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is
capable of lending us either, we have condescended to take a hint from
these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a general bill of
fare to our whole entertainment, but shall likewise give the reader
particular bills to every course which is to be served up in this and
the ensuing volumes.
The provision, then, which we have here made is no other than _Human
Nature_. Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, though most luxurious
in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, because I have named
but one article. The tortoise--as the alderman of Bristol, well
learned in eating, knows by much experience--besides the delicious
calipash and calipee, contains many different kinds of food; nor can
the learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here
collected under one general name, is such prodigious variety, that a
cook will have sooner gone through all the several species of animal
and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to
exhaust so extensive a subject.
An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more delicate, that
this dish is too common and vulgar; for what else is the subject of
all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with which the stalls
abound? Many exquisite viands might be rejected by the epicure, if it
was a sufficient cause for his contemning of them as common and
vulgar, that something was to be found in the most paltry alleys under
the same name. In reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with
in authors, as the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be found in
the shops.
But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the cookery
of the author; for, as Mr Pope tells us--
“True wit is nature to advantage drest;
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest.”
The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh
eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part,
and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in
town. Where, then, lies the difference between the food of the
nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf,
but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garnishing, and the setting
forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite,
and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest.
In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment consists
less in the subject than in the author's skill in well dressing it up.
How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to find that we have, in
the following work, adhered closely to one of the highest principles
of the best cook which the present age, or perhaps that of
Heliogabalus, hath produced. This great man, as is well known to all
lovers of polite eating, begins at first by setting plain things
before his hungry guests, rising afterwards by degrees as their
stomachs may be supposed to decrease, to the very quintessence of
sauce and spices. In like manner, we shall represent human nature at
first to the keen appetite of our reader, in that more plain and
simple manner in which it is found in the country, and shall hereafter
hash and ragoo it with all the high French and Italian seasoning of
affectation and vice which courts and cities afford. By these means,
we doubt not but our reader may be rendered desirous to read on for
ever, as the great person just above-mentioned is supposed to have
made some persons eat.
Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who like our bill
of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed directly to serve
up the first course of our history for their entertainment.
Chapter ii.
A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller account of Miss
Bridget Allworthy, his sister.
In that part of the western division of this kingdom which is commonly
called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and perhaps lives still, a
gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and who might well be called the
favourite of both nature and fortune; for both of these seem to have
contended which should bless and enrich him most. In this contention,
nature may seem to some to have come off victorious, as she bestowed
on him many gifts, while fortune had only one gift in her power; but
in pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others perhaps
may think this single endowment to have been more than equivalent to
all the various blessings which he enjoyed from nature. From the
former of these, he derived an agreeable person, a sound constitution,
a solid understanding, and a benevolent heart; by the latter, he was
decreed to the inheritance of one of the largest estates in the
county.
This gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and beautiful
woman, of whom he had been extremely fond: by her he had three
children, all of whom died in their infancy. He had likewise had the
misfortune of burying this beloved wife herself, about five years
before the time in which this history chuses to set out. This loss,
however great, he bore like a man of sense and constancy, though it
must be confest he would often talk a little whimsically on this head;
for he sometimes said he looked on himself as still married, and
considered his wife as only gone a little before him, a journey which
he should most certainly, sooner or later, take after her; and that he
had not the least doubt of meeting her again in a place where he
should never part with her more--sentiments for which his sense was
arraigned by one part of his neighbours, his religion by a second, and
his sincerity by a third.
He now lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with one
sister, for whom he had a very tender affection. This lady was now
somewhat past the age of thirty, an aera at which, in the opinion of
the malicious, the title of old maid may with no impropriety be
assumed. She was of that species of women whom you commend rather for
good qualities than beauty, and who are generally called, by their own
sex, very good sort of women--as good a sort of woman, madam, as you
would wish to know. Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of
beauty, that she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be called
one, without contempt; and would often thank God she was not as
handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty had led into errors
which she might have otherwise avoided. Miss Bridget Allworthy (for
that was the name of this lady) very rightly conceived the charms of
person in a woman to be no better than snares for herself, as well as
for others; and yet so discreet was she in her conduct, that her
prudence was as much on the guard as if she had all the snares to
apprehend which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have
observed, though it may seem unaccountable to the reader, that this
guard of prudence, like the trained bands, is always readiest to go on
duty where there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly
deserts those paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sighing,
dying, and spreading every net in their power; and constantly attends
at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the other sex have
a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from despair, I suppose,
of success) they never venture to attack.
Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to
acquaint thee that I intend to digress, through this whole history, as
often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better judge than any
pitiful critic whatever; and here I must desire all those critics to
mind their own business, and not to intermeddle with affairs or works
which no ways concern them; for till they produce the authority by
which they are constituted judges, I shall not plead to their
jurisdiction.
Chapter iii.
An odd accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his return home. The
decent behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper
animadversions on bastards.
I have told my reader, in the preceding chapter, that Mr Allworthy
inherited a large fortune; that he had a good heart, and no family.
Hence, doubtless, it will be concluded by many that he lived like an
honest man, owed no one a shilling, took nothing but what was his own,
kept a good house, entertained his neighbours with a hearty welcome at
his table, and was charitable to the poor, i.e. to those who had
rather beg than work, by giving them the offals from it; that he died
immensely rich and built an hospital.
And true it is that he did many of these things; but had he done
nothing more I should have left him to have recorded his own merit on
some fair freestone over the door of that hospital. Matters of a much
more extraordinary kind are to be the subject of this history, or I
should grossly mis-spend my time in writing so voluminous a work; and
you, my sagacious friend, might with equal profit and pleasure travel
through some pages which certain droll authors have been facetiously
pleased to call _The History of England_.
Mr Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on
some very particular business, though I know not what it was; but
judge of its importance by its having detained him so long from home,
whence he had not been absent a month at a time during the space of
many years. He came to his house very late in the evening, and after a
short supper with his sister, retired much fatigued to his chamber.
Here, having spent some minutes on his knees--a custom which he never
broke through on any account--he was preparing to step into bed, when,
upon opening the cloathes, to his great surprize he beheld an infant,
wrapt up in some coarse linen, in a sweet and profound sleep, between
his sheets. He stood some time lost in astonishment at this sight;
but, as good nature had always the ascendant in his mind, he soon
began to be touched with sentiments of compassion for the little
wretch before him. He then rang his bell, and ordered an elderly
woman-servant to rise immediately, and come to him; and in the
meantime was so eager in contemplating the beauty of innocence,
appearing in those lively colours with which infancy and sleep always
display it, that his thoughts were too much engaged to reflect that he
was in his shirt when the matron came in. She had indeed given her
master sufficient time to dress himself; for out of respect to him,
and regard to decency, she had spent many minutes in adjusting her
hair at the looking-glass, notwithstanding all the hurry in which she
had been summoned by the servant, and though her master, for aught she
knew, lay expiring in an apoplexy, or in some other fit.
It will not be wondered at that a creature who had so strict a regard
to decency in her own person, should be shocked at the least deviation
from it in another. She therefore no sooner opened the door, and saw
her master standing by the bedside in his shirt, with a candle in his
hand, than she started back in a most terrible fright, and might
perhaps have swooned away, had he not now recollected his being
undrest, and put an end to her terrors by desiring her to stay without
the door till he had thrown some cloathes over his back, and was
become incapable of shocking the pure eyes of Mrs Deborah Wilkins,
who, though in the fifty-second year of her age, vowed she had never
beheld a man without his coat. Sneerers and prophane wits may perhaps
laugh at her first fright; yet my graver reader, when he considers the
time of night, the summons from her bed, and the situation in which
she found her master, will highly justify and applaud her conduct,
unless the prudence which must be supposed to attend maidens at that
period of life at which Mrs Deborah had arrived, should a little
lessen his admiration.
When Mrs Deborah returned into the room, and was acquainted by her
master with the finding the little infant, her consternation was
rather greater than his had been; nor could she refrain from crying
out, with great horror of accent as well as look, “My good sir! what's
to be done?” Mr Allworthy answered, she must take care of the child
that evening, and in the morning he would give orders to provide it a
nurse. “Yes, sir,” says she; “and I hope your worship will send out
your warrant to take up the hussy its mother, for she must be one of
the neighbourhood; and I should be glad to see her committed to
Bridewell, and whipt at the cart's tail. Indeed, such wicked sluts
cannot be too severely punished. I'll warrant 'tis not her first, by
her impudence in laying it to your worship.” “In laying it to me,
Deborah!” answered Allworthy: “I can't think she hath any such design.
I suppose she hath only taken this method to provide for her child;
and truly I am glad she hath not done worse.” “I don't know what is
worse,” cries Deborah, “than for such wicked strumpets to lay their
sins at honest men's doors; and though your worship knows your own
innocence, yet the world is censorious; and it hath been many an
honest man's hap to pass for the father of children he never begot;
and if your worship should provide for the child, it may make the
people the apter to believe; besides, why should your worship provide
for what the parish is obliged to maintain? For my own part, if it was
an honest man's child, indeed--but for my own part, it goes against me
to touch these misbegotten wretches, whom I don't look upon as my
fellow-creatures. Faugh! how it stinks! It doth not smell like a
Christian. If I might be so bold to give my advice, I would have it
put in a basket, and sent out and laid at the churchwarden's door. It
is a good night, only a little rainy and windy; and if it was well
wrapt up, and put in a warm basket, it is two to one but it lives till
it is found in the morning. But if it should not, we have discharged
our duty in taking proper care of it; and it is, perhaps, better for
such creatures to die in a state of innocence, than to grow up and
imitate their mothers; for nothing better can be expected of them.”
There were some strokes in this speech which perhaps would have
offended Mr Allworthy, had he strictly attended to it; but he had now
got one of his fingers into the infant's hand, which, by its gentle
pressure, seeming to implore his assistance, had certainly out-pleaded
the eloquence of Mrs Deborah, had it been ten times greater than it
was. He now gave Mrs Deborah positive orders to take the child to her
own bed, and to call up a maid-servant to provide it pap, and other
things, against it waked. He likewise ordered that proper cloathes
should be procured for it early in the morning, and that it should be
brought to himself as soon as he was stirring.
Such was the discernment of Mrs Wilkins, and such the respect she bore
her master, under whom she enjoyed a most excellent place, that her
scruples gave way to his peremptory commands; and she took the child
under her arms, without any apparent disgust at the illegality of its
birth; and declaring it was a sweet little infant, walked off with it
to her own chamber.
Allworthy here betook himself to those pleasing slumbers which a heart
that hungers after goodness is apt to enjoy when thoroughly satisfied.
As these are possibly sweeter than what are occasioned by any other
hearty meal, I should take more pains to display them to the reader,
if I knew any air to recommend him to for the procuring such an
appetite.
Chapter iv.
The reader's neck brought into danger by a description; his escape;
and the great condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy.
The Gothic stile of building could produce nothing nobler than Mr
Allworthy's house. There was an air of grandeur in it that struck you
with awe, and rivalled the beauties of the best Grecian architecture;
and it was as commodious within as venerable without.
It stood on the south-east side of a hill, but nearer the bottom than
the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the north-east by a grove of
old oaks which rose above it in a gradual ascent of near half a mile,
and yet high enough to enjoy a most charming prospect of the valley
beneath.
In the midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down towards the
house, near the summit of which rose a plentiful spring, gushing out
of a rock covered with firs, and forming a constant cascade of about
thirty feet, not carried down a regular flight of steps, but tumbling
in a natural fall over the broken and mossy stones till it came to the
bottom of the rock, then running off in a pebly channel, that with
many lesser falls winded along, till it fell into a lake at the foot
of the hill, about a quarter of a mile below the house on the south
side, and which was seen from every room in the front. Out of this
lake, which filled the center of a beautiful plain, embellished with
groups of beeches and elms, and fed with sheep, issued a river, that
for several miles was seen to meander through an amazing variety of
meadows and woods till it emptied itself into the sea, with a large
arm of which, and an island beyond it, the prospect was closed.
On the right of this valley opened another of less extent, adorned
with several villages, and terminated by one of the towers of an old
ruined abby, grown over with ivy, and part of the front, which
remained still entire.
The left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, composed
of very unequal ground, and agreeably varied with all the diversity
that hills, lawns, wood, and water, laid out with admirable taste, but
owing less to art than to nature, could give. Beyond this, the country
gradually rose into a ridge of wild mountains, the tops of which were
above the clouds.
It was now the middle of May, and the morning was remarkably serene,
when Mr Allworthy walked forth on the terrace, where the dawn opened
every minute that lovely prospect we have before described to his eye;
and now having sent forth streams of light, which ascended the blue
firmament before him, as harbingers preceding his pomp, in the full
blaze of his majesty rose the sun, than which one object alone in this
lower creation could be more glorious, and that Mr Allworthy himself
presented--a human being replete with benevolence, meditating in what
manner he might render himself most acceptable to his Creator, by
doing most good to his creatures.
Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of as high a
hill as Mr Allworthy's, and how to get thee down without breaking thy
neck, I do not well know. However, let us e'en venture to slide down
together; for Miss Bridget rings her bell, and Mr Allworthy is
summoned to breakfast, where I must attend, and, if you please, shall
be glad of your company.
The usual compliments having past between Mr Allworthy and Miss
Bridget, and the tea being poured out, he summoned Mrs Wilkins, and
told his sister he had a present for her, for which she thanked
him--imagining, I suppose, it had been a gown, or some ornament for
her person. Indeed, he very often made her such presents; and she, in
complacence to him, spent much time in adorning herself. I say in
complacence to him, because she always exprest the greatest contempt
for dress, and for those ladies who made it their study.
But if such was her expectation, how was she disappointed when Mrs
Wilkins, according to the order she had received from her master,
produced the little infant? Great surprizes, as hath been observed,
are apt to be silent; and so was Miss Bridget, till her brother began,
and told her the whole story, which, as the reader knows it already,
we shall not repeat.
Miss Bridget had always exprest so great a regard for what the ladies
are pleased to call virtue, and had herself maintained such a severity
of character, that it was expected, especially by Wilkins, that she
would have vented much bitterness on this occasion, and would have
voted for sending the child, as a kind of noxious animal, immediately
out of the house; but, on the contrary, she rather took the
good-natured side of the question, intimated some compassion for the
helpless little creature, and commended her brother's charity in what
he had done.
Perhaps the reader may account for this behaviour from her
condescension to Mr Allworthy, when we have informed him that the good
man had ended his narrative with owning a resolution to take care of
the child, and to breed him up as his own; for, to acknowledge the
truth, she was always ready to oblige her brother, and very seldom, if
ever, contradicted his sentiments. She would, indeed, sometimes make a
few observations, as that men were headstrong, and must have their own
way, and would wish she had been blest with an independent fortune;
but these were always vented in a low voice, and at the most amounted
only to what is called muttering.
However, what she withheld from the infant, she bestowed with the
utmost profuseness on the poor unknown mother, whom she called an
impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a
vile strumpet, with every other appellation with which the tongue of
virtue never fails to lash those who bring a disgrace on the sex.
A consultation was now entered into how to proceed in order to
discover the mother. A scrutiny was first made into the characters of
the female servants of the house, who were all acquitted by Mrs
Wilkins, and with apparent merit; for she had collected them herself,
and perhaps it would be difficult to find such another set of
scarecrows.
The next step was to examine among the inhabitants of the parish; and
this was referred to Mrs Wilkins, who was to enquire with all
imaginable diligence, and to make her report in the afternoon.
Matters being thus settled, Mr Allworthy withdrew to his study, as was
his custom, and left the child to his sister, who, at his desire, had
undertaken the care of it.
Chapter v.
Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon observation upon
them.
When her master was departed, Mrs Deborah stood silent, expecting her
cue from Miss Bridget; for as to what had past before her master, the
prudent housekeeper by no means relied upon it, as she had often known
the sentiments of the lady in her brother's absence to differ greatly
from those which she had expressed in his presence. Miss Bridget did
not, however, suffer her to continue long in this doubtful situation;
for having looked some time earnestly at the child, as it lay asleep
in the lap of Mrs Deborah, the good lady could not forbear giving it a
hearty kiss, at the same time declaring herself wonderfully pleased
with its beauty and innocence. Mrs Deborah no sooner observed this
than she fell to squeezing and kissing, with as great raptures as
sometimes inspire the sage dame of forty and five towards a youthful
and vigorous bridegroom, crying out, in a shrill voice, “O, the dear
little creature!--The dear, sweet, pretty creature! Well, I vow it is
as fine a boy as ever was seen!”
These exclamations continued till they were interrupted by the lady,
who now proceeded to execute the commission given her by her brother,
and gave orders for providing all necessaries for the child,
appointing a very good room in the house for his nursery. Her orders
were indeed so liberal, that, had it been a child of her own, she
could not have exceeded them; but, lest the virtuous reader may
condemn her for showing too great regard to a base-born infant, to
which all charity is condemned by law as irreligious, we think proper
to observe that she concluded the whole with saying, “Since it was her
brother's whim to adopt the little brat, she supposed little master
must be treated with great tenderness. For her part, she could not
help thinking it was an encouragement to vice; but that she knew too
much of the obstinacy of mankind to oppose any of their ridiculous
humours.”
With reflections of this nature she usually, as has been hinted,
accompanied every act of compliance with her brother's inclinations;
and surely nothing could more contribute to heighten the merit of this
compliance than a declaration that she knew, at the same time, the
folly and unreasonableness of those inclinations to which she
submitted. Tacit obedience implies no force upon the will, and
consequently may be easily, and without any pains, preserved; but when
a wife, a child, a relation, or a friend, performs what we desire,
with grumbling and reluctance, with expressions of dislike and
dissatisfaction, the manifest difficulty which they undergo must
greatly enhance the obligation.
As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can
be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to
lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in
the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him,
unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration
with which we writers are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make
the discovery.
Chapter vi.
Mrs Deborah is introduced into the parish with a simile. A short
account of Jenny Jones, with the difficulties and discouragements
which may attend young women in the pursuit of learning.
Mrs Deborah, having disposed of the child according to the will of her
master, now prepared to visit those habitations which were supposed to
conceal its mother.
Not otherwise than when a kite, tremendous bird, is beheld by the
feathered generation soaring aloft, and hovering over their heads, the
amorous dove, and every innocent little bird, spread wide the alarm,
and fly trembling to their hiding-places. He proudly beats the air,
conscious of his dignity, and meditates intended mischief.
So when the approach of Mrs Deborah was proclaimed through the street,
all the inhabitants ran trembling into their houses, each matron
dreading lest the visit should fall to her lot. She with stately steps
proudly advances over the field: aloft she bears her towering head,
filled with conceit of her own pre-eminence, and schemes to effect her
intended discovery.
The sagacious reader will not from this simile imagine these poor
people had any apprehension of the design with which Mrs Wilkins was
now coming towards them; but as the great beauty of the simile may
possibly sleep these hundred years, till some future commentator shall
take this work in hand, I think proper to lend the reader a little
assistance in this place.
It is my intention, therefore, to signify, that, as it is the nature
of a kite to devour little birds, so is it the nature of such persons
as Mrs Wilkins to insult and tyrannize over little people. This being
indeed the means which they use to recompense to themselves their
extreme servility and condescension to their superiors; for nothing
can be more reasonable, than that slaves and flatterers should exact
the same taxes on all below them, which they themselves pay to all
above them.
Whenever Mrs Deborah had occasion to exert any extraordinary
condescension to Mrs Bridget, and by that means had a little soured
her natural disposition, it was usual with her to walk forth among
these people, in order to refine her temper, by venting, and, as it
were, purging off all ill humours; on which account she was by no
means a welcome visitant: to say the truth, she was universally
dreaded and hated by them all.
On her arrival in this place, she went immediately to the habitation
of an elderly matron; to whom, as this matron had the good fortune to
resemble herself in the comeliness of her person, as well as in her
age, she had generally been more favourable than to any of the rest.
To this woman she imparted what had happened, and the design upon
which she was come thither that morning. These two began presently to
scrutinize the characters of the several young girls who lived in any
of those houses, and at last fixed their strongest suspicion on one
Jenny Jones, who, they both agreed, was the likeliest person to have
committed this fact.
This Jenny Jones was no very comely girl, either in her face or
person; but nature had somewhat compensated the want of beauty with
what is generally more esteemed by those ladies whose judgment is
arrived at years of perfect maturity, for she had given her a very
uncommon share of understanding. This gift Jenny had a good deal
improved by erudition. She had lived several years a servant with a
schoolmaster, who, discovering a great quickness of parts in the girl,
and an extraordinary desire of learning--for every leisure hour she
was always found reading in the books of the scholars--had the
good-nature, or folly--just as the reader pleases to call it--to
instruct her so far, that she obtained a competent skill in the Latin
language, and was, perhaps, as good a scholar as most of the young men
of quality of the age. This advantage, however, like most others of an
extraordinary kind, was attended with some small inconveniences: for
as it is not to be wondered at, that a young woman so well
accomplished should have little relish for the society of those whom
fortune had made her equals, but whom education had rendered so much
her inferiors; so is it matter of no greater astonishment, that this
superiority in Jenny, together with that behaviour which is its
certain consequence, should produce among the rest some little envy
and ill-will towards her; and these had, perhaps, secretly burnt in
the bosoms of her neighbours ever since her return from her service.
Their envy did not, however, display itself openly, till poor Jenny,
to the surprize of everybody, and to the vexation of all the young
women in these parts, had publickly shone forth on a Sunday in a new
silk gown, with a laced cap, and other proper appendages to these.
The flame, which had before lain in embryo, now burst forth. Jenny
had, by her learning, increased her own pride, which none of her
neighbours were kind enough to feed with the honour she seemed to
demand; and now, instead of respect and adoration, she gained nothing
but hatred and abuse by her finery. The whole parish declared she
could not come honestly by such things; and parents, instead of
wishing their daughters the same, felicitated themselves that their
children had them not.
Hence, perhaps, it was, that the good woman first mentioned the name
of this poor girl to Mrs Wilkins; but there was another circumstance
that confirmed the latter in her suspicion; for Jenny had lately been
often at Mr Allworthy's house. She had officiated as nurse to Miss
Bridget, in a violent fit of illness, and had sat up many nights with
that lady; besides which, she had been seen there the very day before
Mr Allworthy's return, by Mrs Wilkins herself, though that sagacious
person had not at first conceived any suspicion of her on that
account: for, as she herself said, “She had always esteemed Jenny as a
very sober girl (though indeed she knew very little of her), and had
rather suspected some of those wanton trollops, who gave themselves
airs, because, forsooth, they thought themselves handsome.”
Jenny was now summoned to appear in person before Mrs Deborah, which
she immediately did. When Mrs Deborah, putting on the gravity of a
judge, with somewhat more than his austerity, began an oration with
the words, “You audacious strumpet!” in which she proceeded rather to
pass sentence on the prisoner than to accuse her.
Though Mrs Deborah was fully satisfied of the guilt of Jenny, from the
reasons above shewn, it is possible Mr Allworthy might have required
some stronger evidence to have convicted her; but she saved her
accusers any such trouble, by freely confessing the whole fact with
which she was charged.
This confession, though delivered rather in terms of contrition, as it
appeared, did not at all mollify Mrs Deborah, who now pronounced a
second judgment against her, in more opprobrious language than before;
nor had it any better success with the bystanders, who were now grown
very numerous. Many of them cried out, “They thought what madam's silk
gown would end in;” others spoke sarcastically of her learning. Not a
single female was present but found some means of expressing her
abhorrence of poor Jenny, who bore all very patiently, except the
malice of one woman, who reflected upon her person, and tossing up her
nose, said, “The man must have a good stomach who would give silk
gowns for such sort of trumpery!” Jenny replied to this with a
bitterness which might have surprized a judicious person, who had
observed the tranquillity with which she bore all the affronts to her
chastity; but her patience was perhaps tired out, for this is a virtue
which is very apt to be fatigued by exercise.
Mrs Deborah having succeeded beyond her hopes in her inquiry, returned
with much triumph, and, at the appointed hour, made a faithful report
to Mr Allworthy, who was much surprized at the relation; for he had
heard of the extraordinary parts and improvements of this girl, whom
he intended to have given in marriage, together with a small living,
to a neighbouring curate. His concern, therefore, on this occasion,
was at least equal to the satisfaction which appeared in Mrs Deborah,
and to many readers may seem much more reasonable.
Miss Bridget blessed herself, and said, “For her part, she should
never hereafter entertain a good opinion of any woman.” For Jenny
before this had the happiness of being much in her good graces also.
The prudent housekeeper was again dispatched to bring the unhappy
culprit before Mr Allworthy, in order, not as it was hoped by some,
and expected by all, to be sent to the house of correction, but to
receive wholesome admonition and reproof; which those who relish that
kind of instructive writing may peruse in the next chapter.
Chapter vii.
Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot laugh once
through the whole chapter, unless peradventure he should laugh at the
author.
When Jenny appeared, Mr Allworthy took her into his study, and spoke
to her as follows: “You know, child, it is in my power as a
magistrate, to punish you very rigorously for what you have done; and
you will, perhaps, be the more apt to fear I should execute that
power, because you have in a manner laid your sins at my door.
“But, perhaps, this is one reason which hath determined me to act in a
milder manner with you: for, as no private resentment should ever
influence a magistrate, I will be so far from considering your having
deposited the infant in my house as an aggravation of your offence,
that I will suppose, in your favour, this to have proceeded from a
natural affection to your child, since you might have some hopes to
see it thus better provided for than was in the power of yourself, or
its wicked father, to provide for it. I should indeed have been highly
offended with you had you exposed the little wretch in the manner of
some inhuman mothers, who seem no less to have abandoned their
humanity, than to have parted with their chastity. It is the other
part of your offence, therefore, upon which I intend to admonish you,
I mean the violation of your chastity;--a crime, however lightly it
may be treated by debauched persons, very heinous in itself, and very
dreadful in its consequences.
“The heinous nature of this offence must be sufficiently apparent to
every Christian, inasmuch as it is committed in defiance of the laws
of our religion, and of the express commands of Him who founded that
religion.
“And here its consequences may well be argued to be dreadful; for what
can be more so, than to incur the divine displeasure, by the breach of
the divine commands; and that in an instance against which the highest
vengeance is specifically denounced?
“But these things, though too little, I am afraid, regarded, are so
plain, that mankind, however they may want to be reminded, can never
need information on this head. A hint, therefore, to awaken your sense
of this matter, shall suffice; for I would inspire you with
repentance, and not drive you to desperation.
“There are other consequences, not indeed so dreadful or replete with
horror as this; and yet such, as, if attentively considered, must, one
would think, deter all of your sex at least from the commission of
this crime.
“For by it you are rendered infamous, and driven, like lepers of old,
out of society; at least, from the society of all but wicked and
reprobate persons; for no others will associate with you.
“If you have fortunes, you are hereby rendered incapable of enjoying
them; if you have none, you are disabled from acquiring any, nay
almost of procuring your sustenance; for no persons of character will
receive you into their houses. Thus you are often driven by necessity
itself into a state of shame and misery, which unavoidably ends in the
destruction of both body and soul.
“Can any pleasure compensate these evils? Can any temptation have
sophistry and delusion strong enough to persuade you to so simple a
bargain? Or can any carnal appetite so overpower your reason, or so
totally lay it asleep, as to prevent your flying with affright and
terror from a crime which carries such punishment always with it?
“How base and mean must that woman be, how void of that dignity of
mind, and decent pride, without which we are not worthy the name of
human creatures, who can bear to level herself with the lowest animal,
and to sacrifice all that is great and noble in her, all her heavenly
part, to an appetite which she hath in common with the vilest branch
of the creation! For no woman, sure, will plead the passion of love
for an excuse. This would be to own herself the mere tool and bubble
of the man. Love, however barbarously we may corrupt and pervert its
meaning, as it is a laudable, is a rational passion, and can never be
violent but when reciprocal; for though the Scripture bids us love our
enemies, it means not with that fervent love which we naturally bear
towards our friends; much less that we should sacrifice to them our
lives, and what ought to be dearer to us, our innocence. Now in what
light, but that of an enemy, can a reasonable woman regard the man who
solicits her to entail on herself all the misery I have described to
you, and who would purchase to himself a short, trivial, contemptible
pleasure, so greatly at her expense! For, by the laws of custom, the
whole shame, with all its dreadful consequences, falls intirely upon
her. Can love, which always seeks the good of its object, attempt to
betray a woman into a bargain where she is so greatly to be the loser?
If such corrupter, therefore, should have the impudence to pretend a
real affection for her, ought not the woman to regard him not only as
an enemy, but as the worst of all enemies, a false, designing,
treacherous, pretended friend, who intends not only to debauch her
body, but her understanding at the same time?”
Here Jenny expressing great concern, Allworthy paused a moment, and
then proceeded: “I have talked thus to you, child, not to insult you
for what is past and irrevocable, but to caution and strengthen you
for the future. Nor should I have taken this trouble, but from some
opinion of your good sense, notwithstanding the dreadful slip you have
made; and from some hopes of your hearty repentance, which are founded
on the openness and sincerity of your confession. If these do not
deceive me, I will take care to convey you from this scene of your
shame, where you shall, by being unknown, avoid the punishment which,
as I have said, is allotted to your crime in this world; and I hope,
by repentance, you will avoid the much heavier sentence denounced
against it in the other. Be a good girl the rest of your days, and
want shall be no motive to your going astray; and, believe me, there
is more pleasure, even in this world, in an innocent and virtuous
life, than in one debauched and vicious.
“As to your child, let no thoughts concerning it molest you; I will
provide for it in a better manner than you can ever hope. And now
nothing remains but that you inform me who was the wicked man that
seduced you; for my anger against him will be much greater than you
have experienced on this occasion.”
Jenny now lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a modest look and
decent voice thus began:--
“To know you, sir, and not love your goodness, would be an argument of
total want of sense or goodness in any one. In me it would amount to
the highest ingratitude, not to feel, in the most sensible manner, the
great degree of goodness you have been pleased to exert on this
occasion. As to my concern for what is past, I know you will spare my
blushes the repetition. My future conduct will much better declare my
sentiments than any professions I can now make. I beg leave to assure
you, sir, that I take your advice much kinder than your generous offer
with which you concluded it; for, as you are pleased to say, sir, it
is an instance of your opinion of my understanding.”--Here her tears
flowing apace, she stopped a few moments, and then proceeded
thus:--“Indeed, sir, your kindness overcomes me; but I will endeavour
to deserve this good opinion: for if I have the understanding you are
so kindly pleased to allow me, such advice cannot be thrown away upon
me. I thank you, sir, heartily, for your intended kindness to my poor
helpless child: he is innocent, and I hope will live to be grateful
for all the favours you shall show him. But now, sir, I must on my
knees entreat you not to persist in asking me to declare the father of
my infant. I promise you faithfully you shall one day know; but I am
under the most solemn ties and engagements of honour, as well as the
most religious vows and protestations, to conceal his name at this
time. And I know you too well, to think you would desire I should
sacrifice either my honour or my religion.”
Mr Allworthy, whom the least mention of those sacred words was
sufficient to stagger, hesitated a moment before he replied, and then
told her, she had done wrong to enter into such engagements to a
villain; but since she had, he could not insist on her breaking them.
He said, it was not from a motive of vain curiosity he had inquired,
but in order to punish the fellow; at least, that he might not
ignorantly confer favours on the undeserving.
As to these points, Jenny satisfied him by the most solemn assurances,
that the man was entirely out of his reach; and was neither subject to
his power, nor in any probability of becoming an object of his
goodness.
The ingenuity of this behaviour had gained Jenny so much credit with
this worthy man, that he easily believed what she told him; for as she
had disdained to excuse herself by a lie, and had hazarded his further
displeasure in her present situation, rather than she would forfeit
her honour or integrity by betraying another, he had but little
apprehensions that she would be guilty of falsehood towards himself.
He therefore dismissed her with assurances that he would very soon
remove her out of the reach of that obloquy she had incurred;
concluding with some additional documents, in which he recommended
repentance, saying, “Consider, child, there is one still to reconcile
yourself to, whose favour is of much greater importance to you than
mine.”
Chapter viii.
A dialogue between Mesdames Bridget and Deborah; containing more
amusement, but less instruction, than the former.
When Mr Allworthy had retired to his study with Jenny Jones, as hath
been seen, Mrs Bridget, with the good housekeeper, had betaken
themselves to a post next adjoining to the said study; whence, through
the conveyance of a keyhole, they sucked in at their ears the
instructive lecture delivered by Mr Allworthy, together with the
answers of Jenny, and indeed every other particular which passed in
the last chapter.
This hole in her brother's study-door was indeed as well known to Mrs
Bridget, and had been as frequently applied to by her, as the famous
hole in the wall was by Thisbe of old. This served to many good
purposes. For by such means Mrs Bridget became often acquainted with
her brother's inclinations, without giving him the trouble of
repeating them to her. It is true, some inconveniences attended this
intercourse, and she had sometimes reason to cry out with Thisbe, in
Shakspeare, “O, wicked, wicked wall!” For as Mr Allworthy was a
justice of peace, certain things occurred in examinations concerning
bastards, and such like, which are apt to give great offence to the
chaste ears of virgins, especially when they approach the age of
forty, as was the case of Mrs Bridget. However, she had, on such
occasions, the advantage of concealing her blushes from the eyes of
men; and _De non apparentibus, et non existentibus eadem est
ratio_--in English, “When a woman is not seen to blush, she doth not
blush at all.”
Both the good women kept strict silence during the whole scene between
Mr Allworthy and the girl; but as soon as it was ended, and that
gentleman was out of hearing, Mrs Deborah could not help exclaiming
against the clemency of her master, and especially against his
suffering her to conceal the father of the child, which she swore she
would have out of her before the sun set.
At these words Mrs Bridget discomposed her features with a smile (a
thing very unusual to her). Not that I would have my reader imagine,
that this was one of those wanton smiles which Homer would have you
conceive came from Venus, when he calls her the laughter-loving
goddess; nor was it one of those smiles which Lady Seraphina shoots
from the stage-box, and which Venus would quit her immortality to be
able to equal. No, this was rather one of those smiles which might be
supposed to have come from the dimpled cheeks of the august Tisiphone,
or from one of the misses, her sisters.
With such a smile then, and with a voice sweet as the evening breeze
of Boreas in the pleasant month of November, Mrs Bridget gently
reproved the curiosity of Mrs Deborah; a vice with which it seems the
latter was too much tainted, and which the former inveighed against
with great bitterness, adding, “That, among all her faults, she
thanked Heaven her enemies could not accuse her of prying into the
affairs of other people.”
She then proceeded to commend the honour and spirit with which Jenny
had acted. She said, she could not help agreeing with her brother,
that there was some merit in the sincerity of her confession, and in
her integrity to her lover: that she had always thought her a very
good girl, and doubted not but she had been seduced by some rascal,
who had been infinitely more to blame than herself, and very probably
had prevailed with her by a promise of marriage, or some other
treacherous proceeding.
This behaviour of Mrs Bridget greatly surprised Mrs Deborah; for this
well-bred woman seldom opened her lips, either to her master or his
sister, till she had first sounded their inclinations, with which her
sentiments were always consonant. Here, however, she thought she might
have launched forth with safety; and the sagacious reader will not
perhaps accuse her of want of sufficient forecast in so doing, but
will rather admire with what wonderful celerity she tacked about, when
she found herself steering a wrong course.
“Nay, madam,” said this able woman, and truly great politician, “I
must own I cannot help admiring the girl's spirit, as well as your
ladyship. And, as your ladyship says, if she was deceived by some
wicked man, the poor wretch is to be pitied. And to be sure, as your
ladyship says, the girl hath always appeared like a good, honest,
plain girl, and not vain of her face, forsooth, as some wanton husseys
in the neighbourhood are.”
“You say true, Deborah,” said Miss Bridget. “If the girl had been one
of those vain trollops, of which we have too many in the parish, I
should have condemned my brother for his lenity towards her. I saw two
farmers' daughters at church, the other day, with bare necks. I
protest they shocked me. If wenches will hang out lures for fellows,
it is no matter what they suffer. I detest such creatures; and it
would be much better for them that their faces had been seamed with
the smallpox; but I must confess, I never saw any of this wanton
behaviour in poor Jenny: some artful villain, I am convinced, hath
betrayed, nay perhaps forced her; and I pity the poor wretch with all
my heart.”
Mrs Deborah approved all these sentiments, and the dialogue concluded
with a general and bitter invective against beauty, and with many
compassionate considerations for all honest plain girls who are
deluded by the wicked arts of deceitful men.
Chapter ix.
Containing matters which will surprize the reader.
Jenny returned home well pleased with the reception she had met with
from Mr Allworthy, whose indulgence to her she industriously made
public; partly perhaps as a sacrifice to her own pride, and partly
from the more prudent motive of reconciling her neighbours to her, and
silencing their clamours.
But though this latter view, if she indeed had it, may appear
reasonable enough, yet the event did not answer her expectation; for
when she was convened before the justice, and it was universally
apprehended that the house of correction would have been her fate,
though some of the young women cryed out “It was good enough for her,”
and diverted themselves with the thoughts of her beating hemp in a
silk gown; yet there were many others who began to pity her condition:
but when it was known in what manner Mr Allworthy had behaved, the
tide turned against her. One said, “I'll assure you, madam hath had
good luck.” A second cryed, “See what it is to be a favourite!” A
third, “Ay, this comes of her learning.” Every person made some
malicious comment or other on the occasion, and reflected on the
partiality of the justice.
The behaviour of these people may appear impolitic and ungrateful to
the reader, who considers the power and benevolence of Mr Allworthy.
But as to his power, he never used it; and as to his benevolence, he
exerted so much, that he had thereby disobliged all his neighbours;
for it is a secret well known to great men, that, by conferring an
obligation, they do not always procure a friend, but are certain of
creating many enemies.
Jenny was, however, by the care and goodness of Mr Allworthy, soon
removed out of the reach of reproach; when malice being no longer able
to vent its rage on her, began to seek another object of its
bitterness, and this was no less than Mr Allworthy, himself; for a
whisper soon went abroad, that he himself was the father of the
foundling child.
This supposition so well reconciled his conduct to the general
opinion, that it met with universal assent; and the outcry against his
lenity soon began to take another turn, and was changed into an
invective against his cruelty to the poor girl. Very grave and good
women exclaimed against men who begot children, and then disowned
them. Nor were there wanting some, who, after the departure of Jenny,
insinuated that she was spirited away with a design too black to be
mentioned, and who gave frequent hints that a legal inquiry ought to
be made into the whole matter, and that some people should be forced
to produce the girl.
These calumnies might have probably produced ill consequences, at the
least might have occasioned some trouble, to a person of a more
doubtful and suspicious character than Mr Allworthy was blessed with;
but in his case they had no such effect; and, being heartily despised
by him, they served only to afford an innocent amusement to the good
gossips of the neighbourhood.
But as we cannot possibly divine what complection our reader may be
of, and as it will be some time before he will hear any more of Jenny,
we think proper to give him a very early intimation, that Mr Allworthy
was, and will hereafter appear to be, absolutely innocent of any
criminal intention whatever. He had indeed committed no other than an
error in politics, by tempering justice with mercy, and by refusing to
gratify the good-natured disposition of the mob,[*] with an object for
their compassion to work on in the person of poor Jenny, whom, in
order to pity, they desired to have seen sacrificed to ruin and
infamy, by a shameful correction in Bridewell.
[*]Whenever this word occurs in our writings, it intends persons
without virtue or sense, in all stations; and many of the highest
rank are often meant by it.
So far from complying with this their inclination, by which all hopes
of reformation would have been abolished, and even the gate shut
against her if her own inclinations should ever hereafter lead her to
chuse the road of virtue, Mr Allworthy rather chose to encourage the
girl to return thither by the only possible means; for too true I am
afraid it is, that many women have become abandoned, and have sunk to
the last degree of vice, by being unable to retrieve the first slip.
This will be, I am afraid, always the case while they remain among
their former acquaintance; it was therefore wisely done by Mr
Allworthy, to remove Jenny to a place where she might enjoy the
pleasure of reputation, after having tasted the ill consequences of
losing it.
To this place therefore, wherever it was, we will wish her a good
journey, and for the present take leave of her, and of the little
foundling her child, having matters of much higher importance to
communicate to the reader.
Chapter x.
The hospitality of Allworthy; with a short sketch of the characters of
two brothers, a doctor and a captain, who were entertained by that
gentleman.
Neither Mr Allworthy's house, nor his heart, were shut against any
part of mankind, but they were both more particularly open to men of
merit. To say the truth, this was the only house in the kingdom where
you was sure to gain a dinner by deserving it.
Above all others, men of genius and learning shared the principal
place in his favour; and in these he had much discernment: for though
he had missed the advantage of a learned education, yet, being blest
with vast natural abilities, he had so well profited by a vigorous
though late application to letters, and by much conversation with men
of eminence in this way, that he was himself a very competent judge in
most kinds of literature.
It is no wonder that in an age when this kind of merit is so little in
fashion, and so slenderly provided for, persons possessed of it should
very eagerly flock to a place where they were sure of being received
with great complaisance; indeed, where they might enjoy almost the
same advantages of a liberal fortune as if they were entitled to it in
their own right; for Mr Allworthy was not one of those generous
persons who are ready most bountifully to bestow meat, drink, and
lodging on men of wit and learning, for which they expect no other
return but entertainment, instruction, flattery, and subserviency; in
a word, that such persons should be enrolled in the number of
domestics, without wearing their master's cloathes, or receiving
wages.
On the contrary, every person in this house was perfect master of his
own time: and as he might at his pleasure satisfy all his appetites
within the restrictions only of law, virtue, and religion; so he
might, if his health required, or his inclination prompted him to
temperance, or even to abstinence, absent himself from any meals, or
retire from them, whenever he was so disposed, without even a
sollicitation to the contrary: for, indeed, such sollicitations from
superiors always savour very strongly of commands. But all here were
free from such impertinence, not only those whose company is in all
other places esteemed a favour from their equality of fortune, but
even those whose indigent circumstances make such an eleemosynary
abode convenient to them, and who are therefore less welcome to a
great man's table because they stand in need of it.
Among others of this kind was Dr Blifil, a gentleman who had the
misfortune of losing the advantage of great talents by the obstinacy
of a father, who would breed him to a profession he disliked. In
obedience to this obstinacy the doctor had in his youth been obliged
to study physic, or rather to say he studied it; for in reality books
of this kind were almost the only ones with which he was unacquainted;
and unfortunately for him, the doctor was master of almost every other
science but that by which he was to get his bread; the consequence of
which was, that the doctor at the age of forty had no bread to eat.
Such a person as this was certain to find a welcome at Mr Allworthy's
table, to whom misfortunes were ever a recommendation, when they were
derived from the folly or villany of others, and not of the
unfortunate person himself. Besides this negative merit, the doctor
had one positive recommendation;--this was a great appearance of
religion. Whether his religion was real, or consisted only in
appearance, I shall not presume to say, as I am not possessed of any
touchstone which can distinguish the true from the false.
If this part of his character pleased Mr Allworthy, it delighted Miss
Bridget. She engaged him in many religious controversies; on which
occasions she constantly expressed great satisfaction in the doctor's
knowledge, and not much less in the compliments which he frequently
bestowed on her own. To say the truth, she had read much English
divinity, and had puzzled more than one of the neighbouring curates.
Indeed, her conversation was so pure, her looks so sage, and her whole
deportment so grave and solemn, that she seemed to deserve the name of
saint equally with her namesake, or with any other female in the Roman
kalendar.
As sympathies of all kinds are apt to beget love, so experience
teaches us that none have a more direct tendency this way than those
of a religious kind between persons of different sexes. The doctor
found himself so agreeable to Miss Bridget, that he now began to
lament an unfortunate accident which had happened to him about ten
years before; namely, his marriage with another woman, who was not
only still alive, but, what was worse, known to be so by Mr Allworthy.
This was a fatal bar to that happiness which he otherwise saw
sufficient probability of obtaining with this young lady; for as to
criminal indulgences, he certainly never thought of them. This was
owing either to his religion, as is most probable, or to the purity of
his passion, which was fixed on those things which matrimony only, and
not criminal correspondence, could put him in possession of, or could
give him any title to.
He had not long ruminated on these matters, before it occurred to his
memory that he had a brother who was under no such unhappy incapacity.
This brother he made no doubt would succeed; for he discerned, as he
thought, an inclination to marriage in the lady; and the reader
perhaps, when he hears the brother's qualifications, will not blame
the confidence which he entertained of his success.
This gentleman was about thirty-five years of age. He was of a middle
size, and what is called well-built. He had a scar on his forehead,
which did not so much injure his beauty as it denoted his valour (for
he was a half-pay officer). He had good teeth, and something affable,
when he pleased, in his smile; though naturally his countenance, as
well as his air and voice, had much of roughness in it: yet he could
at any time deposit this, and appear all gentleness and good-humour.
He was not ungenteel, nor entirely devoid of wit, and in his youth had
abounded in sprightliness, which, though he had lately put on a more
serious character, he could, when he pleased, resume.
He had, as well as the doctor, an academic education; for his father
had, with the same paternal authority we have mentioned before,
decreed him for holy orders; but as the old gentleman died before he
was ordained, he chose the church military, and preferred the king's
commission to the bishop's.
He had purchased the post of lieutenant of dragoons, and afterwards
came to be a captain; but having quarrelled with his colonel, was by
his interest obliged to sell; from which time he had entirely
rusticated himself, had betaken himself to studying the Scriptures,
and was not a little suspected of an inclination to methodism.
It seemed, therefore, not unlikely that such a person should succeed
with a lady of so saint-like a disposition, and whose inclinations
were no otherwise engaged than to the marriage state in general; but
why the doctor, who certainly had no great friendship for his brother,
should for his sake think of making so ill a return to the hospitality
of Allworthy, is a matter not so easy to be accounted for.
Is it that some natures delight in evil, as others are thought to
delight in virtue? Or is there a pleasure in being accessory to a
theft when we cannot commit it ourselves? Or lastly (which experience
seems to make probable), have we a satisfaction in aggrandizing our
families, even though we have not the least love or respect for them?
Whether any of these motives operated on the doctor, we will not
determine; but so the fact was. He sent for his brother, and easily
found means to introduce him at Allworthy's as a person who intended
only a short visit to himself.
The captain had not been in the house a week before the doctor had
reason to felicitate himself on his discernment. The captain was
indeed as great a master of the art of love as Ovid was formerly. He
had besides received proper hints from his brother, which he failed
not to improve to the best advantage.
Chapter xi.
Containing many rules, and some examples, concerning falling in love:
descriptions of beauty, and other more prudential inducements to
matrimony.
It hath been observed, by wise men or women, I forget which, that all
persons are doomed to be in love once in their lives. No particular
season is, as I remember, assigned for this; but the age at which Miss
Bridget was arrived, seems to me as proper a period as any to be fixed
on for this purpose: it often, indeed, happens much earlier; but when
it doth not, I have observed it seldom or never fails about this time.
Moreover, we may remark that at this season love is of a more serious
and steady nature than what sometimes shows itself in the younger
parts of life. The love of girls is uncertain, capricious, and so
foolish that we cannot always discover what the young lady would be
at; nay, it may almost be doubted whether she always knows this
herself.
Now we are never at a loss to discern this in women about forty; for
as such grave, serious, and experienced ladies well know their own
meaning, so it is always very easy for a man of the least sagacity to
discover it with the utmost certainty.
Miss Bridget is an example of all these observations. She had not been
many times in the captain's company before she was seized with this
passion. Nor did she go pining and moping about the house, like a
puny, foolish girl, ignorant of her distemper: she felt, she knew, and
she enjoyed, the pleasing sensation, of which, as she was certain it
was not only innocent but laudable, she was neither afraid nor
ashamed.
And to say the truth, there is, in all points, great difference
between the reasonable passion which women at this age conceive
towards men, and the idle and childish liking of a girl to a boy,
which is often fixed on the outside only, and on things of little
value and no duration; as on cherry-cheeks, small, lily-white hands,
sloe-black eyes, flowing locks, downy chins, dapper shapes; nay,
sometimes on charms more worthless than these, and less the party's
own; such are the outward ornaments of the person, for which men are
beholden to the taylor, the laceman, the periwig-maker, the hatter,
and the milliner, and not to nature. Such a passion girls may well be
ashamed, as they generally are, to own either to themselves or others.
The love of Miss Bridget was of another kind. The captain owed nothing
to any of these fop-makers in his dress, nor was his person much more
beholden to nature. Both his dress and person were such as, had they
appeared in an assembly or a drawing-room, would have been the
contempt and ridicule of all the fine ladies there. The former of
these was indeed neat, but plain, coarse, ill-fancied, and out of
fashion. As for the latter, we have expressly described it above. So
far was the skin on his cheeks from being cherry-coloured, that you
could not discern what the natural colour of his cheeks was, they
being totally overgrown by a black beard, which ascended to his eyes.
His shape and limbs were indeed exactly proportioned, but so large
that they denoted the strength rather of a ploughman than any other.
His shoulders were broad beyond all size, and the calves of his legs
larger than those of a common chairman. In short, his whole person
wanted all that elegance and beauty which is the very reverse of
clumsy strength, and which so agreeably sets off most of our fine
gentlemen; being partly owing to the high blood of their ancestors,
viz., blood made of rich sauces and generous wines, and partly to an
early town education.
Though Miss Bridget was a woman of the greatest delicacy of taste, yet
such were the charms of the captain's conversation, that she totally
overlooked the defects of his person. She imagined, and perhaps very
wisely, that she should enjoy more agreeable minutes with the captain
than with a much prettier fellow; and forewent the consideration of
pleasing her eyes, in order to procure herself much more solid
satisfaction.
The captain no sooner perceived the passion of Miss Bridget, in which
discovery he was very quick-sighted, than he faithfully returned it.
The lady, no more than her lover, was remarkable for beauty. I would
attempt to draw her picture, but that is done already by a more able
master, Mr Hogarth himself, to whom she sat many years ago, and hath
been lately exhibited by that gentleman in his print of a winter's
morning, of which she was no improper emblem, and may be seen walking
(for walk she doth in the print) to Covent Garden church, with a
starved foot-boy behind carrying her prayer-book.
The captain likewise very wisely preferred the more solid enjoyments
he expected with this lady, to the fleeting charms of person. He was
one of those wise men who regard beauty in the other sex as a very
worthless and superficial qualification; or, to speak more truly, who
rather chuse to possess every convenience of life with an ugly woman,
than a handsome one without any of those conveniences. And having a
very good appetite, and but little nicety, he fancied he should play
his part very well at the matrimonial banquet, without the sauce of
beauty.
To deal plainly with the reader, the captain, ever since his arrival,
at least from the moment his brother had proposed the match to him,
long before he had discovered any flattering symptoms in Miss Bridget,
had been greatly enamoured; that is to say, of Mr Allworthy's house
and gardens, and of his lands, tenements, and hereditaments; of all
which the captain was so passionately fond, that he would most
probably have contracted marriage with them, had he been obliged to
have taken the witch of Endor into the bargain.
As Mr Allworthy, therefore, had declared to the doctor that he never
intended to take a second wife, as his sister was his nearest
relation, and as the doctor had fished out that his intentions were to
make any child of hers his heir, which indeed the law, without his
interposition, would have done for him; the doctor and his brother
thought it an act of benevolence to give being to a human creature,
who would be so plentifully provided with the most essential means of
happiness. The whole thoughts, therefore, of both the brothers were
how to engage the affections of this amiable lady.
But fortune, who is a tender parent, and often doth more for her
favourite offspring than either they deserve or wish, had been so
industrious for the captain, that whilst he was laying schemes to
execute his purpose, the lady conceived the same desires with himself,
and was on her side contriving how to give the captain proper
encouragement, without appearing too forward; for she was a strict
observer of all rules of decorum. In this, however, she easily
succeeded; for as the captain was always on the look-out, no glance,
gesture, or word escaped him.
The satisfaction which the captain received from the kind behaviour of
Miss Bridget, was not a little abated by his apprehensions of Mr
Allworthy; for, notwithstanding his disinterested professions, the
captain imagined he would, when he came to act, follow the example of
the rest of the world, and refuse his consent to a match so
disadvantageous, in point of interest, to his sister. From what oracle
he received this opinion, I shall leave the reader to determine: but
however he came by it, it strangely perplexed him how to regulate his
conduct so as at once to convey his affection to the lady, and to
conceal it from her brother. He at length resolved to take all private
opportunities of making his addresses; but in the presence of Mr
Allworthy to be as reserved and as much upon his guard as was
possible; and this conduct was highly approved by the brother.
He soon found means to make his addresses, in express terms, to his
mistress, from whom he received an answer in the proper form, viz.:
the answer which was first made some thousands of years ago, and which
hath been handed down by tradition from mother to daughter ever since.
If I was to translate this into Latin, I should render it by these two
words, _Nolo Episcopari_: a phrase likewise of immemorial use on
another occasion.
The captain, however he came by his knowledge, perfectly well
understood the lady, and very soon after repeated his application with
more warmth and earnestness than before, and was again, according to
due form, rejected; but as he had increased in the eagerness of his
desires, so the lady, with the same propriety, decreased in the
violence of her refusal.
Not to tire the reader, by leading him through every scene of this
courtship (which, though in the opinion of a certain great author, it
is the pleasantest scene of life to the actor, is, perhaps, as dull
and tiresome as any whatever to the audience), the captain made his
advances in form, the citadel was defended in form, and at length, in
proper form, surrendered at discretion.
During this whole time, which filled the space of near a month, the
captain preserved great distance of behaviour to his lady in the
presence of the brother; and the more he succeeded with her in
private, the more reserved was he in public. And as for the lady, she
had no sooner secured her lover than she behaved to him before company
with the highest degree of indifference; so that Mr Allworthy must
have had the insight of the devil (or perhaps some of his worse
qualities) to have entertained the least suspicion of what was going
forward.
Chapter xii.
Containing what the reader may, perhaps, expect to find in it.
In all bargains, whether to fight or to marry, or concerning any other
such business, little previous ceremony is required to bring the
matter to an issue when both parties are really in earnest. This was
the case at present, and in less than a month the captain and his lady
were man and wife.
The great concern now was to break the matter to Mr Allworthy; and
this was undertaken by the doctor.
One day, then, as Allworthy was walking in his garden, the doctor came
to him, and, with great gravity of aspect, and all the concern which
he could possibly affect in his countenance, said, “I am come, sir, to
impart an affair to you of the utmost consequence; but how shall I
mention to you what it almost distracts me to think of!” He then
launched forth into the most bitter invectives both against men and
women; accusing the former of having no attachment but to their
interest, and the latter of being so addicted to vicious inclinations
that they could never be safely trusted with one of the other sex.
“Could I,” said he, “sir, have suspected that a lady of such prudence,
such judgment, such learning, should indulge so indiscreet a passion!
or could I have imagined that my brother--why do I call him so? he is
no longer a brother of mine----”
“Indeed but he is,” said Allworthy, “and a brother of mine too.”
“Bless me, sir!” said the doctor, “do you know the shocking affair?”
“Look'ee, Mr Blifil,” answered the good man, “it hath been my constant
maxim in life to make the best of all matters which happen. My sister,
though many years younger than I, is at least old enough to be at the
age of discretion. Had he imposed on a child, I should have been more
averse to have forgiven him; but a woman upwards of thirty must
certainly be supposed to know what will make her most happy. She hath
married a gentleman, though perhaps not quite her equal in fortune;
and if he hath any perfections in her eye which can make up that
deficiency, I see no reason why I should object to her choice of her
own happiness; which I, no more than herself, imagine to consist only
in immense wealth. I might, perhaps, from the many declarations I have
made of complying with almost any proposal, have expected to have been
consulted on this occasion; but these matters are of a very delicate
nature, and the scruples of modesty, perhaps, are not to be overcome.
As to your brother, I have really no anger against him at all. He hath
no obligations to me, nor do I think he was under any necessity of
asking my consent, since the woman is, as I have said, _sui juris_,
and of a proper age to be entirely answerable only, to herself for her
conduct.”
The doctor accused Mr Allworthy of too great lenity, repeated his
accusations against his brother, and declared that he should never
more be brought either to see, or to own him for his relation. He then
launched forth into a panegyric on Allworthy's goodness; into the
highest encomiums on his friendship; and concluded by saying, he
should never forgive his brother for having put the place which he
bore in that friendship to a hazard.
Allworthy thus answered: “Had I conceived any displeasure against your
brother, I should never have carried that resentment to the innocent:
but I assure you I have no such displeasure. Your brother appears to
me to be a man of sense and honour. I do not disapprove the taste of
my sister; nor will I doubt but that she is equally the object of his
inclinations. I have always thought love the only foundation of
happiness in a married state, as it can only produce that high and
tender friendship which should always be the cement of this union;
and, in my opinion, all those marriages which are contracted from
other motives are greatly criminal; they are a profanation of a most
holy ceremony, and generally end in disquiet and misery: for surely we
may call it a profanation to convert this most sacred institution into
a wicked sacrifice to lust or avarice: and what better can be said of
those matches to which men are induced merely by the consideration of
a beautiful person, or a great fortune?
“To deny that beauty is an agreeable object to the eye, and even
worthy some admiration, would be false and foolish. Beautiful is an
epithet often used in Scripture, and always mentioned with honour. It
was my own fortune to marry a woman whom the world thought handsome,
and I can truly say I liked her the better on that account. But to
make this the sole consideration of marriage, to lust after it so
violently as to overlook all imperfections for its sake, or to require
it so absolutely as to reject and disdain religion, virtue, and sense,
which are qualities in their nature of much higher perfection, only
because an elegance of person is wanting: this is surely inconsistent,
either with a wise man or a good Christian. And it is, perhaps, being
too charitable to conclude that such persons mean anything more by
their marriage than to please their carnal appetites; for the
satisfaction of which, we are taught, it was not ordained.
“In the next place, with respect to fortune. Worldly prudence,
perhaps, exacts some consideration on this head; nor will I absolutely
and altogether condemn it. As the world is constituted, the demands of
a married state, and the care of posterity, require some little regard
to what we call circumstances. Yet this provision is greatly
increased, beyond what is really necessary, by folly and vanity, which
create abundantly more wants than nature. Equipage for the wife, and
large fortunes for the children, are by custom enrolled in the list of
necessaries; and to procure these, everything truly solid and sweet,
and virtuous and religious, are neglected and overlooked.
“And this in many degrees; the last and greatest of which seems scarce
distinguishable from madness;--I mean where persons of immense
fortunes contract themselves to those who are, and must be,
disagreeable to them--to fools and knaves--in order to increase an
estate already larger even than the demands of their pleasures. Surely
such persons, if they will not be thought mad, must own, either that
they are incapable of tasting the sweets of the tenderest friendship,
or that they sacrifice the greatest happiness of which they are
capable to the vain, uncertain, and senseless laws of vulgar opinion,
which owe as well their force as their foundation to folly.”
Here Allworthy concluded his sermon, to which Blifil had listened with
the profoundest attention, though it cost him some pains to prevent
now and then a small discomposure of his muscles. He now praised every
period of what he had heard with the warmth of a young divine, who
hath the honour to dine with a bishop the same day in which his
lordship hath mounted the pulpit.
Chapter xiii.
Which concludes the first book; with an instance of ingratitude,
which, we hope, will appear unnatural.
The reader, from what hath been said, may imagine that the
reconciliation (if indeed it could be so called) was only matter of
form; we shall therefore pass it over, and hasten to what must surely
be thought matter of substance.
The doctor had acquainted his brother with what had past between Mr
Allworthy and him; and added with a smile, “I promise you I paid you
off; nay, I absolutely desired the good gentleman not to forgive you:
for you know after he had made a declaration in your favour, I might
with safety venture on such a request with a person of his temper; and
I was willing, as well for your sake as for my own, to prevent the
least possibility of a suspicion.”
Captain Blifil took not the least notice of this, at that time; but he
afterwards made a very notable use of it.
One of the maxims which the devil, in a late visit upon earth, left to
his disciples, is, when once you are got up, to kick the stool from
under you. In plain English, when you have made your fortune by the
good offices of a friend, you are advised to discard him as soon as
you can.
Whether the captain acted by this maxim, I will not positively
determine: so far we may confidently say, that his actions may be
fairly derived from this diabolical principle; and indeed it is
difficult to assign any other motive to them: for no sooner was he
possessed of Miss Bridget, and reconciled to Allworthy, than he began
to show a coldness to his brother which increased daily; till at
length it grew into rudeness, and became very visible to every one.
The doctor remonstrated to him privately concerning this behaviour,
but could obtain no other satisfaction than the following plain
declaration: “If you dislike anything in my brother's house, sir, you
know you are at liberty to quit it.” This strange, cruel, and almost
unaccountable ingratitude in the captain, absolutely broke the poor
doctor's heart; for ingratitude never so thoroughly pierces the human
breast as when it proceeds from those in whose behalf we have been
guilty of transgressions. Reflections on great and good actions,
however they are received or returned by those in whose favour they
are performed, always administer some comfort to us; but what
consolation shall we receive under so biting a calamity as the
ungrateful behaviour of our friend, when our wounded conscience at the
same time flies in our face, and upbraids us with having spotted it in
the service of one so worthless!
Mr Allworthy himself spoke to the captain in his brother's behalf, and
desired to know what offence the doctor had committed; when the
hard-hearted villain had the baseness to say that he should never
forgive him for the injury which he had endeavoured to do him in his
favour; which, he said, he had pumped out of him, and was such a
cruelty that it ought not to be forgiven.
Allworthy spoke in very high terms upon this declaration, which, he
said, became not a human creature. He expressed, indeed, so much
resentment against an unforgiving temper, that the captain at last
pretended to be convinced by his arguments, and outwardly professed to
be reconciled.
As for the bride, she was now in her honeymoon, and so passionately
fond of her new husband that he never appeared to her to be in the
wrong; and his displeasure against any person was a sufficient reason
for her dislike to the same.
The captain, at Mr Allworthy's instance, was outwardly, as we have
said, reconciled to his brother; yet the same rancour remained in his
heart; and he found so many opportunities of giving him private hints
of this, that the house at last grew insupportable to the poor doctor;
and he chose rather to submit to any inconveniences which he might
encounter in the world, than longer to bear these cruel and ungrateful
insults from a brother for whom he had done so much.
He once intended to acquaint Allworthy with the whole; but he could
not bring himself to submit to the confession, by which he must take
to his share so great a portion of guilt. Besides, by how much the
worse man he represented his brother to be, so much the greater would
his own offence appear to Allworthy, and so much the greater, he had
reason to imagine, would be his resentment.
He feigned, therefore, some excuse of business for his departure, and
promised to return soon again; and took leave of his brother with so
well-dissembled content, that, as the captain played his part to the
same perfection, Allworthy remained well satisfied with the truth of
the reconciliation.
The doctor went directly to London, where he died soon after of a
broken heart; a distemper which kills many more than is generally
imagined, and would have a fair title to a place in the bill of
mortality, did it not differ in one instance from all other
diseases--viz., that no physician can cure it.
Now, upon the most diligent enquiry into the former lives of these two
brothers, I find, besides the cursed and hellish maxim of policy above
mentioned, another reason for the captain's conduct: the captain,
besides what we have before said of him, was a man of great pride and
fierceness, and had always treated his brother, who was of a different
complexion, and greatly deficient in both these qualities, with the
utmost air of superiority. The doctor, however, had much the larger
share of learning, and was by many reputed to have the better
understanding. This the captain knew, and could not bear; for though
envy is at best a very malignant passion, yet is its bitterness
greatly heightened by mixing with contempt towards the same object;
and very much afraid I am, that whenever an obligation is joined to
these two, indignation and not gratitude will be the product of all
three.
BOOK II.
CONTAINING SCENES OF MATRIMONIAL FELICITY IN DIFFERENT DEGREES OF
LIFE; AND VARIOUS OTHER TRANSACTIONS DURING THE FIRST TWO YEARS AFTER
THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN CAPTAIN BLIFIL AND MISS BRIDGET ALLWORTHY.
Chapter i.
Showing what kind of a history this is; what it is like, and what it
is not like.
Though we have properly enough entitled this our work, a history, and
not a life; nor an apology for a life, as is more in fashion; yet we
intend in it rather to pursue the method of those writers, who profess
to disclose the revolutions of countries, than to imitate the painful
and voluminous historian, who, to preserve the regularity of his
series, thinks himself obliged to fill up as much paper with the
detail of months and years in which nothing remarkable happened, as he
employs upon those notable aeras when the greatest scenes have been
transacted on the human stage.
Such histories as these do, in reality, very much resemble a
newspaper, which consists of just the same number of words, whether
there be any news in it or not. They may likewise be compared to a
stage coach, which performs constantly the same course, empty as well
as full. The writer, indeed, seems to think himself obliged to keep
even pace with time, whose amanuensis he is; and, like his master,
travels as slowly through centuries of monkish dulness, when the world
seems to have been asleep, as through that bright and busy age so
nobly distinguished by the excellent Latin poet--
_Ad confligendum venientibus undique poenis,
Omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu
Horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris auris;
In dubioque fuit sub utrorum regna cadendum
Omnibus humanis esset, terraque marique._
Of which we wish we could give our readers a more adequate translation
than that by Mr Creech--
When dreadful Carthage frighted Rome with arms,
And all the world was shook with fierce alarms;
Whilst undecided yet, which part should fall,
Which nation rise the glorious lord of all.
Now it is our purpose, in the ensuing pages, to pursue a contrary
method. When any extraordinary scene presents itself (as we trust will
often be the case), we shall spare no pains nor paper to open it at
large to our reader; but if whole years should pass without producing
anything worthy his notice, we shall not be afraid of a chasm in our
history; but shall hasten on to matters of consequence, and leave such
periods of time totally unobserved.
These are indeed to be considered as blanks in the grand lottery of
time. We therefore, who are the registers of that lottery, shall
imitate those sagacious persons who deal in that which is drawn at
Guildhall, and who never trouble the public with the many blanks they
dispose of; but when a great prize happens to be drawn, the newspapers
are presently filled with it, and the world is sure to be informed at
whose office it was sold: indeed, commonly two or three different
offices lay claim to the honour of having disposed of it; by which, I
suppose, the adventurers are given to understand that certain brokers
are in the secrets of Fortune, and indeed of her cabinet council.
My reader then is not to be surprized, if, in the course of this work,
he shall find some chapters very short, and others altogether as long;
some that contain only the time of a single day, and others that
comprise years; in a word, if my history sometimes seems to stand
still, and sometimes to fly. For all which I shall not look on myself
as accountable to any court of critical jurisdiction whatever: for as
I am, in reality, the founder of a new province of writing, so I am at
liberty to make what laws I please therein. And these laws, my
readers, whom I consider as my subjects, are bound to believe in and
to obey; with which that they may readily and cheerfully comply, I do
hereby assure them that I shall principally regard their ease and
advantage in all such institutions: for I do not, like a _jure divino_
tyrant, imagine that they are my slaves, or my commodity. I am,
indeed, set over them for their own good only, and was created for
their use, and not they for mine. Nor do I doubt, while I make their
interest the great rule of my writings, they will unanimously concur
in supporting my dignity, and in rendering me all the honour I shall
deserve or desire.
Chapter ii.
Religious cautions against showing too much favour to bastards; and a
great discovery made by Mrs Deborah Wilkins.
Eight months after the celebration of the nuptials between Captain
Blifil and Miss Bridget Allworthy, a young lady of great beauty,
merit, and fortune, was Miss Bridget, by reason of a fright, delivered
of a fine boy. The child was indeed to all appearances perfect; but
the midwife discovered it was born a month before its full time.
Though the birth of an heir by his beloved sister was a circumstance
of great joy to Mr Allworthy, yet it did not alienate his affections
from the little foundling, to whom he had been godfather, had given
his own name of Thomas, and whom he had hitherto seldom failed of
visiting, at least once a day, in his nursery.
He told his sister, if she pleased, the new-born infant should be bred
up together with little Tommy; to which she consented, though with
some little reluctance: for she had truly a great complacence for her
brother; and hence she had always behaved towards the foundling with
rather more kindness than ladies of rigid virtue can sometimes bring
themselves to show to these children, who, however innocent, may be
truly called the living monuments of incontinence.
The captain could not so easily bring himself to bear what he
condemned as a fault in Mr Allworthy. He gave him frequent hints, that
to adopt the fruits of sin, was to give countenance to it. He quoted
several texts (for he was well read in Scripture), such as, _He visits
the sins of the fathers upon the children; and the fathers have eaten
sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge_,&c. Whence he
argued the legality of punishing the crime of the parent on the
bastard. He said, “Though the law did not positively allow the
destroying such base-born children, yet it held them to be the
children of nobody; that the Church considered them as the children of
nobody; and that at the best, they ought to be brought up to the
lowest and vilest offices of the commonwealth.”
Mr Allworthy answered to all this, and much more, which the captain
had urged on this subject, “That, however guilty the parents might be,
the children were certainly innocent: that as to the texts he had
quoted, the former of them was a particular denunciation against the
Jews, for the sin of idolatry, of relinquishing and hating their
heavenly King; and the latter was parabolically spoken, and rather
intended to denote the certain and necessary consequences of sin, than
any express judgment against it. But to represent the Almighty as
avenging the sins of the guilty on the innocent, was indecent, if not
blasphemous, as it was to represent him acting against the first
principles of natural justice, and against the original notions of
right and wrong, which he himself had implanted in our minds; by which
we were to judge not only in all matters which were not revealed, but
even of the truth of revelation itself. He said he knew many held the
same principles with the captain on this head; but he was himself
firmly convinced to the contrary, and would provide in the same manner
for this poor infant, as if a legitimate child had had fortune to have
been found in the same place.”
While the captain was taking all opportunities to press these and such
like arguments, to remove the little foundling from Mr Allworthy's, of
whose fondness for him he began to be jealous, Mrs Deborah had made a
discovery, which, in its event, threatened at least to prove more
fatal to poor Tommy than all the reasonings of the captain.
Whether the insatiable curiosity of this good woman had carried her on
to that business, or whether she did it to confirm herself in the good
graces of Mrs Blifil, who, notwithstanding her outward behaviour to
the foundling, frequently abused the infant in private, and her
brother too, for his fondness to it, I will not determine; but she had
now, as she conceived, fully detected the father of the foundling.
Now, as this was a discovery of great consequence, it may be necessary
to trace it from the fountain-head. We shall therefore very minutely
lay open those previous matters by which it was produced; and for that
purpose we shall be obliged to reveal all the secrets of a little
family with which my reader is at present entirely unacquainted; and
of which the oeconomy was so rare and extraordinary, that I fear it
will shock the utmost credulity of many married persons.
Chapter iii.
The description of a domestic government founded upon rules directly
contrary to those of Aristotle.
My reader may please to remember he hath been informed that Jenny
Jones had lived some years with a certain schoolmaster, who had, at
her earnest desire, instructed her in Latin, in which, to do justice
to her genius, she had so improved herself, that she was become a
better scholar than her master.
Indeed, though this poor man had undertaken a profession to which
learning must be allowed necessary, this was the least of his
commendations. He was one of the best-natured fellows in the world,
and was, at the same time, master of so much pleasantry and humour,
that he was reputed the wit of the country; and all the neighbouring
gentlemen were so desirous of his company, that as denying was not his
talent, he spent much time at their houses, which he might, with more
emolument, have spent in his school.
It may be imagined that a gentleman so qualified and so disposed, was
in no danger of becoming formidable to the learned seminaries of Eton
or Westminster. To speak plainly, his scholars were divided into two
classes: in the upper of which was a young gentleman, the son of a
neighbouring squire, who, at the age of seventeen, was just entered
into his Syntaxis; and in the lower was a second son of the same
gentleman, who, together with seven parish-boys, was learning to read
and write.
The stipend arising hence would hardly have indulged the schoolmaster
in the luxuries of life, had he not added to this office those of
clerk and barber, and had not Mr Allworthy added to the whole an
annuity of ten pounds, which the poor man received every Christmas,
and with which he was enabled to cheer his heart during that sacred
festival.
Among his other treasures, the pedagogue had a wife, whom he had
married out of Mr Allworthy's kitchen for her fortune, viz., twenty
pounds, which she had there amassed.
This woman was not very amiable in her person. Whether she sat to my
friend Hogarth, or no, I will not determine; but she exactly resembled
the young woman who is pouring out her mistress's tea in the third
picture of the Harlot's Progress. She was, besides, a profest follower
of that noble sect founded by Xantippe of old; by means of which she
became more formidable in the school than her husband; for, to confess
the truth, he was never master there, or anywhere else, in her
presence.
Though her countenance did not denote much natural sweetness of
temper, yet this was, perhaps, somewhat soured by a circumstance which
generally poisons matrimonial felicity; for children are rightly
called the pledges of love; and her husband, though they had been
married nine years, had given her no such pledges; a default for which
he had no excuse, either from age or health, being not yet thirty
years old, and what they call a jolly brisk young man.
Hence arose another evil, which produced no little uneasiness to the
poor pedagogue, of whom she maintained so constant a jealousy, that he
durst hardly speak to one woman in the parish; for the least degree of
civility, or even correspondence, with any female, was sure to bring
his wife upon her back, and his own.
In order to guard herself against matrimonial injuries in her own
house, as she kept one maid-servant, she always took care to chuse her
out of that order of females whose faces are taken as a kind of
security for their virtue; of which number Jenny Jones, as the reader
hath been before informed, was one.
As the face of this young woman might be called pretty good security
of the before-mentioned kind, and as her behaviour had been always
extremely modest, which is the certain consequence of understanding in
women; she had passed above four years at Mr Partridge's (for that was
the schoolmaster's name) without creating the least suspicion in her
mistress. Nay, she had been treated with uncommon kindness, and her
mistress had permitted Mr Partridge to give her those instructions
which have been before commemorated.
But it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such distempers are in
the blood, there is never any security against their breaking out; and
that often on the slightest occasions, and when least suspected.
Thus it happened to Mrs Partridge, who had submitted four years to her
husband's teaching this young woman, and had suffered her often to
neglect her work, in order to pursue her learning. For, passing by one
day, as the girl was reading, and her master leaning over her, the
girl, I know not for what reason, suddenly started up from her chair:
and this was the first time that suspicion ever entered into the head
of her mistress. This did not, however, at that time discover itself,
but lay lurking in her mind, like a concealed enemy, who waits for a
reinforcement of additional strength before he openly declares himself
and proceeds upon hostile operations: and such additional strength
soon arrived to corroborate her suspicion; for not long after, the
husband and wife being at dinner, the master said to his maid, _Da
mihi aliquid potum:_ upon which the poor girl smiled, perhaps at the
badness of the Latin, and, when her mistress cast her eyes on her,
blushed, possibly with a consciousness of having laughed at her
master. Mrs Partridge, upon this, immediately fell into a fury, and
discharged the trencher on which she was eating, at the head of poor
Jenny, crying out, “You impudent whore, do you play tricks with my
husband before my face?” and at the same instant rose from her chair
with a knife in her hand, with which, most probably, she would have
executed very tragical vengeance, had not the girl taken the advantage
of being nearer the door than her mistress, and avoided her fury by
running away: for, as to the poor husband, whether surprize had
rendered him motionless, or fear (which is full as probable) had
restrained him from venturing at any opposition, he sat staring and
trembling in his chair; nor did he once offer to move or speak, till
his wife, returning from the pursuit of Jenny, made some defensive
measures necessary for his own preservation; and he likewise was
obliged to retreat, after the example of the maid.
This good woman was, no more than Othello, of a disposition
To make a life of jealousy
And follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions--
With her, as well as him,
--To be once in doubt,
Was once to be resolvd--
she therefore ordered Jenny immediately to pack up her alls and
begone, for that she was determined she should not sleep that night
within her walls.
Mr Partridge had profited too much by experience to interpose in a
matter of this nature. He therefore had recourse to his usual receipt
of patience, for, though he was not a great adept in Latin, he
remembered, and well understood, the advice contained in these words
--_Leve fit quod bene fertur onus_
in English:
A burden becomes lightest when it is well borne--
which he had always in his mouth; and of which, to say the truth, he
had often occasion to experience the truth.
Jenny offered to make protestations of her innocence; but the tempest
was too strong for her to be heard. She then betook herself to the
business of packing, for which a small quantity of brown paper
sufficed, and, having received her small pittance of wages, she
returned home.
The schoolmaster and his consort passed their time unpleasantly enough
that evening, but something or other happened before the next morning,
which a little abated the fury of Mrs Partridge; and she at length
admitted her husband to make his excuses: to which she gave the
readier belief, as he had, instead of desiring her to recall Jenny,
professed a satisfaction in her being dismissed, saying, she was grown
of little use as a servant, spending all her time in reading, and was
become, moreover, very pert and obstinate; for, indeed, she and her
master had lately had frequent disputes in literature; in which, as
hath been said, she was become greatly his superior. This, however, he
would by no means allow; and as he called her persisting in the right,
obstinacy, he began to hate her with no small inveteracy.
Chapter iv.
Containing one of the most bloody battles, or rather duels, that were
ever recorded in domestic history.
For the reasons mentioned in the preceding chapter, and from some
other matrimonial concessions, well known to most husbands, and which,
like the secrets of freemasonry, should be divulged to none who are
not members of that honourable fraternity, Mrs Partridge was pretty
well satisfied that she had condemned her husband without cause, and
endeavoured by acts of kindness to make him amends for her false
suspicion. Her passions were indeed equally violent, whichever way
they inclined; for as she could be extremely angry, so could she be
altogether as fond.
But though these passions ordinarily succeed each other, and scarce
twenty-four hours ever passed in which the pedagogue was not, in some
degree, the object of both; yet, on extraordinary occasions, when the
passion of anger had raged very high, the remission was usually
longer: and so was the case at present; for she continued longer in a
state of affability, after this fit of jealousy was ended, than her
husband had ever known before: and, had it not been for some little
exercises, which all the followers of Xantippe are obliged to perform
daily, Mr Partridge would have enjoyed a perfect serenity of several
months.
Perfect calms at sea are always suspected by the experienced mariner
to be the forerunners of a storm, and I know some persons, who,
without being generally the devotees of superstition, are apt to
apprehend that great and unusual peace or tranquillity will be
attended with its opposite. For which reason the antients used, on
such occasions, to sacrifice to the goddess Nemesis, a deity who was
thought by them to look with an invidious eye on human felicity, and
to have a peculiar delight in overturning it.
As we are very far from believing in any such heathen goddess, or from
encouraging any superstition, so we wish Mr John Fr----, or some other
such philosopher, would bestir himself a little, in order to find out
the real cause of this sudden transition from good to bad fortune,
which hath been so often remarked, and of which we shall proceed to
give an instance; for it is our province to relate facts, and we shall
leave causes to persons of much higher genius.
Mankind have always taken great delight in knowing and descanting on
the actions of others. Hence there have been, in all ages and nations,
certain places set apart for public rendezvous, where the curious
might meet and satisfy their mutual curiosity. Among these, the
barbers' shops have justly borne the pre-eminence. Among the Greeks,
barbers' news was a proverbial expression; and Horace, in one of his
epistles, makes honourable mention of the Roman barbers in the same
light.
Those of England are known to be no wise inferior to their Greek or
Roman predecessors. You there see foreign affairs discussed in a
manner little inferior to that with which they are handled in the
coffee-houses; and domestic occurrences are much more largely and
freely treated in the former than in the latter. But this serves only
for the men. Now, whereas the females of this country, especially
those of the lower order, do associate themselves much more than those
of other nations, our polity would be highly deficient, if they had
not some place set apart likewise for the indulgence of their
curiosity, seeing they are in this no way inferior to the other half
of the species.
In enjoying, therefore, such place of rendezvous, the British fair
ought to esteem themselves more happy than any of their foreign
sisters; as I do not remember either to have read in history, or to
have seen in my travels, anything of the like kind.
This place then is no other than the chandler's shop, the known seat
of all the news; or, as it is vulgarly called, gossiping, in every
parish in England.
Mrs Partridge being one day at this assembly of females, was asked by
one of her neighbours, if she had heard no news lately of Jenny Jones?
To which she answered in the negative. Upon this the other replied,
with a smile, That the parish was very much obliged to her for having
turned Jenny away as she did.
Mrs Partridge, whose jealousy, as the reader well knows, was long
since cured, and who had no other quarrel to her maid, answered
boldly, She did not know any obligation the parish had to her on that
account; for she believed Jenny had scarce left her equal behind her.
“No, truly,” said the gossip, “I hope not, though I fancy we have
sluts enow too. Then you have not heard, it seems, that she hath been
brought to bed of two bastards? but as they are not born here, my
husband and the other overseer says we shall not be obliged to keep
them.”
“Two bastards!” answered Mrs Partridge hastily: “you surprize me! I
don't know whether we must keep them; but I am sure they must have
been begotten here, for the wench hath not been nine months gone
away.”
Nothing can be so quick and sudden as the operations of the mind,
especially when hope, or fear, or jealousy, to which the two others
are but journeymen, set it to work. It occurred instantly to her, that
Jenny had scarce ever been out of her own house while she lived with
her. The leaning over the chair, the sudden starting up, the Latin,
the smile, and many other things, rushed upon her all at once. The
satisfaction her husband expressed in the departure of Jenny, appeared
now to be only dissembled; again, in the same instant, to be real; but
yet to confirm her jealousy, proceeding from satiety, and a hundred
other bad causes. In a word, she was convinced of her husband's guilt,
and immediately left the assembly in confusion.
As fair Grimalkin, who, though the youngest of the feline family,
degenerates not in ferocity from the elder branches of her house, and
though inferior in strength, is equal in fierceness to the noble tiger
himself, when a little mouse, whom it hath long tormented in sport,
escapes from her clutches for a while, frets, scolds, growls, swears;
but if the trunk, or box, behind which the mouse lay hid be again
removed, she flies like lightning on her prey, and, with envenomed
wrath, bites, scratches, mumbles, and tears the little animal.
Not with less fury did Mrs Partridge fly on the poor pedagogue. Her
tongue, teeth, and hands, fell all upon him at once. His wig was in an
instant torn from his head, his shirt from his back, and from his face
descended five streams of blood, denoting the number of claws with
which nature had unhappily armed the enemy.
Mr Partridge acted for some time on the defensive only; indeed he
attempted only to guard his face with his hands; but as he found that
his antagonist abated nothing of her rage, he thought he might, at
least, endeavour to disarm her, or rather to confine her arms; in
doing which her cap fell off in the struggle, and her hair being too
short to reach her shoulders, erected itself on her head; her stays
likewise, which were laced through one single hole at the bottom,
burst open; and her breasts, which were much more redundant than her
hair, hung down below her middle; her face was likewise marked with
the blood of her husband: her teeth gnashed with rage; and fire, such
as sparkles from a smith's forge, darted from her eyes. So that,
altogether, this Amazonian heroine might have been an object of terror
to a much bolder man than Mr Partridge.
He had, at length, the good fortune, by getting possession of her
arms, to render those weapons which she wore at the ends of her
fingers useless; which she no sooner perceived, than the softness of
her sex prevailed over her rage, and she presently dissolved in tears,
which soon after concluded in a fit.
That small share of sense which Mr Partridge had hitherto preserved
through this scene of fury, of the cause of which he was hitherto
ignorant, now utterly abandoned him. He ran instantly into the street,
hallowing out that his wife was in the agonies of death, and
beseeching the neighbours to fly with the utmost haste to her
assistance. Several good women obeyed his summons, who entering his
house, and applying the usual remedies on such occasions, Mrs
Partridge was at length, to the great joy of her husband, brought to
herself.
As soon as she had a little recollected her spirits, and somewhat
composed herself with a cordial, she began to inform the company of
the manifold injuries she had received from her husband; who, she
said, was not contented to injure her in her bed; but, upon her
upbraiding him with it, had treated her in the cruelest manner
imaginable; had tore her cap and hair from her head, and her stays
from her body, giving her, at the same time, several blows, the marks
of which she should carry to the grave.
The poor man, who bore on his face many more visible marks of the
indignation of his wife, stood in silent astonishment at this
accusation; which the reader will, I believe, bear witness for him,
had greatly exceeded the truth; for indeed he had not struck her once;
and this silence being interpreted to be a confession of the charge by
the whole court, they all began at once, _una voce_, to rebuke and
revile him, repeating often, that none but a coward ever struck a
woman.
Mr Partridge bore all this patiently; but when his wife appealed to
the blood on her face, as an evidence of his barbarity, he could not
help laying claim to his own blood, for so it really was; as he
thought it very unnatural, that this should rise up (as we are taught
that of a murdered person often doth) in vengeance against him.
To this the women made no other answer, than that it was a pity it had
not come from his heart, instead of his face; all declaring, that, if
their husbands should lift their hands against them, they would have
their hearts' bloods out of their bodies.
After much admonition for what was past, and much good advice to Mr
Partridge for his future behaviour, the company at length departed,
and left the husband and wife to a personal conference together, in
which Mr Partridge soon learned the cause of all his sufferings.
Chapter v.
Containing much matter to exercise the judgment and reflection of the
reader.
I believe it is a true observation, that few secrets are divulged to
one person only; but certainly, it would be next to a miracle that a
fact of this kind should be known to a whole parish, and not transpire
any farther.
And, indeed, a very few days had past, before the country, to use a
common phrase, rung of the schoolmaster of Little Baddington; who was
said to have beaten his wife in the most cruel manner. Nay, in some
places it was reported he had murdered her; in others, that he had
broke her arms; in others, her legs: in short, there was scarce an
injury which can be done to a human creature, but what Mrs Partridge
was somewhere or other affirmed to have received from her husband.
The cause of this quarrel was likewise variously reported; for as some
people said that Mrs Partridge had caught her husband in bed with his
maid, so many other reasons, of a very different kind, went abroad.
Nay, some transferred the guilt to the wife, and the jealousy to the
husband.
Mrs Wilkins had long ago heard of this quarrel; but, as a different
cause from the true one had reached her ears, she thought proper to
conceal it; and the rather, perhaps, as the blame was universally laid
on Mr Partridge; and his wife, when she was servant to Mr Allworthy,
had in something offended Mrs Wilkins, who was not of a very forgiving
temper.
But Mrs Wilkins, whose eyes could see objects at a distance, and who
could very well look forward a few years into futurity, had perceived
a strong likelihood of Captain Blifil's being hereafter her master;
and as she plainly discerned that the captain bore no great goodwill
to the little foundling, she fancied it would be rendering him an
agreeable service, if she could make any discoveries that might lessen
the affection which Mr Allworthy seemed to have contracted for this
child, and which gave visible uneasiness to the captain, who could not
entirely conceal it even before Allworthy himself; though his wife,
who acted her part much better in public, frequently recommended to
him her own example, of conniving at the folly of her brother, which,
she said, she at least as well perceived, and as much resented, as any
other possibly could.
Mrs Wilkins having therefore, by accident, gotten a true scent of the
above story,--though long after it had happened, failed not to satisfy
herself thoroughly of all the particulars; and then acquainted the
captain, that she had at last discovered the true father of the little
bastard, which she was sorry, she said, to see her master lose his
reputation in the country, by taking so much notice of.
The captain chid her for the conclusion of her speech, as an improper
assurance in judging of her master's actions: for if his honour, or
his understanding, would have suffered the captain to make an alliance
with Mrs Wilkins, his pride would by no means have admitted it. And to
say the truth, there is no conduct less politic, than to enter into
any confederacy with your friend's servants against their master: for
by these means you afterwards become the slave of these very servants;
by whom you are constantly liable to be betrayed. And this
consideration, perhaps it was, which prevented Captain Blifil from
being more explicit with Mrs Wilkins, or from encouraging the abuse
which she had bestowed on Allworthy.
But though he declared no satisfaction to Mrs Wilkins at this
discovery, he enjoyed not a little from it in his own mind, and
resolved to make the best use of it he was able.
He kept this matter a long time concealed within his own breast, in
hopes that Mr Allworthy might hear it from some other person; but Mrs
Wilkins, whether she resented the captain's behaviour, or whether his
cunning was beyond her, and she feared the discovery might displease
him, never afterwards opened her lips about the matter.
I have thought it somewhat strange, upon reflection, that the
housekeeper never acquainted Mrs Blifil with this news, as women are
more inclined to communicate all pieces of intelligence to their own
sex, than to ours. The only way, as it appears to me, of solving this
difficulty, is, by imputing it to that distance which was now grown
between the lady and the housekeeper: whether this arose from a
jealousy in Mrs Blifil, that Wilkins showed too great a respect to the
foundling; for while she was endeavouring to ruin the little infant,
in order to ingratiate herself with the captain, she was every day
more and more commending it before Allworthy, as his fondness for it
every day increased. This, notwithstanding all the care she took at
other times to express the direct contrary to Mrs Blifil, perhaps
offended that delicate lady, who certainly now hated Mrs Wilkins; and
though she did not, or possibly could not, absolutely remove her from
her place, she found, however, the means of making her life very
uneasy. This Mrs Wilkins, at length, so resented, that she very openly
showed all manner of respect and fondness to little Tommy, in
opposition to Mrs Blifil.
The captain, therefore, finding the story in danger of perishing, at
last took an opportunity to reveal it himself.
He was one day engaged with Mr Allworthy in a discourse on charity: in
which the captain, with great learning, proved to Mr Allworthy, that
the word charity in Scripture nowhere means beneficence or generosity.
“The Christian religion,” he said, “was instituted for much nobler
purposes, than to enforce a lesson which many heathen philosophers had
taught us long before, and which, though it might perhaps be called a
moral virtue, savoured but little of that sublime, Christian-like
disposition, that vast elevation of thought, in purity approaching to
angelic perfection, to be attained, expressed, and felt only by grace.
Those,” he said, “came nearer to the Scripture meaning, who understood
by it candour, or the forming of a benevolent opinion of our brethren,
and passing a favourable judgment on their actions; a virtue much
higher, and more extensive in its nature, than a pitiful distribution
of alms, which, though we would never so much prejudice, or even ruin
our families, could never reach many; whereas charity, in the other
and truer sense, might be extended to all mankind.”
He said, “Considering who the disciples were, it would be absurd to
conceive the doctrine of generosity, or giving alms, to have been
preached to them. And, as we could not well imagine this doctrine
should be preached by its Divine Author to men who could not practise
it, much less should we think it understood so by those who can
practise it, and do not.
“But though,” continued he, “there is, I am afraid, little merit in
these benefactions, there would, I must confess, be much pleasure in
them to a good mind, if it was not abated by one consideration. I
mean, that we are liable to be imposed upon, and to confer our
choicest favours often on the undeserving, as you must own was your
case in your bounty to that worthless fellow Partridge: for two or
three such examples must greatly lessen the inward satisfaction which
a good man would otherwise find in generosity; nay, may even make him
timorous in bestowing, lest he should be guilty of supporting vice,
and encouraging the wicked; a crime of a very black dye, and for which
it will by no means be a sufficient excuse, that we have not actually
intended such an encouragement; unless we have used the utmost caution
in chusing the objects of our beneficence. A consideration which, I
make no doubt, hath greatly checked the liberality of many a worthy
and pious man.”
Mr Allworthy answered, “He could not dispute with the captain in the
Greek language, and therefore could say nothing as to the true sense
of the word which is translated charity; but that he had always
thought it was interpreted to consist in action, and that giving alms
constituted at least one branch of that virtue.
“As to the meritorious part,” he said, “he readily agreed with the
captain; for where could be the merit of barely discharging a duty?
which,” he said, “let the word charity have what construction it
would, it sufficiently appeared to be from the whole tenor of the New
Testament. And as he thought it an indispensable duty, enjoined both
by the Christian law, and by the law of nature itself; so was it
withal so pleasant, that if any duty could be said to be its own
reward, or to pay us while we are discharging it, it was this.
“To confess the truth,” said he, “there is one degree of generosity
(of charity I would have called it), which seems to have some show of
merit, and that is, where, from a principle of benevolence and
Christian love, we bestow on another what we really want ourselves;
where, in order to lessen the distresses of another, we condescend to
share some part of them, by giving what even our own necessities
cannot well spare. This is, I think, meritorious; but to relieve our
brethren only with our superfluities; to be charitable (I must use the
word) rather at the expense of our coffers than ourselves; to save
several families from misery rather than hang up an extraordinary
picture in our houses or gratify any other idle ridiculous
vanity--this seems to be only being human creatures. Nay, I will
venture to go farther, it is being in some degree epicures: for what
could the greatest epicure wish rather than to eat with many mouths
instead of one? which I think may be predicated of any one who knows
that the bread of many is owing to his own largesses.
“As to the apprehension of bestowing bounty on such as may hereafter
prove unworthy objects, because many have proved such; surely it can
never deter a good man from generosity. I do not think a few or many
examples of ingratitude can justify a man's hardening his heart
against the distresses of his fellow-creatures; nor do I believe it
can ever have such effect on a truly benevolent mind. Nothing less
than a persuasion of universal depravity can lock up the charity of a
good man; and this persuasion must lead him, I think, either into
atheism, or enthusiasm; but surely it is unfair to argue such
universal depravity from a few vicious individuals; nor was this, I
believe, ever done by a man, who, upon searching his own mind, found
one certain exception to the general rule.” He then concluded by
asking, “who that Partridge was, whom he had called a worthless
fellow?”
“I mean,” said the captain, “Partridge the barber, the schoolmaster,
what do you call him? Partridge, the father of the little child which
you found in your bed.”
Mr Allworthy exprest great surprize at this account, and the captain
as great at his ignorance of it; for he said he had known it above a
month: and at length recollected with much difficulty that he was told
it by Mrs Wilkins.
Upon this, Wilkins was immediately summoned; who having confirmed what
the captain had said, was by Mr Allworthy, by and with the captain's
advice, dispatched to Little Baddington, to inform herself of the
truth of the fact: for the captain exprest great dislike at all hasty
proceedings in criminal matters, and said he would by no means have Mr
Allworthy take any resolution either to the prejudice of the child or
its father, before he was satisfied that the latter was guilty; for
though he had privately satisfied himself of this from one of
Partridge's neighbours, yet he was too generous to give any such
evidence to Mr Allworthy.
Chapter vi.
The trial of Partridge, the schoolmaster, for incontinency; the
evidence of his wife; a short reflection on the wisdom of our law;
with other grave matters, which those will like best who understand
them most.
It may be wondered that a story so well known, and which had furnished
so much matter of conversation, should never have been mentioned to Mr
Allworthy himself, who was perhaps the only person in that country who
had never heard of it.
To account in some measure for this to the reader, I think proper to
inform him, that there was no one in the kingdom less interested in
opposing that doctrine concerning the meaning of the word charity,
which hath been seen in the preceding chapter, than our good man.
Indeed, he was equally intitled to this virtue in either sense; for as
no man was ever more sensible of the wants, or more ready to relieve
the distresses of others, so none could be more tender of their
characters, or slower to believe anything to their disadvantage.
Scandal, therefore, never found any access to his table; for as it
hath been long since observed that you may know a man by his
companions, so I will venture to say, that, by attending to the
conversation at a great man's table, you may satisfy yourself of his
religion, his politics, his taste, and indeed of his entire
disposition: for though a few odd fellows will utter their own
sentiments in all places, yet much the greater part of mankind have
enough of the courtier to accommodate their conversation to the taste
and inclination of their superiors.
But to return to Mrs Wilkins, who, having executed her commission with
great dispatch, though at fifteen miles distance, brought back such a
confirmation of the schoolmaster's guilt, that Mr Allworthy determined
to send for the criminal, and examine him _viva voce_. Mr Partridge,
therefore, was summoned to attend, in order to his defence (if he
could make any) against this accusation.
At the time appointed, before Mr Allworthy himself, at Paradise-hall,
came as well the said Partridge, with Anne, his wife, as Mrs Wilkins
his accuser.
And now Mr Allworthy being seated in the chair of justice, Mr
Partridge was brought before him. Having heard his accusation from the
mouth of Mrs Wilkins, he pleaded not guilty, making many vehement
protestations of his innocence.
Mrs Partridge was then examined, who, after a modest apology for being
obliged to speak the truth against her husband, related all the
circumstances with which the reader hath already been acquainted; and
at last concluded with her husband's confession of his guilt.
Whether she had forgiven him or no, I will not venture to determine;
but it is certain she was an unwilling witness in this cause; and it
is probable from certain other reasons, would never have been brought
to depose as she did, had not Mrs Wilkins, with great art, fished all
out of her at her own house, and had she not indeed made promises, in
Mr Allworthy's name, that the punishment of her husband should not be
such as might anywise affect his family.
Partridge still persisted in asserting his innocence, though he
admitted he had made the above-mentioned confession; which he however
endeavoured to account for, by protesting that he was forced into it
by the continued importunity she used: who vowed, that, as she was
sure of his guilt, she would never leave tormenting him till he had
owned it; and faithfully promised, that, in such case, she would never
mention it to him more. Hence, he said, he had been induced falsely to
confess himself guilty, though he was innocent; and that he believed
he should have confest a murder from the same motive.
Mrs Partridge could not bear this imputation with patience; and having
no other remedy in the present place but tears, she called forth a
plentiful assistance from them, and then addressing herself to Mr
Allworthy, she said (or rather cried), “May it please your worship,
there never was any poor woman so injured as I am by that base man;
for this is not the only instance of his falsehood to me. No, may it
please your worship, he hath injured my bed many's the good time and
often. I could have put up with his drunkenness and neglect of his
business, if he had not broke one of the sacred commandments. Besides,
if it had been out of doors I had not mattered it so much; but with my
own servant, in my own house, under my own roof, to defile my own
chaste bed, which to be sure he hath, with his beastly stinking
whores. Yes, you villain, you have defiled my own bed, you have; and
then you have charged me with bullocking you into owning the truth. It
is very likely, an't please your worship, that I should bullock him? I
have marks enow about my body to show of his cruelty to me. If you had
been a man, you villain, you would have scorned to injure a woman in
that manner. But you an't half a man, you know it. Nor have you been
half a husband to me. You need run after whores, you need, when I'm
sure--And since he provokes me, I am ready, an't please your worship,
to take my bodily oath that I found them a-bed together. What, you
have forgot, I suppose, when you beat me into a fit, and made the
blood run down my forehead, because I only civilly taxed you with
adultery! but I can prove it by all my neighbours. You have almost
broke my heart, you have, you have.”
Here Mr Allworthy interrupted, and begged her to be pacified,
promising her that she should have justice; then turning to Partridge,
who stood aghast, one half of his wits being hurried away by surprize
and the other half by fear, he said he was sorry to see there was so
wicked a man in the world. He assured him that his prevaricating and
lying backward and forward was a great aggravation of his guilt; for
which the only atonement he could make was by confession and
repentance. He exhorted him, therefore, to begin by immediately
confessing the fact, and not to persist in denying what was so plainly
proved against him even by his own wife.
Here, reader, I beg your patience a moment, while I make a just
compliment to the great wisdom and sagacity of our law, which refuses
to admit the evidence of a wife for or against her husband. This, says
a certain learned author, who, I believe, was never quoted before in
any but a law-book, would be the means of creating an eternal
dissension between them. It would, indeed, be the means of much
perjury, and of much whipping, fining, imprisoning, transporting, and
hanging.
Partridge stood a while silent, till, being bid to speak, he said he
had already spoken the truth, and appealed to Heaven for his
innocence, and lastly to the girl herself, whom he desired his worship
immediately to send for; for he was ignorant, or at least pretended to
be so, that she had left that part of the country.
Mr Allworthy, whose natural love of justice, joined to his coolness of
temper, made him always a most patient magistrate in hearing all the
witnesses which an accused person could produce in his defence, agreed
to defer his final determination of this matter till the arrival of
Jenny, for whom he immediately dispatched a messenger; and then having
recommended peace between Partridge and his wife (though he addressed
himself chiefly to the wrong person), he appointed them to attend
again the third day; for he had sent Jenny a whole day's journey from
his own house.
At the appointed time the parties all assembled, when the messenger
returning brought word, that Jenny was not to be found; for that she
had left her habitation a few days before, in company with a
recruiting officer.
Mr Allworthy then declared that the evidence of such a slut as she
appeared to be would have deserved no credit; but he said he could not
help thinking that, had she been present, and would have declared the
truth, she must have confirmed what so many circumstances, together
with his own confession, and the declaration of his wife that she had
caught her husband in the fact, did sufficiently prove. He therefore
once more exhorted Partridge to confess; but he still avowing his
innocence, Mr Allworthy declared himself satisfied of his guilt, and
that he was too bad a man to receive any encouragement from him. He
therefore deprived him of his annuity, and recommended repentance to
him on account of another world, and industry to maintain himself and
his wife in this.
There were not, perhaps, many more unhappy persons than poor
Partridge. He had lost the best part of his income by the evidence of
his wife, and yet was daily upbraided by her for having, among other
things, been the occasion of depriving her of that benefit; but such
was his fortune, and he was obliged to submit to it.
Though I called him poor Partridge in the last paragraph, I would have
the reader rather impute that epithet to the compassion in my temper
than conceive it to be any declaration of his innocence. Whether he
was innocent or not will perhaps appear hereafter; but if the historic
muse hath entrusted me with any secrets, I will by no means be guilty
of discovering them till she shall give me leave.
Here therefore the reader must suspend his curiosity. Certain it is
that, whatever was the truth of the case, there was evidence more than
sufficient to convict him before Allworthy; indeed, much less would
have satisfied a bench of justices on an order of bastardy; and yet,
notwithstanding the positiveness of Mrs Partridge, who would have
taken the sacrament upon the matter, there is a possibility that the
schoolmaster was entirely innocent: for though it appeared clear on
comparing the time when Jenny departed from Little Baddington with
that of her delivery that she had there conceived this infant, yet it
by no means followed of necessity that Partridge must have been its
father; for, to omit other particulars, there was in the same house a
lad near eighteen, between whom and Jenny there had subsisted
sufficient intimacy to found a reasonable suspicion; and yet, so blind
is jealousy, this circumstance never once entered into the head of the
enraged wife.
Whether Partridge repented or not, according to Mr Allworthy's advice,
is not so apparent. Certain it is that his wife repented heartily of
the evidence she had given against him: especially when she found Mrs
Deborah had deceived her, and refused to make any application to Mr
Allworthy on her behalf. She had, however, somewhat better success
with Mrs Blifil, who was, as the reader must have perceived, a much
better-tempered woman, and very kindly undertook to solicit her
brother to restore the annuity; in which, though good-nature might
have some share, yet a stronger and more natural motive will appear in
the next chapter.
These solicitations were nevertheless unsuccessful: for though Mr
Allworthy did not think, with some late writers, that mercy consists
only in punishing offenders; yet he was as far from thinking that it
is proper to this excellent quality to pardon great criminals
wantonly, without any reason whatever. Any doubtfulness of the fact,
or any circumstance of mitigation, was never disregarded: but the
petitions of an offender, or the intercessions of others, did not in
the least affect him. In a word, he never pardoned because the
offender himself, or his friends, were unwilling that he should be
punished.
Partridge and his wife were therefore both obliged to submit to their
fate; which was indeed severe enough: for so far was he from doubling
his industry on the account of his lessened income, that he did in a
manner abandon himself to despair; and as he was by nature indolent,
that vice now increased upon him, by which means he lost the little
school he had; so that neither his wife nor himself would have had any
bread to eat, had not the charity of some good Christian interposed,
and provided them with what was just sufficient for their sustenance.
As this support was conveyed to them by an unknown hand, they
imagined, and so, I doubt not, will the reader, that Mr Allworthy
himself was their secret benefactor; who, though he would not openly
encourage vice, could yet privately relieve the distresses of the
vicious themselves, when these became too exquisite and
disproportionate to their demerit. In which light their wretchedness
appeared now to Fortune herself; for she at length took pity on this
miserable couple, and considerably lessened the wretched state of
Partridge, by putting a final end to that of his wife, who soon after
caught the small-pox, and died.
The justice which Mr Allworthy had executed on Partridge at first met
with universal approbation; but no sooner had he felt its
consequences, than his neighbours began to relent, and to
compassionate his case; and presently after, to blame that as rigour
and severity which they before called justice. They now exclaimed
against punishing in cold blood, and sang forth the praises of mercy
and forgiveness.
These cries were considerably increased by the death of Mrs Partridge,
which, though owing to the distemper above mentioned, which is no
consequence of poverty or distress, many were not ashamed to impute to
Mr Allworthy's severity, or, as they now termed it, cruelty.
Partridge having now lost his wife, his school, and his annuity, and
the unknown person having now discontinued the last-mentioned charity,
resolved to change the scene, and left the country, where he was in
danger of starving, with the universal compassion of all his
neighbours.
Chapter vii.
A short sketch of that felicity which prudent couples may extract from
hatred: with a short apology for those people who overlook
imperfections in their friends.
Though the captain had effectually demolished poor Partridge, yet had
he not reaped the harvest he hoped for, which was to turn the
foundling out of Mr Allworthy's house.
On the contrary, that gentleman grew every day fonder of little Tommy,
as if he intended to counterbalance his severity to the father with
extraordinary fondness and affection towards the son.
This a good deal soured the captain's temper, as did all the other
daily instances of Mr Allworthy's generosity; for he looked on all
such largesses to be diminutions of his own wealth.
In this, we have said, he did not agree with his wife; nor, indeed, in
anything else: for though an affection placed on the understanding is,
by many wise persons, thought more durable than that which is founded
on beauty, yet it happened otherwise in the present case. Nay, the
understandings of this couple were their principal bone of contention,
and one great cause of many quarrels, which from time to time arose
between them; and which at last ended, on the side of the lady, in a
sovereign contempt for her husband; and on the husband's, in an utter
abhorrence of his wife.
As these had both exercised their talents chiefly in the study of
divinity, this was, from their first acquaintance, the most common
topic of conversation between them. The captain, like a well-bred man,
had, before marriage, always given up his opinion to that of the lady;
and this, not in the clumsy awkward manner of a conceited blockhead,
who, while he civilly yields to a superior in an argument, is desirous
of being still known to think himself in the right. The captain, on
the contrary, though one of the proudest fellows in the world, so
absolutely yielded the victory to his antagonist, that she, who had
not the least doubt of his sincerity, retired always from the dispute
with an admiration of her own understanding and a love for his.
But though this complacence to one whom the captain thoroughly
despised, was not so uneasy to him as it would have been had any hopes
of preferment made it necessary to show the same submission to a
Hoadley, or to some other of great reputation in the science, yet even
this cost him too much to be endured without some motive. Matrimony,
therefore, having removed all such motives, he grew weary of this
condescension, and began to treat the opinions of his wife with that
haughtiness and insolence, which none but those who deserve some
contempt themselves can bestow, and those only who deserve no contempt
can bear.
When the first torrent of tenderness was over, and when, in the calm
and long interval between the fits, reason began to open the eyes of
the lady, and she saw this alteration of behaviour in the captain, who
at length answered all her arguments only with pish and pshaw, she was
far from enduring the indignity with a tame submission. Indeed, it at
first so highly provoked her, that it might have produced some
tragical event, had it not taken a more harmless turn, by filling her
with the utmost contempt for her husband's understanding, which
somewhat qualified her hatred towards him; though of this likewise she
had a pretty moderate share.
The captain's hatred to her was of a purer kind: for as to any
imperfections in her knowledge or understanding, he no more despised
her for them, than for her not being six feet high. In his opinion of
the female sex, he exceeded the moroseness of Aristotle himself: he
looked on a woman as on an animal of domestic use, of somewhat higher
consideration than a cat, since her offices were of rather more
importance; but the difference between these two was, in his
estimation, so small, that, in his marriage contracted with Mr
Allworthy's lands and tenements, it would have been pretty equal which
of them he had taken into the bargain. And yet so tender was his
pride, that it felt the contempt which his wife now began to express
towards him; and this, added to the surfeit he had before taken of her
love, created in him a degree of disgust and abhorrence, perhaps
hardly to be exceeded.
One situation only of the married state is excluded from pleasure: and
that is, a state of indifference: but as many of my readers, I hope,
know what an exquisite delight there is in conveying pleasure to a
beloved object, so some few, I am afraid, may have experienced the
satisfaction of tormenting one we hate. It is, I apprehend, to come at
this latter pleasure, that we see both sexes often give up that ease
in marriage which they might otherwise possess, though their mate was
never so disagreeable to them. Hence the wife often puts on fits of
love and jealousy, nay, even denies herself any pleasure, to disturb
and prevent those of her husband; and he again, in return, puts
frequent restraints on himself, and stays at home in company which he
dislikes, in order to confine his wife to what she equally detests.
Hence, too, must flow those tears which a widow sometimes so
plentifully sheds over the ashes of a husband with whom she led a life
of constant disquiet and turbulency, and whom now she can never hope
to torment any more.
But if ever any couple enjoyed this pleasure, it was at present
experienced by the captain and his lady. It was always a sufficient
reason to either of them to be obstinate in any opinion, that the
other had previously asserted the contrary. If the one proposed any
amusement, the other constantly objected to it: they never loved or
hated, commended or abused, the same person. And for this reason, as
the captain looked with an evil eye on the little foundling, his wife
began now to caress it almost equally with her own child.
The reader will be apt to conceive, that this behaviour between the
husband and wife did not greatly contribute to Mr Allworthy's repose,
as it tended so little to that serene happiness which he had designed
for all three from this alliance; but the truth is, though he might be
a little disappointed in his sanguine expectations, yet he was far
from being acquainted with the whole matter; for, as the captain was,
from certain obvious reasons, much on his guard before him, the lady
was obliged, for fear of her brother's displeasure, to pursue the same
conduct. In fact, it is possible for a third person to be very
intimate, nay even to live long in the same house, with a married
couple, who have any tolerable discretion, and not even guess at the
sour sentiments which they bear to each other: for though the whole
day may be sometimes too short for hatred, as well as for love; yet
the many hours which they naturally spend together, apart from all
observers, furnish people of tolerable moderation with such ample
opportunity for the enjoyment of either passion, that, if they love,
they can support being a few hours in company without toying, or if
they hate, without spitting in each other's faces.
It is possible, however, that Mr Allworthy saw enough to render him a
little uneasy; for we are not always to conclude, that a wise man is
not hurt, because he doth not cry out and lament himself, like those
of a childish or effeminate temper. But indeed it is possible he might
see some faults in the captain without any uneasiness at all; for men
of true wisdom and goodness are contented to take persons and things
as they are, without complaining of their imperfections, or attempting
to amend them. They can see a fault in a friend, a relation, or an
acquaintance, without ever mentioning it to the parties themselves, or
to any others; and this often without lessening their affection.
Indeed, unless great discernment be tempered with this overlooking
disposition, we ought never to contract friendship but with a degree
of folly which we can deceive; for I hope my friends will pardon me
when I declare, I know none of them without a fault; and I should be
sorry if I could imagine I had any friend who could not see mine.
Forgiveness of this kind we give and demand in turn. It is an exercise
of friendship, and perhaps none of the least pleasant. And this
forgiveness we must bestow, without desire of amendment. There is,
perhaps, no surer mark of folly, than an attempt to correct the
natural infirmities of those we love. The finest composition of human
nature, as well as the finest china, may have a flaw in it; and this,
I am afraid, in either case, is equally incurable; though,
nevertheless, the pattern may remain of the highest value.
Upon the whole, then, Mr Allworthy certainly saw some imperfections in
the captain; but as this was a very artful man, and eternally upon his
guard before him, these appeared to him no more than blemishes in a
good character, which his goodness made him overlook, and his wisdom
prevented him from discovering to the captain himself. Very different
would have been his sentiments had he discovered the whole; which
perhaps would in time have been the case, had the husband and wife
long continued this kind of behaviour to each other; but this kind
Fortune took effectual means to prevent, by forcing the captain to do
that which rendered him again dear to his wife, and restored all her
tenderness and affection towards him.
Chapter viii.
A receipt to regain the lost affections of a wife, which hath never
been known to fail in the most desperate cases.
The captain was made large amends for the unpleasant minutes which he
passed in the conversation of his wife (and which were as few as he
could contrive to make them), by the pleasant meditations he enjoyed
when alone.
These meditations were entirely employed on Mr Allworthy's fortune;
for, first, he exercised much thought in calculating, as well as he
could, the exact value of the whole: which calculations he often saw
occasion to alter in his own favour: and, secondly and chiefly, he
pleased himself with intended alterations in the house and gardens,
and in projecting many other schemes, as well for the improvement of
the estate as of the grandeur of the place: for this purpose he
applied himself to the studies of architecture and gardening, and read
over many books on both these subjects; for these sciences, indeed,
employed his whole time, and formed his only amusement. He at last
completed a most excellent plan: and very sorry we are, that it is not
in our power to present it to our reader, since even the luxury of the
present age, I believe, would hardly match it. It had, indeed, in a
superlative degree, the two principal ingredients which serve to
recommend all great and noble designs of this nature; for it required
an immoderate expense to execute, and a vast length of time to bring
it to any sort of perfection. The former of these, the immense wealth
of which the captain supposed Mr Allworthy possessed, and which he
thought himself sure of inheriting, promised very effectually to
supply; and the latter, the soundness of his own constitution, and his
time of life, which was only what is called middle-age, removed all
apprehension of his not living to accomplish.
Nothing was wanting to enable him to enter upon the immediate
execution of this plan, but the death of Mr Allworthy; in calculating
which he had employed much of his own algebra, besides purchasing
every book extant that treats of the value of lives, reversions, &c.
From all which he satisfied himself, that as he had every day a chance
of this happening, so had he more than an even chance of its happening
within a few years.
But while the captain was one day busied in deep contemplations of
this kind, one of the most unlucky as well as unseasonable accidents
happened to him. The utmost malice of Fortune could, indeed, have
contrived nothing so cruel, so mal-a-propos, so absolutely destructive
to all his schemes. In short, not to keep the reader in long suspense,
just at the very instant when his heart was exulting in meditations on
the happiness which would accrue to him by Mr Allworthy's death, he
himself--died of an apoplexy.
This unfortunately befel the captain as he was taking his evening walk
by himself, so that nobody was present to lend him any assistance, if
indeed, any assistance could have preserved him. He took, therefore,
measure of that proportion of soil which was now become adequate to
all his future purposes, and he lay dead on the ground, a great
(though not a living) example of the truth of that observation of
Horace:
_Tu secanda marmora
Locas sub ipsum funus; et sepulchri
Immemor, struis domos._
Which sentiment I shall thus give to the English reader: “You provide
the noblest materials for building, when a pickaxe and a spade are
only necessary: and build houses of five hundred by a hundred feet,
forgetting that of six by two.”
Chapter ix.
A proof of the infallibility of the foregoing receipt, in the
lamentations of the widow; with other suitable decorations of death,
such as physicians, &c., and an epitaph in the true stile.
Mr Allworthy, his sister, and another lady, were assembled at the
accustomed hour in the supper-room, where, having waited a
considerable time longer than usual, Mr Allworthy first declared he
began to grow uneasy at the captain's stay (for he was always most
punctual at his meals); and gave orders that the bell should be rung
without the doors, and especially towards those walks which the
captain was wont to use.
All these summons proving ineffectual (for the captain had, by
perverse accident, betaken himself to a new walk that evening), Mrs
Blifil declared she was seriously frightened. Upon which the other
lady, who was one of her most intimate acquaintance, and who well knew
the true state of her affections, endeavoured all she could to pacify
her, telling her--To be sure she could not help being uneasy; but that
she should hope the best. That, perhaps the sweetness of the evening
had inticed the captain to go farther than his usual walk: or he might
be detained at some neighbour's. Mrs Blifil answered, No; she was sure
some accident had befallen him; for that he would never stay out
without sending her word, as he must know how uneasy it would make
her. The other lady, having no other arguments to use, betook herself
to the entreaties usual on such occasions, and begged her not to
frighten herself, for it might be of very ill consequence to her own
health; and, filling out a very large glass of wine, advised, and at
last prevailed with her to drink it.
Mr Allworthy now returned into the parlour; for he had been himself in
search after the captain. His countenance sufficiently showed the
consternation he was under, which, indeed, had a good deal deprived
him of speech; but as grief operates variously on different minds, so
the same apprehension which depressed his voice, elevated that of Mrs
Blifil. She now began to bewail herself in very bitter terms, and
floods of tears accompanied her lamentations; which the lady, her
companion, declared she could not blame, but at the same time
dissuaded her from indulging; attempting to moderate the grief of her
friend by philosophical observations on the many disappointments to
which human life is daily subject, which, she said, was a sufficient
consideration to fortify our minds against any accidents, how sudden
or terrible soever. She said her brother's example ought to teach her
patience, who, though indeed he could not be supposed as much
concerned as herself, yet was, doubtless, very uneasy, though his
resignation to the Divine will had restrained his grief within due
bounds.
“Mention not my brother,” said Mrs Blifil; “I alone am the object of
your pity. What are the terrors of friendship to what a wife feels on
these occasions? Oh, he is lost! Somebody hath murdered him--I shall
never see him more!”--Here a torrent of tears had the same consequence
with what the suppression had occasioned to Mr Allworthy, and she
remained silent.
At this interval a servant came running in, out of breath, and cried
out, The captain was found; and, before he could proceed farther, he
was followed by two more, bearing the dead body between them.
Here the curious reader may observe another diversity in the
operations of grief: for as Mr Allworthy had been before silent, from
the same cause which had made his sister vociferous; so did the
present sight, which drew tears from the gentleman, put an entire stop
to those of the lady; who first gave a violent scream, and presently
after fell into a fit.
The room was soon full of servants, some of whom, with the lady
visitant, were employed in care of the wife; and others, with Mr
Allworthy, assisted in carrying off the captain to a warm bed; where
every method was tried, in order to restore him to life.
And glad should we be, could we inform the reader that both these
bodies had been attended with equal success; for those who undertook
the care of the lady succeeded so well, that, after the fit had
continued a decent time, she again revived, to their great
satisfaction: but as to the captain, all experiments of bleeding,
chafing, dropping, &c., proved ineffectual. Death, that inexorable
judge, had passed sentence on him, and refused to grant him a
reprieve, though two doctors who arrived, and were fee'd at one and
the same instant, were his counsel.
These two doctors, whom, to avoid any malicious applications, we shall
distinguish by the names of Dr Y. and Dr Z., having felt his pulse; to
wit, Dr Y. his right arm, and Dr Z. his left; both agreed that he was
absolutely dead; but as to the distemper, or cause of his death, they
differed; Dr Y. holding that he died of an apoplexy, and Dr Z. of an
epilepsy.
Hence arose a dispute between the learned men, in which each delivered
the reasons of their several opinions. These were of such equal force,
that they served both to confirm either doctor in his own sentiments,
and made not the least impression on his adversary.
To say the truth, every physician almost hath his favourite disease,
to which he ascribes all the victories obtained over human nature. The
gout, the rheumatism, the stone, the gravel, and the consumption, have
all their several patrons in the faculty; and none more than the
nervous fever, or the fever on the spirits. And here we may account
for those disagreements in opinion, concerning the cause of a
patient's death, which sometimes occur, between the most learned of
the college; and which have greatly surprized that part of the world
who have been ignorant of the fact we have above asserted.
The reader may perhaps be surprized, that, instead of endeavouring to
revive the patient, the learned gentlemen should fall immediately into
a dispute on the occasion of his death; but in reality all such
experiments had been made before their arrival: for the captain was
put into a warm bed, had his veins scarified, his forehead chafed, and
all sorts of strong drops applied to his lips and nostrils.
The physicians, therefore, finding themselves anticipated in
everything they ordered, were at a loss how to apply that portion of
time which it is usual and decent to remain for their fee, and were
therefore necessitated to find some subject or other for discourse;
and what could more naturally present itself than that before
mentioned?
Our doctors were about to take their leave, when Mr Allworthy, having
given over the captain, and acquiesced in the Divine will, began to
enquire after his sister, whom he desired them to visit before their
departure.
This lady was now recovered of her fit, and, to use the common phrase,
as well as could be expected for one in her condition. The doctors,
therefore, all previous ceremonies being complied with, as this was a
new patient, attended, according to desire, and laid hold on each of
her hands, as they had before done on those of the corpse.
The case of the lady was in the other extreme from that of her
husband: for as he was past all the assistance of physic, so in
reality she required none.
There is nothing more unjust than the vulgar opinion, by which
physicians are misrepresented, as friends to death. On the contrary, I
believe, if the number of those who recover by physic could be opposed
to that of the martyrs to it, the former would rather exceed the
latter. Nay, some are so cautious on this head, that, to avoid a
possibility of killing the patient, they abstain from all methods of
curing, and prescribe nothing but what can neither do good nor harm. I
have heard some of these, with great gravity, deliver it as a maxim,
“That Nature should be left to do her own work, while the physician
stands by as it were to clap her on the back, and encourage her when
she doth well.”
So little then did our doctors delight in death, that they discharged
the corpse after a single fee; but they were not so disgusted with
their living patient; concerning whose case they immediately agreed,
and fell to prescribing with great diligence.
Whether, as the lady had at first persuaded her physicians to believe
her ill, they had now, in return, persuaded her to believe herself so,
I will not determine; but she continued a whole month with all the
decorations of sickness. During this time she was visited by
physicians, attended by nurses, and received constant messages from
her acquaintance to enquire after her health.
At length the decent time for sickness and immoderate grief being
expired, the doctors were discharged, and the lady began to see
company; being altered only from what she was before, by that colour
of sadness in which she had dressed her person and countenance.
The captain was now interred, and might, perhaps, have already made a
large progress towards oblivion, had not the friendship of Mr
Allworthy taken care to preserve his memory, by the following epitaph,
which was written by a man of as great genius as integrity, and one
who perfectly well knew the captain.
HERE LIES,
IN EXPECTATION OF A JOYFUL RISING,
THE BODY OF
CAPTAIN JOHN BLIFIL.
LONDON
HAD THE HONOUR OF HIS BIRTH,
OXFORD
OF HIS EDUCATION.
HIS PARTS
WERE AN HONOUR TO HIS PROFESSION
AND TO HIS COUNTRY:
HIS LIFE, TO HIS RELIGION
AND HUMAN NATURE.
HE WAS A DUTIFUL SON,
A TENDER HUSBAND,
AN AFFECTIONATE FATHER,
A MOST KIND BROTHER,
A SINCERE FRIEND,
A DEVOUT CHRISTIAN,
AND A GOOD MAN.
HIS INCONSOLABLE WIDOW
HATH ERECTED THIS STONE,
THE MONUMENT OF
HIS VIRTUES
AND OF HER AFFECTION.
BOOK III.
CONTAINING THE MOST MEMORABLE TRANSACTIONS WHICH PASSED IN THE FAMILY
OF MR ALLWORTHY, FROM THE TIME WHEN TOMMY JONES ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF
FOURTEEN, TILL HE ATTAINED THE AGE OF NINETEEN. IN THIS BOOK THE
READER MAY PICK UP SOME HINTS CONCERNING THE EDUCATION OF CHILDREN.
Chapter i.
Containing little or nothing.
The reader will be pleased to remember, that, at the beginning of the
second book of this history, we gave him a hint of our intention to
pass over several large periods of time, in which nothing happened
worthy of being recorded in a chronicle of this kind.
In so doing, we do not only consult our own dignity and ease, but the
good and advantage of the reader: for besides that by these means we
prevent him from throwing away his time, in reading without either
pleasure or emolument, we give him, at all such seasons, an
opportunity of employing that wonderful sagacity, of which he is
master, by filling up these vacant spaces of time with his own
conjectures; for which purpose we have taken care to qualify him in
the preceding pages.
For instance, what reader but knows that Mr Allworthy felt, at first,
for the loss of his friend, those emotions of grief, which on such
occasions enter into all men whose hearts are not composed of flint,
or their heads of as solid materials? Again, what reader doth not know
that philosophy and religion in time moderated, and at last
extinguished, this grief? The former of these teaching the folly and
vanity of it, and the latter correcting it as unlawful, and at the
same time assuaging it, by raising future hopes and assurances, which
enable a strong and religious mind to take leave of a friend, on his
deathbed, with little less indifference than if he was preparing for a
long journey; and, indeed, with little less hope of seeing him again.
Nor can the judicious reader be at a greater loss on account of Mrs
Bridget Blifil, who, he may be assured, conducted herself through the
whole season in which grief is to make its appearance on the outside
of the body, with the strictest regard to all the rules of custom and
decency, suiting the alterations of her countenance to the several
alterations of her habit: for as this changed from weeds to black,
from black to grey, from grey to white, so did her countenance change
from dismal to sorrowful, from sorrowful to sad, and from sad to
serious, till the day came in which she was allowed to return to her
former serenity.
We have mentioned these two, as examples only of the task which may be
imposed on readers of the lowest class. Much higher and harder
exercises of judgment and penetration may reasonably be expected from
the upper graduates in criticism. Many notable discoveries will, I
doubt not, be made by such, of the transactions which happened in the
family of our worthy man, during all the years which we have thought
proper to pass over: for though nothing worthy of a place in this
history occurred within that period, yet did several incidents happen
of equal importance with those reported by the daily and weekly
historians of the age; in reading which great numbers of persons
consume a considerable part of their time, very little, I am afraid,
to their emolument. Now, in the conjectures here proposed, some of the
most excellent faculties of the mind may be employed to much
advantage, since it is a more useful capacity to be able to foretel
the actions of men, in any circumstance, from their characters, than
to judge of their characters from their actions. The former, I own,
requires the greater penetration; but may be accomplished by true
sagacity with no less certainty than the latter.
As we are sensible that much the greatest part of our readers are very
eminently possessed of this quality, we have left them a space of
twelve years to exert it in; and shall now bring forth our heroe, at
about fourteen years of age, not questioning that many have been long
impatient to be introduced to his acquaintance.
Chapter ii.
The heroe of this great history appears with very bad omens. A little
tale of so LOW a kind that some may think it not worth their notice. A
word or two concerning a squire, and more relating to a gamekeeper and
a schoolmaster.
As we determined, when we first sat down to write this history, to
flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout by the directions of
truth, we are obliged to bring our heroe on the stage in a much more
disadvantageous manner than we could wish; and to declare honestly,
even at his first appearance, that it was the universal opinion of all
Mr Allworthy's family that he was certainly born to be hanged.
Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this
conjecture; the lad having from his earliest years discovered a
propensity to many vices, and especially to one which hath as direct a
tendency as any other to that fate which we have just now observed to
have been prophetically denounced against him: he had been already
convicted of three robberies, viz., of robbing an orchard, of stealing
a duck out of a farmer's yard, and of picking Master Blifil's pocket
of a ball.
The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by the
disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed to the
virtues of Master Blifil, his companion; a youth of so different a
cast from little Jones, that not only the family but all the
neighbourhood resounded his praises. He was, indeed, a lad of a
remarkable disposition; sober, discreet, and pious beyond his age;
qualities which gained him the love of every one who knew him: while
Tom Jones was universally disliked; and many expressed their wonder
that Mr Allworthy would suffer such a lad to be educated with his
nephew, lest the morals of the latter should be corrupted by his
example.
An incident which happened about this time will set the characters of
these two lads more fairly before the discerning reader than is in the
power of the longest dissertation.
Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, must serve for the heroe of this
history, had only one friend among all the servants of the family; for
as to Mrs Wilkins, she had long since given him up, and was perfectly
reconciled to her mistress. This friend was the gamekeeper, a fellow
of a loose kind of disposition, and who was thought not to entertain
much stricter notions concerning the difference of _meum_ and _tuum_
than the young gentleman himself. And hence this friendship gave
occasion to many sarcastical remarks among the domestics, most of
which were either proverbs before, or at least are become so now; and,
indeed, the wit of them all may be comprised in that short Latin
proverb, “_Noscitur a socio;_” which, I think, is thus expressed in
English, “You may know him by the company he keeps.”
To say the truth, some of that atrocious wickedness in Jones, of which
we have just mentioned three examples, might perhaps be derived from
the encouragement he had received from this fellow, who, in two or
three instances, had been what the law calls an accessary after the
fact: for the whole duck, and great part of the apples, were converted
to the use of the gamekeeper and his family; though, as Jones alone
was discovered, the poor lad bore not only the whole smart, but the
whole blame; both which fell again to his lot on the following
occasion.
Contiguous to Mr Allworthy's estate was the manor of one of those
gentlemen who are called preservers of the game. This species of men,
from the great severity with which they revenge the death of a hare or
partridge, might be thought to cultivate the same superstition with
the Bannians in India; many of whom, we are told, dedicate their whole
lives to the preservation and protection of certain animals; was it
not that our English Bannians, while they preserve them from other
enemies, will most unmercifully slaughter whole horse-loads
themselves; so that they stand clearly acquitted of any such
heathenish superstition.
I have, indeed, a much better opinion of this kind of men than is
entertained by some, as I take them to answer the order of Nature, and
the good purposes for which they were ordained, in a more ample manner
than many others. Now, as Horace tells us that there are a set of
human beings
_Fruges consumere nati,_
“Born to consume the fruits of the earth;” so I make no manner of
doubt but that there are others
_Feras consumere nati,_
“Born to consume the beasts of the field;” or, as it is commonly
called, the game; and none, I believe, will deny but that those
squires fulfil this end of their creation.
Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper; when
happening to spring a covey of partridges near the border of that
manor over whic
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/6593