The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling Henry Fielding - 28

well attested, he must be well assured is false, he will sometimes
fall into the marvellous, but never into the incredible. He will often
raise the wonder and surprize of his reader, but never that
incredulous hatred mentioned by Horace. It is by falling into fiction,
therefore, that we generally offend against this rule, of deserting
probability, which the historian seldom, if ever, quits, till he
forsakes his character and commences a writer of romance. In this,
however, those historians who relate public transactions, have the
advantage of us who confine ourselves to scenes of private life. The
credit of the former is by common notoriety supported for a long time;
and public records, with the concurrent testimony of many authors,
bear evidence to their truth in future ages. Thus a Trajan and an
Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have all met with the belief of
posterity; and no one doubts but that men so very good, and so very
bad, were once the masters of mankind.

But we who deal in private character, who search into the most retired
recesses, and draw forth examples of virtue and vice from holes and
corners of the world, are in a more dangerous situation. As we have no
public notoriety, no concurrent testimony, no records to support and
corroborate what we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the limits
not only of possibility, but of probability too; and this more
especially in painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and
folly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet with assent;
for ill-nature adds great support and strength to faith.

Thus we may, perhaps, with little danger, relate the history of
Fisher; who having long owed his bread to the generosity of Mr Derby,
and having one morning received a considerable bounty from his hands,
yet, in order to possess himself of what remained in his friend's
scrutore, concealed himself in a public office of the Temple, through
which there was a passage into Mr Derby's chambers. Here he overheard
Mr Derby for many hours solacing himself at an entertainment which he
that evening gave his friends, and to which Fisher had been invited.
During all this time, no tender, no grateful reflections arose to
restrain his purpose; but when the poor gentleman had let his company
out through the office, Fisher came suddenly from his lurking-place,
and walking softly behind his friend into his chamber, discharged a
pistol-ball into his head. This may be believed when the bones of
Fisher are as rotten as his heart. Nay, perhaps, it will be credited,
that the villain went two days afterwards with some young ladies to
the play of Hamlet; and with an unaltered countenance heard one of the
ladies, who little suspected how near she was to the person, cry out,
"Good God! if the man that murdered Mr Derby was now present!"
manifesting in this a more seared and callous conscience than even
Nero himself; of whom we are told by Suetonius, "that the
consciousness of his guilt, after the death of his mother, became
immediately intolerable, and so continued; nor could all the
congratulations of the soldiers, of the senate, and the people, allay
the horrors of his conscience."

But now, on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I had known
a man whose penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a large
fortune in a way where no beginning was chaulked out to him; that he
had done this with the most perfect preservation of his integrity, and
not only without the least injustice or injury to any one individual
person, but with the highest advantage to trade, and a vast increase
of the public revenue; that he had expended one part of the income of
this fortune in discovering a taste superior to most, by works where
the highest dignity was united with the purest simplicity, and another
part in displaying a degree of goodness superior to all men, by acts
of charity to objects whose only recommendations were their merits, or
their wants; that he was most industrious in searching after merit in
distress, most eager to relieve it, and then as careful (perhaps too
careful) to conceal what he had done; that his house, his furniture,
his gardens, his table, his private hospitality, and his public
beneficence, all denoted the mind from which they flowed, and were all
intrinsically rich and noble, without tinsel, or external ostentation;
that he filled every relation in life with the most adequate virtue;
that he was most piously religious to his Creator, most zealously
loyal to his sovereign; a most tender husband to his wife, a kind
relation, a munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a knowing and a
chearful companion, indulgent to his servants, hospitable to his
neighbours, charitable to the poor, and benevolent to all mankind.
Should I add to these the epithets of wise, brave, elegant, and indeed
every other amiable epithet in our language, I might surely say,

_--Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo;
Vel duo, vel nemo;_

and yet I know a man who is all I have here described. But a single
instance (and I really know not such another) is not sufficient to
justify us, while we are writing to thousands who never heard of the
person, nor of anything like him. Such _rarae aves_ should be remitted
to the epitaph writer, or to some poet who may condescend to hitch him
in a distich, or to slide him into a rhime with an air of carelessness
and neglect, without giving any offence to the reader.

In the last place, the actions should be such as may not only be
within the compass of human agency, and which human agents may
probably be supposed to do; but they should be likely for the very
actors and characters themselves to have performed; for what may be
only wonderful and surprizing in one man, may become improbable, or
indeed impossible, when related of another.

This last requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversation of
character; and it requires a very extraordinary degree of judgment,
and a most exact knowledge of human nature.

It is admirably remarked by a most excellent writer, that zeal can no
more hurry a man to act in direct opposition to itself, than a rapid
stream can carry a boat against its own current. I will venture to
say, that for a man to act in direct contradiction to the dictates of
his nature, is, if not impossible, as improbable and as miraculous as
anything which can well be conceived. Should the best parts of the
story of M. Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should the worst
incidents of Nero's life be imputed to Antoninus, what would be more
shocking to belief than either instance? whereas both these being
related of their proper agent, constitute the truly marvellous.

Our modern authors of comedy have fallen almost universally into the
error here hinted at; their heroes generally are notorious rogues, and
their heroines abandoned jades, during the first four acts; but in the
fifth, the former become very worthy gentlemen, and the latter women
of virtue and discretion: nor is the writer often so kind as to give
himself the least trouble to reconcile or account for this monstrous
change and incongruity. There is, indeed, no other reason to be
assigned for it, than because the play is drawing to a conclusion; as
if it was no less natural in a rogue to repent in the last act of a
play, than in the last of his life; which we perceive to be generally
the case at Tyburn, a place which might indeed close the scene of some
comedies with much propriety, as the heroes in these are most commonly
eminent for those very talents which not only bring men to the
gallows, but enable them to make an heroic figure when they are there.

Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be permitted
to deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keeps
within the rules of credibility, the more he can surprize the reader
the more he will engage his attention, and the more he will charm him.
As a genius of the highest rank observes in his fifth chapter of the
Bathos, "The great art of all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, in
order to join the credible with the surprizing."

For though every good author will confine himself within the bounds of
probability, it is by no means necessary that his characters, or his
incidents, should be trite, common, or vulgar; such as happen in every
street, or in every house, or which may be met with in the home
articles of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from showing many
persons and things, which may possibly have never fallen within the
knowledge of great part of his readers. If the writer strictly
observes the rules above-mentioned, he hath discharged his part; and
is then intitled to some faith from his reader, who is indeed guilty
of critical infidelity if he disbelieves him.

For want of a portion of such faith, I remember the character of a
young lady of quality, which was condemned on the stage for being
unnatural, by the unanimous voice of a very large assembly of clerks
and apprentices; though it had the previous suffrages of many ladies
of the first rank; one of whom, very eminent for her understanding,
declared it was the picture of half the young people of her
acquaintance.



Chapter ii.

In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones.


When Jones had taken leave of his friend the lieutenant, he
endeavoured to close his eyes, but all in vain; his spirits were too
lively and wakeful to be lulled to sleep. So having amused, or rather
tormented, himself with the thoughts of his Sophia till it was open
daylight, he called for some tea; upon which occasion my landlady
herself vouchsafed to pay him a visit.

This was indeed the first time she had seen him, or at least had taken
any notice of him; but as the lieutenant had assured her that he was
certainly some young gentleman of fashion, she now determined to show
him all the respect in her power; for, to speak truly, this was one of
those houses where gentlemen, to use the language of advertisements,
meet with civil treatment for their money.

She had no sooner begun to make his tea, than she likewise began to
discourse:--"La! sir," said she, "I think it is great pity that such a
pretty young gentleman should under-value himself so, as to go about
with these soldier fellows. They call themselves gentlemen, I warrant
you; but, as my first husband used to say, they should remember it is
we that pay them. And to be sure it is very hard upon us to be obliged
to pay them, and to keep 'um too, as we publicans are. I had twenty of
'um last night, besides officers: nay, for matter o' that, I had
rather have the soldiers than officers: for nothing is ever good
enough for those sparks; and I am sure, if you was to see the bills;
la! sir, it is nothing. I have had less trouble, I warrant you, with a
good squire's family, where we take forty or fifty shillings of a
night, besides horses. And yet I warrants me, there is narrow a one of
those officer fellows but looks upon himself to be as good as arrow a
squire of £500 a year. To be sure it doth me good to hear their men
run about after 'um, crying your honour, and your honour. Marry come
up with such honour, and an ordinary at a shilling a head. Then
there's such swearing among 'um, to be sure it frightens me out o' my
wits: I thinks nothing can ever prosper with such wicked people. And
here one of 'um has used you in so barbarous a manner. I thought
indeed how well the rest would secure him; they all hang together; for
if you had been in danger of death, which I am glad to see you are
not, it would have been all as one to such wicked people. They would
have let the murderer go. Laud have mercy upon 'um; I would not have
such a sin to answer for, for the whole world. But though you are
likely, with the blessing, to recover, there is laa for him yet; and
if you will employ lawyer Small, I darest be sworn he'll make the
fellow fly the country for him; though perhaps he'll have fled the
country before; for it is here to-day and gone to-morrow with such
chaps. I hope, however, you will learn more wit for the future, and
return back to your friends; I warrant they are all miserable for your
loss; and if they was but to know what had happened--La, my seeming! I
would not for the world they should. Come, come, we know very well
what all the matter is; but if one won't, another will; so pretty a
gentleman need never want a lady. I am sure, if I was you, I would see
the finest she that ever wore a head hanged, before I would go for a
soldier for her.--Nay, don't blush so" (for indeed he did to a violent
degree). "Why, you thought, sir, I knew nothing of the matter, I
warrant you, about Madam Sophia."--"How," says Jones, starting up, "do
you know my Sophia?"--"Do I! ay marry," cries the landlady; "many's
the time hath she lain in this house."--"With her aunt, I suppose,"
says Jones. "Why, there it is now," cries the landlady. "Ay, ay, ay, I
know the old lady very well. And a sweet young creature is Madam
Sophia, that's the truth on't."--"A sweet creature," cries Jones; "O
heavens!"

Angels are painted fair to look like her.
There's in her all that we believe of heav'n,
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,
Eternal joy and everlasting love.

"And could I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia!"--"I
wish," says the landlady, "you knew half so much of her. What would
you have given to have sat by her bed-side? What a delicious neck she
hath! Her lovely limbs have stretched themselves in that very bed you
now lie in."--"Here!" cries Jones: "hath Sophia ever laid here?"--"Ay,
ay, here; there, in that very bed," says the landlady; "where I wish
you had her this moment; and she may wish so too for anything I know
to the contrary, for she hath mentioned your name to me."--"Ha!" cries
he; "did she ever mention her poor Jones? You flatter me now: I can
never believe so much."--"Why, then," answered she, "as I hope to be
saved, and may the devil fetch me if I speak a syllable more than the
truth, I have heard her mention Mr Jones; but in a civil and modest
way, I confess; yet I could perceive she thought a great deal more
than she said."--"O my dear woman!" cries Jones, "her thoughts of me I
shall never be worthy of. Oh, she is all gentleness, kindness,
goodness! Why was such a rascal as I born, ever to give her soft bosom
a moment's uneasiness? Why am I cursed? I, who would undergo all the
plagues and miseries which any daemon ever invented for mankind, to
procure her any good; nay, torture itself could not be misery to me,
did I but know that she was happy."--"Why, look you there now," says
the landlady; "I told her you was a constant lovier."--"But pray,
madam, tell me when or where you knew anything of me; for I never was
here before, nor do I remember ever to have seen you."--"Nor is it
possible you should," answered she; "for you was a little thing when I
had you in my lap at the squire's."--"How, the squire's?" says Jones:
"what, do you know that great and good Mr Allworthy then?"--"Yes,
marry, do I," says she: "who in the country doth not?"--"The fame of
his goodness indeed," answered Jones, "must have extended farther than
this; but heaven only can know him--can know that benevolence which it
copied from itself, and sent upon earth as its own pattern. Mankind
are as ignorant of such divine goodness, as they are unworthy of it;
but none so unworthy of it as myself. I, who was raised by him to such
a height; taken in, as you must well know, a poor base-born child,
adopted by him, and treated as his own son, to dare by my follies to
disoblige him, to draw his vengeance upon me. Yes, I deserve it all;
for I will never be so ungrateful as ever to think he hath done an act
of injustice by me. No, I deserve to be turned out of doors, as I am.
And now, madam," says he, "I believe you will not blame me for turning
soldier, especially with such a fortune as this in my pocket." At
which words he shook a purse, which had but very little in it, and
which still appeared to the landlady to have less.

My good landlady was (according to vulgar phrase) struck all of a heap
by this relation. She answered coldly, "That to be sure people were
the best judges what was most proper for their circumstances. But
hark," says she, "I think I hear somebody call. Coming! coming! the
devil's in all our volk; nobody hath any ears. I must go down-stairs;
if you want any more breakfast the maid will come up. Coming!" At
which words, without taking any leave, she flung out of the room; for
the lower sort of people are very tenacious of respect; and though
they are contented to give this gratis to persons of quality, yet they
never confer it on those of their own order without taking care to be
well paid for their pains.



Chapter iii.

In which the surgeon makes his second appearance.


Before we proceed any farther, that the reader may not be mistaken in
imagining the landlady knew more than she did, nor surprized that she
knew so much, it may be necessary to inform him that the lieutenant
had acquainted her that the name of Sophia had been the occasion of
the quarrel; and as for the rest of her knowledge, the sagacious
reader will observe how she came by it in the preceding scene. Great
curiosity was indeed mixed with her virtues; and she never willingly
suffered any one to depart from her house, without enquiring as much
as possible into their names, families, and fortunes.

She was no sooner gone than Jones, instead of animadverting on her
behaviour, reflected that he was in the same bed which he was informed
had held his dear Sophia. This occasioned a thousand fond and tender
thoughts, which we would dwell longer upon, did we not consider that
such kind of lovers will make a very inconsiderable part of our
readers. In this situation the surgeon found him, when he came to
dress his wound. The doctor perceiving, upon examination, that his
pulse was disordered, and hearing that he had not slept, declared that
he was in great danger; for he apprehended a fever was coming on,
which he would have prevented by bleeding, but Jones would not submit,
declaring he would lose no more blood; "and, doctor," says he, "if you
will be so kind only to dress my head, I have no doubt of being well
in a day or two."

"I wish," answered the surgeon, "I could assure your being well in a
month or two. Well, indeed! No, no, people are not so soon well of
such contusions; but, sir, I am not at this time of day to be
instructed in my operations by a patient, and I insist on making a
revulsion before I dress you."

Jones persisted obstinately in his refusal, and the doctor at last
yielded; telling him at the same time that he would not be answerable
for the ill consequence, and hoped he would do him the justice to
acknowledge that he had given him a contrary advice; which the patient
promised he would.

The doctor retired into the kitchen, where, addressing himself to the
landlady, he complained bitterly of the undutiful behaviour of his
patient, who would not be blooded, though he was in a fever.

"It is an eating fever then," says the landlady; "for he hath devoured
two swinging buttered toasts this morning for breakfast."

"Very likely," says the doctor: "I have known people eat in a fever;
and it is very easily accounted for; because the acidity occasioned by
the febrile matter may stimulate the nerves of the diaphragm, and
thereby occasion a craving which will not be easily distinguishable
from a natural appetite; but the aliment will not be concreted, nor
assimilated into chyle, and so will corrode the vascular orifices, and
thus will aggravate the febrific symptoms. Indeed, I think the
gentleman in a very dangerous way, and, if he is not blooded, I am
afraid will die."

"Every man must die some time or other," answered the good woman; "it
is no business of mine. I hope, doctor, you would not have me hold him
while you bleed him. But, hark'ee, a word in your ear; I would advise
you, before you proceed too far, to take care who is to be your
paymaster."

"Paymaster!" said the doctor, staring; "why, I've a gentleman under my
hands, have I not?"

"I imagined so as well as you," said the landlady; "but, as my first
husband used to say, everything is not what it looks to be. He is an
arrant scrub, I assure you. However, take no notice that I mentioned
anything to you of the matter; but I think people in business oft
always to let one another know such things."

"And have I suffered such a fellow as this," cries the doctor, in a
passion, "to instruct me? Shall I hear my practice insulted by one who
will not pay me? I am glad I have made this discovery in time. I will
see now whether he will be blooded or no." He then immediately went
upstairs, and flinging open the door of the chamber with much
violence, awaked poor Jones from a very sound nap, into which he was
fallen, and, what was still worse, from a delicious dream concerning
Sophia.

"Will you be blooded or no?" cries the doctor, in a rage. "I have told
you my resolution already," answered Jones, "and I wish with all my
heart you had taken my answer; for you have awaked me out of the
sweetest sleep which I ever had in my life."

"Ay, ay," cries the doctor; "many a man hath dozed away his life.
Sleep is not always good, no more than food; but remember, I demand of
you for the last time, will you be blooded?"--"I answer you for the
last time," said Jones, "I will not."--"Then I wash my hands of you,"
cries the doctor; "and I desire you to pay me for the trouble I have
had already. Two journeys at 5s. each, two dressings at 5s. more, and
half a crown for phlebotomy."--"I hope," said Jones, "you don't intend
to leave me in this condition."--"Indeed but I shall," said the other.
"Then," said Jones, "you have used me rascally, and I will not pay you
a farthing."--"Very well," cries the doctor; "the first loss is the
best. What a pox did my landlady mean by sending for me to such
vagabonds!" At which words he flung out of the room, and his patient
turning himself about soon recovered his sleep; but his dream was
unfortunately gone.



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.


The clock had now struck five when Jones awaked from a nap of seven
hours, so much refreshed, and in such perfect health and spirits, that
he resolved to get up and dress himself; for which purpose he unlocked
his portmanteau, and took out clean linen, and a suit of cloaths; but
first he slipt on a frock, and went down into the kitchen to bespeak
something that might pacify certain tumults he found rising within his
stomach.

Meeting the landlady, he accosted her with great civility, and asked,
"What he could have for dinner?"--"For dinner!" says she; "it is an
odd time a day to think about dinner. There is nothing drest in the
house, and the fire is almost out."--"Well, but," says he, "I must
have something to eat, and it is almost indifferent to me what; for,
to tell you the truth, I was never more hungry in my life."--"Then,"
says she, "I believe there is a piece of cold buttock and carrot,
which will fit you."--"Nothing better," answered Jones; "but I should
be obliged to you, if you would let it be fried." To which the
landlady consented, and said, smiling, "she was glad to see him so
well recovered;" for the sweetness of our heroe's temper was almost
irresistible; besides, she was really no ill-humoured woman at the
bottom; but she loved money so much, that she hated everything which
had the semblance of poverty.

Jones now returned in order to dress himself, while his dinner was
preparing, and was, according to his orders, attended by the barber.

This barber, who went by the name of Little Benjamin, was a fellow of
great oddity and humour, which had frequently let him into small
inconveniencies, such as slaps in the face, kicks in the breech,
broken bones, &c. For every one doth not understand a jest; and those
who do are often displeased with being themselves the subjects of it.
This vice was, however, incurable in him; and though he had often
smarted for it, yet if ever he conceived a joke, he was certain to be
delivered of it, without the least respect of persons, time, or place.

He had a great many other particularities in his character, which I
shall not mention, as the reader will himself very easily perceive
them, on his farther acquaintance with this extraordinary person.

Jones being impatient to be drest, for a reason which may be easily
imagined, thought the shaver was very tedious in preparing his suds,
and begged him to make haste; to which the other answered with much
gravity, for he never discomposed his muscles on any account,
"_Festina lente_, is a proverb which I learned long before I ever
touched a razor."--"I find, friend, you are a scholar," replied Jones.
"A poor one," said the barber, "_non omnia possumus omnes._"--"Again!"
said Jones; "I fancy you are good at capping verses."--"Excuse me,
sir," said the barber, "_non tanto me dignor honore_." And then
proceeding to his operation, "Sir," said he, "since I have dealt in
suds, I could never discover more than two reasons for shaving; the
one is to get a beard, and the other to get rid of one. I conjecture,
sir, it may not be long since you shaved from the former of these
motives. Upon my word, you have had good success; for one may say of
your beard, that it is _tondenti gravior_."--"I conjecture," says
Jones, "that thou art a very comical fellow."--"You mistake me widely,
sir," said the barber: "I am too much addicted to the study of
philosophy; _hinc illae lacrymae_, sir; that's my misfortune. Too much
learning hath been my ruin."--"Indeed," says Jones, "I confess,
friend, you have more learning than generally belongs to your trade;
but I can't see how it can have injured you."--"Alas! sir," answered
the shaver, "my father disinherited me for it. He was a
dancing-master; and because I could read before I could dance, he took
an aversion to me, and left every farthing among his other
children.--Will you please to have your temples--O la! I ask your
pardon, I fancy there is _hiatus in manuscriptis_. I heard you was
going to the wars; but I find it was a mistake."--"Why do you conclude
so?" says Jones. "Sure, sir," answered the barber, "you are too wise a
man to carry a broken head thither; for that would be carrying coals
to Newcastle."

"Upon my word," cries Jones, "thou art a very odd fellow, and I like
thy humour extremely; I shall be very glad if thou wilt come to me
after dinner, and drink a glass with me; I long to be better
acquainted with thee."

"O dear sir!" said the barber, "I can do you twenty times as great a
favour, if you will accept of it."--"What is that, my friend?" cries
Jones. "Why, I will drink a bottle with you if you please; for I
dearly love good-nature; and as you have found me out to be a comical
fellow, so I have no skill in physiognomy, if you are not one of the
best-natured gentlemen in the universe." Jones now walked downstairs
neatly drest, and perhaps the fair Adonis was not a lovelier figure;
and yet he had no charms for my landlady; for as that good woman did
not resemble Venus at all in her person, so neither did she in her
taste. Happy had it been for Nanny the chambermaid, if she had seen
with the eyes of her mistress, for that poor girl fell so violently in
love with Jones in five minutes, that her passion afterwards cost her
many a sigh. This Nanny was extremely pretty, and altogether as coy;
for she had refused a drawer, and one or two young farmers in the
neighbourhood, but the bright eyes of our heroe thawed all her ice in
a moment.

When Jones returned to the kitchen, his cloth was not yet laid; nor
indeed was there any occasion it should, his dinner remaining _in
statu quo_, as did the fire which was to dress it. This disappointment
might have put many a philosophical temper into a passion; but it had
no such effect on Jones. He only gave the landlady a gentle rebuke,