The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling Henry Fielding - 55

money, or to fetch it from him. And according as one or other of these
thoughts prevailed, he conceived a favourable or unfavourable idea of
the person who approached him.

Unluckily for Jones, the latter of these was the ascendant at present;
for as a young gentleman had visited him the day before, with a bill
from his son for a play debt, he apprehended, at the first sight of
Jones, that he was come on such another errand. Jones therefore had no
sooner told him that he was come on his son's account than the old
gentleman, being confirmed in his suspicion, burst forth into an
exclamation, "That he would lose his labour." "Is it then possible,
sir," answered Jones, "that you can guess my business?" "If I do guess
it," replied the other, "I repeat again to you, you will lose your
labour. What, I suppose you are one of those sparks who lead my son
into all those scenes of riot and debauchery, which will be his
destruction? but I shall pay no more of his bills, I promise you. I
expect he will quit all such company for the future. If I had imagined
otherwise, I should not have provided a wife for him; for I would be
instrumental in the ruin of nobody." "How, sir," said Jones, "and was
this lady of your providing?" "Pray, sir," answered the old gentleman,
"how comes it to be any concern of yours?"--"Nay, dear sir," replied
Jones, "be not offended that I interest myself in what regards your
son's happiness, for whom I have so great an honour and value. It was
upon that very account I came to wait upon you. I can't express the
satisfaction you have given me by what you say; for I do assure you
your son is a person for whom I have the highest honour.--Nay, sir, it
is not easy to express the esteem I have for you; who could be so
generous, so good, so kind, so indulgent to provide such a match for
your son; a woman, who, I dare swear, will make him one of the
happiest men upon earth."

There is scarce anything which so happily introduces men to our good
liking, as having conceived some alarm at their first appearance; when
once those apprehensions begin to vanish we soon forget the fears
which they occasioned, and look on ourselves as indebted for our
present ease to those very persons who at first raised our fears.

Thus it happened to Nightingale, who no sooner found that Jones had no
demand on him, as he suspected, than he began to be pleased with his
presence. "Pray, good sir," said he, "be pleased to sit down. I do not
remember to have ever had the pleasure of seeing you before; but if
you are a friend of my son, and have anything to say concerning this
young lady, I shall be glad to hear you. As to her making him happy,
it will be his own fault if she doth not. I have discharged my duty,
in taking care of the main article. She will bring him a fortune
capable of making any reasonable, prudent, sober man, happy."
"Undoubtedly," cries Jones, "for she is in herself a fortune; so
beautiful, so genteel, so sweet-tempered, and so well-educated; she is
indeed a most accomplished young lady; sings admirably well, and hath
a most delicate hand at the harpsichord." "I did not know any of these
matters," answered the old gentleman, "for I never saw the lady: but I
do not like her the worse for what you tell me; and I am the better
pleased with her father for not laying any stress on these
qualifications in our bargain. I shall always think it a proof of his
understanding. A silly fellow would have brought in these articles as
an addition to her fortune; but, to give him his due, he never
mentioned any such matter; though to be sure they are no
disparagements to a woman." "I do assure you, sir," cries Jones, "she
hath them all in the most eminent degree: for my part, I own I was
afraid you might have been a little backward, a little less inclined
to the match; for your son told me you had never seen the lady;
therefore I came, sir, in that case, to entreat you, to conjure you,
as you value the happiness of your son, not to be averse to his match
with a woman who hath not only all the good qualities I have
mentioned, but many more."--"If that was your business, sir," said the
old gentleman, "we are both obliged to you; and you may be perfectly
easy; for I give you my word I was very well satisfied with her
fortune." "Sir," answered Jones, "I honour you every moment more and
more. To be so easily satisfied, so very moderate on that account, is
a proof of the soundness of your understanding, as well as the
nobleness of your mind."----"Not so very moderate, young gentleman,
not so very moderate," answered the father.--"Still more and more
noble," replied Jones; "and give me leave to add, sensible: for sure
it is little less than madness to consider money as the sole
foundation of happiness. Such a woman as this with her little, her
nothing of a fortune"--"I find," cries the old gentleman, "you have a
pretty just opinion of money, my friend, or else you are better
acquainted with the person of the lady than with her circumstances.
Why, pray, what fortune do you imagine this lady to have?" "What
fortune?" cries Jones, "why, too contemptible a one to be named for
your son."--"Well, well, well," said the other, "perhaps he might have
done better."--"That I deny," said Jones, "for she is one of the best
of women."--"Ay, ay, but in point of fortune I mean," answered the
other. "And yet, as to that now, how much do you imagine your friend
is to have?"--"How much?" cries Jones, "how much? Why, at the utmost,
perhaps £200." "Do you mean to banter me, young gentleman?" said the
father, a little angry. "No, upon my soul," answered Jones, "I am in
earnest: nay, I believe I have gone to the utmost farthing. If I do
the lady an injury, I ask her pardon." "Indeed you do," cries the
father; "I am certain she hath fifty times that sum, and she shall
produce fifty to that before I consent that she shall marry my son."
"Nay," said Jones, "it is too late to talk of consent now; if she had
not fifty farthings your son is married."--"My son married!" answered
the old gentleman, with surprize. "Nay," said Jones, "I thought you
was unacquainted with it." "My son married to Miss Harris!" answered
he again. "To Miss Harris!" said Jones; "no, sir; to Miss Nancy
Miller, the daughter of Mrs Miller, at whose house he lodged; a young
lady, who, though her mother is reduced to let lodgings--"--"Are you
bantering, or are you in earnest?" cries the father, with a most
solemn voice. "Indeed, sir," answered Jones, "I scorn the character of
a banterer. I came to you in most serious earnest, imagining, as I
find true, that your son had never dared acquaint you with a match so
much inferior to him in point of fortune, though the reputation of the
lady will suffer it no longer to remain a secret."

While the father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this news, a
gentleman came into the room, and saluted him by the name of brother.

But though these two were in consanguinity so nearly related, they
were in their dispositions almost the opposites to each other. The
brother who now arrived had likewise been bred to trade, in which he
no sooner saw himself worth £6000 than he purchased a small estate
with the greatest part of it, and retired into the country; where he
married the daughter of an unbeneficed clergyman; a young lady, who,
though she had neither beauty nor fortune, had recommended herself to
his choice entirely by her good humour, of which she possessed a very
large share.

With this woman he had, during twenty-five years, lived a life more
resembling the model which certain poets ascribe to the golden age,
than any of those patterns which are furnished by the present times.
By her he had four children, but none of them arrived at maturity,
except only one daughter, whom, in vulgar language, he and his wife
had spoiled; that is, had educated with the utmost tenderness and
fondness, which she returned to such a degree, that she had actually
refused a very extraordinary match with a gentleman a little turned of
forty, because she could not bring herself to part with her parents.

The young lady whom Mr Nightingale had intended for his son was a near
neighbour of his brother, and an acquaintance of his niece; and in
reality it was upon the account of his projected match that he was now
come to town; not, indeed, to forward, but to dissuade his brother
from a purpose which he conceived would inevitably ruin his nephew;
for he foresaw no other event from a union with Miss Harris,
notwithstanding the largeness of her fortune, as neither her person
nor mind seemed to him to promise any kind of matrimonial felicity:
for she was very tall, very thin, very ugly, very affected, very
silly, and very ill-natured.

His brother, therefore, no sooner mentioned the marriage of his nephew
with Miss Miller, than he exprest the utmost satisfaction; and when
the father had very bitterly reviled his son, and pronounced sentence
of beggary upon him, the uncle began in the following manner:

"If you was a little cooler, brother, I would ask you whether you love
your son for his sake or for your own. You would answer, I suppose,
and so I suppose you think, for his sake; and doubtless it is his
happiness which you intended in the marriage you proposed for him.

"Now, brother, to prescribe rules of happiness to others hath always
appeared to me very absurd, and to insist on doing this, very
tyrannical. It is a vulgar error, I know; but it is, nevertheless, an
error. And if this be absurd in other things, it is mostly so in the
affair of marriage, the happiness of which depends entirely on the
affection which subsists between the parties.

"I have therefore always thought it unreasonable in parents to desire
to chuse for their children on this occasion; since to force affection
is an impossible attempt; nay, so much doth love abhor force, that I
know not whether, through an unfortunate but uncurable perverseness in
our natures, it may not be even impatient of persuasion.

"It is, however, true that, though a parent will not, I think, wisely
prescribe, he ought to be consulted on this occasion; and, in
strictness, perhaps, should at least have a negative voice. My nephew,
therefore, I own, in marrying, without asking your advice, hath been
guilty of a fault. But, honestly speaking, brother, have you not a
little promoted this fault? Have not your frequent declarations on
this subject given him a moral certainty of your refusal, where there
was any deficiency in point of fortune? Nay, doth not your present
anger arise solely from that deficiency? And if he hath failed in his
duty here, did you not as much exceed that authority when you
absolutely bargained with him for a woman, without his knowledge, whom
you yourself never saw, and whom, if you had seen and known as well as
I, it must have been madness in you to have ever thought of bringing
her into your family?

"Still I own my nephew in a fault; but surely it is not an
unpardonable fault. He hath acted indeed without your consent, in a
matter in which he ought to have asked it, but it is in a matter in
which his interest is principally concerned; you yourself must and
will acknowledge that you consulted his interest only, and if he
unfortunately differed from you, and hath been mistaken in his notion
of happiness, will you, brother, if you love your son, carry him still
wider from the point? Will you increase the ill consequences of his
simple choice? Will you endeavour to make an event certain misery to
him, which may accidentally prove so? In a word, brother, because he
hath put it out of your power to make his circumstances as affluent as
you would, will you distress them as much as you can?"

By the force of the true Catholic faith St Anthony won upon the
fishes. Orpheus and Amphion went a little farther, and by the charms
of music enchanted things merely inanimate. Wonderful, both! but
neither history nor fable have ever yet ventured to record an instance
of any one, who, by force of argument and reason, hath triumphed over
habitual avarice.

Mr Nightingale, the father, instead of attempting to answer his
brother, contented himself with only observing, that they had always
differed in their sentiments concerning the education of their
children. "I wish," said he, "brother, you would have confined your
care to your own daughter, and never have troubled yourself with my
son, who hath, I believe, as little profited by your precepts, as by
your example." For young Nightingale was his uncle's godson, and had
lived more with him than with his father. So that the uncle had often
declared he loved his nephew almost equally with his own child.

Jones fell into raptures with this good gentleman; and when, after
much persuasion, they found the father grew still more and more
irritated, instead of appeased, Jones conducted the uncle to his
nephew at the house of Mrs Miller.



Chapter ix.

Containing strange matters.


At his return to his lodgings, Jones found the situation of affairs
greatly altered from what they had been in at his departure. The
mother, the two daughters, and young Mr Nightingale, were now sat down
to supper together, when the uncle was, at his own desire, introduced
without any ceremony into the company, to all of whom he was well
known; for he had several times visited his nephew at that house.

The old gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, saluted and
wished her joy, as he did afterwards the mother and the other sister;
and lastly, he paid the proper compliments to his nephew, with the
same good humour and courtesy, as if his nephew had married his equal
or superior in fortune, with all the previous requisites first
performed.

Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale, and looked
rather foolish than otherwise upon the occasion; but Mrs Miller took
the first opportunity of withdrawing; and, having sent for Jones into
the dining-room, she threw herself at his feet, and in a most
passionate flood of tears, called him her good angel, the preserver of
her poor little family, with many other respectful and endearing
appellations, and made him every acknowledgment which the highest
benefit can extract from the most grateful heart.

After the first gust of her passion was a little over, which she
declared, if she had not vented, would have burst her, she proceeded
to inform Mr Jones that all matters were settled between Mr
Nightingale and her daughter, and that they were to be married the
next morning; at which Mr Jones having expressed much pleasure, the
poor woman fell again into a fit of joy and thanksgiving, which he at
length with difficulty silenced, and prevailed on her to return with
him back to the company, whom they found in the same good humour in
which they had left them.

This little society now past two or three very agreeable hours
together, in which the uncle, who was a very great lover of his
bottle, had so well plyed his nephew, that this latter, though not
drunk, began to be somewhat flustered; and now Mr Nightingale, taking
the old gentleman with him upstairs into the apartment he had lately
occupied, unbosomed himself as follows:--

"As you have been always the best and kindest of uncles to me, and as
you have shown such unparalleled goodness in forgiving this match,
which to be sure may be thought a little improvident, I should never
forgive myself if I attempted to deceive you in anything." He then
confessed the truth, and opened the whole affair.

"How, Jack?" said the old gentleman, "and are you really then not
married to this young woman?" "No, upon my honour," answered
Nightingale, "I have told you the simple truth." "My dear boy," cries
the uncle, kissing him, "I am heartily glad to hear it. I never was
better pleased in my life. If you had been married I should have
assisted you as much as was in my power to have made the best of a bad
matter; but there is a great difference between considering a thing
which is already done and irrecoverable, and that which is yet to do.
Let your reason have fair play, Jack, and you will see this match in
so foolish and preposterous a light, that there will be no need of any
dissuasive arguments." "How, sir?" replies young Nightingale, "is
there this difference between having already done an act, and being in
honour engaged to do it?" "Pugh!" said the uncle, "honour is a
creature of the world's making, and the world hath the power of a
creator over it, and may govern and direct it as they please. Now you
well know how trivial these breaches of contract are thought; even the
grossest make but the wonder and conversation of a day. Is there a man
who afterwards will be more backward in giving you his sister, or
daughter? or is there any sister or daughter who would be more
backward to receive you? Honour is not concerned in these
engagements." "Pardon me, dear sir," cries Nightingale, "I can never
think so; and not only honour, but conscience and humanity, are
concerned. I am well satisfied, that, was I now to disappoint the
young creature, her death would be the consequence, and I should look
upon myself as her murderer; nay, as her murderer by the cruellest of
all methods, by breaking her heart." "Break her heart, indeed! no, no,
Jack," cries the uncle, "the hearts of women are not so soon broke;
they are tough, boy, they are tough." "But, sir," answered
Nightingale, "my own affections are engaged, and I never could be
happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say, that
children should be always suffered to chuse for themselves, and that
you would let my cousin Harriet do so?" "Why, ay," replied the old
gentleman, "so I would have them; but then I would have them chuse
wisely.--Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave the girl."----"Indeed,
uncle," cries the other, "I must and will have her." "You will, young
gentleman;" said the uncle; "I did not expect such a word from you. I
should not wonder if you had used such language to your father, who
hath always treated you like a dog, and kept you at the distance which
a tyrant preserves over his subjects; but I, who have lived with you
upon an equal footing, might surely expect better usage: but I know
how to account for it all: it is all owing to your preposterous
education, in which I have had too little share. There is my daughter,
now, whom I have brought up as my friend, never doth anything without
my advice, nor ever refuses to take it when I give it her." "You have
never yet given her advice in an affair of this kind," said
Nightingale; "for I am greatly mistaken in my cousin, if she would be
very ready to obey even your most positive commands in abandoning her
inclinations." "Don't abuse my girl," answered the old gentleman with
some emotion; "don't abuse my Harriet. I have brought her up to have
no inclinations contrary to my own. By suffering her to do whatever
she pleases, I have enured her to a habit of being pleased to do
whatever I like." "Pardon, me, sir," said Nightingale, "I have not the
least design to reflect on my cousin, for whom I have the greatest
esteem; and indeed I am convinced you will never put her to so severe
a tryal, or lay such hard commands on her as you would do on me.--But,
dear sir, let us return to the company; for they will begin to be
uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one favour of my dear uncle,
which is that he would not say anything to shock the poor girl or her
mother." "Oh! you need not fear me," answered he, "I understand myself
too well to affront women; so I will readily grant you that favour;
and in return I must expect another of you." "There are but few of
your commands, sir," said Nightingale, "which I shall not very
chearfully obey." "Nay, sir, I ask nothing," said the uncle, "but the
honour of your company home to my lodging, that I may reason the case
a little more fully with you; for I would, if possible, have the
satisfaction of preserving my family, notwithstanding the headstrong
folly of my brother, who, in his own opinion, is the wisest man in the
world."

Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his
father, submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back
into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carry himself with
the same decorum which he had before maintained.



Chapter x.

A short chapter, which concludes the book.


The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some disquiet
in the minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the more, as,
during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than once elevated
his voice, so as to be heard downstairs; which, though they could not
distinguish what he said, had caused some evil foreboding in Nancy and
her mother, and, indeed, even in Jones himself.

When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a visible
alteration in all their faces; and the good-humour which, at their
last meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance, was now
changed into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change, indeed,
common enough to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to clouds,
from June to December.

This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present; for
as they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts, and
to act a part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene to be
spectators of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any symptoms
of suspicion in the mother or daughter; nor did the mother or daughter
remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the counterfeit
satisfaction which grinned in the features of the young one.

Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the whole
attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is to
act, in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the
arts practised against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow
no improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes place.

From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be
overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater
loser; as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in
payment.

Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried off
his nephew; but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy, in a
whisper, that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all
his engagements.

Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He did
indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observing the great
alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and
his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom
from his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a proceeding
that it could be accounted for only by imagining that young
Nightingale had revealed the whole truth, which the apparent openness
of his temper, and his being flustered with liquor, made too probable.

While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint these
poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed him
that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him.----He went immediately
out, and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his visitant
upstairs, who, in the person of Mrs Honour, acquainted him with such
dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately lost all
consideration for every other person; and his whole stock of
compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own misery,
and on that of his unfortunate angel.

What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we
have first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and
those will be the subject of the following book.




BOOK XV.

IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.



Chapter i.

Too short to need a preface.


There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach that
virtue is the certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in this
world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we have
but one objection, namely, that it is not true.

Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those cardinal
virtues, which like good housewives stay at home, and mind only the
business of their own family, I shall very readily concede the point;
for so surely do all these contribute and lead to happiness, that I
could almost wish, in violation of all the antient and modern sages,
to call them rather by the name of wisdom, than by that of virtue;
for, with regard to this life, no system, I conceive, was ever wiser
than that of the antient Epicureans, who held this wisdom to
constitute the chief good; nor foolisher than that of their opposites,
those modern epicures, who place all felicity in the abundant
gratification of every sensual appetite.

But if by virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain
relative quality, which is always busying itself without-doors, and
seems as much interested in pursuing the good of others as its own; I
cannot so easily agree that this is the surest way to human happiness;
because I am afraid we must then include poverty and contempt, with
all the mischiefs which backbiting, envy, and ingratitude, can bring
on mankind, in our idea of happiness; nay, sometimes perhaps we shall
be obliged to wait upon the said happiness to a jail; since many by
the above virtue have brought themselves thither.

I have not now leisure to enter upon so large a field of speculation,
as here seems opening upon me; my design was to wipe off a doctrine
that lay in my way; since, while Mr Jones was acting the most virtuous
part imaginable in labouring to preserve his fellow-creatures from
destruction, the devil, or some other evil spirit, one perhaps
cloathed in human flesh, was hard at work to make him completely
miserable in the ruin of his Sophia.

This therefore would seem an exception to the above rule, if indeed it
was a rule; but as we have in our voyage through life seen so many
other exceptions to it, we chuse to dispute the doctrine on which it
is founded, which we don't apprehend to be Christian, which we are
convinced is not true, and which is indeed destructive of one of the
noblest arguments that reason alone can furnish for the belief of
immortality.

But as the reader's curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake, and
hungry, we shall provide to feed it as fast as we can.



Chapter ii.

In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.


I remember a wise old gentleman who used to say, "When children are
doing nothing, they are doing mischief." I will not enlarge this
quaint saying to the most beautiful part of the creation in general;
but so far I may be allowed, that when the effects of female jealousy
do not appear openly in their proper colours of rage and fury, we may
suspect that mischievous passion to be at work privately, and
attempting to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.

This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under all
the smiles which she wore in her countenance, concealed much
indignation against Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young
lady stood between her and the full indulgence of her desires, she
resolved to get rid of her by some means or other; nor was it long
before a very favourable opportunity of accomplishing this presented
itself to her.

The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown
into that consternation at the playhouse, by the wit and humour of a
set of young gentlemen who call themselves the town, we informed him,
that she had put herself under the protection of a young nobleman, who
had very safely conducted her to her chair.

This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more than
once seen Sophia there, since her arrival in town, and had conceived a
very great liking to her; which liking, as beauty never looks more
amiable than in distress, Sophia had in this fright so encreased, that
he might now, without any great impropriety, be said to be actually in