The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling Henry Fielding - 59

Yet it is equally true, that the same passion will sometimes make
mountains of molehills, and produce despair in the midst of hope; but
these cold fits last not long in good constitutions. Which temper
Jones was now in, we leave the reader to guess, having no exact
information about it; but this is certain, that he had spent two hours
in expectation, when, being unable any longer to conceal his
uneasiness, he retired to his room; where his anxiety had almost made
him frantick, when the following letter was brought him from Mrs
Honour, with which we shall present the reader _verbatim et
literatim._

"SIR,

"I shud sartenly haf kaled on you a cordin too mi prommiss haddunt
itt bin that hur lashipp prevent mee; for to bee sur, Sir, you nose
very well that evere persun must luk furst at ome, and sartenly such
anuther offar mite not have ever hapned, so as I shud ave bin justly
to blam, had I not excepted of it when her lashipp was so veri kind
as to offar to mak mee hur one uman without mi ever askin any such
thing, to be sur shee is won of thee best ladis in thee wurld, and
pepil who sase to the kontrari must bee veri wiket pepil in thare
harts. To bee sur if ever I ave sad any thing of that kine it as bin
thru ignorens, and I am hartili sorri for it. I nose your onur to be
a genteelman of more onur and onesty, if I ever said ani such thing,
to repete it to hurt a pore servant that as alwais add thee gratest
respect in thee wurld for ure onur. To be sur won shud kepe wons
tung within wons teeth, for no boddi nose what may hapen; and to bee
sur if ani boddi ad tolde mee yesterday, that I shud haf bin in so
gud a plase to day, I shud not haf beleeved it; for to be sur I
never was a dremd of any such thing, nor shud I ever have soft after
ani other bodi's plase; but as her lashipp wass so kine of her one a
cord too give it mee without askin, to be sur Mrs Etoff herself, nor
no other boddi can blam mee for exceptin such a thing when it fals
in mi waye. I beg ure Onur not to menshion ani thing of what I haf
sad, for I wish ure Onur all thee gud luk in the wurld; and I don't
cuestion butt thatt u will haf Madam Sofia in the end; butt ass to
miself ure onur nose I kant bee of ani farder sarvis to u in that
matar, nou bein under thee cumand off anuther parson, and nott mi
one mistress, I begg ure Onur to say nothing of what past, and
belive me to be, sir, ure Onur's umble servant to cumand till deth,

"HONOUR BLACKMORE."

Various were the conjectures which Jones entertained on this step of
Lady Bellaston; who, in reality, had little farther design than to
secure within her own house the repository of a secret, which she
chose should make no farther progress than it had made already; but
mostly, she desired to keep it from the ears of Sophia; for though
that young lady was almost the only one who would never have repeated
it again, her ladyship could not persuade herself of this; since, as
she now hated poor Sophia with most implacable hatred, she conceived a
reciprocal hatred to herself to be lodged in the tender breast of our
heroine, where no such passion had ever yet found an entrance.

While Jones was terrifying himself with the apprehension of a thousand
dreadful machinations, and deep political designs, which he imagined
to be at the bottom of the promotion of Honour, Fortune, who hitherto
seems to have been an utter enemy to his match with Sophia, tried a
new method to put a final end to it, by throwing a temptation in his
way, which in his present desperate situation it seemed unlikely he
should be able to resist.



Chapter xi.

Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter.


There was a lady, one Mrs Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the house
where he lodged, being intimately acquainted with the women there, and
indeed a very great friend to Mrs Miller. Her age was about thirty,
for she owned six-and-twenty; her face and person very good, only
inclining a little too much to be fat. She had been married young by
her relations to an old Turkey merchant, who, having got a great
fortune, had left off trade. With him she lived without reproach, but
not without pain, in a state of great self-denial, for about twelve
years; and her virtue was rewarded by his dying and leaving her very
rich. The first year of her widowhood was just at an end, and she had
past it in a good deal of retirement, seeing only a few particular
friends, and dividing her time between her devotions and novels, of
which she was always extremely fond. Very good health, a very warm
constitution, and a good deal of religion, made it absolutely
necessary for her to marry again; and she resolved to please herself
in her second husband, as she had done her friends in the first. From
her the following billet was brought to Jones:--

"SIR,

"From the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too
plainly that you were not indifferent to me; but neither my tongue
nor my hand should have ever avowed it, had not the ladies of the
family where you are lodged given me such a character of you, and
told me such proofs of your virtue and goodness, as convince me you
are not only the most agreeable, but the most worthy of men. I have
also the satisfaction to hear from them, that neither my person,
understanding, or character, are disagreeable to you. I have a
fortune sufficient to make us both happy, but which cannot make me
so without you. In thus disposing of myself, I know I shall incur
the censure of the world; but if I did not love you more than I fear
the world, I should not be worthy of you. One only difficulty stops
me: I am informed you are engaged in a commerce of gallantry with a
woman of fashion. If you think it worth while to sacrifice that to
the possession of me, I am yours; if not, forget my weakness, and
let this remain an eternal secret between you and

"ARABELLA HUNT."

At the reading of this, Jones was put into a violent flutter. His
fortune was then at a very low ebb, the source being stopt from which
hitherto he had been supplied. Of all he had received from Lady
Bellaston, not above five guineas remained; and that very morning he
had been dunned by a tradesman for twice that sum. His honourable
mistress was in the hands of her father, and he had scarce any hopes
ever to get her out of them again. To be subsisted at her expense,
from that little fortune she had independent of her father, went much
against the delicacy both of his pride and his love. This lady's
fortune would have been exceeding convenient to him, and he could have
no objection to her in any respect. On the contrary, he liked her as
well as he did any woman except Sophia. But to abandon Sophia, and
marry another, that was impossible; he could not think of it upon any
account, Yet why should he not, since it was plain she could not be
his? Would it not be kinder to her, than to continue her longer
engaged in a hopeless passion for him? Ought he not to do so in
friendship to her? This notion prevailed some moments, and he had
almost determined to be false to her from a high point of honour: but
that refinement was not able to stand very long against the voice of
nature, which cried in his heart that such friendship was treason to
love. At last he called for pen, ink, and paper, and writ as follows
to Mrs Hunt:--

"MADAM,

"It would be but a poor return to the favour you have done me to
sacrifice any gallantry to the possession of you, and I would
certainly do it, though I were not disengaged, as at present I am,
from any affair of that kind. But I should not be the honest man you
think me, if I did not tell you that my affections are engaged to
another, who is a woman of virtue, and one that I never can leave,
though it is probable I shall never possess her. God forbid that, in
return of your kindness to me, I should do you such an injury as to
give you my hand when I cannot give my heart. No; I had much rather
starve than be guilty of that. Even though my mistress were married
to another, I would not marry you unless my heart had entirely
effaced all impressions of her. Be assured that your secret was not
more safe in your own breast, than in that of your most obliged, and
grateful humble servant,

"T. JONES."

When our heroe had finished and sent this letter, he went to his
scrutore, took out Miss Western's muff, kissed it several times, and
then strutted some turns about his room, with more satisfaction of
mind than ever any Irishman felt in carrying off a fortune of fifty
thousand pounds.



Chapter xii.

A discovery made by Partridge.


While Jones was exulting in the consciousness of his integrity,
Partridge came capering into the room, as was his custom when he
brought, or fancied he brought, any good tidings. He had been
despatched that morning by his master, with orders to endeavour, by
the servants of Lady Bellaston, or by any other means, to discover
whither Sophia had been conveyed; and he now returned, and with a
joyful countenance told our heroe that he had found the lost bird. "I
have seen, sir," says he, "Black George, the gamekeeper, who is one of
the servants whom the squire hath brought with him to town. I knew him
presently, though I have not seen him these several years; but you
know, sir, he is a very remarkable man, or, to use a purer phrase, he
hath a most remarkable beard, the largest and blackest I ever saw. It
was some time, however, before Black George could recollect me."
"Well, but what is your good news?" cries Jones; "what do you know of
my Sophia?" "You shall know presently, sir," answered Partridge, "I am
coming to it as fast as I can. You are so impatient, sir, you would
come at the infinitive mood before you can get to the imperative. As I
was saying, sir, it was some time before he recollected my
face."--"Confound your face!" cries Jones, "what of my Sophia?" "Nay,
sir," answered Partridge, "I know nothing more of Madam Sophia than
what I am going to tell you; and I should have told you all before
this if you had not interrupted me; but if you look so angry at me you
will frighten all of it out of my head, or, to use a purer phrase, out
of my memory. I never saw you look so angry since the day we left
Upton, which I shall remember if I was to live a thousand
years."--"Well, pray go on your own way," said Jones: "you are
resolved to make me mad I find." "Not for the world," answered
Partridge, "I have suffered enough for that already; which, as I said,
I shall bear in my remembrance the longest day I have to live." "Well,
but Black George?" cries Jones. "Well, sir, as I was saying, it was a
long time before he could recollect me; for, indeed, I am very much
altered since I saw him. _Non sum qualis eram._ I have had troubles in
the world, and nothing alters a man so much as grief. I have heard it
will change the colour of a man's hair in a night. However, at last,
know me he did, that's sure enough; for we are both of an age, and
were at the same charity school. George was a great dunce, but no
matter for that; all men do not thrive in the world according to their
learning. I am sure I have reason to say so; but it will be all one a
thousand years hence. Well, sir, where was I?--O--well, we no sooner
knew each other, than, after many hearty shakes by the hand, we agreed
to go to an alehouse and take a pot, and by good luck the beer was
some of the best I have met with since I have been in town. Now, sir,
I am coming to the point; for no sooner did I name you, and told him
that you and I came to town together, and had lived together ever
since, than he called for another pot, and swore he would drink to
your health; and indeed he drank your health so heartily that I was
overjoyed to see there was so much gratitude left in the world; and
after we had emptied that pot I said I would buy my pot too, and so we
drank another to your health; and then I made haste home to tell you
the news."

"What news?" cries Jones, "you have not mentioned a word of my
Sophia!" "Bless me! I had like to have forgot that. Indeed, we
mentioned a great deal about young Madam Western, and George told me
all; that Mr Blifil is coming to town in order to be married to her.
He had best make haste then, says I, or somebody will have her before
he comes; and, indeed, says I, Mr Seagrim, it is a thousand pities
somebody should not have her; for he certainly loves her above all the
women in the world. I would have both you and she know, that it is not
for her fortune he follows her; for I can assure you, as to matter of
that, there is another lady, one of much greater quality and fortune
than she can pretend to, who is so fond of somebody that she comes
after him day and night."

Here Jones fell into a passion with Partridge, for having, as he said,
betrayed him; but the poor fellow answered, he had mentioned no name:
"Besides, sir," said he, "I can assure you George is sincerely your
friend, and wished Mr Blifil at the devil more than once; nay, he said
he would do anything in his power upon earth to serve you; and so I am
convinced he will. Betray you, indeed! why, I question whether you
have a better friend than George upon earth, except myself, or one
that would go farther to serve you."

"Well," says Jones, a little pacified, "you say this fellow, who, I
believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my friend, lives in the same
house with Sophia?"

"In the same house!" answered Partridge; "why, sir, he is one of the
servants of the family, and very well drest I promise you he is; if it
was not for his black beard you would hardly know him."

"One service then at least he may do me," says Jones: "sure he can
certainly convey a letter to my Sophia."

"You have hit the nail _ad unguem_" cries Partridge; "how came I not
to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon the very first
mentioning."

"Well, then," said Jones, "do you leave me at present, and I will
write a letter, which you shall deliver to him to-morrow morning; for
I suppose you know where to find him."

"O yes, sir," answered Partridge, "I shall certainly find him again;
there is no fear of that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away
long. I make no doubt but he will be there every day he stays in
town."

"So you don't know the street then where my Sophia is lodged?" cries
Jones.

"Indeed, sir, I do," says Partridge.

"What is the name of the street?" cries Jones.

"The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by," answered Partridge, "not
above a street or two off. I don't, indeed, know the very name; for,
as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put some
suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am too
cunning for that, I promise you."

"Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed," replied Jones; "however,
I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will be cunning enough
to find him to-morrow at the alehouse."

And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr Jones sat
himself down to write, in which employment we shall leave him for a
time. And here we put an end to the fifteenth book.




BOOK XVI.

CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS.



Chapter i.

Of prologues.


I have heard of a dramatic writer who used to say, he would rather
write a play than a prologue; in like manner, I think, I can with less
pains write one of the books of this history than the prefatory
chapter to each of them.

To say the truth, I believe many a hearty curse hath been devoted on
the head of that author who first instituted the method of prefixing
to his play that portion of matter which is called the prologue; and
which at first was part of the piece itself, but of latter years hath
had usually so little connexion with the drama before which it stands,
that the prologue to one play might as well serve for any other. Those
indeed of more modern date, seem all to be written on the same three
topics, viz., an abuse of the taste of the town, a condemnation of all
contemporary authors, and an eulogium on the performance just about to
be represented. The sentiments in all these are very little varied,
nor is it possible they should; and indeed I have often wondered at
the great invention of authors, who have been capable of finding such
various phrases to express the same thing.

In like manner I apprehend, some future historian (if any one shall do
me the honour of imitating my manner) will, after much scratching his
pate, bestow some good wishes on my memory, for having first
established these several initial chapters; most of which, like modern
prologues, may as properly be prefixed to any other book in this
history as to that which they introduce, or indeed to any other
history as to this.

But however authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the
reader will find sufficient emolument in the one as the spectator hath
long found in the other.

First, it is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an
opportunity to try his faculty of hissing, and to tune his cat-call to
the best advantage; by which means, I have known those musical
instruments so well prepared, that they have been able to play in full
concert at the first rising of the curtain.

The same advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the
critic will be always sure of meeting with something that may serve as
a whetstone to his noble spirit; so that he may fall with a more
hungry appetite for censure on the history itself. And here his
sagacity must make it needless to observe how artfully these chapters
are calculated for that excellent purpose; for in these we have always
taken care to intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid kind, in order
to sharpen and stimulate the said spirit of criticism.

Again, the indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great
advantage from both these; for, as they are not obliged either to see
the one or read the others, and both the play and the book are thus
protracted, by the former they have a quarter of an hour longer
allowed them to sit at dinner, and by the latter they have the
advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth page instead of
the first, a matter by no means of trivial consequence to persons who
read books with no other view than to say they have read them, a more
general motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from which
not only law books, and good books, but the pages of Homer and Virgil,
of Swift and Cervantes, have been often turned over.

Many other are the emoluments which arise from both these, but they
are for the most part so obvious, that we shall not at present stay to
enumerate them; especially since it occurs to us that the principal
merit of both the prologue and the preface is that they be short.



Chapter ii.

A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the distressed
situation of Sophia.


We must now convey the reader to Mr Western's lodgings, which were in
Piccadilly, where he was placed by the recommendation of the landlord
at the Hercules Pillars at Hyde Park Corner; for at the inn, which was
the first he saw on his arrival in town, he placed his horses, and in
those lodgings, which were the first he heard of, he deposited
himself.

Here, when Sophia alighted from the hackney-coach, which brought her
from the house of Lady Bellaston, she desired to retire to the
apartment provided for her; to which her father very readily agreed,
and whither he attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very
material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then passed between them, in
which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to the marriage
with Blifil, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town in a few
days; but, instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and
resolute refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed her
father, that after many bitter vows, that he would force her to have
him whether she would or no, he departed from her with many hard words
and curses, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket.

While Sophia was left with no other company than what attend the
closest state prisoner, namely, fire and candle, the squire sat down
to regale himself over a bottle of wine, with his parson and the
landlord of the Hercules Pillars, who, as the squire said, would make
an excellent third man, and could inform them of the news of the town,
and how affairs went; for to be sure, says he, he knows a great deal,
since the horses of many of the quality stand at his house.

In this agreeable society Mr Western past that evening and great part
of the succeeding day, during which period nothing happened of
sufficient consequence to find a place in this history. All this time
Sophia past by herself; for her father swore she should never come out
of her chamber alive, unless she first consented to marry Blifil; nor
did he ever suffer the door to be unlocked, unless to convey her food,
on which occasions he always attended himself.

The second morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were at
breakfast together on a toast and tankard, he was informed that a
gentleman was below to wait on him.

"A gentleman!" quoth the squire, "who the devil can he be? Do, doctor,
go down and see who 'tis. Mr Blifil can hardly be come to town
yet.--Go down, do, and know what his business is."

The doctor returned with an account that it was a very well-drest man,
and by the ribbon in his hat he took him for an officer of the army;
that he said he had some particular business, which he could deliver
to none but Mr Western himself.

"An officer!" cries the squire; "what can any such fellow have to do
with me? If he wants an order for baggage-waggons, I am no justice of
peace here, nor can I grant a warrant.--Let un come up then, if he
must speak to me."

A very genteel man now entered the room; who, having made his
compliments to the squire, and desired the favour of being alone with
him, delivered himself as follows:--

"Sir, I come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fellamar; but
with a very different message from what I suppose you expect, after
what past the other night."

"My lord who?" cries the squire; "I never heard the name o'un."

"His lordship," said the gentleman, "is willing to impute everything
to the effect of liquor, and the most trifling acknowledgment of that
kind will set everything right; for as he hath the most violent
attachment to your daughter, you, sir, are the last person upon earth
from whom he would resent an affront; and happy is it for you both
that he hath given such public demonstrations of his courage as to be
able to put up an affair of this kind without danger of any imputation
on his honour. All he desires, therefore, is, that you will before me
make some acknowledgment; the slightest in the world will be
sufficient; and he intends this afternoon to pay his respects to you,
in order to obtain your leave of visiting the young lady on the
footing of a lover."

"I don't understand much of what you say, sir," said the squire; "but
I suppose, by what you talk about my daughter, that this is the lord
which my cousin, Lady Bellaston, mentioned to me, and said something
about his courting my daughter. If so be that how that be the
case--you may give my service to his lordship, and tell un the girl is
disposed of already."

"Perhaps, sir," said the gentleman, "you are not sufficiently apprized
of the greatness of this offer. I believe such a person, title, and
fortune would be nowhere refused."

"Lookee, sir," answered the squire; "to be very plain, my daughter is
bespoke already; but if she was not, I would not marry her to a lord
upon any account; I hate all lords; they are a parcel of courtiers and
Hanoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them."

"Well, sir," said the gentleman, "if that is your resolution, the
message I am to deliver to you is that my lord desires the favour of
your company this morning in Hyde Park."

"You may tell my lord," answered the squire, "that I am busy and
cannot come. I have enough to look after at home, and can't stir
abroad on any account."

"I am sure, sir," quoth the other, "you are too much a gentleman to
send such a message; you will not, I am convinced, have it said of
you, that, after having affronted a noble peer, you refuse him
satisfaction. His lordship would have been willing, from his great
regard to the young lady, to have made up matters in another way; but
unless he is to look on you as a father, his honour will not suffer
his putting up such an indignity as you must be sensible you offered
him."

"I offered him!" cries the squire; "it is a d--n'd lie! I never
offered him anything."

Upon these words the gentleman returned a very short verbal rebuke,
and this he accompanied at the same time with some manual
remonstrances, which no sooner reached the ears of Mr Western, than
that worthy squire began to caper very briskly about the room,
bellowing at the same time with all his might, as if desirous to
summon a greater number of spectators to behold his agility.

The parson, who had left great part of the tankard unfinished, was not
retired far; he immediately attended therefore on the squire's
vociferation, crying, "Bless me! sir, what's the matter?"--"Matter!"
quoth the squire, "here's a highwayman, I believe, who wants to rob
and murder me--for he hath fallen upon me with that stick there in his
hand, when I wish I may be d--n'd if I gid un the least provocation."

"How, sir," said the captain, "did you not tell me I lyed?"

"No, as I hope to be saved," answered the squire, "--I believe I might
say, 'Twas a lie that I had offered any affront to my lord--but I
never said the word, `you lie.'--I understand myself better, and you
might have understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked man.
If I had a stick in my hand, you would not have dared strike me. I'd
have knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears. Come down into yard this
minute, and I'll take a bout with thee at single stick for a broken
head, that I will; or I will go into naked room and box thee for a
belly-full. At unt half a man, at unt, I'm sure."

The captain, with some indignation, replied, "I see, sir, you are
below my notice, and I shall inform his lordship you are below his. I
am sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you." At which words he
withdrew, the parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping
him, in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though he made some
efforts for the purpose, did not seem very violently bent on success.
However, when the captain was departed, the squire sent many curses
and some menaces after him; but as these did not set out from his lips
till the officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and grew louder and
louder as he was more and more remote, they did not reach his ears, or
at least did not retard his departure.

Poor Sophia, however, who, in her prison, heard all her father's
outcries from first to last, began now first to thunder with her foot,
and afterwards to scream as loudly as the old gentleman himself had
done before, though in a much sweeter voice. These screams soon
silenced the squire, and turned all his consideration towards his
daughter, whom he loved so tenderly, that the least apprehension of
any harm happening to her, threw him presently into agonies; for,
except in that single instance in which the whole future happiness of
her life was concerned, she was sovereign mistress of his
inclinations.

Having ended his rage against the captain, with swearing he would take
the law of him, the squire now mounted upstairs to Sophia, whom, as
soon as he had unlocked and opened the door, he found all pale and
breathless. The moment, however, that she saw her father, she