History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
Relates that Mr Jones continued his journey, contrary to the advice of
Partridge, with what happened on that occasion.
They now discovered a light at some distance, to the great pleasure of
Jones, and to the no small terror of Partridge, who firmly believed
himself to be bewitched, and that this light was a Jack-with-a-lantern,
or somewhat more mischievous.
But how were these fears increased, when, as they approached nearer to
this light (or lights as they now appeared), they heard a confused
sound of human voices; of singing, laughing, and hallowing, together
with a strange noise that seemed to proceed from some instruments; but
could hardly be allowed the name of music! indeed, to favour a little
the opinion of Partridge, it might very well be called music
bewitched.
It is impossible to conceive a much greater degree of horror than what
now seized on Partridge; the contagion of which had reached the
post-boy, who had been very attentive to many things that the other
had uttered. He now, therefore, joined in petitioning Jones to return;
saying he firmly believed what Partridge had just before said, that
though the horses seemed to go on, they had not moved a step forwards
during at least the last half-hour.
Jones could not help smiling in the midst of his vexation, at the
fears of these poor fellows. “Either we advance,” says he, “towards
the lights, or the lights have advanced towards us; for we are now at
a very little distance from them; but how can either of you be afraid
of a set of people who appear only to be merry-making?”
“Merry-making, sir!” cries Partridge; “who could be merry-making at
this time of night, and in such a place, and such weather? They can be
nothing but ghosts or witches, or some evil spirits or other, that's
certain.”
“Let them be what they will,” cries Jones, “I am resolved to go up to
them, and enquire the way to Coventry. All witches, Partridge, are not
such ill-natured hags as that we had the misfortune to meet with
last.”
“O Lord, sir,” cries Partridge, “there is no knowing what humour they
will be in; to be sure it is always best to be civil to them; but what
if we should meet with something worse than witches, with evil spirits
themselves?----Pray, sir, be advised; pray, sir, do. If you had read
so many terrible accounts as I have of these matters, you would not be
so fool-hardy.----The Lord knows whither we have got already, or
whither we are going; for sure such darkness was never seen upon
earth, and I question whether it can be darker in the other world.”
Jones put forwards as fast as he could, notwithstanding all these
hints and cautions, and poor Partridge was obliged to follow; for
though he hardly dared to advance, he dared still less to stay behind
by himself.
At length they arrived at the place whence the lights and different
noises had issued. This Jones perceived to be no other than a barn,
where a great number of men and women were assembled, and diverting
themselves with much apparent jollity.
Jones no sooner appeared before the great doors of the barn, which
were open, than a masculine and very rough voice from within demanded,
who was there?--To which Jones gently answered, a friend; and
immediately asked the road to Coventry.
“If you are a friend,” cries another of the men in the barn, “you had
better alight till the storm is over” (for indeed it was now more
violent than ever;) “you are very welcome to put up your horse; for
there is sufficient room for him at the end of the barn.”
“You are very obliging,” returned Jones; “and I will accept your offer
for a few minutes, whilst the rain continues; and here are two more
who will be glad of the same favour.” This was accorded with more
good-will than it was accepted: for Partridge would rather have
submitted to the utmost inclemency of the weather than have trusted to
the clemency of those whom he took for hobgoblins; and the poor
post-boy was now infected with the same apprehensions; but they were
both obliged to follow the example of Jones; the one because he durst
not leave his horse, and the other because he feared nothing so much
as being left by himself.
Had this history been writ in the days of superstition, I should have
had too much compassion for the reader to have left him so long in
suspense, whether Beelzebub or Satan was about actually to appear in
person, with all his hellish retinue; but as these doctrines are at
present very unfortunate, and have but few, if any believers, I have
not been much aware of conveying any such terrors. To say truth, the
whole furniture of the infernal regions hath long been appropriated by
the managers of playhouses, who seem lately to have laid them by as
rubbish, capable only of affecting the upper gallery; a place in which
few of our readers ever sit.
However, though we do not suspect raising any great terror on this
occasion, we have reason to fear some other apprehensions may here
arise in our reader, into which we would not willingly betray him; I
mean that we are going to take a voyage into fairy-land, and introduce
a set of beings into our history, which scarce any one was ever
childish enough to believe, though many have been foolish enough to
spend their time in writing and reading their adventures.
To prevent, therefore, any such suspicions, so prejudicial to the
credit of an historian, who professes to draw his materials from
nature only, we shall now proceed to acquaint the reader who these
people were, whose sudden appearance had struck such terrors into
Partridge, had more than half frightened the post-boy, and had a
little surprized even Mr Jones himself.
The people then assembled in this barn were no other than a company of
Egyptians, or, as they are vulgarly called, gypsies, and they were now
celebrating the wedding of one of their society.
It is impossible to conceive a happier set of people than appeared
here to be met together. The utmost mirth, indeed, shewed itself in
every countenance; nor was their ball totally void of all order and
decorum. Perhaps it had more than a country assembly is sometimes
conducted with: for these people are subject to a formal government
and laws of their own, and all pay obedience to one great magistrate,
whom they call their king.
Greater plenty, likewise, was nowhere to be seen than what flourished
in this barn. Here was indeed no nicety nor elegance, nor did the keen
appetite of the guests require any. Here was good store of bacon,
fowls, and mutton, to which every one present provided better sauce
himself than the best and dearest French cook can prepare.
Aeneas is not described under more consternation in the temple of
Juno,
_Dum stupet obtutuque haeret defixus in uno_,
than was our heroe at what he saw in this barn. While he was looking
everywhere round him with astonishment, a venerable person approached
him with many friendly salutations, rather of too hearty a kind to be
called courtly. This was no other than the king of the gypsies
himself. He was very little distinguished in dress from his subjects,
nor had he any regalia of majesty to support his dignity; and yet
there seemed (as Mr Jones said) to be somewhat in his air which
denoted authority, and inspired the beholders with an idea of awe and
respect; though all this was perhaps imaginary in Jones; and the truth
may be, that such ideas are incident to power, and almost inseparable
from it.
There was somewhat in the open countenance and courteous behaviour of
Jones which, being accompanied with much comeliness of person, greatly
recommended him at first sight to every beholder. These were, perhaps,
a little heightened in the present instance, by that profound respect
which he paid to the king of the gypsies, the moment he was acquainted
with his dignity, and which was the sweeter to his gypseian majesty,
as he was not used to receive such homage from any but his own
subjects.
The king ordered a table to be spread with the choicest of their
provisions for his accommodation; and, having placed himself at his
right hand, his majesty began to discourse with our heroe in the
following manner:--
“Me doubt not, sir, but you have often seen some of my people, who are
what you call de parties detache: for dey go about everywhere; but me
fancy you imagine not we be so considrable body as we be; and may be
you will be surprize more when you hear de gypsy be as orderly and
well govern people as any upon face of de earth.
“Me have honour, as me say, to be deir king, and no monarch can do
boast of more dutiful subject, ne no more affectionate. How far me
deserve deir good-will, me no say; but dis me can say, dat me never
design anyting but to do dem good. Me sall no do boast of dat neider:
for what can me do oderwise dan consider of de good of dose poor
people who go about all day to give me always de best of what dey get.
Dey love and honour me darefore, because me do love and take care of
dem; dat is all, me know no oder reason.
“About a tousand or two tousand year ago, me cannot tell to a year or
two, as can neider write nor read, dere was a great what you call--a
volution among de gypsy; for dere was de lord gypsy in dose days; and
dese lord did quarrel vid one anoder about de place; but de king of de
gypsy did demolish dem all, and made all his subject equal vid each
oder; and since dat time dey have agree very well; for dey no tink of
being king, and may be it be better for dem as dey be; for me assure
you it be ver troublesome ting to be king, and always to do justice;
me have often wish to be de private gypsy when me have been forced to
punish my dear friend and relation; for dough we never put to death,
our punishments be ver severe. Dey make de gypsy ashamed of demselves,
and dat be ver terrible punishment; me ave scarce ever known de gypsy
so punish do harm any more.”
The king then proceeded to express some wonder that there was no such
punishment as shame in other governments. Upon which Jones assured him
to the contrary; for that there were many crimes for which shame was
inflicted by the English laws, and that it was indeed one consequence
of all punishment. “Dat be ver strange,” said the king; “for me know
and hears good deal of your people, dough me no live among dem; and me
have often hear dat sham is de consequence and de cause too of many of
your rewards. Are your rewards and punishments den de same ting?”
While his majesty was thus discoursing with Jones, a sudden uproar
arose in the barn, and as it seems upon this occasion:--the courtesy
of these people had by degrees removed all the apprehensions of
Partridge, and he was prevailed upon not only to stuff himself with
their food, but to taste some of their liquors, which by degrees
entirely expelled all fear from his composition, and in its stead
introduced much more agreeable sensations.
A young female gypsy, more remarkable for her wit than her beauty, had
decoyed the honest fellow aside, pretending to tell his fortune. Now,
when they were alone together in a remote part of the barn, whether it
proceeded from the strong liquor, which is never so apt to inflame
inordinate desire as after moderate fatigue; or whether the fair gypsy
herself threw aside the delicacy and decency of her sex, and tempted
the youth Partridge with express solicitations; but they were
discovered in a very improper manner by the husband of the gypsy, who,
from jealousy it seems, had kept a watchful eye over his wife, and had
dogged her to the place, where he found her in the arms of her
gallant.
To the great confusion of Jones, Partridge was now hurried before the
king; who heard the accusation, and likewise the culprit's defence,
which was indeed very trifling; for the poor fellow was confounded by