History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
shall I describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor
cousin? she hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this
dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and
not a bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire; her second
son, that sweet little fellow, lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed
with his mother; for there is no other bed in the house. Poor little
Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you will never see your favourite any more;
for he is really very ill. The rest of the children are in pretty good
health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself an injury: she is but
thirteen years old, Mr Nightingale, and yet, in my life, I never saw a
better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother; and, what is
wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the chearfulness in
the world to her mother; and yet I saw her--I saw the poor child, Mr
Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the tears from her eyes.”
Here Mrs Miller was prevented, by her own tears, from going on, and
there was not, I believe, a person present who did not accompany her
in them; at length she a little recovered herself, and proceeded thus:
“In all this distress the mother supports her spirits in a surprizing
manner. The danger of her son sits heaviest upon her, and yet she
endeavours as much as possible to conceal even this concern, on her
husband's account. Her grief, however, sometimes gets the better of
all her endeavours; for she was always extravagantly fond of this boy,
and a most sensible, sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest I was
never more affected in my life than when I heard the little wretch,
who is hardly yet seven years old, while his mother was wetting him
with her tears, beg her to be comforted. `Indeed, mamma,' cried the
child, `I shan't die; God Almighty, I'm sure, won't take Tommy away;
let heaven be ever so fine a place, I had rather stay here and starve
with you and my papa than go to it.' Pardon me, gentlemen, I can't
help it” (says she, wiping her eyes), “such sensibility and affection
in a child.--And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a
day or two will, most probably, place him beyond the reach of all
human evils. The father is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor
man, his countenance is the very picture of horror, and he looks like
one rather dead than alive. Oh heavens! what a scene did I behold at
my first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the
bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife. He had
nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed,
to supply the want of blankets.--When he rose up at my entrance, I
scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr Jones, within this fortnight, as
you ever beheld; Mr Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his face
pale, with a long beard. His body shivering with cold, and worn with
hunger too; for my cousin says she can hardly prevail upon him to
eat.--He told me himself in a whisper--he told me--I can't repeat
it--he said he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted.
And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery his wife
has as good caudle as if she lay in the midst of the greatest
affluence; I tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better.--The means of
procuring her this, he said, he believed was sent him by an angel from
heaven. I know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask
a single question.
“This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a
match between two beggars. I must, indeed, say, I never saw a fonder
couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to torment each
other?” “Indeed, mamma,” cries Nancy, “I have always looked on my
cousin Anderson” (for that was her name) “as one of the happiest of
women.” “I am sure,” says Mrs Miller, “the case at present is much
otherwise; for any one might have discerned that the tender
consideration of each other's sufferings makes the most intolerable
part of their calamity, both to the husband and wife. Compared to
which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons only, are
scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is not two
years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a most
loving family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be the
happiest people in the world.” “I never saw the least sign of misery
at her house,” replied Nancy; “I am sure my heart bleeds for what you
now tell me.”--“O child,” answered the mother, “she hath always
endeavoured to make the best of everything. They have always been in
great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath been brought upon
them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his brother; and
about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in, their goods were
all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a letter to me of
it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered.--What
must he think of my suffering a week to pass before he heard of me?”
It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it was
ended he took Mrs Miller apart with him into another room, and,
delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of £50, desired her to
send as much of it as she thought proper to these poor people. The
look which Mrs Miller gave Jones, on this occasion, is not easy to be
described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and cryed
out--“Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?”--But
recollecting herself, she said, “Indeed I know one such; but can there
be another?” “I hope, madam,” cries Jones, “there are many who have
common humanity; for to relieve such distresses in our fellow-creatures,
can hardly be called more.” Mrs Miller then took ten guineas, which
were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, “She
would find some means of conveying them early the next morning;”
adding, “that she had herself done some little matter for the poor
people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found
them.”
They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed much
concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom indeed he
knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs Miller's. He
inveighed against the folly of making oneself liable for the debts of
others; vented many bitter execrations against the brother; and
concluded with wishing something could be done for the unfortunate
family. “Suppose, madam,” said he, “you should recommend them to Mr
Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will give them a
guinea with all my heart.”
Mrs Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had whispered
the generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion; though, if
either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely without
reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was not an
example which he had any obligation to follow; and there are thousands
who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed he did
not in effect, for he made no tender of anything; and therefore, as
the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his money in his
pocket.
I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better opportunity
than at present to communicate my observation, that the world are in
general divided into two opinions concerning charity, which are the
very reverse of each other. One party seems to hold, that all acts of
this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and, however little
you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes), you acquire a
great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the contrary, appear to
be as firmly persuaded, that beneficence is a positive duty, and that
whenever the rich fall greatly short of their ability in relieving the
distresses of the poor, their pitiful largesses are so far from being
meritorious, that they have only performed their duty by halves, and
are in some sense more contemptible than those who have entirely
neglected it.
To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall only
add, that the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and the
receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.
Chapter ix.
Which treats of matters of a very different kind from those in the
preceding chapter.
In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation again
ensued between them: but as it consisted only of the same ordinary
occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning particulars, which we
despair of rendering agreeable to the reader; unless he is one whose
devotion to the fair sex, like that of the papists to their saints,
wants to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am so far from
desiring to exhibit such pictures to the public, that I would wish to
draw a curtain over those that have been lately set forth in certain
French novels; very bungling copies of which have been presented us
here under the name of translations.
Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding,
after repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston, no likelihood of
obtaining this by her means (for, on the contrary, the lady began to
treat even the mention of the name of Sophia with resentment), he
resolved to try some other method. He made no doubt but that Lady
Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he thought it most likely that
some of her servants should be acquainted with the same secret.
Partridge therefore was employed to get acquainted with those
servants, in order to fish this secret out of them.
Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his poor
master was at present reduced; for besides the difficulties he met
with in discovering Sophia, besides the fears he had of having
disobliged her, and the assurances he had received from Lady Bellaston
of the resolution which Sophia had taken against him, and of her
having purposely concealed herself from him, which he had sufficient
reason to believe might be true; he had still a difficulty to combat
which it was not in the power of his mistress to remove, however kind
her inclination might have been. This was the exposing of her to be
disinherited of all her father's estate, the almost inevitable
consequence of their coming together without a consent, which he had
no hopes of ever obtaining.
Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose
violent fondness we can no longer conceal, had heaped upon him; so
that by her means he was now become one of the best-dressed men about
town; and was not only relieved from those ridiculous distresses we
have before mentioned, but was actually raised to a state of affluence
beyond what he had ever known.
Now, though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to
their consciences to possess themselves of the whole fortune of a
woman, without making her any kind of return; yet to a mind, the
proprietor of which doth not deserved to be hanged, nothing is, I
believe, more irksome than to support love with gratitude only;
especially where inclination pulls the heart a contrary way. Such was
the unhappy case of Jones; for though the virtuous love he bore to
Sophia, and which left very little affection for any other woman, had
been entirely out of the question, he could never have been able to
have made any adequate return to the generous passion of this lady,
who had indeed been once an object of desire, but was now entered at
least into the autumn of life, though she wore all the gaiety of
youth, both in her dress and manner; nay, she contrived still to
maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out
of season by art, had none of that lively blooming freshness with
which Nature, at the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She