History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
partly to disqualify his nephew from the immediate execution of his
purpose, he ordered wine to be set on the table; with which he so
briskly plyed the young gentleman, that this latter, who, though not
much used to drinking, did not detest it so as to be guilty of
disobedience or want of complacence by refusing, was soon completely
finished.
Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed
for his nephew, a messenger arrived with a piece of news, which so
entirely disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a moment lost all
consideration for his nephew, and his whole mind became entirely taken
up with his own concerns.
This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter had
taken the opportunity of almost the first moment of his absence, and
had gone off with a neighbouring young clergyman; against whom, though
her father could have had but one objection, namely, that he was worth
nothing, yet she had never thought proper to communicate her amour
even to that father; and so artfully had she managed, that it had
never been once suspected by any, till now that it was consummated.
Old Mr Nightingale no sooner received this account, than in the utmost
confusion he ordered a post-chaise to be instantly got ready, and,
having recommended his nephew to the care of a servant, he directly
left the house, scarce knowing what he did, nor whither he went.
The uncle thus departed, when the servant came to attend the nephew to
bed, had waked him for that purpose, and had at last made him sensible
that his uncle was gone, he, instead of accepting the kind offices
tendered him, insisted on a chair being called; with this the servant,
who had received no strict orders to the contrary, readily complied;
and, thus being conducted back to the house of Mrs Miller, he had
staggered up to Mr Jones's chamber, as hath been before recounted.
This bar of the uncle being now removed (though young Nightingale knew
not as yet in what manner), and all parties being quickly ready, the
mother, Mr Jones, Mr Nightingale, and his love, stept into a
hackney-coach, which conveyed them to Doctors' Commons; where Miss
Nancy was, in vulgar language, soon made an honest woman, and the poor
mother became, in the purest sense of the word, one of the happiest of
all human beings.
And now Mr Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman and
her family brought to a happy conclusion, began to apply himself to
his own concerns; but here, lest many of my readers should censure his
folly for thus troubling himself with the affairs of others, and lest
some few should think he acted more disinterestedly than indeed he
did, we think proper to assure our reader, that he was so far from
being unconcerned in this matter, that he had indeed a very
considerable interest in bringing it to that final consummation.
To explain this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could truly
say with him in Terence, _Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto_.
He was never an indifferent spectator of the misery or happiness of
any one; and he felt either the one or the other in great proportion
as he himself contributed to either. He could not, therefore, be the
instrument of raising a whole family from the lowest state of
wretchedness to the highest pitch of joy without conveying great
felicity to himself; more perhaps than worldly men often purchase to
themselves by undergoing the most severe labour, and often by wading
through the deepest iniquity.
Those readers who are of the same complexion with him will perhaps
think this short chapter contains abundance of matter; while others
may probably wish, short as it is, that it had been totally spared as
impertinent to the main design, which I suppose they conclude is to
bring Mr Jones to the gallows, or, if possible, to a more deplorable
catastrophe.
Chapter ix.
Containing love-letters of several sorts.
Mr Jones, at his return home, found the following letters lying on his
table, which he luckily opened in the order they were sent.
LETTER I.
“Surely I am under some strange infatuation; I cannot keep my
resolutions a moment, however strongly made or justly founded. Last
night I resolved never to see you more; this morning I am willing to
hear if you can, as you say, clear up this affair. And yet I know
that to be impossible. I have said everything to myself which you
can invent.----Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come
to me, therefore, the moment you receive this. If you can forge an
excuse I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed too----I will
think no more.----Come to me directly.----This is the third letter I
have writ, the two former are burnt----I am almost inclined to burn
this too----I wish I may preserve my senses.----Come to me
presently.”
LETTER II.
“If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my
doors, come to me this instant.”
LETTER III.
“I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings.
The moment you receive this let me see you;--I shall not stir out;
nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain
you long.”
Jones had just read over these three billets when Mr Nightingale came
into the room. “Well, Tom,” said he, “any news from Lady Bellaston,
after last night's adventure?” (for it was now no secret to any one in
that house who the lady was). “The Lady Bellaston?” answered Jones
very gravely.----“Nay, dear Tom,” cries Nightingale, “don't be so
reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last
night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant who the
queen of the fairies is?” “And did you really then know the lady at
the masquerade?” said Jones. “Yes, upon my soul, did I,” said
Nightingale, “and have given you twenty hints of it since, though you
seemed always so tender on that point, that I would not speak plainly.
I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter, you are not
so well acquainted with the character of the lady as with her person.
Don't be angry, Tom, but upon my honour, you are not the first young
fellow she hath debauched. Her reputation is in no danger, believe
me.”
Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the
vestal kind when his amour began; yet, as he was thoroughly ignorant
of the town, and had very little acquaintance in it, he had no
knowledge of that character which is vulgarly called a demirep; that
is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man she likes, under the
name and appearance of virtue; and who, though some over-nice ladies
will not be seen with her, is visited (as they term it) by the whole
town, in short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her.
When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted
with his intrigue, and began to suspect that so scrupulous a delicacy
as he had hitherto observed was not quite necessary on the occasion,
he gave a latitude to his friend's tongue, and desired him to speak
plainly what he knew, or had ever heard of the lady.
Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate
in his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to tittle-tattle.
He had no sooner, therefore, received a full liberty of speaking from
Jones, than he entered upon a long narrative concerning the lady;
which, as it contained many particulars highly to her dishonour, we
have too great a tenderness for all women of condition to repeat. We
would cautiously avoid giving an opportunity to the future
commentators on our works, of making any malicious application and of
forcing us to be, against our will, the author of scandal, which never
entered into our head.
Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say,
fetched a deep sigh; which the other, observing, cried, “Heyday! why,
thou art not in love, I hope! Had I imagined my stories would have
affected you, I promise you should never have heard them.” “O my dear
friend!” cries Jones, “I am so entangled with this woman, that I know
not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed! no, my friend, but I am
under obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you know so much,
I will be very explicit with you. It is owing, perhaps, solely to her,
that I have not, before this, wanted a bit of bread. How can I
possibly desert such a woman? and yet I must desert her, or be guilty
of the blackest treachery to one who deserves infinitely better of me
than she can; a woman, my Nightingale, for whom I have a passion which
few can have an idea of. I am half distracted with doubts how to act.”
“And is this other, pray, an honourable mistress?” cries Nightingale.
“Honourable!” answered Jones; “no breath ever yet durst sully her
reputation. The sweetest air is not purer, the limpid stream not
clearer, than her honour. She is all over, both in mind and body,
consummate perfection. She is the most beautiful creature in the
universe: and yet she is mistress of such noble elevated qualities,
that, though she is never from my thoughts, I scarce ever think of her
beauty but when I see it.”--“And can you, my good friend,” cries
Nightingale, “with such an engagement as this upon your hands,
hesitate a moment about quitting such a--” “Hold,” said Jones, “no
more abuse of her: I detest the thought of ingratitude.” “Pooh!”
answered the other, “you are not the first upon whom she hath
conferred obligations of this kind. She is remarkably liberal where
she likes; though, let me tell you, her favours are so prudently
bestowed, that they should rather raise a man's vanity than his
gratitude.” In short, Nightingale proceeded so far on this head, and
told his friend so many stories of the lady, which he swore to the
truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem for her from the breast
of Jones; and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. Indeed, he
began to look on all the favours he had received rather as wages than
benefits, which depreciated not only her, but himself too in his own
conceit, and put him quite out of humour with both. From this disgust,
his mind, by a natural transition, turned towards Sophia; her virtue,
her purity, her love to him, her sufferings on his account, filled all
his thoughts, and made his commerce with Lady Bellaston appear still
more odious. The result of all was, that, though his turning himself
out of her service, in which light he now saw his affair with her,
would be the loss of his bread; yet he determined to quit her, if he
could but find a handsome pretence: which being communicated to his
friend, Nightingale considered a little, and then said, “I have it, my
boy! I have found out a sure method; propose marriage to her, and I
would venture hanging upon the success.” “Marriage?” cries Jones. “Ay,
propose marriage,” answered Nightingale, “and she will declare off in
a moment. I knew a young fellow whom she kept formerly, who made the
offer to her in earnest, and was presently turned off for his pains.”
Jones declared he could not venture the experiment. “Perhaps,” said
he, “she may be less shocked at this proposal from one man than from
another. And if she should take me at my word, where am I then?
caught, in my own trap, and undone for ever.” “No;” answered
Nightingale, “not if I can give you an expedient by which you may at
any time get out of the trap.”----“What expedient can that be?”
replied Jones. “This,” answered Nightingale. “The young fellow I
mentioned, who is one of the most intimate acquaintances I have in the
world, is so angry with her for some ill offices she hath since done
him, that I am sure he would, without any difficulty, give you a sight