History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
is at least a _felo de se_; so destitute is he now of friends, and so
persecuted by enemies, that we almost despair of bringing him to any
good; and if our reader delights in seeing executions, I think he
ought not to lose any time in taking a first row at Tyburn.
This I faithfully promise, that, notwithstanding any affection which
we may be supposed to have for this rogue, whom we have unfortunately
made our heroe, we will lend him none of that supernatural assistance
with which we are entrusted, upon condition that we use it only on
very important occasions. If he doth not therefore find some natural
means of fairly extricating himself from all his distresses, we will
do no violence to the truth and dignity of history for his sake; for
we had rather relate that he was hanged at Tyburn (which may very
probably be the case) than forfeit our integrity, or shock the faith
of our reader.
In this the antients had a great advantage over the moderns. Their
mythology, which was at that time more firmly believed by the vulgar
than any religion is at present, gave them always an opportunity of
delivering a favourite heroe. Their deities were always ready at the
writer's elbow, to execute any of his purposes; and the more
extraordinary the invention was, the greater was the surprize and
delight of the credulous reader. Those writers could with greater ease
have conveyed a heroe from one country to another, nay from one world
to another, and have brought him back again, than a poor circumscribed
modern can deliver him from a jail.
The Arabians and Persians had an equal advantage in writing their
tales from the genii and fairies, which they believe in as an article
of their faith, upon the authority of the Koran itself. But we have
none of these helps. To natural means alone we are confined; let us
try therefore what, by these means, may be done for poor Jones; though
to confess the truth, something whispers me in the ear that he doth
not yet know the worst of his fortune; and that a more shocking piece
of news than any he hath yet heard remains for him in the unopened
leaves of fate.
Chapter ii.
The generous and grateful behaviour of Mrs Miller.
Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller were just sat down to breakfast, when
Blifil, who had gone out very early that morning, returned to make one
of the company.
He had not been long seated before he began as follows: “Good Lord! my
dear uncle, what do you think hath happened? I vow I am afraid of
telling it you, for fear of shocking you with the remembrance of ever
having shewn any kindness to such a villain.” “What is the matter,
child?” said the uncle. “I fear I have shewn kindness in my life to
the unworthy more than once. But charity doth not adopt the vices of
its objects.” “O, sir!” returned Blifil, “it is not without the secret
direction of Providence that you mention the word adoption. Your
adopted son, sir, that Jones, that wretch whom you nourished in your
bosom, hath proved one of the greatest villains upon earth.” “By all
that's sacred 'tis false,” cries Mrs Miller. “Mr Jones is no villain.
He is one of the worthiest creatures breathing; and if any other
person had called him villain, I would have thrown all this boiling
water in his face.” Mr Allworthy looked very much amazed at this
behaviour. But she did not give him leave to speak, before, turning to
him, she cried, “I hope you will not be angry with me; I would not
offend you, sir, for the world; but, indeed, I could not bear to hear
him called so.” “I must own, madam,” said Allworthy, very gravely, “I
am a little surprized to hear you so warmly defend a fellow you do not
know.” “O! I do know him, Mr Allworthy,” said she, “indeed I do; I
should be the most ungrateful of all wretches if I denied it. O! he
hath preserved me and my little family; we have all reason to bless
him while we live.--And I pray Heaven to bless him, and turn the
hearts of his malicious enemies. I know, I find, I see, he hath such.”
“You surprize me, madam, still more,” said Allworthy; “sure you must
mean some other. It is impossible you should have any such obligations
to the man my nephew mentions.” “Too surely,” answered she, “I have
obligations to him of the greatest and tenderest kind. He hath been
the preserver of me and mine. Believe me, sir, he hath been abused,
grossly abused to you; I know he hath, or you, whom I know to be all
goodness and honour, would not, after the many kind and tender things
I have heard you say of this poor helpless child, have so disdainfully
called him fellow.--Indeed, my best of friends, he deserves a kinder
appellation from you, had you heard the good, the kind, the grateful
things which I have heard him utter of you. He never mentions your
name but with a sort of adoration. In this very room I have seen him
on his knees, imploring all the blessings of heaven upon your head. I
do not love that child there better than he loves you.”
“I see, sir, now,” said Blifil, with one of those grinning sneers with
which the devil marks his best beloved, “Mrs Miller really doth know
him. I suppose you will find she is not the only one of your
acquaintance to whom he hath exposed you. As for my character, I
perceive, by some hints she hath thrown out, he hath been very free
with it, but I forgive him.” “And the Lord forgive you, sir!” said Mrs
Miller; “we have all sins enough to stand in need of his forgiveness.”
“Upon my word, Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “I do not take this
behaviour of yours to my nephew kindly; and I do assure you, as any
reflections which you cast upon him must come only from that wickedest
of men, they would only serve, if that were possible, to heighten my
resentment against him: for I must tell you, Mrs Miller, the young man
who now stands before you hath ever been the warmest advocate for the
ungrateful wretch whose cause you espouse. This, I think, when you
hear it from my own mouth, will make you wonder at so much baseness
and ingratitude.”
“You are deceived, sir,” answered Mrs Miller; “if they were the last
words which were to issue from my lips, I would say you were deceived;
and I once more repeat it, the Lord forgive those who have deceived
you! I do not pretend to say the young man is without faults; but they
are all the faults of wildness and of youth; faults which he may, nay,
which I am certain he will, relinquish, and, if he should not, they
are vastly overbalanced by one of the most humane, tender, honest
hearts that ever man was blest with.”
“Indeed, Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “had this been related of you, I
should not have believed it.” “Indeed, sir,” answered she, “you will
believe everything I have said, I am sure you will: and when you have
heard the story which I shall tell you (for I will tell you all), you
will be so far from being offended, that you will own (I know your
justice so well), that I must have been the most despicable and most
ungrateful of wretches if I had acted any other part than I have.”
“Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “I shall be very glad to hear any good
excuse for a behaviour which, I must confess, I think wants an excuse.
And now, madam, will you be pleased to let my nephew proceed in his
story without interruption. He would not have introduced a matter of
slight consequence with such a preface. Perhaps even this story will
cure you of your mistake.”
Mrs Miller gave tokens of submission, and then Mr Blifil began thus:
“I am sure, sir, if you don't think proper to resent the ill-usage of
Mrs Miller, I shall easily forgive what affects me only. I think your
goodness hath not deserved this indignity at her hands.” “Well,
child,” said Allworthy, “but what is this new instance? What hath he
done of late?” “What,” cries Blifil, “notwithstanding all Mrs Miller
hath said, I am very sorry to relate, and what you should never have
heard from me, had it not been a matter impossible to conceal from the
whole world. In short he hath killed a man; I will not say
murdered--for perhaps it may not be so construed in law, and I hope
the best for his sake.”
Allworthy looked shocked, and blessed himself; and then, turning to
Mrs Miller, he cried, “Well, madam, what say you now?”
“Why, I say, sir,” answered she, “that I never was more concerned at
anything in my life; but, if the fact be true, I am convinced the man,
whoever he is, was in fault. Heaven knows there are many villains in
this town who make it their business to provoke young gentlemen.
Nothing but the greatest provocation could have tempted him; for of
all the gentlemen I ever had in my house, I never saw one so gentle or
so sweet-tempered. He was beloved by every one in the house, and every
one who came near it.”
While she was thus running on, a violent knocking at the door
interrupted their conversation, and prevented her from proceeding
further, or from receiving any answer; for, as she concluded this was
a visitor to Mr Allworthy, she hastily retired, taking with her her
little girl, whose eyes were all over blubbered at the melancholy news
she heard of Jones, who used to call her his little wife, and not only
gave her many playthings, but spent whole hours in playing with her
himself.
Some readers may, perhaps, be pleased with these minute circumstances,
in relating of which we follow the example of Plutarch, one of the
best of our brother historians; and others, to whom they may appear
trivial, will, we hope, at least pardon them, as we are never prolix
on such occasions.
Chapter iii.
The arrival of Mr Western, with some matters concerning the paternal
authority.
Mrs Miller had not long left the room when Mr Western entered; but not
before a small wrangling bout had passed between him and his chairmen;
for the fellows, who had taken up their burden at the Hercules
Pillars, had conceived no hopes of having any future good customer in
the squire; and they were moreover farther encouraged by his
generosity (for he had given them of his own accord sixpence more than
their fare); they therefore very boldly demanded another shilling,
which so provoked the squire, that he not only bestowed many hearty
curses on them at the door, but retained his anger after he came into
the room; swearing that all the Londoners were like the court, and
thought of nothing but plundering country gentlemen. “D--n me,” says
he, “if I won't walk in the rain rather than get into one of their
hand-barrows again. They have jolted me more in a mile than Brown Bess
would in a long fox-chase.”
When his wrath on this occasion was a little appeased, he resumed the
same passionate tone on another. “There,” says he, “there is fine
business forwards now. The hounds have changed at last; and when we
imagined we had a fox to deal with, od-rat it, it turns out to be a
badger at last!”
“Pray, my good neighbour,” said Allworthy, “drop your metaphors, and
speak a little plainer.” “Why, then,” says the squire, “to tell you
plainly, we have been all this time afraid of a son of a whore of a
bastard of somebody's, I don't know whose, not I. And now here's a
confounded son of a whore of a lord, who may be a bastard too for what
I know or care, for he shall never have a daughter of mine by my
consent. They have beggared the nation, but they shall never beggar
me. My land shall never be sent over to Hanover.”
“You surprize me much, my good friend,” said Allworthy. “Why, zounds!
I am surprized myself,” answered the squire. “I went to zee sister
Western last night, according to her own appointment, and there I was
had into a whole room full of women. There was my lady cousin
Bellaston, and my Lady Betty, and my Lady Catherine, and my lady I
don't know who; d--n me, if ever you catch me among such a kennel of
hoop-petticoat b--s! D--n me, I'd rather be run by my own dogs, as one