History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
particularly those which this day had brought to light; and concluded
by telling him, “That unless he could clear himself of the charge, he
was resolved to banish him his sight for ever.”
Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his defence; nay,
indeed, he hardly knew his accusation; for as Mr Allworthy, in
recounting the drunkenness, &c., while he lay ill, out of modesty sunk
everything that related particularly to himself, which indeed
principally constituted the crime; Jones could not deny the charge.
His heart was, besides, almost broken already; and his spirits were so
sunk, that he could say nothing for himself; but acknowledged the
whole, and, like a criminal in despair, threw himself upon mercy;
concluding, “That though he must own himself guilty of many follies
and inadvertencies, he hoped he had done nothing to deserve what would
be to him the greatest punishment in the world.”
Allworthy answered, “That he had forgiven him too often already, in
compassion to his youth, and in hopes of his amendment: that he now
found he was an abandoned reprobate, and such as it would be criminal
in any one to support and encourage. Nay,” said Mr Allworthy to him,
“your audacious attempt to steal away the young lady, calls upon me to
justify my own character in punishing you. The world who have already
censured the regard I have shown for you may think, with some colour
at least of justice, that I connive at so base and barbarous an
action--an action of which you must have known my abhorrence: and
which, had you had any concern for my ease and honour, as well as for
my friendship, you would never have thought of undertaking. Fie upon
it, young man! indeed there is scarce any punishment equal to your
crimes, and I can scarce think myself justifiable in what I am now
going to bestow on you. However, as I have educated you like a child
of my own, I will not turn you naked into the world. When you open
this paper, therefore, you will find something which may enable you,
with industry, to get an honest livelihood; but if you employ it to
worse purposes, I shall not think myself obliged to supply you
farther, being resolved, from this day forward, to converse no more
with you on any account. I cannot avoid saying, there is no part of
your conduct which I resent more than your ill-treatment of that good
young man (meaning Blifil) who hath behaved with so much tenderness
and honour towards you.”
These last words were a dose almost too bitter to be swallowed. A
flood of tears now gushed from the eyes of Jones, and every faculty of
speech and motion seemed to have deserted him. It was some time before
he was able to obey Allworthy's peremptory commands of departing;
which he at length did, having first kissed his hands with a passion
difficult to be affected, and as difficult to be described.
The reader must be very weak, if, when he considers the light in which
Jones then appeared to Mr Allworthy, he should blame the rigour of his
sentence. And yet all the neighbourhood, either from this weakness, or
from some worse motive, condemned this justice and severity as the
highest cruelty. Nay, the very persons who had before censured the
good man for the kindness and tenderness shown to a bastard (his own,
according to the general opinion), now cried out as loudly against
turning his own child out of doors. The women especially were
unanimous in taking the part of Jones, and raised more stories on the
occasion than I have room, in this chapter, to set down.
One thing must not be omitted, that, in their censures on this
occasion, none ever mentioned the sum contained in the paper which
Allworthy gave Jones, which was no less than five hundred pounds; but
all agreed that he was sent away penniless, and some said naked, from
the house of his inhuman father.
Chapter xii.
Containing love-letters, &c.
Jones was commanded to leave the house immediately, and told, that his
clothes and everything else should be sent to him whithersoever he
should order them.
He accordingly set out, and walked above a mile, not regarding, and
indeed scarce knowing, whither he went. At length a little brook
obstructing his passage, he threw himself down by the side of it; nor
could he help muttering with some little indignation, “Sure my father
will not deny me this place to rest in!”
Here he presently fell into the most violent agonies, tearing his hair
from his head, and using most other actions which generally accompany
fits of madness, rage, and despair.
When he had in this manner vented the first emotions of passion, he
began to come a little to himself. His grief now took another turn,
and discharged itself in a gentler way, till he became at last cool
enough to reason with his passion, and to consider what steps were
proper to be taken in his deplorable condition.
And now the great doubt was, how to act with regard to Sophia. The
thoughts of leaving her almost rent his heart asunder; but the
consideration of reducing her to ruin and beggary still racked him, if
possible, more; and if the violent desire of possessing her person
could have induced him to listen one moment to this alternative, still
he was by no means certain of her resolution to indulge his wishes at
so high an expense. The resentment of Mr Allworthy, and the injury he
must do to his quiet, argued strongly against this latter; and lastly,
the apparent impossibility of his success, even if he would sacrifice
all these considerations to it, came to his assistance; and thus
honour at last backed with despair, with gratitude to his benefactor,
and with real love to his mistress, got the better of burning desire,
and he resolved rather to quit Sophia, than pursue her to her ruin.
It is difficult for any who have not felt it, to conceive the glowing
warmth which filled his breast on the first contemplation of this
victory over his passion. Pride flattered him so agreeably, that his
mind perhaps enjoyed perfect happiness; but this was only momentary:
Sophia soon returned to his imagination, and allayed the joy of his
triumph with no less bitter pangs than a good-natured general must
feel, when he surveys the bleeding heaps, at the price of whose blood
he hath purchased his laurels; for thousands of tender ideas lay
murdered before our conqueror.
Being resolved, however, to pursue the paths of this giant honour, as
the gigantic poet Lee calls it, he determined to write a farewel
letter to Sophia; and accordingly proceeded to a house not far off,
where, being furnished with proper materials, he wrote as follows:--
“MADAM,
“When you reflect on the situation in which I write, I am sure your
good-nature will pardon any inconsistency or absurdity which my
letter contains; for everything here flows from a heart so full,
that no language can express its dictates.
“I have resolved, madam, to obey your commands, in flying for ever
from your dear, your lovely sight. Cruel indeed those commands are;
but it is a cruelty which proceeds from fortune, not from my Sophia.
Fortune hath made it necessary, necessary to your preservation, to
forget there ever was such a wretch as I am.
“Believe me, I would not hint all my sufferings to you, if I
imagined they could possibly escape your ears. I know the goodness
and tenderness of your heart, and would avoid giving you any of
those pains which you always feel for the miserable. O let nothing,
which you shall hear of my hard fortune, cause a moment's concern;
for, after the loss of you, everything is to me a trifle.
“O Sophia! it is hard to leave you; it is harder still to desire you
to forget me; yet the sincerest love obliges me to both. Pardon my
conceiving that any remembrance of me can give you disquiet; but if
I am so gloriously wretched, sacrifice me every way to your relief.
Think I never loved you; or think truly how little I deserve you;
and learn to scorn me for a presumption which can never be too
severely punished.--I am unable to say more.--May guardian angels
protect you for ever!”
He was now searching his pockets for his wax, but found none, nor
indeed anything else, therein; for in truth he had, in his frantic
disposition, tossed everything from him, and amongst the rest, his
pocket-book, which he had received from Mr Allworthy, which he had
never opened, and which now first occurred to his memory.
The house supplied him with a wafer for his present purpose, with
which, having sealed his letter, he returned hastily towards the brook
side, in order to search for the things which he had there lost. In
his way he met his old friend Black George, who heartily condoled with
him on his misfortune; for this had already reached his ears, and
indeed those of all the neighbourhood.
Jones acquainted the gamekeeper with his loss, and he as readily went
back with him to the brook, where they searched every tuft of grass in
the meadow, as well where Jones had not been as where he had been; but
all to no purpose, for they found nothing; for, indeed, though the
things were then in the meadow, they omitted to search the only place
where they were deposited; to wit, in the pockets of the said George;
for he had just before found them, and being luckily apprized of their
value, had very carefully put them up for his own use.
The gamekeeper having exerted as much diligence in quest of the lost
goods, as if he had hoped to find them, desired Mr Jones to recollect
if he had been in no other place: “For sure,” said he, “if you had
lost them here so lately, the things must have been here still; for
this is a very unlikely place for any one to pass by.” And indeed it
was by great accident that he himself had passed through that field,
in order to lay wires for hares, with which he was to supply a
poulterer at Bath the next morning.
Jones now gave over all hopes of recovering his loss, and almost all
thoughts concerning it, and turning to Black George, asked him
earnestly if he would do him the greatest favour in the world?
George answered with some hesitation, “Sir, you know you may command
me whatever is in my power, and I heartily wish it was in my power to
do you any service.” In fact, the question staggered him; for he had,
by selling game, amassed a pretty good sum of money in Mr Western's
service, and was afraid that Jones wanted to borrow some small matter
of him; but he was presently relieved from his anxiety, by being
desired to convey a letter to Sophia, which with great pleasure he
promised to do. And indeed I believe there are few favours which he
would not have gladly conferred on Mr Jones; for he bore as much
gratitude towards him as he could, and was as honest as men who love
money better than any other thing in the universe, generally are.
Mrs Honour was agreed by both to be the proper means by which this
letter should pass to Sophia. They then separated; the gamekeeper
returned home to Mr Western's, and Jones walked to an alehouse at half
a mile's distance, to wait for his messenger's return.
George no sooner came home to his master's house than he met with Mrs
Honour; to whom, having first sounded her with a few previous
questions, he delivered the letter for her mistress, and received at
the same time another from her, for Mr Jones; which Honour told him
she had carried all that day in her bosom, and began to despair of
finding any means of delivering it.
The gamekeeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who, having
received Sophia's letter from him, instantly withdrew, and eagerly
breaking it open, read as follows:--
“SIR,
“It is impossible to express what I have felt since I saw you. Your
submitting, on my account, to such cruel insults from my father,