History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
to poetry, but it may be thought impracticable to extend it to the
historian; for he is obliged to record matters as he finds them,
though they may be of so extraordinary a nature as will require no
small degree of historical faith to swallow them. Such was the
successless armament of Xerxes described by Herodotus, or the
successful expedition of Alexander related by Arrian. Such of later
years was the victory of Agincourt obtained by Harry the Fifth, or
that of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. All which
instances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the more
astonishing.
Such facts, however, as they occur in the thread of the story, nay,
indeed, as they constitute the essential parts of it, the historian is
not only justifiable in recording as they really happened, but indeed
would be unpardonable should he omit or alter them. But there are
other facts not of such consequence nor so necessary, which, though
ever so well attested, may nevertheless be sacrificed to oblivion in
complacence to the scepticism of a reader. Such is that memorable
story of the ghost of George Villiers, which might with more propriety
have been made a present of to Dr Drelincourt, to have kept the ghost
of Mrs Veale company, at the head of his Discourse upon Death, than
have been introduced into so solemn a work as the History of the
Rebellion.
To say the truth, if the historian will confine himself to what really
happened, and utterly reject any circumstance, which, though never so
well attested, he must be well assured is false, he will sometimes
fall into the marvellous, but never into the incredible. He will often
raise the wonder and surprize of his reader, but never that
incredulous hatred mentioned by Horace. It is by falling into fiction,
therefore, that we generally offend against this rule, of deserting
probability, which the historian seldom, if ever, quits, till he
forsakes his character and commences a writer of romance. In this,
however, those historians who relate public transactions, have the
advantage of us who confine ourselves to scenes of private life. The
credit of the former is by common notoriety supported for a long time;
and public records, with the concurrent testimony of many authors,
bear evidence to their truth in future ages. Thus a Trajan and an
Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have all met with the belief of
posterity; and no one doubts but that men so very good, and so very
bad, were once the masters of mankind.
But we who deal in private character, who search into the most retired
recesses, and draw forth examples of virtue and vice from holes and
corners of the world, are in a more dangerous situation. As we have no
public notoriety, no concurrent testimony, no records to support and
corroborate what we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the limits
not only of possibility, but of probability too; and this more
especially in painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and
folly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet with assent;
for ill-nature adds great support and strength to faith.
Thus we may, perhaps, with little danger, relate the history of
Fisher; who having long owed his bread to the generosity of Mr Derby,
and having one morning received a considerable bounty from his hands,
yet, in order to possess himself of what remained in his friend's
scrutore, concealed himself in a public office of the Temple, through
which there was a passage into Mr Derby's chambers. Here he overheard
Mr Derby for many hours solacing himself at an entertainment which he
that evening gave his friends, and to which Fisher had been invited.
During all this time, no tender, no grateful reflections arose to
restrain his purpose; but when the poor gentleman had let his company
out through the office, Fisher came suddenly from his lurking-place,
and walking softly behind his friend into his chamber, discharged a
pistol-ball into his head. This may be believed when the bones of
Fisher are as rotten as his heart. Nay, perhaps, it will be credited,
that the villain went two days afterwards with some young ladies to
the play of Hamlet; and with an unaltered countenance heard one of the
ladies, who little suspected how near she was to the person, cry out,
“Good God! if the man that murdered Mr Derby was now present!”
manifesting in this a more seared and callous conscience than even
Nero himself; of whom we are told by Suetonius, “that the
consciousness of his guilt, after the death of his mother, became
immediately intolerable, and so continued; nor could all the
congratulations of the soldiers, of the senate, and the people, allay
the horrors of his conscience.”
But now, on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I had known
a man whose penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a large
fortune in a way where no beginning was chaulked out to him; that he
had done this with the most perfect preservation of his integrity, and
not only without the least injustice or injury to any one individual
person, but with the highest advantage to trade, and a vast increase
of the public revenue; that he had expended one part of the income of
this fortune in discovering a taste superior to most, by works where
the highest dignity was united with the purest simplicity, and another
part in displaying a degree of goodness superior to all men, by acts
of charity to objects whose only recommendations were their merits, or
their wants; that he was most industrious in searching after merit in
distress, most eager to relieve it, and then as careful (perhaps too
careful) to conceal what he had done; that his house, his furniture,
his gardens, his table, his private hospitality, and his public
beneficence, all denoted the mind from which they flowed, and were all
intrinsically rich and noble, without tinsel, or external ostentation;
that he filled every relation in life with the most adequate virtue;
that he was most piously religious to his Creator, most zealously
loyal to his sovereign; a most tender husband to his wife, a kind
relation, a munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a knowing and a
chearful companion, indulgent to his servants, hospitable to his
neighbours, charitable to the poor, and benevolent to all mankind.
Should I add to these the epithets of wise, brave, elegant, and indeed
every other amiable epithet in our language, I might surely say,
_--Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo;
Vel duo, vel nemo;_
and yet I know a man who is all I have here described. But a single
instance (and I really know not such another) is not sufficient to
justify us, while we are writing to thousands who never heard of the
person, nor of anything like him. Such _rarae aves_ should be remitted
to the epitaph writer, or to some poet who may condescend to hitch him
in a distich, or to slide him into a rhime with an air of carelessness
and neglect, without giving any offence to the reader.
In the last place, the actions should be such as may not only be
within the compass of human agency, and which human agents may
probably be supposed to do; but they should be likely for the very
actors and characters themselves to have performed; for what may be
only wonderful and surprizing in one man, may become improbable, or
indeed impossible, when related of another.
This last requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversation of
character; and it requires a very extraordinary degree of judgment,
and a most exact knowledge of human nature.
It is admirably remarked by a most excellent writer, that zeal can no
more hurry a man to act in direct opposition to itself, than a rapid
stream can carry a boat against its own current. I will venture to
say, that for a man to act in direct contradiction to the dictates of
his nature, is, if not impossible, as improbable and as miraculous as
anything which can well be conceived. Should the best parts of the
story of M. Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should the worst
incidents of Nero's life be imputed to Antoninus, what would be more
shocking to belief than either instance? whereas both these being
related of their proper agent, constitute the truly marvellous.
Our modern authors of comedy have fallen almost universally into the
error here hinted at; their heroes generally are notorious rogues, and
their heroines abandoned jades, during the first four acts; but in the
fifth, the former become very worthy gentlemen, and the latter women
of virtue and discretion: nor is the writer often so kind as to give
himself the least trouble to reconcile or account for this monstrous
change and incongruity. There is, indeed, no other reason to be
assigned for it, than because the play is drawing to a conclusion; as
if it was no less natural in a rogue to repent in the last act of a
play, than in the last of his life; which we perceive to be generally
the case at Tyburn, a place which might indeed close the scene of some
comedies with much propriety, as the heroes in these are most commonly
eminent for those very talents which not only bring men to the
gallows, but enable them to make an heroic figure when they are there.
Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be permitted
to deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keeps
within the rules of credibility, the more he can surprize the reader
the more he will engage his attention, and the more he will charm him.
As a genius of the highest rank observes in his fifth chapter of the
Bathos, “The great art of all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, in
order to join the credible with the surprizing.”
For though every good author will confine himself within the bounds of
probability, it is by no means necessary that his characters, or his
incidents, should be trite, common, or vulgar; such as happen in every
street, or in every house, or which may be met with in the home
articles of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from showing many
persons and things, which may possibly have never fallen within the
knowledge of great part of his readers. If the writer strictly
observes the rules above-mentioned, he hath discharged his part; and
is then intitled to some faith from his reader, who is indeed guilty
of critical infidelity if he disbelieves him.
For want of a portion of such faith, I remember the character of a
young lady of quality, which was condemned on the stage for being
unnatural, by the unanimous voice of a very large assembly of clerks
and apprentices; though it had the previous suffrages of many ladies
of the first rank; one of whom, very eminent for her understanding,
declared it was the picture of half the young people of her
acquaintance.
Chapter ii.
In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones.
When Jones had taken leave of his friend the lieutenant, he
endeavoured to close his eyes, but all in vain; his spirits were too
lively and wakeful to be lulled to sleep. So having amused, or rather
tormented, himself with the thoughts of his Sophia till it was open
daylight, he called for some tea; upon which occasion my landlady
herself vouchsafed to pay him a visit.
This was indeed the first time she had seen him, or at least had taken
any notice of him; but as the lieutenant had assured her that he was
certainly some young gentleman of fashion, she now determined to show
him all the respect in her power; for, to speak truly, this was one of
those houses where gentlemen, to use the language of advertisements,
meet with civil treatment for their money.
She had no sooner begun to make his tea, than she likewise began to
discourse:--“La! sir,” said she, “I think it is great pity that such a
pretty young gentleman should under-value himself so, as to go about
with these soldier fellows. They call themselves gentlemen, I warrant