The History of Tom Jones (Penguin Classics)

by Henry Fielding

  ‘By what I can see, Partridge,’ cries Jones, ‘hanging is a Matter non longe alienum à Scævolæ studiis.’2‘You should say alienus,’ says Partridge—‘I remember the Passage; it is an Example under Communis, Alienus, immunis, variis casibus serviunt.’3 ‘If you do remember it,’ cries Jones, ‘I find you don’t understand it; but I tell thee, Friend, in plain English, that he who finds another’s Property, and wilfully detains it from the known Owner, deserves in Foro Conscientiæ, to be hanged no less than if he had stolen it. And as for this very identical Bill which is the Property of my Angel, and was once in her dear Possession, I will not deliver it into any Hands but her own, upon any Consideration whatever; no, tho’ I was as hungry as thou art, and had no other Means to satisfy my craving Appetite; this I hope to do before I sleep; but if it should happen otherwise, I charge thee, if thou wouldst not incur my Displeasure for ever, not to shock me any more by the bare Mention of such detestable Baseness.’

  ‘I should not have mentioned it now,’ cries Partridge, ‘if it had appeared so to me; for I’m sure I scorn any Wickedness as much as another; but perhaps you know better; and yet I might have imagined that I should not have lived so many Years, and have taught School so long, without being able to distinguish between Fas & Nefas; but it seems we are all to live and learn. I remember my old Schoolmaster, who was a prodigious great Scholar, used often to say, Polly Matete cry Town is my Daskalon.4 The English of which, he told us, was, That a Child may sometimes teach his Grandmother to suck Eggs. I have lived to a fine Purpose truly, if I am to be taught my Grammar at this Time of Day. Perhaps, young Gentleman, you may change your Opinion, if you live to my Years: For I remember I thought myself as wise when I was a Stripling of one or two and twenty as I am now. I am sure I always taught alienus, and my Master read it so before me.’

  There were not many Instances in which Partridge could provoke Jones, nor were there many in which Partridge himself could have been hurried out of his Respect. Unluckily however they had both hit on one of these. We have already seen Partridge could not bear to have his Learning attacked, nor could Jones bear some Passage or other in the foregoing Speech. And now looking upon his Companion with a contemptuous and disdainful Air (a thing not usual with him) he cried, ‘Partridge, I see thou art a conceited old Fool, and I wish thou art not likewise an old Rogue. Indeed if I was as well convinced of the latter as I am of the former, thou shouldst travel no farther in my Company.’

  The sage Pedagogue was contented with the Vent which he had already given to his Indignation; and, as the vulgar Phrase is, immediately drew in his Horns. He said, he was sorry he had uttered any thing which might give Offence, for that he had never intended it; but Nemo omnibus horis sapit.

  As Jones had the Vices of a warm Disposition, he was entirely free from those of a cold one; and if his Friends must have confest his Temper to have been a little too easily ruffled, his Enemies must at the same time have confest, that it as soon subsided; nor did it at all resemble the Sea, whose Swelling is more violent and dangerous after a Storm is over, than while the Storm itself subsists. He instantly accepted the Submission of Partridge, shook him by the Hand, and with the most benign Aspect imaginable, said twenty kind Things, and at the same Time very severely condemned himself, tho’ not half so severely as he will most probably be condemned by many of our good Readers.

  Partridge was now highly comforted, as his Fears of having offended were at once abolished, and his Pride completely satisfied by Jones having owned himself in the Wrong, which Submission he instantly applied to what had principally nettled him, and repeated, in a muttering Voice, ‘To be sure, Sir, your Knowledge may be superior to mine in some Things; but as to the Grammar, I think I may challenge any Man living. I think, at least, I have that at my Finger’s End.’

  If any thing could add to the Satisfaction which the poor Man now enjoyed, he received this Addition by the Arrival of an excellent Shoulder of Mutton, that at this Instant came smoaking to the Table. On which, having both plentifully feasted, they again mounted their Horses, and set forward for London.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  What happened to Mr. Jones in his Journey from St. Albans.

  They were got about two Miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the Dusk of the Evening, when a genteel looking Man, but upon a very shabby Horse, rode up to Jones, and asked him whether he was going to London, to which Jones answered in the Affirmative. The Gentleman replied, ‘I should be obliged to you, Sir, if you will accept of my Company; for it is very late, and I am a Stranger to the Road.’ Jones readily complied with the Request; and on they travelled together, holding that Sort of Discourse which is usual on such Occasions.

  Of this, indeed, Robbery was the principal Topic; upon which Subject the Stranger expressed great Apprehensions; but Jones declared he had very little to lose, and consequently as little to fear. Here Partridge could not forbear putting in his Word. ‘Your Honour,’ said he, ‘may think it a little, but I am sure, if I had a hundred Pound Bank Note in my Pocket, as you have, I should be very sorry to lose it; but, for my Part, I never was less afraid in my Life; for we are four of us, and if we all stand by one another, the best Man in England can’t rob us. Suppose he should have a Pistol, he can kill but one of us, and a Man can die but once—That’s my Comfort, a Man can die but once.’

  Besides the Reliance on superior Numbers, a kind of Valour which hath raised a certain Nation among the Moderns to a high Pitch of Glory,1 there was another Reason for the extraordinary Courage which Partridge now discovered; for he had at present as much of that Quality as was in the Power of Liquor to bestow.

  Our Company were now arrived within a Mile of Highgate, when the Stranger turned short upon Jones, and pulling out a Pistol, demanded that little Bank Note which Partridge had mentioned.

  Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected Demand; however, he presently recollected himself, and told the Highwayman, all the Money he had in his Pocket was entirely at his Service; and so saying, he pulled out upwards of three Guineas, and offered to deliver it; but the other answered with an Oath, That would not do. Jones answered coolly, He was very sorry for it, and returned the Money into his Pocket.

  The Highwayman then threatned, if he did not deliver the Bank Note that Moment, he must shoot him; holding his Pistol at the same Time very near to his Breast. Jones instantly caught hold of the Fellow’s Hand, which trembled so that he could scarce hold the Pistol in it, and turned the Muzzle from him. A Struggle then ensued, in which the former wrested the Pistol from the Hand of his Antagonist, and both came from their Horses on the Ground together, the Highwayman upon his Back, and the victorious Jones upon him.

  The poor Fellow now began to implore Mercy of the Conqueror; for, to say the Truth, he was in Strength by no Means a Match for Jones. ‘Indeed, Sir,’ says he, ‘I could have had no Intention to shoot you; for you will find the Pistol was not loaded. This is the first Robbery I ever attempted, and I have been driven by Distress to this.’

  At this Instant, at about an hundred and fifty Yards Distance, lay another Person on the Ground, roaring for Mercy in a much louder Voice than the Highwayman. This was no other than Partridge himself, who endeavouring to make his Escape from the Engagement, had been thrown from his Horse, and lay flat on his Face, not daring to look up, and expecting every Minute to be shot.

  In this Posture he lay, till the Guide, who was no otherwise concerned than for his Horses, having secured the stumbling Beast, came up to him and told him, his Master had got the better of the Highwayman.

  Partridge leapt up at his News, and ran back to the Place, where Jones stood with his Sword drawn in his Hand to guard the poor Fellow; which Partridge no sooner saw, than he cried out, ‘Kill the Villain, Sir, run him through the Body, kill him this Instant.’

  Luckily however for the poor Wretch he had fallen into more merciful Hands; for Jones having examined the Pistol, and found it to be really unloaded, began to believe all the Man had told him before
Partridge came up; namely, that he was a Novice in the Trade, and that he had been driven to it by the Distress he mentioned, the greatest indeed imaginable, that of five hungry Children, and a Wife lying in of a sixth, in the utmost Want and Misery. The Truth of all which the Highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered to convince Mr. Jones of it, if he would take the Trouble to go to his House, which was not above two Miles off; saying, ‘That he desired no Favour, but upon Condition of proving all he had alledged.’

  Jones at first pretended that he would take the Fellow at his Word, and go with him, declaring that his Fate should depend entirely on the Truth of his Story. Upon this the poor Fellow immediately expressed so much Alacrity, that Jones was perfectly satisfied with his Veracity, and began now to entertain Sentiments of Compassion for him. He returned the Fellow his empty Pistol, advised him to think of honester Means of relieving his Distress, and gave him a couple of Guineas for the immediate Support of his Wife and his Family; adding, ‘he wished he had more for his Sake, for the hundred Pound that had been mentioned, was not his own.’

  Our Readers will probably be divided in their Opinions concerning this Action; some may applaud it perhaps as an Act of extraordinary Humanity, while those of a more saturnine Temper will consider it as a Want of Regard to that Justice which every Man owes his Country. Partridge certainly saw it in that Light; for he testified much Dissatisfaction on the Occasion, quoted an old Proverb, and said, He should not wonder if the Rogue attacked them again before they reached London.

  The Highwayman was full of Expressions of Thankfulness and Gratitude. He actually dropt Tears, or pretended so to do. He vowed he would immediately return home, and would never afterwards commit such a Transgression; whether he kept his Word or no, perhaps may appear hereafter.

  Our Travellers having remounted their Horses, arrived in Town without encountering any new Mishap. On the Road much pleasant Discourse passed between Jones and Partridge, on the Subject of their last Adventure. In which Jones exprest a great Compassion for those Highwaymen who are, by unavoidable Distress, driven as it were, to such illegal Courses, as generally bring them to a shameful Death. ‘I mean,’ said he, ‘those only whose highest Guilt extends no farther than to Robbery, and who are never guilty of Cruelty nor Insult to any Person, which is a Circumstance that, I must say, to the Honour of our Country, distinguishes the Robbers of England from those of all other Nations; for Murder is, amongst those, almost inseparably incident to Robbery.’

  ‘No doubt,’ answered Partridge, ‘it is better to take away one’s Money than one’s Life; and yet it is very hard upon honest Men, that they can’t travel about their Business without being in Danger of these Villains. And to be sure it would be better that all Rogues were hanged out of the Way, than that one honest Man should suffer. For my own Part, indeed, I should not care to have the Blood of any of them on my own Hands; but it is very proper for the Law to hang them all. What Right hath any Man to take Sixpence from me, unless I give it him? Is there any Honesty in such a Man?’

  ‘No surely,’ cries Jones, ‘no more than there is in him who takes the Horses out of another Man’s Stable, or who applies to his own Use the Money which he finds, when he knows the right Owner.’

  These Hints stopt the Mouth of Partridge, nor did he open it again till Jones having thrown some sarcastical Jokes on his Cowardice, he offered to excuse himself on the Inequality of Fire-Arms, saying, ‘A thousand naked Men are nothing to one Pistol; for though, it is true, it will kill but one at a single Discharge, yet who can tell but that one may be himself.’

  BOOK XIII.

  Containing the Space of Twelve Days.

  CHAPTER I. An Invocation.

  Come, bright Love of Fame, inspire my glowing Breast: Not thee I call, who over swelling Tides of Blood and Tears, dost bear the Heroe on to Glory, while Sighs of Millions waft his spreading Sails; but thee, fair, gentle Maid, whom Mnesis, happy Nymph, first on the Banks of Hebrus did produce. Thee, whom Mæonia educated, whom Mantua charm’d, and who, on that fair Hill which overlooks the proud Metropolis of Britain, sat’st, with thy Milton, sweetly tuning the Heroic Lyre; fill my ravished Fancy with the Hopes of charming Ages yet to come.1 Foretel me that some tender Maid, whose Grandmother is yet unborn, hereafter, when, under the fictitious Name of Sophia, she reads the real Worth which once existed in my Charlotte,2 shall from her sympathetic Breast, send forth the heaving Sigh. Do thou teach me not only to foresee, but to enjoy, nay, even to feed on future Praise. Comfort me by a solemn Assurance, that when the little Parlour in which I sit at this Instant, shall be reduced to a worse furnished Box, I shall be read, with Honour, by those who never knew nor saw me, and whom I shall neither know nor see.

  And thou, much plumper Dame,3 whom no airy Forms nor Phantoms of Imagination cloathe: Whom the well-seasoned Beef, and Pudding richly stained with Plumbs delight. Thee, I call; of whom in a Treckschuyte in some Dutch Canal the fat Ufrow Gelt,4 impregnated by a jolly Merchant of Amsterdam, was delivered: In Grubstreet School didst thou suck in the Elements of thy Erudition. Here hast thou, in thy maturer Age, taught Poetry to tickle not the Fancy, but the Pride of the Patron. Comedy from thee learns a grave and solemn Air; while Tragedy storms loud, and rends th’ affrighted Theatres with its Thunder. To sooth thy wearied Limbs in Slumber, Alderman History tells his tedious Tale; and again to awaken thee, Monsieur Romance performs his surprizing Tricks of Dexterity. Nor less thy well-fed Bookseller obeys thy Influence. By thy Advice the heavy, unread, Folio Lump, which long had dozed on the dusty Shelf, piece-mealed into Numbers,5 runs nimbly through the Nation. Instructed by thee some Books, like Quacks, impose on the World by promising Wonders; while others turn Beaus, and trust all their Merits to a gilded Outside. Come, thou jolly Substance, with thy shining Face, keep back thy Inspiration, but hold forth thy tempting Rewards; thy shining, chinking Heap; thy quickly-convertible Bank-Bill, big with unseen Riches; thy often-varying Stock; the warm, the comfortable House; and, lastly, a fair Portion of that bounteous Mother, whose flowing Breasts yield redundant Sustenance for all her numerous Offspring, did not some too greedily and wantonly drive their Brethren from the Teat. Come thou, and if I am too tasteless of thy valuable Treasures, warm my Heart with the transporting Thought of conveying them to others. Tell me, that through thy Bounty, the prattling Babes, whose innocent Play hath often been interrupted by my Labours,6 may one Time be amply rewarded for them.

  And now this ill-yoked Pair, this lean Shadow and this fat Substance, have prompted me to write, whose Assistance shall I invoke to direct my Pen?

  First, Genius; thou Gift of Heaven; without whose Aid, in vain we struggle against the Stream of Nature. Thou, who dost sow the generous Seeds which Art nourishes, and brings to Perfection. Do thou kindly take me by the Hand, and lead me through all the Mazes, the winding Labyrinths of Nature. Initiate me into all those Mysteries which profane Eyes never beheld. Teach me, which to thee is no difficult Task, to know Mankind better than they know themselves. Remove that Mist which dims the Intellects of Mortals, and causes them to adore Men for their Art, or to detest them for their Cunning in deceiving others, when they are, in Reality, the Objects only of Ridicule, for deceiving themselves. Strip off the thin Disguise of Wisdom from Self-Conceit, of Plenty from Avarice, and of Glory from Ambition. Come thou, that hast inspired thy Aristophanes, thy Lucian, thy Cervantes, thy Rabelais, thy Moliere, thy Shakespear, thy Swift, thy Marivaux,7 fill my Pages with Humour;’ till Mankind learn the Good-Nature to laugh only at the Follies of others, and the Humility to grieve at their own.

  And thou, almost the constant Attendant on true Genius, Humanity, bring all thy tender Sensations. If thou hast already disposed of them all between thy Allen and thy Lyttleton,8 steal them a little while from their Bosoms. Not without these the tender Scene is painted. From these alone proceed the noble disinterested Friendship, the melting Love, the generous Sentiment, the ardent Gratitude, the soft Compassion, the candid Opinion; and all those strong Energies of a good Mi
nd, which fill the moistened Eyes with Tears, the glowing Cheeks with Blood, and swell the Heart with Tides of Grief, Joy and Benevolence.

  And thou, O Learning, (for without thy Assistance nothing pure, nothing correct, can Genius produce) do thou guide my Pen. Thee, in thy favourite Fields, where the limpid, gently-rolling Thames washes thy Etonian Banks, in early Youth I have worshipped. To thee, at thy birchen Altar, with true Spartan Devotion, I have sacrificed my Blood.9 Come, then, and from thy vast, luxuriant Stores, in long Antiquity piled up, pour forth the rich Profusion. Open thy Mæonian and thy Mantuan Coffers, with whatever else includes thy Philosophic, thy Poetic, and thy Historical Treasures, whether with Greek or Roman Characters thou hast chosen to inscribe the ponderous Chests: Give me a-while that Key to all thy Treasures, which to thy Warburton, thou hast entrusted.10

  Lastly, come, Experience, long conversant with the Wise, the Good, the Learned, and the Polite. Nor with them only, but with every Kind of Character, from the Minister at his Levee,11 to the Bailiff in his Spunging-House; from the Dutchess at her Drum, to the Landlady behind her Bar. From thee only can the Manners of Mankind be known; to which the recluse Pedant, however great his Parts, or extensive his Learning may be, hath ever been a Stranger.