Chapter x.
Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but low.
The reader will be pleased to remember, that we left Mr Jones, in thebeginning of this book, on his road to Bristol; being determined toseek his fortune at sea, or rather, indeed, to fly away from hisfortune on shore.
It happened (a thing not very unusual), that the guide who undertookto conduct him on his way, was unluckily unacquainted with the road;so that having missed his right track, and being ashamed to askinformation, he rambled about backwards and forwards till night cameon, and it began to grow dark. Jones suspecting what had happened,acquainted the guide with his apprehensions; but he insisted on it,that they were in the right road, and added, it would be very strangeif he should not know the road to Bristol; though, in reality, itwould have been much stranger if he had known it, having never pastthrough it in his life before.
Jones had not such implicit faith in his guide, but that on theirarrival at a village he inquired of the first fellow he saw, whetherthey were in the road to Bristol. "Whence did you come?" cries thefellow. "No matter," says Jones, a little hastily; "I want to know ifthis be the road to Bristol?"--"The road to Bristol!" cries thefellow, scratching his head: "why, measter, I believe you will hardlyget to Bristol this way to-night."--"Prithee, friend, then," answeredJones, "do tell us which is the way."--"Why, measter," cries thefellow, "you must be come out of your road the Lord knows whither; forthick way goeth to Glocester."--"Well, and which way goes to Bristol?"said Jones. "Why, you be going away from Bristol," answered thefellow. "Then," said Jones, "we must go back again?"--"Ay, you must,"said the fellow. "Well, and when we come back to the top of the hill,which way must we take?"--"Why, you must keep the strait road."--"ButI remember there are two roads, one to the right and the other to theleft."--"Why, you must keep the right-hand road, and then gu straitvorwards; only remember to turn vurst to your right, and then to yourleft again, and then to your right, and that brings you to thesquire's; and then you must keep strait vorwards, and turn to theleft."
Another fellow now came up, and asked which way the gentlemen weregoing; of which being informed by Jones, he first scratched his head,and then leaning upon a pole he had in his hand, began to tell him,"That he must keep the right-hand road for about a mile, or a mile anda half, or such a matter, and then he must turn short to the left,which would bring him round by Measter Jin Bearnes's."--"But which isMr John Bearnes's?" says Jones. "O Lord!" cries the fellow, "why,don't you know Measter Jin Bearnes? Whence then did you come?"
These two fellows had almost conquered the patience of Jones, when aplain well-looking man (who was indeed a Quaker) accosted him thus:"Friend, I perceive thou hast lost thy way; and if thou wilt take myadvice, thou wilt not attempt to find it to-night. It is almost dark,and the road is difficult to hit; besides, there have been severalrobberies committed lately between this and Bristol. Here is a verycreditable good house just by, where thou may'st find goodentertainment for thyself and thy cattle till morning." Jones, after alittle persuasion, agreed to stay in this place till the morning, andwas conducted by his friend to the public-house.
The landlord, who was a very civil fellow, told Jones, "He hoped hewould excuse the badness of his accommodation; for that his wife wasgone from home, and had locked up almost everything, and carried thekeys along with her." Indeed the fact was, that a favourite daughterof hers was just married, and gone that morning home with her husband;and that she and her mother together had almost stript the poor man ofall his goods, as well as money; for though he had several children,this daughter only, who was the mother's favourite, was the object ofher consideration; and to the humour of this one child she would withpleasure have sacrificed all the rest, and her husband into thebargain.
Though Jones was very unfit for any kind of company, and would havepreferred being alone, yet he could not resist the importunities ofthe honest Quaker; who was the more desirous of sitting with him, fromhaving remarked the melancholy which appeared both in his countenanceand behaviour; and which the poor Quaker thought his conversationmight in some measure relieve.
After they had past some time together, in such a manner that myhonest friend might have thought himself at one of his silentmeetings, the Quaker began to be moved by some spirit or other,probably that of curiosity, and said, "Friend, I perceive some saddisaster hath befallen thee; but pray be of comfort. Perhaps thou hastlost a friend. If so, thou must consider we are all mortal. And whyshouldst thou grieve, when thou knowest thy grief will do thy friendno good? We are all born to affliction. I myself have my sorrows aswell as thee, and most probably greater sorrows. Though I have a clearestate of L100 a year, which is as much as I want, and I have aconscience, I thank the Lord, void of offence; my constitution issound and strong, and there is no man can demand a debt of me, noraccuse me of an injury; yet, friend, I should be concerned to thinkthee as miserable as myself."
Here the Quaker ended with a deep sigh; and Jones presently answered,"I am very sorry, sir, for your unhappiness, whatever is the occasionof it."--"Ah! friend," replied the Quaker, "one only daughter is theoccasion; one who was my greatest delight upon earth, and who withinthis week is run away from me, and is married against my consent. Ihad provided her a proper match, a sober man and one of substance; butshe, forsooth, would chuse for herself, and away she is gone with ayoung fellow not worth a groat. If she had been dead, as I suppose thyfriend is, I should have been happy."--"That is very strange, sir,"said Jones. "Why, would it not be better for her to be dead, than tobe a beggar?" replied the Quaker: "for, as I told you, the fellow isnot worth a groat; and surely she cannot expect that I shall ever giveher a shilling. No, as she hath married for love, let her live on loveif she can; let her carry her love to market, and see whether any onewill change it into silver, or even into halfpence."--"You know yourown concerns best, sir," said Jones. "It must have been," continuedthe Quaker, "a long premeditated scheme to cheat me: for they haveknown one another from their infancy; and I always preached to heragainst love, and told her a thousand times over it was all folly andwickedness. Nay, the cunning slut pretended to hearken to me, and todespise all wantonness of the flesh; and yet at last broke out at awindow two pair of stairs: for I began, indeed, a little to suspecther, and had locked her up carefully, intending the very next morningto have married her up to my liking. But she disappointed me within afew hours, and escaped away to the lover of her own chusing; who lostno time, for they were married and bedded and all within an hour. Butit shall be the worst hour's work for them both that ever they did;for they may starve, or beg, or steal together, for me. I will nevergive either of them a farthing." Here Jones starting up cried, "Ireally must be excused: I wish you would leave me."--"Come, come,friend," said the Quaker, "don't give way to concern. You see thereare other people miserable besides yourself."--"I see there aremadmen, and fools, and villains in the world," cries Jones. "But letme give you a piece of advice: send for your daughter and son-in-lawhome, and don't be yourself the only cause of misery to one youpretend to love."--"Send for her and her husband home!" cries theQuaker loudly; "I would sooner send for the two greatest enemies Ihave in the world!"--"Well, go home yourself, or where you please,"said Jones, "for I will sit no longer in such company."--"Nay,friend," answered the Quaker, "I scorn to impose my company on anyone." He then offered to pull money from his pocket, but Jones pushedhim with some violence out of the room.
The subject of the Quaker's discourse had so deeply affected Jones,that he stared very wildly all the time he was speaking. This theQuaker had observed, and this, added to the rest of his behaviour,inspired honest Broadbrim with a conceit, that his companion was inreality out of his senses. Instead of resenting the affront,therefore, the Quaker was moved with compassion for his unhappycircumstances; and having communicated his opinion to the landlord, hedesired him to take great care of his guest, and to treat him with thehighest civility.
"Indeed," says the landlord, "I shall use no such civility towardshi
m; for it seems, for all his laced waistcoat there, he is no more agentleman than myself, but a poor parish bastard, bred up at a greatsquire's about thirty miles off, and now turned out of doors (not forany good to be sure). I shall get him out of my house as soon aspossible. If I do lose my reckoning, the first loss is always thebest. It is not above a year ago that I lost a silver spoon."
"What dost thou talk of a parish bastard, Robin?" answered the Quaker."Thou must certainly be mistaken in thy man."
"Not at all," replied Robin; "the guide, who knows him very well, toldit me." For, indeed, the guide had no sooner taken his place at thekitchen fire, than he acquainted the whole company with all he knew orhad ever heard concerning Jones.
The Quaker was no sooner assured by this fellow of the birth and lowfortune of Jones, than all compassion for him vanished; and the honestplain man went home fired with no less indignation than a duke wouldhave felt at receiving an affront from such a person.
The landlord himself conceived an equal disdain for his guest; so thatwhen Jones rung the bell in order to retire to bed, he was acquaintedthat he could have no bed there. Besides disdain of the mean conditionof his guest, Robin entertained violent suspicion of his intentions,which were, he supposed, to watch some favourable opportunity ofrobbing the house. In reality, he might have been very well eased ofthese apprehensions, by the prudent precautions of his wife anddaughter, who had already removed everything which was not fixed tothe freehold; but he was by nature suspicious, and had been moreparticularly so since the loss of his spoon. In short, the dread ofbeing robbed totally absorbed the comfortable consideration that hehad nothing to lose.
Jones being assured that he could have no bed, very contentedly betookhimself to a great chair made with rushes, when sleep, which hadlately shunned his company in much better apartments, generously paidhim a visit in his humble cell.
As for the landlord, he was prevented by his fears from retiring torest. He returned therefore to the kitchen fire, whence he couldsurvey the only door which opened into the parlour, or rather hole,where Jones was seated; and as for the window to that room, it wasimpossible for any creature larger than a cat to have made his escapethrough it.
History of Tom Jones, a Foundling Page 84