History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding
Chapter x.
2041 words | Chapter 216
Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but low.
The reader will be pleased to remember, that we left Mr Jones, in the
beginning of this book, on his road to Bristol; being determined to
seek his fortune at sea, or rather, indeed, to fly away from his
fortune on shore.
It happened (a thing not very unusual), that the guide who undertook
to conduct him on his way, was unluckily unacquainted with the road;
so that having missed his right track, and being ashamed to ask
information, he rambled about backwards and forwards till night came
on, 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 strange
if he should not know the road to Bristol; though, in reality, it
would have been much stranger if he had known it, having never past
through it in his life before.
Jones had not such implicit faith in his guide, but that on their
arrival at a village he inquired of the first fellow he saw, whether
they were in the road to Bristol. “Whence did you come?” cries the
fellow. “No matter,” says Jones, a little hastily; “I want to know if
this be the road to Bristol?”--“The road to Bristol!” cries the
fellow, scratching his head: “why, measter, I believe you will hardly
get to Bristol this way to-night.”--“Prithee, friend, then,” answered
Jones, “do tell us which is the way.”--“Why, measter,” cries the
fellow, “you must be come out of your road the Lord knows whither; for
thick way goeth to Glocester.”--“Well, and which way goes to Bristol?”
said Jones. “Why, you be going away from Bristol,” answered the
fellow. “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.”--“But
I remember there are two roads, one to the right and the other to the
left.”--“Why, you must keep the right-hand road, and then gu strait
vorwards; only remember to turn vurst to your right, and then to your
left again, and then to your right, and that brings you to the
squire's; and then you must keep strait vorwards, and turn to the
left.”
Another fellow now came up, and asked which way the gentlemen were
going; 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 and
a 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 is
Mr 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 a
plain well-looking man (who was indeed a Quaker) accosted him thus:
“Friend, I perceive thou hast lost thy way; and if thou wilt take my
advice, thou wilt not attempt to find it to-night. It is almost dark,
and the road is difficult to hit; besides, there have been several
robberies committed lately between this and Bristol. Here is a very
creditable good house just by, where thou may'st find good
entertainment for thyself and thy cattle till morning.” Jones, after a
little persuasion, agreed to stay in this place till the morning, and
was conducted by his friend to the public-house.
The landlord, who was a very civil fellow, told Jones, “He hoped he
would excuse the badness of his accommodation; for that his wife was
gone from home, and had locked up almost everything, and carried the
keys along with her.” Indeed the fact was, that a favourite daughter
of 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 of
all his goods, as well as money; for though he had several children,
this daughter only, who was the mother's favourite, was the object of
her consideration; and to the humour of this one child she would with
pleasure have sacrificed all the rest, and her husband into the
bargain.
Though Jones was very unfit for any kind of company, and would have
preferred being alone, yet he could not resist the importunities of
the honest Quaker; who was the more desirous of sitting with him, from
having remarked the melancholy which appeared both in his countenance
and behaviour; and which the poor Quaker thought his conversation
might in some measure relieve.
After they had past some time together, in such a manner that my
honest friend might have thought himself at one of his silent
meetings, the Quaker began to be moved by some spirit or other,
probably that of curiosity, and said, “Friend, I perceive some sad
disaster hath befallen thee; but pray be of comfort. Perhaps thou hast
lost a friend. If so, thou must consider we are all mortal. And why
shouldst thou grieve, when thou knowest thy grief will do thy friend
no good? We are all born to affliction. I myself have my sorrows as
well as thee, and most probably greater sorrows. Though I have a clear
estate of £100 a year, which is as much as I want, and I have a
conscience, I thank the Lord, void of offence; my constitution is
sound and strong, and there is no man can demand a debt of me, nor
accuse me of an injury; yet, friend, I should be concerned to think
thee 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 occasion
of it.”--“Ah! friend,” replied the Quaker, “one only daughter is the
occasion; one who was my greatest delight upon earth, and who within
this week is run away from me, and is married against my consent. I
had provided her a proper match, a sober man and one of substance; but
she, forsooth, would chuse for herself, and away she is gone with a
young fellow not worth a groat. If she had been dead, as I suppose thy
friend 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 to
be a beggar?” replied the Quaker: “for, as I told you, the fellow is
not worth a groat; and surely she cannot expect that I shall ever give
her a shilling. No, as she hath married for love, let her live on love
if she can; let her carry her love to market, and see whether any one
will change it into silver, or even into halfpence.”--“You know your
own concerns best, sir,” said Jones. “It must have been,” continued
the Quaker, “a long premeditated scheme to cheat me: for they have
known one another from their infancy; and I always preached to her
against love, and told her a thousand times over it was all folly and
wickedness. Nay, the cunning slut pretended to hearken to me, and to
despise all wantonness of the flesh; and yet at last broke out at a
window two pair of stairs: for I began, indeed, a little to suspect
her, and had locked her up carefully, intending the very next morning
to have married her up to my liking. But she disappointed me within a
few hours, and escaped away to the lover of her own chusing; who lost
no time, for they were married and bedded and all within an hour. But
it 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 never
give either of them a farthing.” Here Jones starting up cried, “I
really must be excused: I wish you would leave me.”--“Come, come,
friend,” said the Quaker, “don't give way to concern. You see there
are other people miserable besides yourself.”--“I see there are
madmen, and fools, and villains in the world,” cries Jones. “But let
me give you a piece of advice: send for your daughter and son-in-law
home, and don't be yourself the only cause of misery to one you
pretend to love.”--“Send for her and her husband home!” cries the
Quaker loudly; “I would sooner send for the two greatest enemies I
have 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 any
one.” He then offered to pull money from his pocket, but Jones pushed
him 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 the
Quaker had observed, and this, added to the rest of his behaviour,
inspired honest Broadbrim with a conceit, that his companion was in
reality out of his senses. Instead of resenting the affront,
therefore, the Quaker was moved with compassion for his unhappy
circumstances; and having communicated his opinion to the landlord, he
desired him to take great care of his guest, and to treat him with the
highest civility.
“Indeed,” says the landlord, “I shall use no such civility towards
him; for it seems, for all his laced waistcoat there, he is no more a
gentleman than myself, but a poor parish bastard, bred up at a great
squire's about thirty miles off, and now turned out of doors (not for
any good to be sure). I shall get him out of my house as soon as
possible. If I do lose my reckoning, the first loss is always the
best. 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, told
it me.” For, indeed, the guide had no sooner taken his place at the
kitchen fire, than he acquainted the whole company with all he knew or
had ever heard concerning Jones.
The Quaker was no sooner assured by this fellow of the birth and low
fortune of Jones, than all compassion for him vanished; and the honest
plain man went home fired with no less indignation than a duke would
have felt at receiving an affront from such a person.
The landlord himself conceived an equal disdain for his guest; so that
when Jones rung the bell in order to retire to bed, he was acquainted
that he could have no bed there. Besides disdain of the mean condition
of his guest, Robin entertained violent suspicion of his intentions,
which were, he supposed, to watch some favourable opportunity of
robbing the house. In reality, he might have been very well eased of
these apprehensions, by the prudent precautions of his wife and
daughter, who had already removed everything which was not fixed to
the freehold; but he was by nature suspicious, and had been more
particularly so since the loss of his spoon. In short, the dread of
being robbed totally absorbed the comfortable consideration that he
had nothing to lose.
Jones being assured that he could have no bed, very contentedly betook
himself to a great chair made with rushes, when sleep, which had
lately shunned his company in much better apartments, generously paid
him a visit in his humble cell.
As for the landlord, he was prevented by his fears from retiring to
rest. He returned therefore to the kitchen fire, whence he could
survey the only door which opened into the parlour, or rather hole,
where Jones was seated; and as for the window to that room, it was
impossible for any creature larger than a cat to have made his escape
through it.
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