History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding
Chapter viii.
1851 words | Chapter 291
Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very extraordinary
to most of our readers.
Jones having refreshed himself with a few hours' sleep, summoned
Partridge to his presence; and delivering him a bank-note of fifty
pounds, ordered him to go and change it. Partridge received this with
sparkling eyes, though, when he came to reflect farther, it raised in
him some suspicions not very advantageous to the honour of his master:
to these the dreadful idea he had of the masquerade, the disguise in
which his master had gone out and returned, and his having been abroad
all night, contributed. In plain language, the only way he could
possibly find to account for the possession of this note, was by
robbery: and, to confess the truth, the reader, unless he should
suspect it was owing to the generosity of Lady Bellaston, can hardly
imagine any other.
To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr Jones, and to do justice to the
liberality of the lady, he had really received this present from her,
who, though she did not give much into the hackney charities of the
age, such as building hospitals, &c., was not, however, entirely void
of that Christian virtue; and conceived (very rightly I think) that a
young fellow of merit, without a shilling in the world, was no
improper object of this virtue.
Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with Mrs
Miller. At the appointed hour, therefore, the two young gentlemen,
with the two girls, attended in the parlour, where they waited from
three till almost five before the good woman appeared. She had been
out of town to visit a relation, of whom, at her return, she gave the
following account.
“I hope, gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure if
you knew the occasion--I have been to see a cousin of mine, about six
miles off, who now lies in.--It should be a warning to all persons
(says she, looking at her daughters) how they marry indiscreetly.
There is no happiness in this world without a competency. O Nancy! how
shall I describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor
cousin? she hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this
dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and
not a bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire; her second
son, that sweet little fellow, lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed
with his mother; for there is no other bed in the house. Poor little
Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you will never see your favourite any more;
for he is really very ill. The rest of the children are in pretty good
health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself an injury: she is but
thirteen years old, Mr Nightingale, and yet, in my life, I never saw a
better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother; and, what is
wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the chearfulness in
the world to her mother; and yet I saw her--I saw the poor child, Mr
Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the tears from her eyes.”
Here Mrs Miller was prevented, by her own tears, from going on, and
there was not, I believe, a person present who did not accompany her
in them; at length she a little recovered herself, and proceeded thus:
“In all this distress the mother supports her spirits in a surprizing
manner. The danger of her son sits heaviest upon her, and yet she
endeavours as much as possible to conceal even this concern, on her
husband's account. Her grief, however, sometimes gets the better of
all her endeavours; for she was always extravagantly fond of this boy,
and a most sensible, sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest I was
never more affected in my life than when I heard the little wretch,
who is hardly yet seven years old, while his mother was wetting him
with her tears, beg her to be comforted. `Indeed, mamma,' cried the
child, `I shan't die; God Almighty, I'm sure, won't take Tommy away;
let heaven be ever so fine a place, I had rather stay here and starve
with you and my papa than go to it.' Pardon me, gentlemen, I can't
help it” (says she, wiping her eyes), “such sensibility and affection
in a child.--And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a
day or two will, most probably, place him beyond the reach of all
human evils. The father is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor
man, his countenance is the very picture of horror, and he looks like
one rather dead than alive. Oh heavens! what a scene did I behold at
my first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the
bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife. He had
nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed,
to supply the want of blankets.--When he rose up at my entrance, I
scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr Jones, within this fortnight, as
you ever beheld; Mr Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his face
pale, with a long beard. His body shivering with cold, and worn with
hunger too; for my cousin says she can hardly prevail upon him to
eat.--He told me himself in a whisper--he told me--I can't repeat
it--he said he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted.
And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery his wife
has as good caudle as if she lay in the midst of the greatest
affluence; I tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better.--The means of
procuring her this, he said, he believed was sent him by an angel from
heaven. I know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask
a single question.
“This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a
match between two beggars. I must, indeed, say, I never saw a fonder
couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to torment each
other?” “Indeed, mamma,” cries Nancy, “I have always looked on my
cousin Anderson” (for that was her name) “as one of the happiest of
women.” “I am sure,” says Mrs Miller, “the case at present is much
otherwise; for any one might have discerned that the tender
consideration of each other's sufferings makes the most intolerable
part of their calamity, both to the husband and wife. Compared to
which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons only, are
scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is not two
years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a most
loving family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be the
happiest people in the world.” “I never saw the least sign of misery
at her house,” replied Nancy; “I am sure my heart bleeds for what you
now tell me.”--“O child,” answered the mother, “she hath always
endeavoured to make the best of everything. They have always been in
great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath been brought upon
them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his brother; and
about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in, their goods were
all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a letter to me of
it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered.--What
must he think of my suffering a week to pass before he heard of me?”
It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it was
ended he took Mrs Miller apart with him into another room, and,
delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of £50, desired her to
send as much of it as she thought proper to these poor people. The
look which Mrs Miller gave Jones, on this occasion, is not easy to be
described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and cryed
out--“Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?”--But
recollecting herself, she said, “Indeed I know one such; but can there
be another?” “I hope, madam,” cries Jones, “there are many who have
common humanity; for to relieve such distresses in our fellow-creatures,
can hardly be called more.” Mrs Miller then took ten guineas, which
were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, “She
would find some means of conveying them early the next morning;”
adding, “that she had herself done some little matter for the poor
people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found
them.”
They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed much
concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom indeed he
knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs Miller's. He
inveighed against the folly of making oneself liable for the debts of
others; vented many bitter execrations against the brother; and
concluded with wishing something could be done for the unfortunate
family. “Suppose, madam,” said he, “you should recommend them to Mr
Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will give them a
guinea with all my heart.”
Mrs Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had whispered
the generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion; though, if
either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely without
reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was not an
example which he had any obligation to follow; and there are thousands
who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed he did
not in effect, for he made no tender of anything; and therefore, as
the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his money in his
pocket.
I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better opportunity
than at present to communicate my observation, that the world are in
general divided into two opinions concerning charity, which are the
very reverse of each other. One party seems to hold, that all acts of
this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and, however little
you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes), you acquire a
great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the contrary, appear to
be as firmly persuaded, that beneficence is a positive duty, and that
whenever the rich fall greatly short of their ability in relieving the
distresses of the poor, their pitiful largesses are so far from being
meritorious, that they have only performed their duty by halves, and
are in some sense more contemptible than those who have entirely
neglected it.
To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall only
add, that the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and the
receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.
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