The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
Henry Fielding
PART
1
BOOK I. — CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS NECESSARY OR PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS HISTORY.
BOOK I. — CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS NECESSARY OR PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS HISTORY.
An author
ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a private or
eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all
persons are welcome for their money. In the former case, it is well known that
the entertainer provides what fare he pleases; and though this should be very
indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must
not find any fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly
to approve and to commend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of this
happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what they eat will insist
on gratifying their palates, however nice and whimsical these may prove; and if
everything is not agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure,
to abuse, and to d—n their dinner without controul.
To
prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such
disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and well-meaning host to
provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse at their first entrance
into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves with the entertainment
which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what is provided for them,
or may depart to some other ordinary better accommodated to their taste.
As we do
not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is capable of lending us
either, we have condescended to take a hint from these honest victuallers, and
shall prefix not only a general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, but
shall likewise give the reader particular bills to every course which is to be
served up in this and the ensuing volumes.
The
provision, then, which we have here made is no other than Human Nature.
Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, though most luxurious in his taste, will
start, cavil, or be offended, because I have named but one article. The
tortoise—as the alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows by much
experience—besides the delicious calipash and calipee, contains many different
kinds of food; nor can the learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature,
though here collected under one general name, is such prodigious variety, that
a cook will have sooner gone through all the several species of animal and
vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to exhaust so
extensive a subject.
An
objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more delicate, that this dish is
too common and vulgar; for what else is the subject of all the romances,
novels, plays, and poems, with which the stalls abound? Many exquisite viands
might be rejected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient cause for his
contemning of them as common and vulgar, that something was to be found in the
most paltry alleys under the same name. In reality, true nature is as difficult
to be met with in authors, as the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be
found in the shops.
But the
whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the cookery of the author;
for, as Mr Pope tells us—
“True wit is nature to advantage drest;
What oft was thought, but ne’er so well exprest.”
The same
animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh eaten at the table
of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part, and some of his limbs
gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the
difference between the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are at
dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, the
garnishing, and the setting forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most
languid appetite, and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and
keenest.
In like
manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment consists less in the subject
than in the author’s skill in well dressing it up. How pleased, therefore, will
the reader be to find that we have, in the following work, adhered closely to
one of the highest principles of the best cook which the present age, or
perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath produced. This great man, as is well known
to all lovers of polite eating, begins at first by setting plain things before
his hungry guests, rising afterwards by degrees as their stomachs may be
supposed to decrease, to the very quintessence of sauce and spices. In like
manner, we shall represent human nature at first to the keen appetite of our
reader, in that more plain and simple manner in which it is found in the
country, and shall hereafter hash and ragoo it with all the high French and
Italian seasoning of affectation and vice which courts and cities afford. By
these means, we doubt not but our reader may be rendered desirous to read on
for ever, as the great person just above-mentioned is supposed to have made
some persons eat.
Having
premised thus much, we will now detain those who like our bill of fare no
longer from their diet, and shall proceed directly to serve up the first course
of our history for their entertainment.
Chapter ii. — A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller account of Miss Bridget Allworthy, his sister.
In that
part of the western division of this kingdom which is commonly called
Somersetshire, there lately lived, and perhaps lives still, a gentleman whose
name was Allworthy, and who might well be called the favourite of both nature
and fortune; for both of these seem to have contended which should bless and
enrich him most. In this contention, nature may seem to some to have come off
victorious, as she bestowed on him many gifts, while fortune had only one gift
in her power; but in pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others
perhaps may think this single endowment to have been more than equivalent to
all the various blessings which he enjoyed from nature. From the former of
these, he derived an agreeable person, a sound constitution, a solid
understanding, and a benevolent heart; by the latter, he was decreed to the
inheritance of one of the largest estates in the county.
This
gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and beautiful woman, of whom
he had been extremely fond: by her he had three children, all of whom died in
their infancy. He had likewise had the misfortune of burying this beloved wife
herself, about five years before the time in which this history chuses to set
out. This loss, however great, he bore like a man of sense and constancy,
though it must be confest he would often talk a little whimsically on this
head; for he sometimes said he looked on himself as still married, and
considered his wife as only gone a little before him, a journey which he should
most certainly, sooner or later, take after her; and that he had not the least
doubt of meeting her again in a place where he should never part with her
more—sentiments for which his sense was arraigned by one part of his
neighbours, his religion by a second, and his sincerity by a third.
He now
lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with one sister, for whom he
had a very tender affection. This lady was now somewhat past the age of thirty,
an aera at which, in the opinion of the malicious, the title of old maid may
with no impropriety be assumed. She was of that species of women whom you
commend rather for good qualities than beauty, and who are generally called, by
their own sex, very good sort of women—as good a sort of woman, madam, as you
would wish to know. Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of beauty, that
she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be called one, without contempt;
and would often thank God she was not as handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom
perhaps beauty had led into errors which she might have otherwise avoided. Miss
Bridget Allworthy (for that was the name of this lady) very rightly conceived
the charms of person in a woman to be no better than snares for herself, as
well as for others; and yet so discreet was she in her conduct, that her
prudence was as much on the guard as if she had all the snares to apprehend
which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have observed, though it may
seem unaccountable to the reader, that this guard of prudence, like the trained
bands, is always readiest to go on duty where there is the least danger. It
often basely and cowardly deserts those paragons for whom the men are all
wishing, sighing, dying, and spreading, every net in their power; and
constantly attends at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the
other sex have a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from despair, I
suppose, of success) they never venture to attack.
Reader, I
think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to acquaint thee that I
intend to digress, through this whole history, as often as I see occasion, of
which I am myself a better judge than any pitiful critic whatever; and here I
must desire all those critics to mind their own business, and not to
intermeddle with affairs or works which no ways concern them; for till they
produce the authority by which they are constituted judges, I shall not plead
to their jurisdiction.
Chapter iii. — An odd accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his return home. The decent behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper animadversions on bastards.
I have
told my reader, in the preceding chapter, that Mr Allworthy inherited a large
fortune; that he had a good heart, and no family. Hence, doubtless, it will be
concluded by many that he lived like an honest man, owed no one a shilling,
took nothing but what was his own, kept a good house, entertained his
neighbours with a hearty welcome at his table, and was charitable to the poor,
i.e. to those who had rather beg than work, by giving them the offals from it;
that he died immensely rich and built an hospital.
And true
it is that he did many of these things; but had he done nothing more I should
have left him to have recorded his own merit on some fair freestone over the
door of that hospital. Matters of a much more extraordinary kind are to be the
subject of this history, or I should grossly mis-spend my time in writing so voluminous
a work; and you, my sagacious friend, might with equal profit and pleasure
travel through some pages which certain droll authors have been facetiously
pleased to call The History of England.
Mr
Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on some very
particular business, though I know not what it was; but judge of its importance
by its having detained him so long from home, whence he had not been absent a
month at a time during the space of many years. He came to his house very late
in the evening, and after a short supper with his sister, retired much fatigued
to his chamber. Here, having spent some minutes on his knees—a custom which he
never broke through on any account—he was preparing to step into bed, when,
upon opening the cloathes, to his great surprize he beheld an infant, wrapt up
in some coarse linen, in a sweet and profound sleep, between his sheets. He
stood some time lost in astonishment at this sight; but, as good nature had
always the ascendant in his mind, he soon began to be touched with sentiments
of compassion for the little wretch before him. He then rang his bell, and
ordered an elderly woman-servant to rise immediately, and come to him; and in
the meantime was so eager in contemplating the beauty of innocence, appearing
in those lively colours with which infancy and sleep always display it, that
his thoughts were too much engaged to reflect that he was in his shirt when the
matron came in. She had indeed given her master sufficient time to dress
himself; for out of respect to him, and regard to decency, she had spent many
minutes in adjusting her hair at the looking-glass, notwithstanding all the
hurry in which she had been summoned by the servant, and though her master, for
aught she knew, lay expiring in an apoplexy, or in some other fit.
It will
not be wondered at that a creature who had so strict a regard to decency in her
own person, should be shocked at the least deviation from it in another. She
therefore no sooner opened the door, and saw her master standing by the bedside
in his shirt, with a candle in his hand, than she started back in a most
terrible fright, and might perhaps have swooned away, had he not now
recollected his being undrest, and put an end to her terrors by desiring her to
stay without the door till he had thrown some cloathes over his back, and was
become incapable of shocking the pure eyes of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, who, though
in the fifty-second year of her age, vowed she had never beheld a man without
his coat. Sneerers and prophane wits may perhaps laugh at her first fright; yet
my graver reader, when he considers the time of night, the summons from her
bed, and the situation in which she found her master, will highly justify and
applaud her conduct, unless the prudence which must be supposed to attend
maidens at that period of life at which Mrs Deborah had arrived, should a
little lessen his admiration.
When Mrs
Deborah returned into the room, and was acquainted by her master with the
finding the little infant, her consternation was rather greater than his had
been; nor could she refrain from crying out, with great horror of accent as
well as look, “My good sir! what’s to be done?” Mr Allworthy answered, she must
take care of the child that evening, and in the morning he would give orders to
provide it a nurse. “Yes, sir,” says she; “and I hope your worship will send
out your warrant to take up the hussy its mother, for she must be one of the
neighbourhood; and I should be glad to see her committed to Bridewell, and
whipt at the cart’s tail. Indeed, such wicked sluts cannot be too severely
punished. I’ll warrant ‘tis not her first, by her impudence in laying it to
your worship.” “In laying it to me, Deborah!” answered Allworthy: “I can’t
think she hath any such design. I suppose she hath only taken this method to
provide for her child; and truly I am glad she hath not done worse.” “I don’t
know what is worse,” cries Deborah, “than for such wicked strumpets to lay
their sins at honest men’s doors; and though your worship knows your own innocence,
yet the world is censorious; and it hath been many an honest man’s hap to pass
for the father of children he never begot; and if your worship should provide
for the child, it may make the people the apter to believe; besides, why should
your worship provide for what the parish is obliged to maintain? For my own
part, if it was an honest man’s child, indeed—but for my own part, it goes
against me to touch these misbegotten wretches, whom I don’t look upon as my
fellow-creatures. Faugh! how it stinks! It doth not smell like a Christian. If
I might be so bold to give my advice, I would have it put in a basket, and sent
out and laid at the churchwarden’s door. It is a good night, only a little
rainy and windy; and if it was well wrapt up, and put in a warm basket, it is
two to one but it lives till it is found in the morning. But if it should not,
we have discharged our duty in taking proper care of it; and it is, perhaps,
better for such creatures to die in a state of innocence, than to grow up and imitate
their mothers; for nothing better can be expected of them.”
There were
some strokes in this speech which perhaps would have offended Mr Allworthy, had
he strictly attended to it; but he had now got one of his fingers into the
infant’s hand, which, by its gentle pressure, seeming to implore his
assistance, had certainly out-pleaded the eloquence of Mrs Deborah, had it been
ten times greater than it was. He now gave Mrs Deborah positive orders to take
the child to her own bed, and to call up a maid-servant to provide it pap, and
other things, against it waked. He likewise ordered that proper cloathes should
be procured for it early in the morning, and that it should be brought to
himself as soon as he was stirring.
Such was
the discernment of Mrs Wilkins, and such the respect she bore her master, under
whom she enjoyed a most excellent place, that her scruples gave way to his
peremptory commands; and she took the child under her arms, without any
apparent disgust at the illegality of its birth; and declaring it was a sweet
little infant, walked off with it to her own chamber.
Allworthy
here betook himself to those pleasing slumbers which a heart that hungers after
goodness is apt to enjoy when thoroughly satisfied. As these are possibly
sweeter than what are occasioned by any other hearty meal, I should take more
pains to display them to the reader, if I knew any air to recommend him to for
the procuring such an appetite.
Chapter iv. — The reader’s neck brought into danger by a description; his escape; and the great condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy.
The Gothic
stile of building could produce nothing nobler than Mr Allworthy’s house. There
was an air of grandeur in it that struck you with awe, and rivalled the
beauties of the best Grecian architecture; and it was as commodious within as
venerable without.
It stood
on the south-east side of a hill, but nearer the bottom than the top of it, so
as to be sheltered from the north-east by a grove of old oaks which rose above
it in a gradual ascent of near half a mile, and yet high enough to enjoy a most
charming prospect of the valley beneath.
In the
midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down towards the house, near the
summit of which rose a plentiful spring, gushing out of a rock covered with
firs, and forming a constant cascade of about thirty feet, not carried down a
regular flight of steps, but tumbling in a natural fall over the broken and
mossy stones till it came to the bottom of the rock, then running off in a
pebly channel, that with many lesser falls winded along, till it fell into a
lake at the foot of the hill, about a quarter of a mile below the house on the
south side, and which was seen from every room in the front. Out of this lake,
which filled the center of a beautiful plain, embellished with groups of
beeches and elms, and fed with sheep, issued a river, that for several miles
was seen to meander through an amazing variety of meadows and woods till it
emptied itself into the sea, with a large arm of which, and an island beyond
it, the prospect was closed.
On the
right of this valley opened another of less extent, adorned with several
villages, and terminated by one of the towers of an old ruined abby, grown over
with ivy, and part of the front, which remained still entire.
The
left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, composed of very
unequal ground, and agreeably varied with all the diversity that hills, lawns,
wood, and water, laid out with admirable taste, but owing less to art than to
nature, could give. Beyond this, the country gradually rose into a ridge of
wild mountains, the tops of which were above the clouds.
It was now
the middle of May, and the morning was remarkably serene, when Mr Allworthy
walked forth on the terrace, where the dawn opened every minute that lovely
prospect we have before described to his eye; and now having sent forth streams
of light, which ascended the blue firmament before him, as harbingers preceding
his pomp, in the full blaze of his majesty rose the sun, than which one object
alone in this lower creation could be more glorious, and that Mr Allworthy
himself presented—a human being replete with benevolence, meditating in what
manner he might render himself most acceptable to his Creator, by doing most
good to his creatures.
Reader,
take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of as high a hill as Mr
Allworthy’s, and how to get thee down without breaking thy neck, I do not well
know. However, let us e’en venture to slide down together; for Miss Bridget
rings her bell, and Mr Allworthy is summoned to breakfast, where I must attend,
and, if you please, shall be glad of your company.
The usual
compliments having past between Mr Allworthy and Miss Bridget, and the tea
being poured out, he summoned Mrs Wilkins, and told his sister he had a present
for her, for which she thanked him—imagining, I suppose, it had been a gown, or
some ornament for her person. Indeed, he very often made her such presents; and
she, in complacence to him, spent much time in adorning herself. I say in
complacence to him, because she always exprest the greatest contempt for dress,
and for those ladies who made it their study.
But if
such was her expectation, how was she disappointed when Mrs Wilkins, according
to the order she had received from her master, produced the little infant?
Great surprizes, as hath been observed, are apt to be silent; and so was Miss Bridget,
till her brother began, and told her the whole story, which, as the reader
knows it already, we shall not repeat.
Miss
Bridget had always exprest so great a regard for what the ladies are pleased to
call virtue, and had herself maintained such a severity of character, that it
was expected, especially by Wilkins, that she would have vented much bitterness
on this occasion, and would have voted for sending the child, as a kind of
noxious animal, immediately out of the house; but, on the contrary, she rather
took the good-natured side of the question, intimated some compassion for the
helpless little creature, and commended her brother’s charity in what he had
done.
Perhaps
the reader may account for this behaviour from her condescension to Mr Allworthy,
when we have informed him that the good man had ended his narrative with owning
a resolution to take care of the child, and to breed him up as his own; for, to
acknowledge the truth, she was always ready to oblige her brother, and very
seldom, if ever, contradicted his sentiments. She would, indeed, sometimes make
a few observations, as that men were headstrong, and must have their own way,
and would wish she had been blest with an independent fortune; but these were
always vented in a low voice, and at the most amounted only to what is called
muttering.
However,
what she withheld from the infant, she bestowed with the utmost profuseness on
the poor unknown mother, whom she called an impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an
audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a vile strumpet, with every other appellation
with which the tongue of virtue never fails to lash those who bring a disgrace
on the sex. — A consultation was now entered into how to proceed in order to
discover the mother. A scrutiny was first made into the characters of the
female servants of the house, who were all acquitted by Mrs Wilkins, and with
apparent merit; for she had collected them herself, and perhaps it would be
difficult to find such another set of scarecrows.
The next
step was to examine among the inhabitants of the parish; and this was referred
to Mrs Wilkins, who was to enquire with all imaginable diligence, and to make
her report in the afternoon.
Matters
being thus settled, Mr Allworthy withdrew to his study, as was his custom, and
left the child to his sister, who, at his desire, had undertaken the care of
it.
Chapter v. — Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon observation upon them.
When her
master was departed, Mrs Deborah stood silent, expecting her cue from Miss
Bridget; for as to what had past before her master, the prudent housekeeper by
no means relied upon it, as she had often known the sentiments of the lady in
her brother’s absence to differ greatly from those which she had expressed in
his presence. Miss Bridget did not, however, suffer her to continue long in
this doubtful situation; for having looked some time earnestly at the child, as
it lay asleep in the lap of Mrs Deborah, the good lady could not forbear giving
it a hearty kiss, at the same time declaring herself wonderfully pleased with
its beauty and innocence. Mrs Deborah no sooner observed this than she fell to
squeezing and kissing, with as great raptures as sometimes inspire the sage
dame of forty and five towards a youthful and vigorous bridegroom, crying out,
in a shrill voice, “O, the dear little creature!—The dear, sweet, pretty
creature! Well, I vow it is as fine a boy as ever was seen!”
These
exclamations continued till they were interrupted by the lady, who now
proceeded to execute the commission given her by her brother, and gave orders
for providing all necessaries for the child, appointing a very good room in the
house for his nursery. Her orders were indeed so liberal, that, had it been a
child of her own, she could not have exceeded them; but, lest the virtuous
reader may condemn her for showing too great regard to a base-born infant, to
which all charity is condemned by law as irreligious, we think proper to
observe that she concluded the whole with saying, “Since it was her brother’s
whim to adopt the little brat, she supposed little master must be treated with
great tenderness. For her part, she could not help thinking it was an
encouragement to vice; but that she knew too much of the obstinacy of mankind
to oppose any of their ridiculous humours.”
With
reflections of this nature she usually, as has been hinted, accompanied every
act of compliance with her brother’s inclinations; and surely nothing could
more contribute to heighten the merit of this compliance than a declaration
that she knew, at the same time, the folly and unreasonableness of those
inclinations to which she submitted. Tacit obedience implies no force upon the
will, and consequently may be easily, and without any pains, preserved; but
when a wife, a child, a relation, or a friend, performs what we desire, with
grumbling and reluctance, with expressions of dislike and dissatisfaction, the
manifest difficulty which they undergo must greatly enhance the obligation.
As this is
one of those deep observations which very few readers can be supposed capable
of making themselves, I have thought proper to lend them my assistance; but
this is a favour rarely to be expected in the course of my work. Indeed, I
shall seldom or never so indulge him, unless in such instances as this, where
nothing but the inspiration with which we writers are gifted, can possibly
enable any one to make the discovery.
Chapter vi. — Mrs Deborah is introduced into the parish with a simile. A short account of Jenny Jones, with the difficulties and discouragements which may attend young women in the pursuit of learning.
Mrs
Deborah, having disposed of the child according to the will of her master, now
prepared to visit those habitations which were supposed to conceal its mother.
Not
otherwise than when a kite, tremendous bird, is beheld by the feathered
generation soaring aloft, and hovering over their heads, the amorous dove, and
every innocent little bird, spread wide the alarm, and fly trembling to their
hiding-places. He proudly beats the air, conscious of his dignity, and
meditates intended mischief.
So when
the approach of Mrs Deborah was proclaimed through the street, all the
inhabitants ran trembling into their houses, each matron dreading lest the
visit should fall to her lot. She with stately steps proudly advances over the
field: aloft she bears her towering head, filled with conceit of her own
pre-eminence, and schemes to effect her intended discovery.
The
sagacious reader will not from this simile imagine these poor people had any
apprehension of the design with which Mrs Wilkins was now coming towards them;
but as the great beauty of the simile may possibly sleep these hundred years,
till some future commentator shall take this work in hand, I think proper to
lend the reader a little assistance in this place.
It is my
intention, therefore, to signify, that, as it is the nature of a kite to devour
little birds, so is it the nature of such persons as Mrs Wilkins to insult and
tyrannize over little people. This being indeed the means which they use to
recompense to themselves their extreme servility and condescension to their
superiors; for nothing can be more reasonable, than that slaves and flatterers
should exact the same taxes on all below them, which they themselves pay to all
above them.
Whenever
Mrs Deborah had occasion to exert any extraordinary condescension to Mrs
Bridget, and by that means had a little soured her natural disposition, it was
usual with her to walk forth among these people, in order to refine her temper,
by venting, and, as it were, purging off all ill humours; on which account she
was by no means a welcome visitant: to say the truth, she was universally
dreaded and hated by them all.
On her
arrival in this place, she went immediately to the habitation of an elderly
matron; to whom, as this matron had the good fortune to resemble herself in the
comeliness of her person, as well as in her age, she had generally been more
favourable than to any of the rest. To this woman she imparted what had
happened, and the design upon which she was come thither that morning. These
two began presently to scrutinize the characters of the several young girls who
lived in any of those houses, and at last fixed their strongest suspicion on
one Jenny Jones, who, they both agreed, was the likeliest person to have
committed this fact.
This Jenny
Jones was no very comely girl, either in her face or person; but nature had
somewhat compensated the want of beauty with what is generally more esteemed by
those ladies whose judgment is arrived at years of perfect maturity, for she
had given her a very uncommon share of understanding. This gift Jenny had a
good deal improved by erudition. She had lived several years a servant with a
schoolmaster, who, discovering a great quickness of parts in the girl, and an
extraordinary desire of learning—for every leisure hour she was always found
reading in the books of the scholars—had the good-nature, or folly—just as the
reader pleases to call it—to instruct her so far, that she obtained a competent
skill in the Latin language, and was, perhaps, as good a scholar as most of the
young men of quality of the age. This advantage, however, like most others of
an extraordinary kind, was attended with some small inconveniences: for as it
is not to be wondered at, that a young woman so well accomplished should have
little relish for the society of those whom fortune had made her equals, but
whom education had rendered so much her inferiors; so is it matter of no
greater astonishment, that this superiority in Jenny, together with that
behaviour which is its certain consequence, should produce among the rest some
little envy and ill-will towards her; and these had, perhaps, secretly burnt in
the bosoms of her neighbours ever since her return from her service.
Their envy
did not, however, display itself openly, till poor Jenny, to the surprize of
everybody, and to the vexation of all the young women in these parts, had
publickly shone forth on a Sunday in a new silk gown, with a laced cap, and
other proper appendages to these.
The flame,
which had before lain in embryo, now burst forth. Jenny had, by her learning,
increased her own pride, which none of her neighbours were kind enough to feed
with the honour she seemed to demand; and now, instead of respect and
adoration, she gained nothing but hatred and abuse by her finery. The whole
parish declared she could not come honestly by such things; and parents,
instead of wishing their daughters the same, felicitated themselves that their
children had them not.
Hence,
perhaps, it was, that the good woman first mentioned the name of this poor girl
to Mrs Wilkins; but there was another circumstance that confirmed the latter in
her suspicion; for Jenny had lately been often at Mr Allworthy’s house. She had
officiated as nurse to Miss Bridget, in a violent fit of illness, and had sat
up many nights with that lady; besides which, she had been seen there the very
day before Mr Allworthy’s return, by Mrs Wilkins herself, though that sagacious
person had not at first conceived any suspicion of her on that account: for, as
she herself said, “She had always esteemed Jenny as a very sober girl (though
indeed she knew very little of her), and had rather suspected some of those
wanton trollops, who gave themselves airs, because, forsooth, they thought
themselves handsome.”
Jenny was
now summoned to appear in person before Mrs Deborah, which she immediately did.
When Mrs Deborah, putting on the gravity of a judge, with somewhat more than
his austerity, began an oration with the words, “You audacious strumpet!” in
which she proceeded rather to pass sentence on the prisoner than to accuse her.
Though Mrs
Deborah was fully satisfied of the guilt of Jenny, from the reasons above
shewn, it is possible Mr Allworthy might have required some stronger evidence
to have convicted her; but she saved her accusers any such trouble, by freely
confessing the whole fact with which she was charged.
This
confession, though delivered rather in terms of contrition, as it appeared, did
not at all mollify Mrs Deborah, who now pronounced a second judgment against
her, in more opprobrious language than before; nor had it any better success
with the bystanders, who were now grown very numerous. Many of them cried out,
“They thought what madam’s silk gown would end in;” others spoke sarcastically
of her learning. Not a single female was present but found some means of
expressing her abhorrence of poor Jenny, who bore all very patiently, except
the malice of one woman, who reflected upon her person, and tossing up her
nose, said, “The man must have a good stomach who would give silk gowns for
such sort of trumpery!” Jenny replied to this with a bitterness which might
have surprized a judicious person, who had observed the tranquillity with which
she bore all the affronts to her chastity; but her patience was perhaps tired
out, for this is a virtue which is very apt to be fatigued by exercise.
Mrs
Deborah having succeeded beyond her hopes in her inquiry, returned with much
triumph, and, at the appointed hour, made a faithful report to Mr Allworthy,
who was much surprized at the relation; for he had heard of the extraordinary
parts and improvements of this girl, whom he intended to have given in
marriage, together with a small living, to a neighbouring curate. His concern,
therefore, on this occasion, was at least equal to the satisfaction which
appeared in Mrs Deborah, and to many readers may seem much more reasonable.
Miss Bridget
blessed herself, and said, “For her part, she should never hereafter entertain
a good opinion of any woman.” For Jenny before this had the happiness of being
much in her good graces also.
The
prudent housekeeper was again dispatched to bring the unhappy culprit before Mr
Allworthy, in order, not as it was hoped by some, and expected by all, to be
sent to the house of correction, but to receive wholesome admonition and
reproof; which those who relish that kind of instructive writing may peruse in
the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot laugh once through the whole chapter, unless peradventure he should laugh at the author.
When Jenny
appeared, Mr Allworthy took her into his study, and spoke to her as follows:
“You know, child, it is in my power as a magistrate, to punish you very
rigorously for what you have done; and you will, perhaps, be the more apt to
fear I should execute that power, because you have in a manner laid your sins
at my door.
“But,
perhaps, this is one reason which hath determined me to act in a milder manner
with you: for, as no private resentment should ever influence a magistrate, I
will be so far from considering your having deposited the infant in my house as
an aggravation of your offence, that I will suppose, in your favour, this to
have proceeded from a natural affection to your child, since you might have
some hopes to see it thus better provided for than was in the power of yourself,
or its wicked father, to provide for it. I should indeed have been highly
offended with you had you exposed the little wretch in the manner of some
inhuman mothers, who seem no less to have abandoned their humanity, than to
have parted with their chastity. It is the other part of your offence,
therefore, upon which I intend to admonish you, I mean the violation of your
chastity;—a crime, however lightly it may be treated by debauched persons, very
heinous in itself, and very dreadful in its consequences.
“The
heinous nature of this offence must be sufficiently apparent to every
Christian, inasmuch as it is committed in defiance of the laws of our religion,
and of the express commands of Him who founded that religion.
“And here
its consequences may well be argued to be dreadful; for what can be more so,
than to incur the divine displeasure, by the breach of the divine commands; and
that in an instance against which the highest vengeance is specifically
denounced?
“But these
things, though too little, I am afraid, regarded, are so plain, that mankind,
however they may want to be reminded, can never need information on this head.
A hint, therefore, to awaken your sense of this matter, shall suffice; for I
would inspire you with repentance, and not drive you to desperation.
“There are
other consequences, not indeed so dreadful or replete with horror as this; and
yet such, as, if attentively considered, must, one would think, deter all of
your sex at least from the commission of this crime.
“For by it
you are rendered infamous, and driven, like lepers of old, out of society; at
least, from the society of all but wicked and reprobate persons; for no others
will associate with you.
“If you
have fortunes, you are hereby rendered incapable of enjoying them; if you have
none, you are disabled from acquiring any, nay almost of procuring your
sustenance; for no persons of character will receive you into their houses.
Thus you are often driven by necessity itself into a state of shame and misery,
which unavoidably ends in the destruction of both body and soul.
“Can any
pleasure compensate these evils? Can any temptation have sophistry and delusion
strong enough to persuade you to so simple a bargain? Or can any carnal
appetite so overpower your reason, or so totally lay it asleep, as to prevent
your flying with affright and terror from a crime which carries such punishment
always with it?
“How base
and mean must that woman be, how void of that dignity of mind, and decent
pride, without which we are not worthy the name of human creatures, who can
bear to level herself with the lowest animal, and to sacrifice all that is
great and noble in her, all her heavenly part, to an appetite which she hath in
common with the vilest branch of the creation! For no woman, sure, will plead
the passion of love for an excuse. This would be to own herself the mere tool
and bubble of the man. Love, however barbarously we may corrupt and pervert its
meaning, as it is a laudable, is a rational passion, and can never be violent
but when reciprocal; for though the Scripture bids us love our enemies, it
means not with that fervent love which we naturally bear towards our friends;
much less that we should sacrifice to them our lives, and what ought to be
dearer to us, our innocence. Now in what light, but that of an enemy, can a
reasonable woman regard the man who solicits her to entail on herself all the
misery I have described to you, and who would purchase to himself a short,
trivial, contemptible pleasure, so greatly at her expense! For, by the laws of
custom, the whole shame, with all its dreadful consequences, falls intirely
upon her. Can love, which always seeks the good of its object, attempt to
betray a woman into a bargain where she is so greatly to be the loser? If such
corrupter, therefore, should have the impudence to pretend a real affection for
her, ought not the woman to regard him not only as an enemy, but as the worst
of all enemies, a false, designing, treacherous, pretended friend, who intends
not only to debauch her body, but her understanding at the same time?”
Here Jenny
expressing great concern, Allworthy paused a moment, and then proceeded: “I
have talked thus to you, child, not to insult you for what is past and
irrevocable, but to caution and strengthen you for the future. Nor should I
have taken this trouble, but from some opinion of your good sense,
notwithstanding the dreadful slip you have made; and from some hopes of your
hearty repentance, which are founded on the openness and sincerity of your
confession. If these do not deceive me, I will take care to convey you from
this scene of your shame, where you shall, by being unknown, avoid the
punishment which, as I have said, is allotted to your crime in this world; and
I hope, by repentance, you will avoid the much heavier sentence denounced
against it in the other. Be a good girl the rest of your days, and want shall
be no motive to your going astray; and, believe me, there is more pleasure,
even in this world, in an innocent and virtuous life, than in one debauched and
vicious.
“As to
your child, let no thoughts concerning it molest you; I will provide for it in
a better manner than you can ever hope. And now nothing remains but that you
inform me who was the wicked man that seduced you; for my anger against him
will be much greater than you have experienced on this occasion.”
Jenny now
lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a modest look and decent voice thus
began:—
“To know
you, sir, and not love your goodness, would be an argument of total want of
sense or goodness in any one. In me it would amount to the highest ingratitude,
not to feel, in the most sensible manner, the great degree of goodness you have
been pleased to exert on this occasion. As to my concern for what is past, I
know you will spare my blushes the repetition. My future conduct will much
better declare my sentiments than any professions I can now make. I beg leave
to assure you, sir, that I take your advice much kinder than your generous
offer with which you concluded it; for, as you are pleased to say, sir, it is
an instance of your opinion of my understanding.”—Here her tears flowing apace,
she stopped a few moments, and then proceeded thus:—“Indeed, sir, your kindness
overcomes me; but I will endeavour to deserve this good opinion: for if I have
the understanding you are so kindly pleased to allow me, such advice cannot be
thrown away upon me. I thank you, sir, heartily, for your intended kindness to
my poor helpless child: he is innocent, and I hope will live to be grateful for
all the favours you shall show him. But now, sir, I must on my knees entreat
you not to persist in asking me to declare the father of my infant. I promise
you faithfully you shall one day know; but I am under the most solemn ties and
engagements of honour, as well as the most religious vows and protestations, to
conceal his name at this time. And I know you too well, to think you would
desire I should sacrifice either my honour or my religion.”
Mr
Allworthy, whom the least mention of those sacred words was sufficient to
stagger, hesitated a moment before he replied, and then told her, she had done
wrong to enter into such engagements to a villain; but since she had, he could
not insist on her breaking them. He said, it was not from a motive of vain
curiosity he had inquired, but in order to punish the fellow; at least, that he
might not ignorantly confer favours on the undeserving.
As to
these points, Jenny satisfied him by the most solemn assurances, that the man
was entirely out of his reach; and was neither subject to his power, nor in any
probability of becoming an object of his goodness.
The
ingenuity of this behaviour had gained Jenny so much credit with this worthy
man, that he easily believed what she told him; for as she had disdained to
excuse herself by a lie, and had hazarded his further displeasure in her
present situation, rather than she would forfeit her honour or integrity by
betraying another, he had but little apprehensions that she would be guilty of
falsehood towards himself.
He
therefore dismissed her with assurances that he would very soon remove her out
of the reach of that obloquy she had incurred; concluding with some additional
documents, in which he recommended repentance, saying, “Consider, child, there
is one still to reconcile yourself to, whose favour is of much greater importance
to you than mine.”
To be continued
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