No More Learning

Whatever Fielding's anxieties,
it is noticeable that he did his work as thoroughly as if he had been
independent of the pay. Before speaking of his literary perform-
ance, however, I will continue the story of his life.
His wife died at the end of 1743. His grief, it is said, was so
great that his friends feared the loss of his reason. He had how-
ever children to care for, and was too brave a man to relax in his
fight with the fates. He had still some hopes of success at the bar,
and at one moment, probably on some gleam of success, declared
X-357


## p. 5698 (#282) ###########################################

5698
HENRY FIELDING
that he would write no more. In 1747 he married Mary Daniel, who
had been an attached servant of his first wife. He did not know, he
said, where to find a better mother for his children or nurse for him-
self; and she seems to have justified his anticipations.
A patron or two had helped him during his struggles. Ralph
Allen, who had made a fortune by farming the posts, was a lover of
literature and a friend of Pope and Warburton. To Fielding, and to
Fielding's children after their father's death, he was a steady ben-
efactor, and Fielding showed his gratitude characteristically by por-
traying his friend as "Allworthy" in Tom Jones. ' Another patron,
by whom Fielding declared himself to have been mainly supported
during the composition of Tom Jones,' was his old schoolfellow
Lyttelton; and it was through Lyttelton that in 1748 Fielding was
appointed justice of the peace for Westminster. The office was a
singular one. In those days, and for at least two generations more,
London, though a large town even upon our present scale, was
merely an aggregation of villages. It had no systematic police.
Dogberry and Verges were still represented by decrepit watchmen
and stupid parish constables. They were ruled by magistrates who
were often of the family of Shallows and Silences. The chaos which
prevailed had at last induced Parliament to provide a paid and pro-
fessional magistrate. But according to the custom of those days,
he was to be paid by fees. The consequences are indicated by the
name of "trading justices" applied to these officials. Impartial and
speedy administration of justice was not the way to get fees. Field-
ing threw himself into his duties with characteristic energy. He
tried to be honest, and thereby reduced "£500 of the dirtiest money
on earth" to £300, most of which went to his clerk. He did his
best to call attention to abuses. He wrote a remarkable pamphlet
proposing a reform of the corrupting poor-laws. Another pamphlet
upon gin-drinking had great influence in producing the first Act which
attempted to discourage intemperance. He took up, perhaps with
more zeal than discretion, some of the strange tragedies which illus-
trated the squalor and misery of the London slums.
The queerest case was that of Betsy Canning, with which all Eng-
land rang for a year or two, and which is still worth reading in the
State Trials. A servant-girl in London had accounted for a month's
absence by inventing a story about having been kidnapped by gip-
sies. A gipsy was actually condemned for this imaginary offense:
but the girl herself was ultimately convicted of perjury and sent to
America to improve the morals of the colonists. Fielding believed
her story, took up her case with more than judicial warmth, and
exposed himself to some sharp criticism. He exerted himself, again,
to put down the highwaymen who flourished in the absence of police,


## p. 5699 (#283) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5699
and who were regarded by Englishmen with a certain perverted
pride as exuberant products of British liberty. Fielding, while very
ill, set to work to devise a system for limiting their energies. Prac-
tically, I fear, it meant simply the employment of "trepans" who
betrayed the other members of their gangs. Fielding says however
that for the time he succeeded in putting down robbery, and sacri-
ficed his health in the effort. His constitution had in fact been
breaking down, from gout and an irregular life. His sanguine dispo-
sition led him to believe in one pretense of quackery after another:
in the great Bishop Berkeley's tar-water; in the treatment of the Dr.
Thompson who had already, it was said, killed Pope; and even in
the miraculous virtues of a well at Glastonbury. He was always
being "cured" without improving his health. At last he was sent to
Lisbon as a last hope. He sailed in the summer of 1754, and kept a
journal which remains to testify to his indomitable gallantry, buoyant
spirits, and flow of good-humor to the last. He died at Lisbon on
the 8th of October, 1754, leaving his widow and children to the care
of the kindly Allen and of his half-brother Sir John Fielding, who
had succeeded him as justice of the peace. The trust was worthily
discharged.
Till the age of twenty-eight, we see, Fielding had been a reckless
and impetuous pleasure-hunter. From that time till his death at the
age of forty-seven, he was engaged in a hard struggle to support
himself and his family and in an energetic attempt to do his duty in
a thankless office. The stains of the earlier period have injured his
memory, and it cannot be denied, imply serious moral defects; but
here I must touch the inevitable argument. It is most true that to
judge any man justly you must allow for the moral standard of his
time. Advantage, however, is often taken of this truth to draw ques-
tionable consequences. Whenever it is proved that a man broke one
of the Ten Commandments, it is roundly replied that in his day there
were only nine. Therefore, it is inferred, his want of honesty or de-
cency ceases to be a defect. Both fact and inference are often doubt-
ful. Fielding, for example, makes Tom Jones guilty of taking money
from a woman under circumstances which we all feel to be degrad-
ing. Nobody, it is replied, thought such conduct degrading then. I
utterly disbelieve the fact. A similar story is told of Marlborough,
and perhaps it was true; but it was certainly told by a malicious
libeler, and was meant to injure him. I feel sure that not only
Richardson and Johnson, who were obtrusively moralists, but such
men as Addison or even the easy-going Steele, would have thought
of Tom Jones just what Colonel Newcome thought. Some of our
ancestors were gentlemen, with feelings of delicacy, and should not
be libeled even to save a novelist's reputation. And in any case,


## p. 5700 (#284) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5700
such a statement would explain the fact but does not alter it for
us. Coarseness is rightly disgusting, though we may show how men
came to be coarse, and perhaps show too that it did not then imply
all that it would imply in the present day.
Nothing, indeed, is more difficult than to compare the moral stand-
ard of a distant time with that of our own. That vice was common
in England under Anne and the Georges, is undeniable; but I do not
know that it is altogether extinct to-day. I fancy that a modern
police magistrate could still tell us stories which would prove that
the world, the flesh, and the Devil have not yet been renounced by
everybody. M. Zola's world does not seem to be purer than Field-
ing's. Look beneath the surface anywhere and you can find ugly
things enough, especially if you have a taste for the revolting.
It is easier, no doubt, to judge of the surface; and there we may
find an explanation, though not a justification, of Fielding's obtuse-
ness on certain points. He was in the world of fiction what Wal-
pole was in the world of politics. Both of them were men of strong
common-sense, and of great qualities which were strangely mixed
with much that is coarse and repulsive. They were both given to
boisterous conviviality, to vast consumption of "the roast beef of old
England," and to tremendous post-prandial sittings over their bottles,
at which the talk was no more delicate than the fare. They indulged
in cock-fighting, and cudgel-playing, and rough practical joking, till
we fancy that only a pugilist or a rough of to-day could find such an
atmosphere congenial. Such tastes however could be combined with
a real love of art and literature: Walpole, for example, collected a
great picture gallery; and he and his like often studied the classics
like men of the world, if not like scholars. Neither can it be said
that in the days when the British Empire was being built up, there
was a want of public spirit or energy, though some of the accepted
modes of political warfare were base enough. We are liable to mis-
understandings if we argue from the want of refinement to the want
of some high mental and moral qualities; though undoubtedly we
find a strange obtuseness upon some points of the moral code, where
higher views and more delicate sensibilities are required.
Fielding's novels illustrate this as clearly as his friend Hogarth's
pictures. Both of them portray scenes now and then which grate
upon our nerves, and show a coarseness of fibre which would to-day
have to be sought in the lower haunts of debauchery. What we
have to remember is that such faults were then not inconsistent with
some excellences which they would now exclude. In the case of
Fielding, we can have no difficulty in recognizing many of the highest
qualities. In the first place, his novels are a genuine extract of hard-
bought experience. They are conspicuous for absolute veracity. He


## p. 5701 (#285) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5701
speaks because he has thought and felt. We are conscious that he
paints all from the life. As novel-writing became a profession, this
is the merit which became rare. A young gentleman can easily give
himself the airs of knowledge of the world by picking up a few
smart epigrams in reproducing the stock characters of his predeces-
sors. He does not write because he has "studied men and cities,"
but appropriates second-hand experience because he wants to write a
novel. His "art," as he is proud to call it, may be admirable, his
style unimpeachable, his plot carefully constructed; but after all, he
cannot atone for the one great defect of having nothing to say by
trying to say it gracefully. One cannot read Fielding without per-
ceiving the contrast: he has really been "through the mill"; he has
bought his knowledge at a heavy price; and even if it sometimes
results in rather commonplace observations, a commonplace which
has been hammered into a man by hard facts is very different from
a commonplace which has been learnt from a book. It comes with a
certain momentum, with a weight and force, which can redeem even
occasional triteness. His words have the intensity of thorough con-
viction. The first impression made by the world upon a man of
great shrewdness and vigor is naturally the prevalence of humbug.
Society, he observes, is a great masquerade. To see things as they
are, you must strip men of their disguises: you will then often find
a strange likeness between heroes and highwaymen, patriots and
pickpockets, priests and jugglers. and discover selfishness in Protean
forms at the bottom of the most pretentious qualities. "All virtue,"
said Fielding's clever contemporary Mandeville, "is a sham. » "All
men," said Swift, soured by failure, "are Yahoos. "
It is Fielding's characteristic merit that he could take a completer
and saner view. His brave, generous nature could never give up a
belief in virtue or in the substantial happiness of a good heart. He
could see, as he proved by Jonathan Wild, into the very soul of a
thorough villain, the depth beyond depth of treachery and sensuality
that can be embodied in human form. His moral is, as he puts it,
that a man may "go to heaven with half the pains which it cost him
to purchase hell. " The villain, even as things go, naturally over-
reaches himself. Knowledge of the world takes the gloss off much;
but it properly leads to a recognition of the supreme advantage of
unworldly simplicity. Parson Adams, one of the great humorous
creations, is the embodiment of that sentiment. He represents the
conviction of the observer who has seen life in its ugliest phases,
that the most lovable of human beings is the man who from sheer
simplicity and kindliness remains comically unconscious of the trickery
and selfishness of his neighbors. It is not the less characteristic
because Adams appears to have been the portrait of a real friend,


## p. 5702 (#286) ###########################################

5702
HENRY FIELDING
and implies that Fielding often turned from his rowdy companions to
appreciate the simple country parson whom they would have regarded
as a predestined butt for rough practical jokes. In proportion to his
love of such characters was his hatred of the hypocrite - the humbug
who knows himself to be a humbug. His loathing for "Blifil," the
typical hypocrite, progresses to most obvious failure in Tom Jones';
for he becomes so angry that he caricatures instead of impartially
analyzing the loathsome object. This, again, is the secret of Field-
ing's humor. His worldly experience, instead of souring him, has
intensified his admiration of the simplicity and goodness which is
ridiculed or disbelieved by the man who is hardened by such experi-
ence. He was generous to the core; when he has to speak of any
one whom he admires or who has done him a service, he pours out
the heartiest and most genuine gratitude. He overflows with honest
admiration of the men whom he could appreciate; he praises even
the later work of Richardson, whose 'Pamela' he had satirized, and
who, one is sorry to admit, did not return the generosity. The
warmth of his belief in goodness, and this cordiality and hearty good-
will, always running through his books, give the characteristic flavor
to his humor. It flows so spontaneously and abundantly that we feel
it to be unmistakably as genuine as it is kindly.
The want of moral delicacy indeed implies limitations. It must
be admitted that Fielding's appreciation of some of the higher phases
of character is narrow. He lived in a day when common-sense was
triumphant; when men lived on solid beef, and were undoubtedly
made of rather ponderous flesh and blood. We may say with the
help of a still greater master of the art, that in Fielding's time there
was perhaps too little of the Don Quixote and too much of the San-
cho Panza in the accepted ideal. A humorist who cannot help perceiv-
ing the seamy side of things is tempted to lean too much to the cynical
side. He believes in the moral code by which men are actually gov-
erned, but is perhaps too suspicious of any professions of a higher
standard. High-flown sentiment has in his eyes a strong likeness to
his pet aversion, hypocrisy. What he admires, indeed, is really admi-
rable: though he may be over-anxious to keep within the plainest
limits of common-sense. Fielding's tone about women is character-
istic. Had he been asked what was the greatest blessing of life, he
would always have replied, as he does in Tom Jones,' the love of
a good woman. His good woman, however, is decidedly not prepared
to believe in woman's rights. He laughs rather too roughly at the
ladies who in those days showed certain intellectual aspirations. His
Sophia is a healthy, sensible girl, fit to be the mother of sturdy, well-
grown lads and lasses, unsurpassable within the domestic sphere.
but certainly not troubled by aspirations to literary glory. She is


## p. 5703 (#287) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5703
unmistakably made of flesh and blood. She will love her husband
devotedly, and will, we fear, have to exercise the virtue of forgive-
ness: yet she is everything, perhaps more than everything, that we
could expect from the daughter of Squire Western. 'Amelia,' how-
ever, is the fullest embodiment of Fielding's true sentiment on that
subject. His last novel is the work of a man who had won and lost
the highest prize in life; who feels with bitter self-reproach his un-
worthiness and his backslidings, and tries to make some atonement
by raising a shrine to his lost idol. Some good judges have therefore
taken this pathetic and tender picture to be his masterpiece, in spite
of some falling off in spirit and rather dragging narrative. I will
not venture to decide; but I agree with them that it at least reveals
with singular power not only the massive common-sense and power
of sincere presentation of facts for which Fielding was conspicuous,
but also the generous and tender heart which attracts and com-
mands our affection.
If Fielding honestly described the human nature of his time, we
must remember that a man who can truly describe the human nature
in a village has really described it everywhere. He has a true
insight into those principal springs of character which may be more
or less modified, refined or made coarse, in different conditions, but
which work powerfully under every disguise of habit and cultivation.
Fielding's human being was the ideal John Bull: a personage who
has been ridiculed, caricatured, and denounced; who is called an
"amiable buffalo" by M. Taine; and who everywhere outside of the
British islands is considered to suffer under many intellectual and
moral limitations. Far be it from me to deny his faults; certainly
he is apt to be stolid and thick-skinned, and in Fielding's time he
showed some of his worst qualities to his neighbors, and was acquir-
ing a certain reputation for overbearing and brutal ways. Yet John
Bull was a human being. He had the passions of his kind, and
showed them with little regard to delicacy; but if Fielding was a
true observer, he had some great qualities which I hope he will not
speedily lose. He had the abundant energy and vigor which are
required for all greatness, amidst many queer prejudices, and singular
blindness to some things, he had a hearty love of fair play, respect
for true manhood, and in spite of his coarseness a genuine appre-
ciation of good homely domestic virtues. Fielding, in Thackeray's
familiar phrase, was the last English writer who dared to draw a
man. In a sense rather wider than Thackeray's, that is his most
obvious merit. He described with immense breadth, power, and
veracity some of the essential masculine qualities which do, in fact,
play an immense part in life. But we value him, I think, because he
showed most forcibly how such qualities can be allied not only with


## p. 5704 (#288) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5704
a generous appreciation of allied qualities in others, but with a keen
and pathetic reverence for the gentleness, simplicity, and purity
which the more vigorous animal is too apt to despise. With all his
insight into the baser motives, Fielding retained a certain sweet-
blooded tenderness, and an enthusiasm for every generous and kindly
character, which relieves the repulsive ugliness of some of his scenes
by a breath as of fresh and healthy atmosphere. I can think of
none of our great writers who had a harder struggle, was forced into
closer association with the corrupt elements of society, or realized
more keenly the hollowness of many pretenders to virtue.
And yet
no one could have retained more buoyancy of spirit, more generous
feeling towards his successful competitors, or a more hearty faith in
the reality of human goodness and appreciation of some of the truest
elements of human happiness.
Leche
Stephen
PARSON ADAMS'S SHORT MEMORY
From Joseph Andrews'
MⓇ
R. ADAMS and Joseph were now ready to depart different
ways, when an accident determined the former to return
with his friend, which Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and the book-
seller had not been able to do. This accident was, that those
sermons which the parson was traveling to London to publish
were, O my good reader! left behind; what he had mistaken for
them in the saddle-bags being no other than three shirts, a pair
of shoes, and some other necessaries which Mrs. Adams, who
thought her husband would want shirts more than sermons on
his journey, had carefully provided him.
This discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of
Joseph at the opening of the saddle-bags; who, having heard his
friend say he carried with him nine volumes of sermons, and not
being of that sect of philosophers who can reduce all the matter
of the world into a nut-shell, seeing there was no room for them
in the bags, where the parson had said they were deposited, had
the curiosity to cry out, "Bless me, sir, where are your ser-
mons? " The parson answered, "There, there, child; there they
are, under my shirts. " Now, it happened that he had taken forth
his last shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty.
(( Sure,


## p. 5705 (#289) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5705
sir," says Joseph, "there is nothing in the bags. " Upon which
Adams, starting, and testifying some surprise, cried:-"Hey! fie,
fie upon it! they are not here, sure enough. Ay, they are cer-
tainly left behind. "
SO.
Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he
apprehended his friend must feel from this disappointment: he
begged him to pursue his journey, and promised he would him-
self return with the books to him with the utmost expedi-
tion. "No, thank you, child," answered Adams; "it shall not be
What would it avail me to tarry in the great city, unless I
had my discourses with me, which are, ut ita dicam, the sole
cause, the ailia monotate, of my peregrination? No, child: as this
accident has happened, I am resolved to return back to my cure,
together with you; which indeed my inclination sufficiently leads
me to. This disappointment may perhaps be intended for my
good. " He concluded with a verse out of Theocritus, which
signifies no more than that sometimes it rains, and sometimes
the sun shines.
Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the inclina-
tion which the parson expressed of returning with him; and now
the bill was called for, which, on examination, amounted within
a shilling to the sum which Mr. Adams had in his pocket. Per-
haps the reader may wonder how he was able to produce a
sufficient sum for so many days: that he may not be surprised,
therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to acquaint him that he had
borrowed a guinea of a servant belonging to the coach-and-six,
who had been formerly one of his parishioners, and whose mas-
ter, the owner of the coach, then lived within three miles of
him; for so good was the credit of Mr. Adams, that even Mr.
Peter, the Lady Booby's steward, would have lent him a guinea
with very little security.
Mr. Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting.
out, having agreed to ride and tie,—a method of traveling much
used by persons who have but one horse between them, and is
thus performed. The two travelers set out together, one on
horseback, the other on foot; now, as it generally happens that
he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the custom is that when
he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is to dismount, tie
the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other thing, and then pro-
ceed on foot; when the other comes up to the horse, unties
him, mounts, and gallops on; till, having passed by his fellow-


## p. 5706 (#290) ###########################################

5706
HENRY FIELDING
traveler, he likewise arrives at the place of tying. And this is
that method of traveling so much in use among our prudent
ancestors, who knew that horses had mouths as well as legs, and
that they could not use the latter without being at the expense of
suffering the beasts themselves to use the former. This was the
method in use in those days, when instead of a coach-and-six,
a member of Parliament's lady used to mount a pillion behind
her husband; and a grave sergeant-at-law condescended to amble
to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk kicking his heels
behind him.
Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted on Jo-
seph's beginning the journey on horseback, and Joseph had his
foot in the stirrup, when the ostler presented him a bill for the
horse's board during his residence at the inn. Joseph said Mr.
Adams had paid all; but this matter being referred to Mr. Tow-
wouse, was by him decided in favor of the ostler, and indeed
with truth and justice; for this was a fresh instance of that
shortness of memory which did not arise from want of parts,
but that continual hurry in which Parson Adams was always
involved.
Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely puz-
zled him. The sum due for horse-meat was twelve shillings (for
Adams, who had borrowed the beast of his clerk, had ordered
him to be fed as well as they could feed him), and the cash in
his pocket amounted to sixpence; for Adams had divided the last
shilling with him. Now, though there have been some ingenious
persons who have contrived to pay twelve shillings with sixpence,
Joseph was not one of them. He had never contracted a debt
in his life, and was consequently the less ready at an expedient
to extricate himself. Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit
till next time, to which Mrs. Tow-wouse would probably have
consented; for such was Joseph's beauty, that it had made some
impression even on that piece of flint which that good woman
wore in her bosom by way of heart. Joseph would have found
therefore, very likely, the passage free, had he not, when he
honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out that
little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. This caused
Mrs. Tow-wouse's eyes to water: she told Joseph she did not
conceive a man could want money whilst he had gold in his
pocket. Joseph answered, he had such a value for that little.
piece of gold that he would not part with it for a hundred


## p.
5707 (#291) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5707
times the riches which the greatest esquire in the country was
worth.
་་
"A pretty way, indeed," said Mrs. Tow-wouse, "to run in debt,
and then refuse to part with your money because you have a
value for it. I never knew any piece of gold of more value
"Not to pre-
than as many shillings as it would change for. "
serve my life from starving, nor to redeem it from a robber,
would I part with this dear piece! " answered Joseph.
"What!
says Mrs. Tow-wouse, "I suppose it was given you by some vile
trollop, some miss or other! If it had been the present of a
virtuous woman, you would not have had such a value for it.
My husband is a fool if he parts with the horse without being
paid for him. " "No, no, I can't part with the horse, indeed, till
I have the money," cried Tow-wouse; a resolution highly com-
mended by a lawyer then in the yard, who declared Mr. Tow-
wouse might justify the detainer.
As we cannot therefore at present get Mr. Joseph out of the
inn, we shall leave him in it, and carry our reader on after Par-
son Adams, who, his mind being perfectly at ease, fell into a
contemplation on a passage in Eschylus which entertained him
for three miles together, without suffering him once to reflect on
his fellow-traveler.
At length, having spun out his thread and being now at the
summit of a hill, he cast his eyes backwards, and wondered that
he could not see any sign of Joseph. As he left him ready to
mount the horse, he could not apprehend any mischief had hap-
pened, neither could he suspect that he missed his way, it being
so broad and plain: the only reason which presented itself to him
was, that he had met with an acquaintance, who had prevailed
with him to delay some time in discourse.
He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not doubt-
ing but that he should be shortly overtaken; and soon came to a
large water, which filling the whole road, he saw no method of
passing unless by wading through, which he accordingly did up
to his middle; but was no sooner got to the other side than he
perceived, if he had looked over the hedge, he would have found
a foot-path capable of conducting him without wetting his shoes.
His surprise at Joseph's not coming up grew now very trouble-
some; he began to fear he knew not what; and as he determined
to move no farther, and if he did not shortly overtake him, to
return back, he wished to find a house of public entertainment


## p. 5708 (#292) ###########################################

5708
HENRY FIELDING
where he might dry his clothes and refresh himself with a pint;
but seeing no such (for no other reason than because he did not
cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards), he sat himself down on
a stile and pulled out his schylus.
A DISCOURSE FROM PARSON ADAMS
From Joseph Andrews'
THE
HE parson and his wife had just ended a long dispute when
the lovers came to the door. Indeed, this young couple
had been the subject of the dispute; for Mrs. Adams was
one of those prudent people who never do anything to injure
their families, or perhaps one of those good mothers who would
even stretch their conscience to serve their children. She had
long entertained hopes of seeing her eldest daughter succeed
Mrs. Slipslop, and of making her eldest son an exciseman by
Lady Booby's interest. These were expectations she could not
endure the thoughts of quitting, and was therefore very uneasy
to see her husband so resolute to oppose the lady's intention in
Fanny's affair. She told him it behoved every man to take the
first care of his family; that he had a wife and six children, the
maintaining and providing for whom would be business enough
for him without intermeddling in other folks' affairs; that he had
always preached a submission to superiors, and would do ill to
give an example of the contrary behavior in his own conduct;
that if Lady Booby did wrong, she must answer for it herself,
and the sin would not lie at their door; that Fanny had been a
servant, and bred up in the lady's own family, and consequently
she must have known more of her than they did; and it was
very improbable, if she had behaved herself well, that the lady
would have been so bitterly her enemy; that perhaps he was too
much inclined to think well of her because she was handsome,
but handsome women are often no better than they should be;
that God made ugly women as well as handsome ones; and that
if a woman had virtue, it signified nothing whether she had
beauty or no: for all which reasons she concluded she should
oblige the lady and stop the future publication of the banns.
But all these excellent arguments had no effect on the parson,
who persisted in doing his duty without regarding the conse-


## p. 5709 (#293) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5709
quence it might have on his worldly interest. He endeavored to
answer her as well as he could; to which she had just finished
her reply (for she had always the last word everywhere but at
church) when Joseph and Fanny entered their kitchen, where the
parson and his wife then sat at breakfast over some bacon and
cabbage. There was a coldness in the civility of Mrs. Adams
which persons of accurate speculation might have observed, but
escaped her present guests; indeed, it was a good deal covered
by the heartiness of Adams, who no sooner heard that Fanny
had neither eaten nor drunk that morning than he presented
her a bone of bacon he had just been gnawing, being the only
remains of his provision: and then ran nimbly to the tap and
produced a mug of small beer, which he called ale; however, it
was the best in his house.
Joseph, addressing himself to the parson, told him the dis-
course which had passed between Squire Booby, his sister, and
himself, concerning Fanny; he then acquainted him with the
dangers whence he had rescued her, and communicated some
apprehensions on her account. He concluded that he should
never have an easy moment till Fanny was absolutely his, and
begged that he might be suffered to fetch a license, saying he
could easily borrow the money.
The parson answered that he had already given his senti-
ments concerning a license, and that a very few days would
make it unnecessary. "Joseph," says he, "I wish this haste does
not arise rather from your impatience than your fear; but as it
certainly springs from one of these causes I will examine both.
Of each of these, therefore, in their turn; and first, for the first
of these; namely, impatience. Now, child, I must inform you
that if in your purposed marriage with this young woman you
have no intention but the indulgence of carnal appetites, you are
guilty of a very heinous sin. Marriage was ordained for nobler
purposes, as you will learn when you hear the service provided
on that occasion read to you; nay, perhaps if you are a good
lad, I, child, shall give you a sermon gratis, wherein I shall
demonstrate how little regard ought to be had to the flesh on
such occasions. The text will be Matthew the 5th, and part of
the 28th verse, 'Whosoever looketh on a woman, so as to lust
after her. The latter part I shall omit, as foreign to my pur-
pose. Indeed, all such brutal lusts and affections are to be
greatly subdued, if not totally eradicated, before the vessel can


## p. 5710 (#294) ###########################################

5710
HENRY FIELDING
be said to be consecrated to honor. To marry with a view of
gratifying those inclinations is a prostitution of that holy cere-
mony, and must entail a curse on all who so lightly undertake
it. If therefore this haste arises from impatience, you are to
correct and not give way to it. Now, as to the second head
which I proposed to speak to; namely, fear: it argues a diffidence.
highly criminal of that Power in which alone we should put our
trust, seeing we may be well assured that he is able not only
to defeat the designs of our enemies but even to turn their
hearts. Instead of taking, therefore, any unjustifiable or desper-
ate means to rid ourselves of fear, we should resort to prayer
only on these occasions; and we may be then certain of obtain-
ing what is best for us. When any accident threatens us, we
are not to despair, nor, when it overtakes us, to grieve; we must
submit in all things to the will of Providence, and set our affec-
tions so much on nothing here, that we cannot quit it without
reluctance. You are a young man, and can know but little of
this world; I am older, and have seen a great deal. All passions
are criminal in their excess; and even love itself, if it is not
subservient to our duty, may render us blind to it. Had Abra-
ham so loved his son Isaac as to refuse the sacrifice required, is
there any of us who would not condemn him? Joseph, I know
your many good qualities, and value you for them; but as I am
to render an account of your soul, which is committed to my
cure, I cannot see any fault without reminding you of it. You
are too much inclined to passion, child; and have set your affec-
tions so absolutely on this young woman, that if God required
her at your hands I fear you would reluctantly part with her.
Now, believe me, no Christian ought so to set his heart on any
person or thing in this world, but that whenever it shall be
required, or taken from him in any manner by Divine provi-
dence, he may be able peaceably, quietly, and contentedly to
resign it. "
At which words one came hastily in, and acquainted Mr.
Adams that his youngest son was drowned. He good silent a
moment, and soon began to stamp about the room, and deplore
his loss with the bitterest agony. Joseph, who was overwhelmed
with concern likewise, recovered himself sufficiently to endeavor
to comfort the parson; in which attempt he used many argu-
ments that he had at several times remembered out of his own
discourses, both in private and public,- for he was a great enemy


## p. 5711 (#295) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5711
to the passions, and preached nothing more than the conquest of
them by reason and grace: but he was not at leisure now to
hearken to his advice.
"Child, child," said he, "do not go about impossibilities. Had
it been any other of my children, I could have borne it with
patience; but my little prattler, the darling and comfort of my
old age, the little wretch, to be snatched out of life just at his
entrance into it; the sweetest, best-tempered boy, who never did
a thing to offend me! It was but this morning I gave him his
first lesson in Quæ Genus. This was the very book he learned:
poor child! it is of no farther use to thee now. He would have
made the best scholar, and have been an ornament to the
Church; such parts and such goodness, never met in one so
young. " "And the handsomest lad too," says Mrs. Adams,
recovering from a swoon in Fanny's arms. "My poor Dicky,
shall I never see thee more? " cries the parson. "Yes, surely,"
says Joseph, "and in a better place, you will meet again, never
to part more. "
-
I believe the parson did not hear these words, for he paid
little regard to them, but went on lamenting, whilst the tears
trickled down into his bosom. At last he cried out, "Where is
my little darling? " and was sallying out, when to his great
surprise and joy, in which I hope the reader will sympathize, he
met his son, in a wet condition indeed, but alive, and running
toward him. The person who brought the news of his misfor-
tune had been a little too eager, as people sometimes are, from
I believe no very good principle, to relate il news; and seeing
him fall into the river, instead of running to his assistance,
directly ran to acquaint his father of a fate which he had con-
cluded to be inevitable, but whence the child was relieved by
the same poor peddler who had relieved his father before from a
less distress.
The parson's joy was now as extravagant as his grief had
been before; he kissed and embraced his son a thousand times,
and danced about the room like one frantic; but as soon as
he discovered the face of his old friend the peddler, and heard
the fresh obligation he had to him, what were his sensations?
Not those which two courtiers feel in one another's embraces;
not those with which a great man receives the vile, treach-
erous engines of his wicked purposes; not those with which a
worthless younger brother wishes his elder joy of a son, or a man


## p. 5712 (#296) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5712
congratulates his rival on his obtaining a mistress, a place, or
an honor. No, reader; he felt the ebullition, the overflowings,
of a full, honest, open heart, towards the person who had con-
ferred a real obligation; and of which if thou canst not conceive
an idea within, I will not vainly endeavor to assist thee.
When these tumults were over, the parson, taking Joseph
aside, proceeded thus:- "No, Joseph, do not give too much way
to thy passions if thou dost expect happiness. " The patience
of Joseph, nor perhaps of Job, could bear no longer: he inter-
rupted the parson, saying it was easier to give advice than to
take it; nor did he perceive he could so entirely conquer himself,
when he apprehended he had lost his son, or when he found him
recovered.
"Boy," replied Adams, raising his voice, "it does not become
green heads to advise gray hairs. Thou art ignorant of the ten-
derness of fatherly affection; when thou art a father, thou wilt
be capable then only of knowing what a father can feel. No
man is obliged to impossibilities; and the loss of a child is one
of those great trials where our grief may be allowed to become
immoderate. " "Well, sir," cries Joseph, "and if I love a mis-
tress as well as you your child, surely her loss would grieve me
equally. " "Yes, but such love is foolishness, and wrong in itself,
and ought to be conquered," answered Adams; "it savors too
much of the flesh. " "Sure, sir," says Joseph, "it is not sinful
to love my wife, no, not even to dote on her to distraction! "
"Indeed, but it is," says Adams; "every man ought to love his
wife, no doubt; we are commanded so to do: but we ought to
love her with moderation and discretion. " "I am afraid I shall
be guilty of some sin, in spite of all my endeavors," says Joseph;
"for I shall love without any moderation, I am sure. ”
« You
talk foolishly and childishly," cries Adams.
"Indeed," says Mrs. Adams, who had listened to the latter.
part of their conversation, "you talk more foolishly yourself. I
hope, my dear, you will never preach any such doctrine as that
husbands can love their wives too well. If I knew you had such
a sermon in the house I am sure I would burn it; and I declare,
if I had not been convinced you had loved me as well as you
could, I can answer for myself, I should have hated and despised
you. Marry, come up! Fine doctrine, indeed! A wife has a
right to insist on her husband's loving her as much as ever he
can; and he is a sinful villain who does not. Does he not promise


## p. 5713 (#297) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5713
to love her, and comfort her, and to cherish her, and all that? I
am sure I remember it all as well as if I had repeated it over
but yesterday, and shall never forget it. Besides, I am certain
you do not preach as you practice, for you have been a loving
and a cherishing husband to me, that's the truth on't; and why
you should endeavor to put such wicked nonsense into this young
man's head, I cannot devise. Don't hearken to him, Mr. Joseph;
be as good a husband as you are able, and love your wife with
all your body and soul too. "
Here a violent rap at the door put an end to their discourse.
TOM JONES APPEARS IN THE STORY, WITH BAD OMENS
From Tom Jones'
As
S WE determined when we first sat down to write this history
to flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout by the
directions of truth, we are obliged to bring our hero on the
stage in a much more disadvantageous manner than we could
wish; and to declare honestly, even at his first appearance, that
it was the universal opinion of all Mr. Allworthy's family that
he was certainly born to be hanged.
Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this
conjecture, the lad having from his earliest years discovered
a propensity to many vices, and especially to one, which hath as
direct a tendency as any other to that fate which we have just
now observed to have been prophetically denounced against him.
He had been already convicted of three robberies; viz. , of rob-
bing an orchard, of stealing a duck out of a farmer's yard, and
of picking Master Blifil's pocket of a ball.
The vices of this young man were moreover heightened by
the disadvantageous light in which they appeared, when opposed
to the virtues of Master Blifil, his companion-a youth of so differ-
ent a caste from little Jones, that not only the family but all
the neighborhood resounded his praises. He was indeed a lad
of a remarkable disposition; sober, discreet, and pious beyond
his age,- qualities which gained him the love of every one who
knew him; whilst Tom Jones was universally disliked, and many
expressed their wonder that Mr. Allworthy would suffer such a
lad to be educated with his nephew, lest the morals of the latter
should be corrupted by his example.
X-358


## p. 5714 (#298) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5714
An incident which happened about this time will set the
character of these two lads more fairly before the discerning
reader than is in the power of the longest dissertation.
Tom Jones, who bad as he is must serve for the hero of
this history, had only one friend among all the servants of the
family; for as to Mrs. Wilkins, she had long since given him up,
and was perfectly reconciled to her mistress. This friend was
the gamekeeper, a fellow of a loose kind of disposition, and who
was thought not to entertain much stricter notions concerning
the difference of meum and tuum than the young gentleman him-
self. And hence this friendship gave occasion to many sarcastical
remarks among the domestics, most of which were either prov-
erbs before, or at least are become so now; and indeed, the wit
of them all may be comprised in that short Latin proverb,
"Noscitur a socio," which I think is thus expressed in English:-
"You may know him by the company he keeps. ”
To say the truth, some of that atrocious wickedness in Jones,
of which we have just mentioned three examples, might perhaps
be derived from the encouragement he had received from this
fellow, who in two or three instances had been what the law
calls an accessory after the fact. For the whole duck and a
great part of the apples were converted to the use of the game-
keeper and his family. Though as Jones alone was discovered,
the poor lad bore not only the whole smart but the whole blame;
both which fell again to his lot on the following occasion.
Contiguous to Mr. Allworthy's estate was the manor of one
of those gentlemen who are called preservers of the game. This
species of men, from the great severity with which they revenge
the death of a hare or a partridge, might be thought to culti
vate the same superstition with the Bannians in India, many of
whom, we are told, dedicate their whole lives to the preserva-
tion and protection of certain animals; was it not that our Eng-
lish Bannians, while they preserve them from other enemies,
will most unmercifully slaughter whole horse-loads themselves,
so that they stand clearly acquitted of any such heathenish super-
stition.
I have indeed a much better opinion of this kind of men than
is entertained by some, as I take them to answer the order of
nature, and the good purposes for which they were ordained, in
a more ample manner than many others. Now, as Horace tells
us, that there are a set of human beings, fruges consumere


## p. 5715 (#299) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5715
nati, "born to consume the fruits of the earth," so I make no
manner of doubt but that there are others, feras consumere nati,
"born to consume the beasts of the field," or as it is commonly
called, the game; and none, I believe, will deny but that those
squires fulfill this end of their creation.
Little Jones went one day a-shooting with the gamekeeper;
when happening to spring a covey of partridges, near the border
of that manor over which fortune, to fulfill the wise purposes of
nature, had planted one of the game-consumers, the birds flew
into it and were marked (as it is called) by the two sportsmen
in some furze bushes, about two or three hundred paces beyond
Mr. Allworthy's dominions.
Mr. Allworthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of
forfeiting his place, never to trespass on any of his neighbors;
no more on those who were less rigid in this matter than on the
lord of the manor. With regard to others, indeed, these orders
had not been always very scrupulously kept; but as the disposition
of the gentleman with whom the partridges had taken sanctuary
was well known, the gamekeeper had never yet attempted to
invade his territories. Nor had he done it now, had not the
younger sportsman, who was excessively eager to pursue the
flying game, over-persuaded him; but Jones being very impor-
tunate, the other, who was himself keen enough after the sport,
yielded to his persuasions, entered the manor, and shot one of
the partridges.
The gentleman himself was at that time on horseback, at a
little distance from them; and hearing the gun go off, he imme-
diately made towards the place, and discovered poor Tom; for
the gamekeeper had leapt into the thickest part of the furze-
brake, where he had happily concealed himself.
The gentleman having searched the lad and found the par-
tridge upon him, denounced great vengeance, swearing he would
acquaint Mr. Allworthy. He was as good as his word, for he
rode immediately to his house and complained of the trespass on
his manor, in as high terms and as bitter language as if his
house had been broken open and the most valuable furniture
stolen out of it. He added that some other person was in his
company, though he could not discover him; for that two guns
had been discharged, almost in the same instant. And, says he,
"We have found only this partridge, but the Lord knows what
mischief they have done. "


## p. 5716 (#300) ###########################################

5716
HENRY FIELDING
At his return home, Tom was presently convened before Mr.
Allworthy. He owned the fact, and alleged no other excuse but
what was really true; viz. , that the covey was originally sprung
in Mr. Allworthy's own manor.
Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr.
Allworthy declared he was resolved to know, acquainting the cul-
prit with the circumstance of the two guns, which had been
deposed by the squire and both his servants; but Tom stoutly
persisted in asserting that he was alone; yet, to say the truth,
he hesitated a little at first, which would have confirmed Mr.
Allworthy's belief, had what the squire and his servants said
wanted any further confirmation.
The gamekeeper, being a suspected person, was now sent for
and the question put to him; but he, relying on the promise
which Tom had made him to take all upon himself, very reso-
lutely denied being in company with the young gentleman, or
indeed having seen him the whole afternoon.
Mr. Allworthy then turned towards Tom with more than
usual anger in his countenance, and advised him to confess who
was with him; repeating that he was resolved to know. The
lad however still maintained his resolution, and was dismissed
with much wrath by Mr. Allworthy, who told him he should
have the next morning to consider of it, when he should be
questioned by another person and in another manner.
Poor Jones spent a very melancholy night, and the more so
as he was without his usual companion, for Master Blifil was
gone abroad on a visit with his mother. Fear of the punishment
he was to suffer was on this occasion his least evil; his chief
anxiety being lest his constancy should fail him and he should
be brought to betray the gamekeeper, whose ruin he knew must
now be the consequence.
Nor did the gamekeeper pass his time much better. He had
the same apprehensions with the youth; for whose honor he had
likewise a much tenderer regard than for his skin.
In the morning, when Tom attended the Reverend Mr.
Thwackum, the person to whom Mr. Allworthy had committed
the instruction of the two boys, he had the same questions put
to him by that gentleman which he had been asked the evening
before, to which he returned the same answers. The consequence
of this was so severe a whipping, that it possibly fell little
short of the torture with which confessions are in some countries
extorted from criminals.


## p. 5717 (#301) ###########################################

HENRY FIELDING
5717
Tom bore this punishment with great resolution; and though
his master asked him between every stroke whether he would
not confess, he was contented to be flayed rather than betray his
friend, or break the promise he had made.
The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr.
Allworthy himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings: for
besides that Mr. Thwackum, being highly enraged that he was
not able to make the boy say what he himself pleased, had car-
ried his severity much beyond the good man's intention, this
latter began now to suspect that the squire had been mistaken,
which his extreme eagerness and anger seemed to make probable;
and as for what the servants had said in confirmation of their
master's account, he laid no great stress upon that. Now, as
cruelty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr. Allworthy
could by no means support the consciousness a single moment, he
sent for Tom, and after many kind and friendly exhortations,
said, "I am convinced, my dear child, that my suspicions have
wronged you; I am sorry that you have been so severely pun-
ished on this account; » and at last gave him a little horse to
make him amends, again repeating his sorrow for what had
passed.
Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could
make it. He could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum than
the generosity of Allworthy. The tears burst from his eyes, and
he fell upon his knees, crying, "Oh, sir, you are too good to me.
Indeed you are.
Indeed I don't deserve it. " And at that very
instant, from the fullness of his heart, had almost betrayed the
secret; but the good genius of the gamekeeper suggested to him
what might be the consequence to the poor fellow, and this con-
sideration sealed his lips.
Thwackum did all he could to dissuade Allworthy from show-
ing any compassion or kindness to the boy, saying "he had
persisted in untruth"; and gave some hints that a second whip-
ping might probably bring the matter to light.
ment.
But Mr. Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the experi-
He said the boy had suffered enough already for conceal-
ing the truth, even if he was guilty, seeing that he could have.
no motive but a mistaken point of honor for so doing.
"Honor! " cried Thwackum with some warmth: «< mere stub-
bornness and obstinacy! Can honor teach any one to tell a lie,
or can any honor exist independent of religion? "


## p. 5718 (#302) ###########################################

5718
HENRY FIELDING
This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended;
and there were present Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Thwackum, and a
third gentleman, who now entered into the debate, and whom,
before we proceed any farther, we shall briefly introduce to our
reader's acquaintance.
THE CHARACTERS OF MR. SQUARE THE PHILOSOPHER AND
OF MR. THWACKUM THE DIVINE
From Tom Jones'
THE
HE name of this gentleman, who had then resided some time
at Mr. Allworthy's house, was Mr. Square. His natural
parts were not of the first rate, but he had greatly im-
proved them by a learned education. He was deeply read in the
ancients, and a professed master of all the works of Plato and
Aristotle; upon which great models he had principally formed
himself, sometimes according with the opinion of one, and some-
times with that of the other. In morals he was a professed
Platonist, and in religion he inclined to be an Aristotelian.
But though he had, as we have said, formed his morals on
the Platonic model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of
Aristotle, in considering that great man rather in the quality of
a philosopher or a specialist than as a legislator. This sentiment
he carried a great way; indeed, so far as to regard all virtue as
matter of theory only. This, it is true, he never affirmed, as
I have heard, to any one; and yet upon the least attention to
his conduct, I cannot help thinking it was his real opinion, as
it will perfectly reconcile some contradictions which might other-
wise appear in his character.
This gentleman and Mr. Thwackum scarce ever met without
a disputation; for their tenets were indeed diametrically opposite
to each other. Square held human nature to be the perfection
of all virtue, and that vice was a deviation from our nature in
the same manner as deformity of body is.