History of Tom Jones, a Foundling

Chapter ii. – In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones

When Jones had taken leave of his friend the lieutenant, he endeavoured to close his eyes, but all in vain; his spirits were too lively and wakeful to be lulled to sleep. So having amused, or rather tormented, himself with the thoughts of his Sophia till it was open daylight, he called for some tea; upon which occasion my landlady herself vouchsafed to pay him a visit.

This was indeed the first time she had seen him, or at least had taken any notice of him; but as the lieutenant had assured her that he was certainly some young gentleman of fashion, she now determined to show him all the respect in her power; for, to speak truly, this was one of those houses where gentlemen, to use the language of advertisements, meet with civil treatment for their money.

She had no sooner begun to make his tea, than she likewise began to discourse: – “La! sir,” said she, “I think it is great pity that such a pretty young gentleman should under-value himself so, as to go about with these soldier fellows. They call themselves gentlemen, I warrant you; but, as my first husband used to say, they should remember it is we that pay them. And to be sure it is very hard upon us to be obliged to pay them, and to keep ‘um too, as we publicans are. I had twenty of ‘um last night, besides officers: nay, for matter o’ that, I had rather have the soldiers than officers: for nothing is ever good enough for those sparks; and I am sure, if you was to see the bills; la! sir, it is nothing. I have had less trouble, I warrant you, with a good squire’s family, where we take forty or fifty shillings of a night, besides horses. And yet I warrants me, there is narrow a one of those officer fellows but looks upon himself to be as good as arrow a squire of £500 a year. To be sure it doth me good to hear their men run about after ‘um, crying your honour, and your honour. Marry come up with such honour, and an ordinary at a shilling a head. Then there’s such swearing among ‘um, to be sure it frightens me out o’ my wits: I thinks nothing can ever prosper with such wicked people. And here one of ‘um has used you in so barbarous a manner. I thought indeed how well the rest would secure him; they all hang together; for if you had been in danger of death, which I am glad to see you are not, it would have been all as one to such wicked people. They would have let the murderer go. Laud have mercy upon ‘um; I would not have such a sin to answer for, for the whole world. But though you are likely, with the blessing, to recover, there is laa for him yet; and if you will employ lawyer Small, I darest be sworn he’ll make the fellow fly the country for him; though perhaps he’ll have fled the country before; for it is here to-day and gone to-morrow with such chaps. I hope, however, you will learn more wit for the future, and return back to your friends; I warrant they are all miserable for your loss; and if they was but to know what had happened – La, my seeming! I would not for the world they should. Come, come, we know very well what all the matter is; but if one won’t, another will; so pretty a gentleman need never want a lady. I am sure, if I was you, I would see the finest she that ever wore a head hanged, before I would go for a soldier for her. – Nay, don’t blush so” (for indeed he did to a violent degree). “Why, you thought, sir, I knew nothing of the matter, I warrant you, about Madam Sophia.” – “How,” says Jones, starting up, “do you know my Sophia?” – “Do I! ay marry,” cries the landlady; “many’s the time hath she lain in this house.” – “With her aunt, I suppose,” says Jones. “Why, there it is now,” cries the landlady. “Ay, ay, ay, I know the old lady very well. And a sweet young creature is Madam Sophia, that’s the truth on’t.” – “A sweet creature,” cries Jones; “O heavens!”

“And could I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia!” – “I wish,” says the landlady, “you knew half so much of her. What would you have given to have sat by her bed-side? What a delicious neck she hath! Her lovely limbs have stretched themselves in that very bed you now lie in.” – “Here!” cries Jones: “hath Sophia ever laid here?” – “Ay, ay, here; there, in that very bed,” says the landlady; “where I wish you had her this moment; and she may wish so too for anything I know to the contrary, for she hath mentioned your name to me.” – “Ha!” cries he; “did she ever mention her poor Jones? You flatter me now: I can never believe so much.” – “Why, then,” answered she, “as I hope to be saved, and may the devil fetch me if I speak a syllable more than the truth, I have heard her mention Mr Jones; but in a civil and modest way, I confess; yet I could perceive she thought a great deal more than she said.” – “O my dear woman!” cries Jones, “her thoughts of me I shall never be worthy of. Oh, she is all gentleness, kindness, goodness! Why was such a rascal as I born, ever to give her soft bosom a moment’s uneasiness? Why am I cursed? I, who would undergo all the plagues and miseries which any daemon ever invented for mankind, to procure her any good; nay, torture itself could not be misery to me, did I but know that she was happy.” – “Why, look you there now,” says the landlady; “I told her you was a constant lovier.” – “But pray, madam, tell me when or where you knew anything of me; for I never was here before, nor do I remember ever to have seen you.” – “Nor is it possible you should,” answered she; “for you was a little thing when I had you in my lap at the squire’s.” – “How, the squire’s?” says Jones: “what, do you know that great and good Mr Allworthy then?” – “Yes, marry, do I,” says she: “who in the country doth not?” – “The fame of his goodness indeed,” answered Jones, “must have extended farther than this; but heaven only can know him – can know that benevolence which it copied from itself, and sent upon earth as its own pattern. Mankind are as ignorant of such divine goodness, as they are unworthy of it; but none so unworthy of it as myself. I, who was raised by him to such a height; taken in, as you must well know, a poor base-born child, adopted by him, and treated as his own son, to dare by my follies to disoblige him, to draw his vengeance upon me. Yes, I deserve it all; for I will never be so ungrateful as ever to think he hath done an act of injustice by me. No, I deserve to be turned out of doors, as I am. And now, madam,” says he, “I believe you will not blame me for turning soldier, especially with such a fortune as this in my pocket.” At which words he shook a purse, which had but very little in it, and which still appeared to the landlady to have less.

My good landlady was (according to vulgar phrase) struck all of a heap by this relation. She answered coldly, “That to be sure people were the best judges what was most proper for their circumstances. But hark,” says she, “I think I hear somebody call. Coming! coming! the devil’s in all our volk; nobody hath any ears. I must go down-stairs; if you want any more breakfast the maid will come up. Coming!” At which words, without taking any leave, she flung out of the room; for the lower sort of people are very tenacious of respect; and though they are contented to give this gratis to persons of quality, yet they never confer it on those of their own order without taking care to be well paid for their pains.

Chapter iii. – In which the surgeon makes his second appearance

Before we proceed any farther, that the reader may not be mistaken in imagining the landlady knew more than she did, nor surprized that she knew so much, it may be necessary to inform him that the lieutenant had acquainted her that the name of Sophia had been the occasion of the quarrel; and as for the rest of her knowledge, the sagacious reader will observe how she came by it in the preceding scene. Great curiosity was indeed mixed with her virtues; and she never willingly suffered any one to depart from her house, without enquiring as much as possible into their names, families, and fortunes.

She was no sooner gone than Jones, instead of animadverting on her behaviour, reflected that he was in the same bed which he was informed had held his dear Sophia. This occasioned a thousand fond and tender thoughts, which we would dwell longer upon, did we not consider that such kind of lovers will make a very inconsiderable part of our readers. In this situation the surgeon found him, when he came to dress his wound. The doctor perceiving, upon examination, that his pulse was disordered, and hearing that he had not slept, declared that he was in great danger; for he apprehended a fever was coming on, which he would have prevented by bleeding, but Jones would not submit, declaring he would lose no more blood; “and, doctor,” says he, “if you will be so kind only to dress my head, I have no doubt of being well in a day or two.”

“I wish,” answered the surgeon, “I could assure your being well in a month or two. Well, indeed! No, no, people are not so soon well of such contusions; but, sir, I am not at this time of day to be instructed in my operations by a patient, and I insist on making a revulsion before I dress you.”

Jones persisted obstinately in his refusal, and the doctor at last yielded; telling him at the same time that he would not be answerable for the ill consequence, and hoped he would do him the justice to acknowledge that he had given him a contrary advice; which the patient promised he would.

The doctor retired into the kitchen, where, addressing himself to the landlady, he complained bitterly of the undutiful behaviour of his patient, who would not be blooded, though he was in a fever.

“It is an eating fever then,” says the landlady; “for he hath devoured two swinging buttered toasts this morning for breakfast.”

“Very likely,” says the doctor: “I have known people eat in a fever; and it is very easily accounted for; because the acidity occasioned by the febrile matter may stimulate the nerves of the diaphragm, and thereby occasion a craving which will not be easily distinguishable from a natural appetite; but the aliment will not be concreted, nor assimilated into chyle, and so will corrode the vascular orifices, and thus will aggravate the febrific symptoms. Indeed, I think the gentleman in a very dangerous way, and, if he is not blooded, I am afraid will die.”

“Every man must die some time or other,” answered the good woman; “it is no business of mine. I hope, doctor, you would not have me hold him while you bleed him. But, hark’ee, a word in your ear; I would advise you, before you proceed too far, to take care who is to be your paymaster.”

“Paymaster!” said the doctor, staring; “why, I’ve a gentleman under my hands, have I not?”

“I imagined so as well as you,” said the landlady; “but, as my first husband used to say, everything is not what it looks to be. He is an arrant scrub, I assure you. However, take no notice that I mentioned anything to you of the matter; but I think people in business oft always to let one another know such things.”

“And have I suffered such a fellow as this,” cries the doctor, in a passion, “to instruct me? Shall I hear my practice insulted by one who will not pay me? I am glad I have made this discovery in time. I will see now whether he will be blooded or no.” He then immediately went upstairs, and flinging open the door of the chamber with much violence, awaked poor Jones from a very sound nap, into which he was fallen, and, what was still worse, from a delicious dream concerning Sophia.

“Will you be blooded or no?” cries the doctor, in a rage. “I have told you my resolution already,” answered Jones, “and I wish with all my heart you had taken my answer; for you have awaked me out of the sweetest sleep which I ever had in my life.”

“Ay, ay,” cries the doctor; “many a man hath dozed away his life. Sleep is not always good, no more than food; but remember, I demand of you for the last time, will you be blooded?” – “I answer you for the last time,” said Jones, “I will not.” – “Then I wash my hands of you,” cries the doctor; “and I desire you to pay me for the trouble I have had already. Two journeys at 5s. each, two dressings at 5s. more, and half a crown for phlebotomy.” – “I hope,” said Jones, “you don’t intend to leave me in this condition.” – “Indeed but I shall,” said the other. “Then,” said Jones, “you have used me rascally, and I will not pay you a farthing.” – “Very well,” cries the doctor; “the first loss is the best. What a pox did my landlady mean by sending for me to such vagabonds!” At which words he flung out of the room, and his patient turning himself about soon recovered his sleep; but his dream was unfortunately gone.

Chapter iv. – In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers that was ever recorded in history, the barber of Bagdad, or he in Don Quixote, not excepted

The clock had now struck five when Jones awaked from a nap of seven hours, so much refreshed, and in such perfect health and spirits, that he resolved to get up and dress himself; for which purpose he unlocked his portmanteau, and took out clean linen, and a suit of cloaths; but first he slipt on a frock, and went down into the kitchen to bespeak something that might pacify certain tumults he found rising within his stomach.

Meeting the landlady, he accosted her with great civility, and asked, “What he could have for dinner?” – “For dinner!” says she; “it is an odd time a day to think about dinner. There is nothing drest in the house, and the fire is almost out.” – “Well, but,” says he, “I must have something to eat, and it is almost indifferent to me what; for, to tell you the truth, I was never more hungry in my life.” – “Then,” says she, “I believe there is a piece of cold buttock and carrot, which will fit you.” – “Nothing better,” answered Jones; “but I should be obliged to you, if you would let it be fried.” To which the landlady consented, and said, smiling, “she was glad to see him so well recovered;” for the sweetness of our heroe’s temper was almost irresistible; besides, she was really no ill-humoured woman at the bottom; but she loved money so much, that she hated everything which had the semblance of poverty.

Jones now returned in order to dress himself, while his dinner was preparing, and was, according to his orders, attended by the barber.

This barber, who went by the name of Little Benjamin, was a fellow of great oddity and humour, which had frequently let him into small inconveniencies, such as slaps in the face, kicks in the breech, broken bones, &c. For every one doth not understand a jest; and those who do are often displeased with being themselves the subjects of it. This vice was, however, incurable in him; and though he had often smarted for it, yet if ever he conceived a joke, he was certain to be delivered of it, without the least respect of persons, time, or place.

He had a great many other particularities in his character, which I shall not mention, as the reader will himself very easily perceive them, on his farther acquaintance with this extraordinary person.

Jones being impatient to be drest, for a reason which may be easily imagined, thought the shaver was very tedious in preparing his suds, and begged him to make haste; to which the other answered with much gravity, for he never discomposed his muscles on any account, “Festina lente, is a proverb which I learned long before I ever touched a razor.” – “I find, friend, you are a scholar,” replied Jones. “A poor one,” said the barber, “non omnia possumus omnes.” – “Again!” said Jones; “I fancy you are good at capping verses.” – “Excuse me, sir,” said the barber, “non tanto me dignor honore.” And then proceeding to his operation, “Sir,” said he, “since I have dealt in suds, I could never discover more than two reasons for shaving; the one is to get a beard, and the other to get rid of one. I conjecture, sir, it may not be long since you shaved from the former of these motives. Upon my word, you have had good success; for one may say of your beard, that it is tondenti gravior.” – “I conjecture,” says Jones, “that thou art a very comical fellow.” – “You mistake me widely, sir,” said the barber: “I am too much addicted to the study of philosophy; hinc illae lacrymae, sir; that’s my misfortune. Too much learning hath been my ruin.” – “Indeed,” says Jones, “I confess, friend, you have more learning than generally belongs to your trade; but I can’t see how it can have injured you.” – “Alas! sir,” answered the shaver, “my father disinherited me for it. He was a dancing-master; and because I could read before I could dance, he took an aversion to me, and left every farthing among his other children. – Will you please to have your temples – O la! I ask your pardon, I fancy there is hiatus in manuscriptis. I heard you was going to the wars; but I find it was a mistake.” – “Why do you conclude so?” says Jones. “Sure, sir,” answered the barber, “you are too wise a man to carry a broken head thither; for that would be carrying coals to Newcastle.”

“Upon my word,” cries Jones, “thou art a very odd fellow, and I like thy humour extremely; I shall be very glad if thou wilt come to me after dinner, and drink a glass with me; I long to be better acquainted with thee.”

“O dear sir!” said the barber, “I can do you twenty times as great a favour, if you will accept of it.” – “What is that, my friend?” cries Jones. “Why, I will drink a bottle with you if you please; for I dearly love good-nature; and as you have found me out to be a comical fellow, so I have no skill in physiognomy, if you are not one of the best-natured gentlemen in the universe.” Jones now walked downstairs neatly drest, and perhaps the fair Adonis was not a lovelier figure; and yet he had no charms for my landlady; for as that good woman did not resemble Venus at all in her person, so neither did she in her taste. Happy had it been for Nanny the chambermaid, if she had seen with the eyes of her mistress, for that poor girl fell so violently in love with Jones in five minutes, that her passion afterwards cost her many a sigh. This Nanny was extremely pretty, and altogether as coy; for she had refused a drawer, and one or two young farmers in the neighbourhood, but the bright eyes of our heroe thawed all her ice in a moment.

When Jones returned to the kitchen, his cloth was not yet laid; nor indeed was there any occasion it should, his dinner remaining in statu quo, as did the fire which was to dress it. This disappointment might have put many a philosophical temper into a passion; but it had no such effect on Jones. He only gave the landlady a gentle rebuke, saying, “Since it was so difficult to get it heated he would eat the beef cold.” But now the good woman, whether moved by compassion, or by shame, or by whatever other motive, I cannot tell, first gave her servants a round scold for disobeying the orders which she had never given, and then bidding the drawer lay a napkin in the Sun, she set about the matter in good earnest, and soon accomplished it.

This Sun, into which Jones was now conducted, was truly named, as lucus a non lucendo; for it was an apartment into which the sun had scarce ever looked. It was indeed the worst room in the house; and happy was it for Jones that it was so. However, he was now too hungry to find any fault; but having once satisfied his appetite, he ordered the drawer to carry a bottle of wine into a better room, and expressed some resentment at having been shown into a dungeon.

The drawer having obeyed his commands, he was, after some time, attended by the barber, who would not indeed have suffered him to wait so long for his company had he not been listening in the kitchen to the landlady, who was entertaining a circle that she had gathered round her with the history of poor Jones, part of which she had extracted from his own lips, and the other part was her own ingenious composition; for she said “he was a poor parish boy, taken into the house of Squire Allworthy, where he was bred up as an apprentice, and now turned out of doors for his misdeeds, particularly for making love to his young mistress, and probably for robbing the house; for how else should he come by the little money he hath; and this,” says she, “is your gentleman, forsooth!” – “A servant of Squire Allworthy!” says the barber; “what’s his name?” – “Why he told me his name was Jones,” says she: “perhaps he goes by a wrong name. Nay, and he told me, too, that the squire had maintained him as his own son, thof he had quarrelled with him now.” – “And if his name be Jones, he told you the truth,” said the barber; “for I have relations who live in that country; nay, and some people say he is his son.” – “Why doth he not go by the name of his father?” – “I can’t tell that,” said the barber; “many people’s sons don’t go by the name of their father.” – “Nay,” said the landlady, “if I thought he was a gentleman’s son, thof he was a bye-blow, I should behave to him in another guess manner; for many of these bye-blows come to be great men, and, as my poor first husband used to say, never affront any customer that’s a gentleman.”