Listen to the AudioBook: History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding

THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING

By Henry Fielding

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.

Chapter i -- The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast.

As to those persons who affect in the conduct of their historical work to imitate the great writers of antiquity, such as Thucydides or Herodotus, if they search among them for rules which may assist their present undertaking, they will find, I believe, very few that will be of use to them. These excellent authors have strangely laid it down that the first care of an historian should be to establish the authority of his own character. Now this the modern historian may easily effect by showing that he is in no wise concerned in the events he relates, that he has no private friendship or enmity with any of the characters, and that he is as impartial and disinterested in his narrations as a judge who is deaf to the party’s eloquence. But as to my own case, by adopting these rules, I shall be found exceedingly deficient. For I can say, without vanity, that there are some characters in this history, for whom I have a true affection; and there are others for whom I have a sincere, though perhaps not a very charitable, dislike; and as to the facts, I have taken as much pains to be well informed of them as if they were my own most interesting affairs. Thus, upon the credit of this assertion, I shall endeavour to persuade my reader to believe that I have done my duty.

It is a vanity peculiar to the English to deny the word novel the honour of a more classical name. But since the word is now so well established in our language, it would be pedantic to refuse it the currency it has obtained. I shall therefore make use of the word novel without scruple, and shall venture to call this work by that name.

If I should be asked why I have thus chosen to write a history in the form of a novel, rather than a history in the common style, my answer would be that the latter is often tedious and disgusting. For what can be more tiresome than a long, dull account of battles, sieges, treaties, alliances, births, deaths, marriages, and so forth, all delivered in the most uninteresting manner?

On the other hand, the novel allows for a greater variety of characters and incidents, and a more natural flow of events. The writer may indulge his imagination, and in the words of Horace, make a happy mixture of the useful and the agreeable.

I shall now proceed to give the reader a short bill of fare, that he may judge whether he will choose to dine with me or not.

Chapter ii -- A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller account of Miss Bridget Allworthy, his sister.

In the county of Somerset, not far from the memorable city of Bath, for the sake of the example, let us place the scene of our history, and in the midst of a well-cultivated country, surrounded by fields, woods, and streams, stood a handsome, though not ancient, seat of a gentleman of good estate, who was a bachelor, and whose name was Allworthy.

This gentleman was, as we have said, master of the house and of the estate. He was a man of good understanding, and possessed a moderate fortune, which he managed with prudence. He was not a man of great reading, but he had observed mankind with a judicious eye, and had drawn from his observations such maxims of conduct as rendered him a valuable member of society.

He was not entirely without acquaintance with books, and he had a particular fondness for history and morality. He was of opinion that the greatest happiness consisted in the exercise of virtue, and he endeavoured, both by precept and example, to instil these principles into all those who were under his care.

He had one sister, Bridget, who lived with him. She was a woman of singular beauty, and possessed a sweetness of temper that endeared her to all who knew her. She was, however, of a more delicate constitution than her brother, and was subject to frequent indispositions. She had never been married, and had devoted her life to the care of her brother’s household and to the practice of benevolence.

She was, in short, a lady of the most unblemished reputation, and one whose piety and virtue were the subject of universal admiration.

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.

It was on a cold and dreary evening in November that Mr Allworthy returned from a journey which he had undertaken for the purpose of settling some affairs in London. The roads were deep with mud, and the rain fell in torrents, so that he was heartily glad to find himself once more under his own roof.

As he was dismounting from his horse at the great gate, he was saluted by Mrs Deborah Wilkins, his housekeeper, a woman of great pride and little understanding, who stood ready to receive him, armed with a large umbrella and a face full of concern.

“Oh, Sir!” cried Mrs Deborah, with a deep curtsey, “I am overjoyed to see you safe. We have been in the greatest distress on your account. The cook swore she heard a carriage overturned on the London road, and I myself dreamt last night that you were fallen into a ditch. Indeed, Sir, we have not slept a wink since you have been gone.”

Mr Allworthy smiled at the good woman’s officious tenderness, and assured her that he was perfectly well. As he was proceeding to the house, he was startled by a sudden cry, which seemed to come from a thicket of hedges which bordered the lane.

“What was that, Deborah?” said he, stopping short.

“What was what, Sir?” answered the housekeeper, peering into the darkness. “I heard nothing, Sir.”

“I am sure I heard a child cry,” replied Mr Allworthy. “Go and see what it is.”

Mrs Deborah seemed very unwilling to venture into the wet and the dark, but upon her master’s insistence, she took a lantern and advanced towards the spot from whence the sound had proceeded. After a moment’s hesitation, she let out a scream that would have startled the dead.

“Good heavens, Sir!” she cried, running back to her master, her face as pale as a sheet. “It is a child, Sir! A poor, naked, wretched infant, lying in the ditch!”

Mr Allworthy immediately hastened to the place, and there, indeed, lay a baby, wrapped only in a piece of ragged linen, shivering with cold and uttering the most doleful lamentations.

“Good God!” cried Mr Allworthy, taking the child into his arms. “What unfortunate wretch has abandoned this poor creature to perish in this manner?”

Mrs Deborah, recovering from her fright, assumed a more composed air, and began to utter a string of pious reflections upon the depravity of human nature, and the heinousness of the crime of bastardy.

“Indeed, Sir,” said she, shaking her head with great solemnity, “it is a wicked world. Such doings are enough to bring down God’s judgments upon us all. A poor innocent creature, brought into the world without a father to own it! It is a sad thing, Sir, a very sad thing indeed!”

Mr Allworthy paid little attention to her sermonizing, being entirely absorbed in the plight of the infant. He carried the child into the house, and ordered a warm fire, a blanket, and some milk to be brought immediately.

“We must take care of it, Deborah,” he said, his voice betraying a deep sympathy. “It is a human creature, and we have a duty to protect it.”

“To be sure, Sir,” replied Mrs Deborah, though her tone suggested that her duty extended only so far as her master commanded. “But I must say, Sir, it is a great trial to have such a thing brought into a decent house. What will the neighbours say? And as for a mother, Sir—I dare say she is some loose woman, some common prostitute, who is not fit to be named!”

“Peace, Deborah,” said Mr Allworthy sternly. “We know nothing yet of the circumstances. Let us first attend to the child’s immediate needs.”

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