Transcript Lecture 8 Henry Fielding (1st hour), Tom Jones Oliver

Lecture 8 Henry Fielding (1st
hour), Tom Jones
Oliver Goldsmith (2nd
hour), The Vicar of Wakefield
• Fielding
• I. Life:
•
Henry Fielding was born in 1707 in the family of a
poor retired general. He was educated at Eton and
Leyden University. But his family was so poor that he
was compelled to leave the University after a year and a
half of studies. So he began to support himself from his
very youth by writing for the stage and soon became one
of the most popular playwrights in London. His dramatic
works were mostly comedies. In 1739 appeared "The
Champion", a newspaper published thrice a week, and
written mainly by Fielding.
• In 1734, he married Charlotte Cradock, whom
he loved tenderly and used as a model in
creating his ideal women characters in his works.
In 1735. Charlotte’s mother died, leaving her
estate to Charlotte. It was this legacy that
enabled Fielding to take his wife away from the
ups and downs of an author’s life in London, to
his house in the countryside. His wife died in
1744, and in 1747 Fielding married her maid,
Mary Daniel.
• From 1742 onward, Fielding wrote four novels,
for which he has been remembered.
• His first novel " Joseph Andrews” was published
in 1742. In spirit, it springs from the earlier
attempts in English literature by Bunyan, and by
Addison and Steele in "The Spectator” to
reproduce the life of ordinary people. In form, it
owes to Cervantes, the author of “ Don Quixote”,
in which the loosely-knit plot follows the travels
and adventures of the chief characters and is
wound up when the author pleases.
• His "Jonathan Wild” appeared in 1743. It is a
powerful political satire.
• In 1749, he finished his great novel "Tom Jones".
• "Amelia" (1751) was his last novel.
• “Tom Jones":
•
1. The Story:
•
“The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling." tells the story of an
illegitimate child, reared by a squire Mr. Allworthy, who lives on his
estate together with his sister Miss Bridget, a prudish spinster.
•
Once arriving home from a trip to London, Mr. Allworthy is
surprised to find a baby in his bedroom. He adopts the foundling and
names him Tom. Shortly afterwards Miss Bridget gets married to a
certain Captain Blifil, and gives birth to a boy. Young Blifil’s parents
die and the orphan is left in the care of Mr. Allworthy who brings him
up together with Tom. He gets involved when he meets Sophia, the
daughter of a neighbouring Squire Western. Young BlifiL, bears a
secret hatred of Tom, fearing lest the legacy should fall into his
hands, he blackens Tom in Mr. Allworthy’s eyes. Deceived by Blifil’s
backbiting. Mr. Allworthy banishes Tom from his home.
• Sophia’s father, Squire Western, infuriated
upon learning of his daughter’s attachment
to the foundling, threatens to marry her off
by force to the rich heir, young Blifil. Then
the scene is shifted to London: Sophia
flees to the capital fearing the very idea of
marriage to hateful Blifil; Squire Western
follows his daughter; young Blifil,
accompanied by his uncle, is there in
search of Sophia; Tom takes his way to
London.
• Blifil, spares no pains to secure a conviction for Tom,
who is supposed to have killed a man in self-defence.
However, Blifil’s intrigues are laid bare.
• At the same time the old gentleman learns from his
attorney of a letter which was addressed to him by his
sister Bridget on her death-bed. It has been purposely
withheld by Blifil, as it contained her confession of Tom
Jones being her illegitimate son. Mr Allworthy. rejoiced
by this news, reconciles with Tom and makes him his
heir.
• Sophia forgives Tom his youthful mistake and Squire
Western consents to Sophia’s marriage to Tom.
• Characterization
• Tom Jones, the foundling is a handsome young man. He is frank
and open, kind. disinterested, and. though quick-tempered, devoid
of malice. His outstanding quality is “good nature" and” goodness of
heart”. He is, indeed, “one of the best-natured fellows alive”, and has
“all that weakness which is called compassion, and which
distinguishes this imperfect character from the noble firmness of
mind.
• Good-hearted as he is, Tom is very far from being a model
character. He lives by impulse, not by reason. Being a simple
country boy, thoroughly ignorant of the ways of the depraved high
society in London, he is completely taken by surprise by a bed
woman and becomes, for a short time, her paid lover. Here the
author’s intention is to show that even a good man may commit
mistakes and be easily led astray, but by virtue of his innate
goodness, he is not corrupted and eventually overcomes his
weaknesses. Tom is not radically vicious, but good-natured and
honest in the main.
• Sophia: Sophia Western, the heroine of the book, is the
“Somersetshire angel." She is her father’s “little darling",
and she returns all his affection with angelic tenderness.
To her, "her father’s word was a law in almost everything.
On one point, however, she stands out against him
inflexibly--nothing can induce her to marry a man whom
she dislikes. Her character and behaviour were rather
advanced for her time, “when the compulsory marriage
was universally prevailing.”
• she takes some courage to love a man whom everyone
around her speaks ill of. Moreover, she is not ignorant of
Tom’s faults, but she knows the good qualities of her
lover, and does not expect perfection. However, she
cannot pardon his radiation with Lady Bellaston. No one
can persuade her to forgive him that mistake.
• Sophia was Fielding’s ideal of what an amiable
English girl should be. But he did not make her
"perfectly perfect”.
• Though ordinarily very sweet-tempered, she can
flame into an angry person on occasions.
• She has also a bit of vanity; which causes her, to
toy with the idea of playing the part of a tragic
heroine, sacrificing herself to her father’s wishes,
and figuring pathetically as martyr to filial duty .
• But these flaws in no way lessen our
appreciation of her good qualities, her gaiety
and candour, and her calm courage in face of
life’s difficulties and perplexities.
Fielding as the Founder of the English Realistic Novel
• Fielding is the founder of the English realistic novel and sets up the
Theory of realism in literary creation. The digressions in " Joseph
Andrews” and “Tom Jones", in the form of jocular conversation with
the reader, were Fielding’s program of art.
• The centre of Fielding’s working philosophy was Man, common
earthly Man with his earthly interests, needs and passions. A truthful
artist’s duty was to reproduce human nature faithfully and accurately
as he saw it. Byron, in a famous phrase, called Fielding “the prose
Homer of Human Nature.”
• Most of his characters are compounded of both observation and
imagination, of both experience and invention, a "quick and
sagacious penetration into the true essence of all the objects of our
contemplation,”
• He had in embryonic form the principles of characterization and
typification which the 19th-century and 20th-century realistic
novelists have been using.
• Some Features of Fielding’s Novels:
1) Fielding’s Method of Relating a Story, There are three ways in telling
the story of a novel. It may be told in a series of letters. This was the
method of Richardson. Again the story may be put in the mouth of
the principal character. This was the method used by Defoe and
Swift. Then, thirdly, the story may be told directly by the author. This
was the method of Fielding.
2) Satire in Fielding’s Novels: Satire everywhere in Fielding’s works.
There are two kinds of satire. humorous satire which is meant to be
instructive and corrective; grim satire, which is used to lash the
cardinal evils.
3 ) Fielding believed in the educational function of the novel. The object
of his novels is to present a faithful picture of life, while sound
teaching is woven into their very texture.
4) Style: Fielding is a master of style. His style is easy, unlaboured and
familiar, but extremely vivid and vigorous. The sentences are always
distinguished by logic and musical rhythm. Fielding established once
for all the form of the modern novel. He has been rightly called the
“father of the English novel.”
• Chapter 13
• A dreadful accident which befell Sophia. The gallant behaviour of
Jones, and the more dreadful consequence of that behaviour to the
young lady; with a short digression in favour of the female sex.
• Mr. Western grew every day fonder and fonder of Sophia, insomuch
that his beloved dogs themselves almost gave place to her in his
affections; but as he could not prevail on himself to abandon these,
he contrived very cunningly to enjoy their company, together with
that of his daughter, by insisting on her riding a-hunting with him.
•
Sophia, to whom her father's word was a law, readily complied with
his desires, though she had not the least delight in a sport, which
was of too rough and masculine a nature to suit with her disposition.
She had however another motive, beside her obedience, to
accompany the old gentleman in the chase; for by her presence she
hoped in some measure to restrain his impetuosity, and to prevent
him from so frequently exposing his neck to the utmost hazard.
• The strongest objection was that which would have formerly been an
inducement to her, namely, the frequent meeting with young Jones,
whom she had determined to avoid; but as the end of the hunting
season now approached, she hoped, by a short absence with her
aunt, to reason herself entirely out of her unfortunate passion; and
had not any doubt of being able to meet him in the field the
subsequent season without the least danger.
•
On the second day of her hunting, as she was returning from the
chase, and was arrived within a little distance from Mr. Western's
house, her horse, whose mettlesome spirit required a better rider,
fell suddenly to prancing and capering in such a manner that she
was in the most imminent peril of falling. Tom Jones, who was at a
little distance behind, saw this, and immediately galloped up to her
assistance. As soon as he came up, he leapt from his own horse,
and caught hold of hers by the bridle. The unruly beast presently
reared himself on end on his hind legs, and threw his lovely burthen
from his back, and Jones caught her in his arms.
• She was so affected with the fright, that she was not immediately
able to satisfy Jones, who was very solicitous to know whether she
had received any hurt. She soon after, however, recovered her
spirits, assured him she was safe, and thanked him for the care he
had taken of her. Jones answered, "If I have preserved you, madam,
I am sufficiently repaid; for I promise you, I would have secured you
from the least harm at the expense of a much greater misfortune to
myself than I have suffered on this occasion."
•
"What misfortune?" replied Sophia eagerly; "I hope you have come
to no mischief?"
•
"Be not concerned, madam," answered Jones. "Heaven be praised
you have escaped so well, considering the danger you was in. If I
have broke my arm, I consider it as a trifle, in comparison of what I
feared upon your account."
•
Sophia then screamed out, "Broke your arm! Heaven forbid."
•
"I am afraid I have, madam," says Jones: "but I beg you will suffer
me first to take care of you. I have a right hand yet at your service, to
help you into the next field, whence we have but a very little walk to
your father's house."
• Sophia seeing his left arm dangling by his side, while he was using
the other to lead her, no longer doubted of the truth. She now grew
much paler than her fears for herself had made her before. All her
limbs were seized with a trembling, insomuch that Jones could
scarce support her; and as her thoughts were in no less agitation,
she could not refrain from giving Jones a look so full of tenderness,
that it almost argued a stronger sensation in her mind, than even
gratitude and pity united can raise in the gentlest female bosom,
without the assistance of a third more powerful passion.
•
Mr. Western, who was advanced at some distance when this
accident happened, was now returned, as were the rest of the
horsemen. Sophia immediately acquainted them with what had
befallen Jones, and begged them to take care of him. Upon which
Western, who had been much alarmed by meeting his daughter's
horse without its rider, and was now overjoyed to find her unhurt,
cried out, "I am glad it is no worse. If Tom hath broken his arm, we
will get a joiner to mend un again."
• The squire alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his house on
foot, with his daughter and ones. An impartial spectator, who had
met them on the way, would, on viewing their several countenances,
have concluded Sophia alone to have been the object of
compassion: for as to Jones, he exulted in having probably saved
the life of the young lady, at the price only of a broken bone; and Mr.
Western, though he was not unconcerned at the accident which had
befallen Jones, was, however, delighted in a much higher degree
with the fortunate escape of his daughter.
•
The generosity of Sophia's temper construed this behaviour of
Jones into great bravery; and it made a deep impression on her
heart: for certain it is, that there is no one quality which so generally
recommends men to women as this…
• However this be, certain it is that the accident operated very strongly
on Sophia; and, indeed, after much enquiry into the matter, I am
inclined to believe, that, at this very time, the charming Sophia made
no less impression on the heart of Jones; to say truth, he had for
some time become sensible of the irresistible power of her charms.
• Chapter 14
What happened to Mr. Jones in his journey from St. Albans
They were got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the dusk
of the evening, when a genteel-looking man, but upon a very shabby
horse, rode up to Jones, and asked him whether he was going to
London; to which Jones answered in the affirmative. The gentleman
replied, "I should be obliged to you, sir, if you will accept of my
company; for it is very late, and I am a stranger to the road." Jones
readily complied with the request; and on they travelled together,
holding that sort of discourse which is usual on such occasions.
Of this, indeed, robbery was the principal topic: upon which subject the
stranger expressed great apprehensions; but Jones declared he had
very little to lose, and consequently as little to fear. Here Partridge
could not forbear putting in his word. "Your honour," said he, "may
think it a little, but I am sure, if I had a hundred-pound bank-note in
my pocket, as you have, I should be very sorry to lose it; but, for my
part, I never was less afraid in my life; for we are four of us, and if
we all stand by one another, the best man in England can't rob us.
Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but one of us, and a
man can die but once.- That's my comfort, a man can die but once."
• Besides the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valour which
hath raised a certain nation among the moderns to a high pitch of
glory, there was another reason for the extraordinary courage which
Partridge now discovered; for he had at present as much of that
quality as was in the power of liquor to bestow.
• Our company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, when the
stranger turned short upon Jones, and pulling out a pistol,
demanded that little bank-note which Partridge had mentioned.
• Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected demand;
however, he presently recollected himself, and told the highwayman,
all the money he had in his pocket was entirely at his service; and so
saying, he pulled out upwards of three guineas, and offered to
deliver it; but the other answered with an oath, That would not do.
Jones answered coolly, he was very sorry for it, and returned the
money into his pocket.
• The highwayman then threatened, if he did not deliver the bank-note
that moment, he must shoot him; holding his pistol at the same time
very near to his breast. Jones instantly caught hold of the fellow's
hand, which trembled so that he could scarce hold the pistol in it,
and turned the muzzle from him. A struggle then ensued, in which
the former wrested the pistol from the hand of his antagonist, and
both came from their horses on the ground together, the
highwayman upon his back, and the victorious Jones upon him.
• The poor fellow now began to implore mercy of the conqueror: for, to
say the truth, he was in strength by no means a match for Jones.
"Indeed, sir," says he, "I could have had no intention to shoot you;
for you will find the pistol was not loaded. This is the first robbery I
ever attempted, and I have been driven by distress to this."
• At this instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards' distance, lay
another person on the ground, roaring for mercy in a much louder
voice than the highwayman. This was no other than Partridge
himself, who, endeavouring to make his escape from the
engagement, had been thrown from his horse, and lay flat on his
face, not daring to look up, and expecting every minute to be shot.
• In this posture he lay, till the guide, who was no otherwise
concerned than for his horses, having secured the stumbling beast,
came up to him, and told him his master had got the better of the
highwayman.
• Partridge leapt up at this news, and ran back to the place where
Jones stood with his sword drawn in his hand to guard the poor
fellow; which Partridge no sooner saw, than he cried out, "Kill the
villain, sir, run him through the body, kill him this instant!"
• Luckily, however, for the poor wretch, he had fallen into more
merciful hands; for Jones having examined the pistol, and found it to
be really unloaded, began to believe all the man had told him, before
Partridge came up: namely, that he was a novice in the trade, and
that he had been driven to it by the distress he mentioned, the
greatest indeed imaginable, that of five hungry children, and a wife
lying in of the sixth, in the utmost want and misery. The truth of all
which the highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered to
convince Mr. Jones of it, if he would take the trouble to go to his
house, which was not above two miles off; saying, "That he desired
no favour, but upon condition of proving all he had alledged."
• Jones at first pretended that he would take the fellow at his word
and go with him, declaring that his fate should depend entirely on
the truth of his story. Upon this the poor fellow immediately
expressed so much alacrity, that Jones was perfectly satisfied with
his veracity, and began now to entertain sentiments of compassion
for him. He returned the fellow his empty pistol, advised him to think
of honester means of relieving his distress, and gave him a couple
of guineas for the immediate support of his wife and his family;
adding, "he wished he had more for his sake, for the hundred pound
that had been mentioned was not his own."
•
Our readers will probably be divided in their opinions concerning
this action; some may applaud it perhaps as an act of extraordinary
humanity, while those of a more saturnine temper will consider it as
a want of regard to that justice which every man owes his country.
Partridge certainly saw it in that light; for he testified much
dissatisfaction on the occasion, quoted an old proverb, and said, he
should not wonder if the rogue attacked them again before they
reached London.
• Oliver Goldsmith
• I. Life:
• Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774) , an important writer of Johnson’s
circle, was born in Ireland. the son of a poor curate. He entered
Trinity College, Dublin, as a sizar, e. g. a student who pays with
labour for his education. He was wretchedly poor. So he wrote
ballads for the street singers who paid him a little money for them.
• By nature he was very amiable but thoroughly unpractical. After
obtaining a degree in 1749, he tried his hand on several jobs but all
faded. During these years he became popular as a singer of songs
and a teller of tales.
But it is his poems "The Traveller" and "The Deserted Village”, his
novel "The Vicar of Wakefield”, his comedies "The Good-natured
Man” and "She Stoops to Conquer", and his collection of essays
"The Citizen of the World” that brought him enduring literary fame.
• In 1774, His death was lamented by Johnson and other men of
letters as well as by the poor people, with whom he had never
refused to share what he had during his lifetime. Goldsmith is one of
the most lovable characters in English literature.
• “The Vicar of Wakefield” ( 1761-1762):
• The story is told by Dr. Primrose, the vicar kindly, charitable, devoid
of worldly wisdom and not without some literary vanity. HIS wife is
proud of her housekeeping and her children. At First, they are
prosperous and contented, but misfortunes come upon them thick
and fast. The vicar loses his fortune through the bankruptcy of a
merchant. They move to a new place under the patronage of a
certain Squire Thornhill. Thornhill, being an immoral ruffian, seduces
Olivia and then deserts her. Then the vicar himself is thrown into
prison for debt to Thornhill, George, the vicar’s son, was also sent to
prison for challenging the squire to a duel to avenge his sister. The
vicar’s second daughter Sophia is forcibly carried off in a carriage.
• By that time, the Primrose family have made the acquaintance of a
certain Mr. Burchall, who appears to be a broken-down gentleman.
But it is through this gentleman that Sophia is rescued. Then he
makes it known to the Primrose family that he is no other than
Squire Thornhill’s uncle, Sir William Thornhill. All now ends happily.
Sir William marries Sophia. Olivia is found out and the squire is
made to marry her. The vicar’s fortune is restored to him, and
George marries the young lady of his heart.
• Goldsmith was a poet, novelist, dramatist and
essayist, all combined in one person. Though
depreciatingly called " poor Goldy" by some of
his contemporaries, he was concerned with
social problems of his time and depicted the
social and economic evils in England in his
writings (though he never cut very deep in his
social criticism). In poetry, he adopted the
conventional form of heroic couplet, but he had
a delicate romantic spirit of his own, which made
him one of the representatives of so-called
"sentimentalists" by literary historians, who wrote
in the transition period from classicism to,
romanticism.
• A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, which
depends not on circumstance, but constitution
• The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting of
farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to
opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniencies of
life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search
of superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still retained the
primaeval simplicity of manners, and frugal by habit, they scarce
knew that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness
on days of labour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and
pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on
Valentine morning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, shewed their wit
on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve.
Being apprized of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out
to meet their minister, drest in their finest cloaths, and preceded by a
pipe and tabor: A feast also was provided for our reception, at which
we sat cheerfully down; and what the conversation wanted in wit,
was made up in laughter.
• Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill,
sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a pratling river
before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm
consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given an
hundred pound for my predecessor's good-will. Nothing could
exceed the neatness of my little enclosures: the elms and hedge
rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of
but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of
great snugness; the walls on the inside were nicely white- washed,
and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures of their
own designing. Though the same room served us for parlour and
kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with
the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers, being well
scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was
agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were
three other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two
daughters, within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest
of the children.
• The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in
the following manner: by sun-rise we all assembled in
our common appartment; the fire being previously
kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each other
with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up
some mechanical forms of good breeding, without which
freedom ever destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude
to that Being who gave us another day. This duty being
performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual
industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed
themselves in providing breakfast, which was always
ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this
meal, and an hour for dinner; which time was taken up in
innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in
philosophical arguments between my son and me.
• As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours after it
was gone down, but returned home to the expecting family; where
smiling looks, a treat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our
reception. Nor were we without guests: sometimes farmer
Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and often the blind piper,
would pay us a visit, and taste our gooseberry wine; for the making
of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the reputation. These
harmless people had several ways of being good company, while
one played, the other would sing some soothing ballad, Johnny
Armstrong's last good night, or the cruelty of Barbara Allen. The
night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my
youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day, and
he that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have an halfpenny on Sunday to put in the poor's box.
• When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all my
sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well so ever I fancied my
lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters; yet
I still found them secretly attached to all their former finery: they still
loved laces, ribbands, bugles and catgut; my wife herself retained a
passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to
say it became her.
• The first Sunday in particular their behaviour served to mortify me: I
had desired my girls the preceding night to be drest early the next
day; for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest
of the congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but
when we were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came
my wife and daughters, drest out in all their former splendour: their
hair plaistered up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their
trains bundled up into an heap behind, and rustling at every motion.
I could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife,
from whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore,
my only resource was to order my son, with an important air, to call
our coach. The girls were amazed at the command; but I repeated it
with more solemnity than before.--'Surely, my dear, you jest,' cried
my wife, 'we can walk it perfectly well: we want no coach to carry us
now.' 'You mistake, child,' returned I, 'we do want a coach; for if we
walk to church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot
after us.'--'Indeed,' replied my wife, 'I always imagined that my
Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome about
him.'--'
• You may be as neat as you please,' interrupted I, 'and I
shall love you the better for it, but all this is not neatness,
but frippery. These rufflings, and pinkings, and patchings,
will only make us hated by all the wives of all our
neighbours. No, my children,' continued I, more gravely,
'those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer
cut; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the
means of decency. I do not know whether such flouncing
and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we
consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the
nakedness of the indigent world may be cloathed from
the trimmings of the vain.'
• This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with
great composure, that very instant, to change their dress;
and the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my
daughters, at their own request employed in cutting up
their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the
two little ones, and what was still more satisfactory, the
gowns seemed improved by this curtailing.