The two contrasing authority-figures in Henry Fielding’s The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling (1749) are both justices of the peace as well as being neighbouring landowners. Squire Western is hot-headed, impatient, unreflective, obsessed with hunting and inclined always to revert to his fixed ideas about filial duty and what constitutes a good marriage. Allworthy, on the other hand, is scrupulously fair, far-seeing, thoughtful and, for the most part, careful not to let anger or other strong emotions (not including sympathy and mercy) influence his decisions. But justice is an elusive concept and Allworthy’s attempts to behave judiciously occasionally leave him open to criticism. The occasional ambivalence of his position is seen when he commits Molly Seagrim to the house of correction for the offence of being pregnant without ever having been married:

A lawyer may, perhaps, think Mr Allworthy exceeded his authority a little in this instance. And, to say truth, I question, as here was no regular information before him, whether his conduct was strictly regular. However, as his intention was truly upright, he ought to be excused in foro conscientiae, since so many arbitrary acts are daily committed by magistrates, who have not this excuse to plead for themselves. (IV, 2; p. 184)

Some twenty years earlier, Allworthy had been more understanding when confronted with the similar case of Jenny Jones, who didn’t deny being the mother of the foundling of the novel’s title. When she entreats Allworthy not to insist on knowing the name of the child’s father, because she is “under the most solemn ties and engagements of honour as well as the most religious vows and protestations, to conceal his name at this time” (p. 69), Allworthy tells her:

… she had done wrong to enter into such engagements to a villain; but since she had, he could not insist on her breaking them. He said, it was not from a motive of vain curiosity he had enquired, but in order to punish the fellow; at least that he might not ignorantly confer favours on the undeserving. (I, 7; p. 69)

Jenny has already promised him that he will one day know the father’s identity, and eventually he indeed learns it, though not as soon as Jenny expects.

Allworthy relents in the case of Molly Seagrim; he does so at the urging of Tom Jones, who uses arguments very similar to those relied on by Allworthy for treating Jenny with mercy so many years earlier. But Tom is an interested party, being perhaps the likeliest of the several candidates for fatherhood of Molly’s baby. So, strictly speaking, Allworthy’s eventual lenity towards Molly is as questionable as his initial severity.

This is not to suggest that Allworthy is, in general, a bad magistrate. He is certainly aware of what justice requires. Arguing with Captain Blifil, his sister’s husband as to whether benevolence towards the unfortunate children of unmarried parents is an encouragement to vice, he asserts:

But to represent the Almighty as avenging the sins of the guilty on the innocent, was indecent, if not blasphemous, as it was to represent him acting against the first principles of natural justice, and against original notions of right and wrong, which he himself had implanted in our minds; by which we were to judge, not only in all matters which were not revealed, but even the truth of revelation itself. (II, 2; p. 90)

The fact that Allworthy puts “the first principles of natural justice” even before “original notions of right and wrong” suggests that he sees these principles as fundamental. That would certainly be an appropriate opinion for a magistrate or other judicial figure to hold, though Fielding implies that it is quite unusual for magistrates to act according to those principles. The principles are (1) hear both sides (or hear the other side) and (2) nobody should be a judge in his or her own cause. In the decisive event that kicks off the novel’s main plot, Allworthy breaks both of these rules.

He has broght up the foundling as if he were his own son and has been tolerant and forgiving of the scrapes and “vices” (III, 2, p. 123) into which Tom’s exuberance and high spirits habitually led him. However, after Allworthy has recovered from an illness that had seemed to threaten his life, learned of the death of his sister, and been maliciously misled into believing that Tom Jones had drunkenly exulted in the prospect of his benefactor’s death, he throws Jones out of his home and resolves to have no further contact with him.

It’s true that the magistrate gives Tom the opportunity to answer the accusation against him. Unfortunately for the young man, he largely in ignorance of the case he has to rebut:

Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his defence; nay, indeed, he hardly knew his accusation: for, as Mr Allworthy, in recounting the drunkenness, &c. while he lay ill, out of modesty sunk everything that related particularly to himself, which indeed principally constituted the crime, Jones could not deny the charge. (VI, 11, p. 286–7)

Jones is conscious of the many minor transgressions of which he has previously been guilty, but not of the imputation of monstrous ingratitude, so all he can do is plead for mercy and forgiveness.

“… Nay,” said Mr Allworthy to him, “your audacious attempt to steal away the young lady, calls upon me to justify my own character in punishing you. The world, who have already censured the regard I have shewn for you, may think, with some colour at least of justice, that I connive at so base and barbarous an action …” (VI, 11; p. 287)

Allworthy is acting as a judge in his own cause, since he is the supposed victim of Jones’s alleged ingratitude. Of course, he doesn’t leave young Jones completely destitute, but gives the young man a packet containing £500. Jones hasn’t opened this packet before he loses it, so it’s only at the end of the story that he discovers how much it contained. Molly’s father, the gamekeeper Black George Seagrim, has picked up the package while going through the motions of helping Jones to search for it. When shortly afterwards, Sophia Western asks George to deliver 16 guineas to Jones, George has to work out of the ethics of stealing a large sum while passing the much smaller sum to its intended recipient.

Black George having received the purse, set forward towards the alehouse; but in the way a thought occurred to him, whether he should not detain this money likewise. His conscience, however, immediately started at this suggestion, and began to upbraid him with ingratitude to his benefactor. To this his his avarice answered, “that his conscience should have considered the matter before, when he deprived poor Jones of his 500l. That having quietly acquiesced in what was of so much greater importance, it was absurd, if not downright hypocrisy, to affect any qualms at this trifle.” In return to which, conscience, like a good lawyer, attempted to distinguish between an absolute breach of trust, as here where the goods were delivered, and a bare concealment of what was found, as in the former case. Avarice presently treated this with ridicule, called it a distinction without a difference, and absolutely insisted, that when once all pretensions of honour and virtue were given up in any one instance, there was no precedent for resorting to them upon a second occasion. In short, poor conscience had certainly been defeated in the argument, had not fear stept in to her assistance, and very strenuously urged, that the real distinction between the two actions, did not lie in the different degrees of honour, but of safety: for that the secreting of 500l. was a matter of very little hazard; whereas the detaining the sixteen guineas was liable to the utmost danger of discovery. (VI, 13; p. 295)

Magistrates and justices of the peace like Allworthy and Western are the lowest rung of the judicial ladder. They’re not much concerned with questions of law but are routinely called upon to make findings of fact. How it is possible to determine the truth, or the facts, with an acceptable degree of certainty? This is the question at the heart of Tom Jones. That his primary concern is with matters of fact and truth is behind the author’s reminder that he has titled the work a “history, and not a life; nor an apology for a life, as is more in fashion” (II, 1; p. 87).

This impression is reinforced by the speech paterns adopted by the authorial voice. “To tell truth” and variations on this expression recur throughout the story, implying that the “truth” of any given situation is not necessarily evident on the surface. Also, the authorial voice repeatedly professes ignorance as to the mental states behind a character’s behaviour or appearance. For example, we are told about Dr Blifil:

Whether his religion was real, or consisted solely in appearance, I shall not presume to say, as I am not possessed of any touchstone, which can distinguish the true from the false. (I, 10; p. 75)

There are many similar cases throughout the book. In most of them, the implication is that the discreditable alternative is most likely to be true — but that one must always be wary of imputing bad motives on inadequate evidence, as the example of Jones himself demonstrates.

As for the questions of fact to be determined, it is well known that it can be difficult to establish a child’s paternity. Tom Jones believes (to start with, at least) that he is the father of Molly’s baby, but there’s no reason why it might not equally be Square’s or Will Barnes’s (V, 6; p. 220). But, by the end of the novel, it has become apparent that, in certain circumstances, the question of maternity might be equally elusive.

One circumstance in which it may be particularly difficult, and particularly necessary, to find out the truth is where a man professes his undying love for a woman he wishes to marry. Might he, like Blifil, feel no affection at all for his intended and merely wish to gratify his desires by tormenting her and making her life miserable? Or, like Fitzpatrick, might he simply want to get his hands on her estate, so he can gamble it away? At least, Sophia’s instinctive revulsion from Blifil protects her. But the question remains a hard problem.

In the penultimate chapter, Sophia still doesn’t have a foolproof way of knowing whether Tom Jones will be faithful to her if she should accept him. She knows about his history of adventures with Molly, Mrs Waters and Lady Bellaston, and of his duplicitous proposal to the last of these. Tom assures her that he would never have behaved so licentiously if he had thought there was any possibility of his winning her hand, and that he has sincerely repented.

“Sincere repentence, Mr Jones,” answered she, “will obtain the pardon of a sinner, but it is from one who is a perfect judge of that sincerity. A human mind may be imposed on; nor is there any infallible method to prevent it. You must expect however, that if I can be prevailed on by your repentence to pardon you, I will at least insist on the strongest proof of its sincerity.” (XVIII, 12; p. 865)

The “strongest proof” that she has in mind is time.

“[T]ime, Mr Jones, can alone convince me that you are a true penitent, and have resolved to abandon these vicious courses, which I should detest you, if I imagined you capable of persevering in.”

In the end, though, she doesn’t insist on proof of this kind but accedes to her father’s command that she marry Jones the following day. She is quite right that any human mind, including one as wary and experienced as Allworthy’s, may be deceived. The passage of time would give her the opportunity to view Jones’s behaviour from a number of different perspectives, giving her a fuller picture, but even that could never provide an absolute guarantee of his constancy, so arguably she’s not going to learn anything more useful by waiting longer.

Fielding himself became a justice of the peace for Westminster the year before Tom Jones was published, though probably after he had finished writing the novel. Later his jurisdiction was extended to the whole of Middlesex and, with his fellow-justice and half-brother, John Fielding, he became an influential figure in the development of a police force. Clearly he had thought deeply about questions of justice and adjudication, and his conclusions have a significant influence on this novel.

In this post, I’ve concentrated on the related themes of justice and finding out the truth. There’s at least one other major theme in the novel, and it has to do with the question of honour. This first becomes an issue when Jenny tells Allworthy that she has promised not to reveal who Tom’s father is. Allworthy responds that it was wrong of her to give the promise but, having done so, she would be wrong to break it. When the almost adult Tom is whipped for shooting a partridge on neighbouring land, he worries that he might, under this torture, be brought to break his promise and betray the identity of his accomplice, who would lose his livelihood as a result.

The honour theme continues when Jones prepares to challenge Northerton to a duel, but it really caught my attention when he goes to meet Lady Bellaston at a masquerade:

Jones had never less inclination to an amour than at present; but gallantry to the ladies was among his principles of honour; and he felt it as much incumbent on him to accept a challenge to love, as if it had been a challenge to fight. (XIII, 7; p. 633)

That’s when it first struck me that he’s attempting to work out his own morality from first principles, presumably in reaction to the tiresome doctrines peddled by Thwackum and Square, and that it’s inevitable that he will sometimes make mistakes.

I’d like to write some more about the novel’s treatment of honour but I haven’t left myself enough time or space to do so here. (This post is already very late.) I may return to the theme in a future post. In two weeks’ time, unless there’s a change of plan, I’ll probably be writing about Daphne du Maurier’s The Scapegoat (1957).

Edition: Penguin Classic paperback, ed. RPC Mutter, 1966, 1985.