Every human sentiment should have a book that fully embodies it, so the feelings irreverence and mirth are happy to have Tom Jones. In the early decades of the English novel, having already cut his teeth with satires both dramatic and narrative, Henry Fielding, incapable of containing the superabundance of bonhomie coursing through his mortal frame (so I’d like to imagine), took quill to inkstand and let it all out in the nearly one-thousand-page The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling. And Mister Tom Jones, foundling, whose childhood, young manhood, and oft-challenged quest for the heart and hand of fair Sophia Western make up the plot of the novel, is the kind of character you’re likely to like: seducer of women, imbiber of rum punch, gallavanter, cutup, and bosom mate. A thousand pages might seem like a lot, but it’s hard to get too much of Tom Jones. Fielding gave us the best English novel of the eighteenth century, and the world has been laughing ever since.
The experience of reading Fielding’s Tom Jones is akin to that of Cervantes’ Don Quixote: it’s hard not to have a persistent sense of its bighearted author breathing behind the scenes. History has given us a short list of people simply too charming not to write a beloved classic, and Fielding can walk across that proscenium with, to name a few, Chaucer, Byron, Goethe, Pushkin, and Dickens. He is clearly the least gifted writer of the bunch, but, like a prankster at a wedding, you’re still always glad you invited him. In his constant amiable interjecting to the reader, Fielding seems to be having quite a grand time, and his vivacious protagonist is clearly doing likewise. It is the writer and the novel’s sybaritic commitment to life as joy that makes Tom Jones a book to relish, despite the seeming challenge of its formidable girth. It’s a light-footed elephant, and it keeps dancing.
One doesn’t have to wait long to be entertained, for even the table of contents of Tom Jones is hilarious (Chapter VI—An apology for the insensibility of Mr. Jones to all the charms of the lovely Sophia; in which possibly we may, in a considerable degree, lower his character in the estimation of those men of wit and gallantry who approve the heroes in most of our modern comedies) and utterly endearing (Chapter VII—Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot laugh once through the whole chapter, unless per-adventure he should laugh at the author). I’m not sure exactly how many books you can judge by their tables of contents, but here is one that, in good 18th-century tradition, gives you both a précis of the contents and a foretaste of the manner. And both, needless to say, are likable in the extreme.
Now, following the 18th-century style myself, I will provide you a few topics for consideration:
A note on history, perhaps a bit academic and thus ripe for skipping, but which pedantry compels me to disclose: Despite a popular misconception owing, one assumes, to some spotty history, Tom Jones was not the first English novel, not only because, as I’ve said regarding Don Quixote, what constitutes a “novel” is a matter up for some debate, but, more significantly, because others came before. Nor is it even the first 18th-century English novel. That title belongs—as far as scholars currently tell us—either to one of Daniel Defoe’s works, Robinson Crusoe or Moll Flanders, depending on which the critic prefers (both of which seem like novels to me), or to Samuel Richardson’s interminable Pamela, of which Fielding later wrote a satire, called Shamela, which I prefer.
But while it might not be its century’s first novel, Tom Jones is clearly its most popular, and that’s why I’m including it here. Some of the fruits of that fertile period were more literary—Jonathan Swift’s outrageous satire, The Tale of the Tub; Richardson’s Pamela and Clarissa both; Lawrence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (which also takes the garlands for the weirdest book of the century, at times almost postmodern in both good and bad ways, at times utterly brilliant but at others supremely annoying)—but Tom Jones appears to be the one history is going to remember, probably because it is the most human. The 18th-century novel as a whole is going the way of the mastodon, similarly undone by its own bulk, but Tom Jones legs aren’t buckling anytime soon, and its inner vitality should keep it going even into the digital age.
A note on acquistion, rather less academic and having the advantage of being potentially salubrious equally to the reader’s wallet and well-being: my scholar’s edition of Tom Jones with its half-page running footnotes is positively gargantuan, but honestly there’s no point to committing the extra money and weight to such a beast; any one of the myriad cheap pocket paperbacks is all you need. There’s no real demand for extensive notes or scholarly apparatus; apart from some historical and literary references (which, if you don’t catch, only means you miss a few jokes) and a slight foreignness to the language, nothing about Tom Jones is especially challenging (unless you purposefully buy an edition that retains the 18th-century spellings). Don’t get an expurgated edition, however, because they are sure to leave out the prevailing sauciness that makes up much of the pleasure of Tom Jones—both character and book.
A note on celluloid, for here, unlike the majority of instances, your congenitally surly author has a nice thing or two to say about a film rendering: Tom Jones adapts well to film, or, rather, Albert Finney as a young man adapted well to Tom Jones. The early ’60s hit was somewhat scandalous, like its literary papa, but only a few hours long, unlike dear old dad. Of course, literate jokes are always more funny on the page—if you try to pack too much into film dialogue, no one understands anything (cf. Shakespeare adaptations)—but for the base exuberance and story line of Tom Jones, the film will do.
The Buzz: In truth, there’s probably more buzz these days about the film version of Tom Jones and its for-the-time raciness than there is about the novel. But regarding the paginated version, one is likely to hear either that it’s a jolly good time or that it is really quite confoundingly long or, yet more accurately, that it manages to be the former despite the latter.
What People Don’t Know (But Should): It might sound contrary to our sense of history or to typical preconceptions about old books, but 18th-century novels tend to be more fun than 19th-century ones. Something about the age of satire (as the 18th century is often called) seems to have made novelists feel especially free in the way they expressed themselves. This opened the door to a lot of playfulness, and Tom Jones is clearly one of the high points. By the 19th century, the corset strings were pulled a little tighter all around.
Best Line: Responding to Sophia’s protestations regarding one of her suitors, a more experienced woman delivers her theory of marriage: “What objection can you have to the young gentleman?” “A very solid objection, in my opinion,” says Sophia. “I hate him.” … “Child, you should consult Bailey’s Dictionary. It is impossible you should hate a man from whom you have received no injury. By hatred, therefore, you mean no more than dislike, which is no sufficient objection against your marrying of him. I have known many couples, who have entirely disliked each other, lead very comfortable genteel lives … I have not an acquaintance who would not rather be thought to dislike her husband than to like him. The contrary is such out-of-fashion romantic nonsense, that the very imagination of it is shocking” (VII, iii).
What’s Sexy: Since I didn’t tax you overly with my introduction, and since it happens to be a Mrs. Robinson tale told over two centuries earlier (and includes a Milton reference as well), I’m going to give you this scene with only minimal pruning:
Mr. Jones was in reality one of the handsomest young fellows in the world. His face, besides being the picture of health, had in it the most apparent marks of sweetness and good-nature. … It was perhaps as much owing to this, as to a very fine complexion that his face had a delicacy in it almost inexpressible, and which might have given him an air rather too effeminate, had it not been joined to a most masculine person and mien; which latter had as much in him of the Hercules as the former had of the Adonis. …
Now Mrs. Waters and our hero had no sooner sat down together, than the former began to play the Artillery of Love upon the latter. But here, as we are about to attempt a description hitherto unessayed either in prose or verse, we think proper to invoke the assistance of certain aerial beings, who will, we doubt not, come kindly to our aid on this occasion.
“Say then, ye graces, for you are truly divine and well know all the arts of charming, say, what were the weapons now used to captivate the heart of Mr. Jones.”
First, from two lovely blue eyes, whose bright orbs flashed lightning at their discharge, flew forth two pointed ogles … and immediately from her fair bosom drew forth a deadly sigh. A sigh, which one could not have heard unmoved, so soft, so sweet, so tender. … Then the fair one hastily withdrew her eyes and leveled them downwards as if she was concerned for what she had done: though by this means she designed only to draw him from his guard, and indeed to open his eyes, through which she intended to surprise his heart. And now, gently lifting up those two bright orbs which had already begun to make an impression on poor Jones, she discharged a volley of small charms at once from her whole countenance in a smile. Not a smile of mirth or joy, but a smile of affection, which most ladies have always ready at their command, and which serves them to show at once their good-humor, their pretty dimples, and their white teeth. This smile our hero received full in his eyes, and was immediately staggered with its force. He then began to see the designs of the enemy, and indeed to feel their success. To confess the truth, Mr. Jones delivered up the garrison without duly weighing his allegiance to fair Sophia. In short, no sooner had the amorous parley ended, and the lady had unmasked the royal battery, by carelessly letting her handkerchief drip from her neck, than the heart of Mr. Jones was entirely taken, and the fair conqueror enjoyed the usual fruits of her victory. [IX, v]
Quirky Fact: Despite all Tom Jones’ freewheeling frolicry, Fielding himself actually worked for a while as a magistrate— and even helped found an early British police force. That’s a switch.
What to Skip: Tom Jones is another long comic novel where you won’t want to skip anything as long as the humor keeps you amused. But if the page count ultimately outlives the laugh count, don’t feel guilty. As long as you’ve luxuriated a bit in Tom Jones’ warmth, the novel did its work.