CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDO^VMENT FUND GIVEN IN 189I BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 31 82203 MASTERS OF LITERATURE Crown %vo. y. bd. net This Series aims at giving in a handy volume the finest passages from the writings of the greatest authors. Each volume is edited by a well-known scholar, and contains representative selections connected by editorial comments. The Editor will also contribute a lengthy Introduction, biographical and literary. A Portrait will be included in each volume. First List of Volumes: SCOTT. By Professor A. J. Grant. THACKERAY. By G. K. Chesterton. FIELDING. By Professor Saintsbury. CARLYLE. By the Rev. A. W. Evans. DEFOE. By John Masefield. DICKENS. By Thomas Seccombe. DE QUINCEY. By Sidney Low. EMERSON. By G. H. Ferris. HAZLITT. By E. V. Lucas. STERNE. By Dr. Sidney Lee. London: GEORGE BELL AND SONS MASTERS OF LITERATURE FIELDING LONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS PORTUGAL STREET, KINGSWAY, W.C. CAMBRIDGE : DEIGHTON, BELL & CO. NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN CO. BOMBAY : A. H. WHEELER & CO. »7 S:'^.Wiy..JZ-Li/L (Z/p^/r ■ I* ^ftcG:h. i/U' G '.on/ri 7 MASTERS OF LITERATURE FIELDING 'V EDITED BY GEORGE SAINTSBURY, D.Litt., LL.D. PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH LONDON GEORGE BELL AND SONS 1909 CHISWICK PRESS : CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION ix JOSEPH ANDREWS i JONATHAN WILD no TOM JONES ii6 AMELIA 251 A VOYAGE TO LISBON 347 INTRODUCTION I IT would be an excellent subject for one of those dis- sertations, which are becoming more and more fashion- able in academic curricula, to consider Mr. Matthew Arnold's classification of the English aristocracy as "Barbarians" with special reference to Henry Fielding. He had, indeed, according to the Arnoldian definition, a double title to the designation ; for he was at one time of his life at any rate, and as long as he had the op- portunity, an enthusiastic sportsman. But as to his pos- session of the main requisite, what we call "gentle," and what is called abroad "noble," blood, there could be no question whatever. Horace Walpole himself, who regarded Fielding with a curious complication of dislike, and whose weakest point was certainly not genealogy, must have known that he could pick no real hole here. Whether that origin from the House of Hapsburg, which Gibbon has enshrined in one of his most magnificent sentences, be history or myth, and whether the name came from the original Geoffrey of Hapsburg's claims to a German estate called " Rinfilding," or had a somewhat more obvious etymology, it isquite unnecessaryto inquire. The family had certainly been of knightly rank in Eng- land for many centuries ; and in the seventeenth they had received two earldoms, that of Denbigh in the Eng- lish peerage, and a generation later that of Desmond in the Irish. The first Earl of Desmond had many sons; the fifth of them, John Fielding, took orders and became a canon of Salisbury. His third son, Edmund, a soldier b X HENRY FIELDING who served under Marlborough and became a general, married Sarah Gould, daughter of a judge of the King's Bench. At the judge's country seat of Sharpham Park, , in Somerset, between Glastonbury and the Polden Hills, ^ Henry Fielding was born on 22nd April, 1707. Three years later Sir Henry Gould died, and the Fielding family took up their abode at East Stour, or Stower, on the road from Shaftesbury to Sherborne, in Dorsetshire. Four younger children, three girls and a boy, were born there, and the eldest of the girls, Sarah, became, like her brother, a novelist, her chief book, David Simple, being not without merit. The mother died in 17 18; and up to that time it would seem cer- ■^ tainly, perhaps a little longer, Henry remained at home . enjoying the pedagogic attentions of a certain Rev. Mr. Oliver, who is traditionally stated to be the original of " Parson Trulliber " in his pupil's first novel. If so, the reverend Eumaeus certainly " caaled vurst" at a genius which was in the future to show no common faculty of answering calls on it. But after his mother's death the boy was sent to Eton . The exact period of his stay belongs to the pretty frequent uncertainties of his life ; but it is put, with fair probability, at or about from 17 18 to iTaj;. Although it is improbable that he distinguished himself as what has been called by later generations (usually with opprobrious intention) a " sap," a " swat," a " grind " — one of the persons who hurt the feelings of the com- munity by excessive and offensive diligence — it is quite certain from the result. that he did not wholly waste his time at school. For he gives constant evidence in his books of the possession of a kind of scholarship which, however "unscientific" it may seem to the present day, is far more solid and, above all, far more literary than that which any but a very few schoolboys carry away with them nowadays. But we really know nothing about his school days except that, as usual, he made friends there, the most noteworthy being George, afterwards !^j:dj_Lyttelton, who was later of much use to him, and tfie bee-in-bonneted and rather reprobate, but witty and by no means unamiable, Hanbury- Williams. INTRODUCTION xi From Eton he went to Leyde n — it used to be thoug-ht more or less directly — the choice of a foreign rather than an EngHsh university being less unusual then than it would have been later, and perhaps also explicable by special circumstances. ' One of these is an incident which, interesting in itself, though very uncertainly known, has additional importance as showing that the elopements and abductions which sometimes seem to us rather over- done in eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century novels, were sufficiently faithful copies of life. There was living about the end of the third quarter of the century at Lyme Regis — famous for its historical associations of eighty years past, and to be famous for the fictitious catastrophe of Miss Louisa Musgrove eighty years later — a certain Mj.ss Sarfllt And.rpii" She was young and pretty ; she was an heiress and an orphan ; she is said to have been a sort of cousin of Fielding's, and her guardian made a formal affidavit that he went in fear of the said Henry Fielding ' ' and his man. " The inevitable presence of a Strap, or a Partridge, or a Jerry Tugwell in any eighteenth- century scene, is worth noticing. The actual tale is not half told by record; but it is certain that Miss Andrew was sent into Devonshire to the house of another guardian whose son she promptly married, in the year 1726. Field- ing seems to have been more angry with her than with the guardians, for his revenge was to translate Juvenal's Sixth-Satire. Butfor the new dates given in the notebelow, it would seem extremely likely that, as he was under age (the translation is described as " sketched before he was twenty," and "as all the revenge taken by an injured lover ") he was in his turn packed off to Leyden to be^ out of mischief. But the dates just mentioned interfere seriously with this view. His comfort in Holland can hardly have been increased, and his departure from it is said to have been occasioned, by his father's neglect to perform the undoubtedly troublesome, but on the whole ' It ought to be said that later researches make the older ac- counts doubtful. His admission as "Stud. Lit." at Leyden is as late as March, 1728, and he was certainly there next year, thougfh he appears to have left early in 1730. xii HENRY FIELDING necessary, duty of providing his son with an income, except on paper. The general (who, however, had not yet reached that rank) had married again ; a second family was making its appearance. And though, when his son came back to London, he allowed him — still on paper — two hundred a year, which, for the time, was far from illiberal, the paper was not even of that kind which can be translated into a little money, and a great many " paving stones and rockinghorses ", by the aid of bene- volent discounters. ' ' Any body might pay it who would " was Fielding's own succinct and sufficient description of the state of his ways and means. Nobody manifesting the smallest desire to discharge General Fielding's obligations, his son had to look out for a subsistence ; and he found it (had indeed, it would seem, begun to find it not merely before he left Leyden, but perhaps before he went there) in what was be- ginning to be the usual refuge of the destitute — the press. Of the three forms of literature which pay — the novel, the newspaper, and the drama — the first was hardly in existence, though Fielding, before many years had passed, was to help it to become very much so, and was to derive fair, if not munificent, rewards from it. r He tried periodical writing before very long ; but first he tried the drama. Surprise has been expressed by a judge of unsurpassed competence, Mr. Austin Dobson, that he should so soon have made his way in it there; and it seems extremely likely that as his stay at Leyden was certainly shorter, his start in literary London life may have been earlier, than has been generally allowed. Still, it is not necessary. At the time the theatre was very popular; but there were curiously few good dra- matists. Steele, though he did not die till the year after Fielding's first piece was produced, had written nothing since 1722. Mrs. Centlivre had died in 1723. Colley Gibber was almost the only living regular play- wright of the slightest ability, and there was room on the stage not merely for "sports" of talent like the Beggar's Opera, but for such utter rubbish as Johnson's Hurlothrumbo. In such conditions a young man un- INTRODUCTION xiii usually well connected in more ways than one (his cousin, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, read in manu- script this first piece, Lme in Seye rql flfqsq iies. acted early in 1728), and remarlcably striking in appearance (the famous actress, Mrs. Oldfield, took a fancy to the piece and made it by her acting, having not improbably taken a fancy to the author already), might have no ill chance. At any rate he had it and brought it off; nor, after con- tinuing to write plays for nearly a decade (1728- 1737) - did he apparently give up the stage for any stronger reason than the quite sufficiently strong one that the stage gave up him — a new Act of Parliament limiting*^ the number of theatres and establishing the Lord Cham- berlain's veto on plays. Now Fielding, though a strong Whig, had satirized the Walpole rdgime severely in Pasquin, perhaps from a virtuous horror of bribery, per- haps because he had in 1730 and 1731 addressed to the Prime Minister verse petitions for preferment, which had not been granted. His warmest admirers have not had much to say in V favour of his dramatic work. The Author's Farce (1730- 1734; it had an earlier, and a later and much improved, version) is an unequal but amusing medley, with a good deal of the clear observation and fresh, sharply-cut phrase which were to distinguish the novels. The better-known burlesque of Tom. T humb is a still more amusing cento, on the pattern of T7ie_^Rehearsal, of the more recent follies of heroic drama from Dryden to Thomson ; and Pasquin (1736) is a very vigorous holding-up-the-mirror to~tne corrupt electioneering of the time. These could only have been written by a clever man ; but even these ' have not very much stuff in them ; almost all the others are mere imitation or adaptation. If Fielding had been nothing but a dramatist he would hardly be remembered at all, except by students of the history of the stage. And it may be added that he, who was nothing if not critical, seems not to have been under the slightest delu- sion as to the value of this division of his work. It will have been seen already that any life of Fielding has to lay its account with a most lavish use of the un- xiv HENRY FIELDING satisfactory words "doubtless," "perhaps," " it ap- pears," and the like. In fact there are very few writers of anything- like equal eminence, at so late a date, re- specting whom we have so little trustworthy evidence. One point of importance, however, which used to be in doubt, is now settled — the date of his marriage, which was 28th November,._i734, while the place was Charl- combe, near Bath. The orTde's name, Ch^riotteCradock, had always been known, as well as theTaSITTEianier husband avowedly drew both SoE^hia and Amelia from her. In fact, his affection and admiration forT&er seem to have been unbounded, though it is extremely prob- able that he was very nearly as unsteady a lover as Mr. Thomas Jones, and perhaps (though he could not have been quite such a fool) not much less unsteady a husband than Captain William Booth. The most picturesque story that used to illustrate the extremely vague and sketchy biography of Fielding be- longs to this period. According to Murphy, the novelist's first editor and biographer, his mother died shortly after his marriage, and he succeeded to property in Dorset- shire worth about two hundred a year. Having fifteen hundred pounds also in ready money with his wife, he proceeded to keep open house in the country for some three years, with hounds and horses and a large staff of menials in yellow liveries, till the whole was wasted. Now there is hardly a point in this — down to the yellow liveries — which has not been damagingly criticized, while hardly any part of it has the slightest solid corrobora- tion. It is quite certain that Fielding's mother was dead nearer twenty than ten years before his marriage, and it is equally certain that he did not reside continuously out of town for three years, or anything like three years, at this or any later date. At the same time, there is not a little testimony, including that of his well-disposed and well-informed cousin, Lady Mary, to his having been a spendthrift; there are hints, which have rather an auto- biographical look, in the novels; and the best judges 'are of opinion that in 1735, or later, he may possibly for a short time have tried to live at East Stour in a INTRODUCTION xv manner above his means. It is certain, however, that for about eighteen months, in 1736-7, he was manager of a theatrical company (which he called ' ' the Great Mogul's ") at the Haymarket Theatre, and that by the summer of the last-named year this company, which had acted Pasquin and another bold satire on Walpolian ways, called the Historical Register, was put out of action in more ways than one by the operations of the ' Act of Parliament above mentioned. Some other means of living had to be found by the manager-author. He had deserted law, or rather he had never attempted seriously to take it up. He now regularly entered him- self (ist November, 1737) at the Middle Temple, and was actually called three years later, on 20th June, 1740- But if he had formerly deserted law for literature, he did not now desert literature for law, but contrived to make himself happy with both. Even his playwright work con- tinued, though, in the altered circumstances, on a much smaller scale. But he also turned to the perig^cal, and from 15th November, i239) to the day b"e?ore he was called— a coincidence probably with a cause to it — edited, in connection with the bookseller's hack, Ralph, a paper called The Champion or The Evening Advertiser. There is nothing very great in The Champion, although (per- haps rather because of Fielding's connection with it than of anything else) it is almost the only one of its class whose name has survived among the very numerous essay-serials which rose and sank between the palmy days of Addison and Steele and the revival at the middle of the century in the Ramhler, Idler, World, Connoisseur, etc. Not here either lay the circle in which Fielding was to show himself a true magician, though he returned to the kind more than once, especially during the trouble- some times of the "Forty-Five," in the very strongly partisan Whig Tr-ue Patriot and Jacobite's Journal, as well as quite late in his life in the Covent Garden Journal. It is, indeed, probable that not a little of the work which actually appeared in the Miscf.Uan i^.t nf_.i^.3 [v. inf.) was composed in these years. For t\\& Journey Jrom. this World to the Next has a certain air of the novitiate xvi HENRY FIELDING about it (clever as it is in parts) which forbids one even to discuss the suggestion that it was written aSter Joseph Andrews. And though there is certainly nothing of the novice about Jonathan Wild, one of the maturest and strongest compositions in the English language, yet it should be remembered that the great Jonathan received his reward as early as 1725. No man of Fielding's years then could have written Jonathan Wild, but the idea of it might have occurred to the author at any time between 1730 and 1740, and the final form have been given later. Although it is pretty certain that, what with the ways of that time and what with his own temperament, Field- ing continued to be a rather hard liver, there is no evidence that he neglected his profession, and even some that he worked hard at it. He certainly went the Western Circuit, which it was natural for him to select. And it has been well pointed out that in the list of subscribers to the Miscellanies there is a very large number of lawyers. Yet though he was to do very hard, very use- ■^ul, and exceedingly creditable work in that profession itself, it was not at Bar or on Bench that Fielding was to make his real position. That this position would have been attained, whatever had happened, if he had only lived long enough, there can be no doubt. But the im- mediate cause of its attainment was undoubtedly some- thing with which he himself had nothing whatever to do ; in other words a piece of sheer luck, though, as is usually, if not invariably, the case, the way of using the luck was all his own. It pleased the Fates, and the Muses, and Samuel Richardson, that that excellent printer — who was in every possible respect except genius for the novel, and even in the kind of that genius, Fielding's exact opposite — should issue Pamela or Virtue Rewarded in the autumn of 1740; and it pleased the public, which had been dying 'for novels, to go wild over the interesting but slightly questionable adventures of that perfectly virtuous, but extremely wideawake damsel. Of late years people have been perhaps unduly hard upon the book; but the way in which it lay open to ironic parody could escape no one to that manner born. INTRODUCTION xvii And Fielding had already shown in his dramatic work that he was so born, though he had as yet had not much more than trivial opportunities of showing his gifts. Now the spoil was before him ; and he flew upon it, with the result that The History of the Adventures of foseph Andrews and of his Friend, Mr. Abraham Adams, was published in February, 1742, to the delight, ever since, of all persons of wit and humour in these king- doms, to the undying resentment of Richardson at its "lewd and ungenerous engraftment" on his own work. We have receipt for the copyright by Henry Fielding from Andrew Millar, of St. Clement Danes in the Strand, of ;^i83 ii.r. — no very enormous sum, but a fair price for a first novel of no great length. Of the book itself, as of the other novels, criticism may best be postponed. It was popular, though not extraordinarily popular; but its popularity was at any rate sufficient to procure for the author a sort of readmission to the stage, of which he did not make quite such use as he might. Miss Lucy in Town, which is only partly his, is not exactly a masterpiece, and The Wedding Day, which appeared in February, 1743, was not only quickly taken off the stage, but served, according to tradition, as the occasion of an incident which, though it certainly shows Fielding's humour, has touches both of unreason and something like brutality not common in him.' This play was, however, followed almost immediately by the al- ready referred to Miscellanies, where the very remark- able subscription list — Pitt and Fox, Chesterfield and Dodington and Hanbury-Williams, Garrick and Peg Woffington and Kitty Clive — was certainly not more remarkable than the chief of the contents, of which more anon. But Fate — not perhaps quite unassisted by his ' Garrick, then a very young actor, is said to have drawn Fielding's attention to a passage which he thought likely to irritate the audience; but the author refused to omit it, saying: "D n them : let them find it out." The expected result occurred, and the actor fled into the greenroom, where the author was solacing him- self with a (suspiciously "property") bottle of champagne and plug of tobacco, and made his moan. To whom Fielding, " Oh ! d n theml they have found it out, have they?" xviii HENRY FIELDING own deeds and misdeeds— was, on the whole, unkind: she never was very kind to Fielding. He had been — so Lady Mary told her daughter, Lady Bute, who told hers, Lady Louisa Stuart — almost always miserably poor, alternating decent lodgings and tolerable comfort, at the most, with garrets and spunging houses. One daughter apparently died in the winter before the ap- pearance of the Miscellanies, and his adored wife fol- lowed her at an uncertain time, probably later in the same year. For some time we know nothing about him, except that in 1744 he wrote a preface to the second edition of his sister Sarah's David Simple, and that later he began the series of anti-Jacobite periodicals already noticed, in which, by the way, he took an opportunity to pay a compliment to Clarissa, without in the least softening Richardson's old-maidish spite. On 27th November, 1747, he married Mary Daniel, who had been his wife's maid, and seems to have gone to live at Twicken- ham. Their eldest son, William, was born next year, and lived till 1820, being in his later days a Westmin- ster magistrate. // chassait de race, for in the year of his birth the long period of his father's struggle with Fortune had been ended — not very handsomely or magnificently, but in a fashion sufficient to keep him in future from actual want — by his appointment as Justice of the Peacre for that City, and simultaneously or later for the County of Middlesex. He became, in fact, " Bow Street magis- trate," actually living in the famous street, where the Duke of Bedford seems to have given him — either for nothing or on easy terms — a lease of his house. The post was of no great value, being, it would seem, entirely paid by fees and perquisites, not to say bribes ; and his own account of the profits, and his treatment of them, is famous — " £s°° a year of the dirtiest money in the world," which he reduced to three-fifths, no small portion of this remaining with his clerk. ^ But in the ' He, however, acknowledges a "secret service allowance," which may have been ;C20o a year, a. sum known to have been paid in similar cases. INTRODUCTION xix remarkable English way, which was never more remark- able than in the eighteenth century, it was a place of extreme importance, and actually put its holder at the head of such police as there was, not merely in London, but even after a fashion throughout the country. For a " Bow Street Runner" was something like the Duke of Wellington's army at the end of the Peninsula cam- paigns — he could "go anywhere and do anything." The appointment was due to his old schoolfellow, Lyttelton, who received a scratch for it from the amiable claw of Fielding's rival — Smollett. But there certainly have been few appointments better justified both directly and indirectly. Although it would please a certain school of literary historians (and would have been unhesitatingly done by some of them) to count among these justifications 7^ History ofTomJ ones, a Foundling, would be altogether unmsforicaiT It wasnot, indeed, published (2 8th Feb ruary, 1749) till after his appointment, though some time befbre tne seal had been set upon it by the choice of him (12th May) as Chairman of Quarter Sessions. But it is not a book to have been written in a hurry — especially with fresh duties, the trouble of changing house, and the like, thrown upon the author; indeed it is doubtful whether even Scott, calamo suo currentissimo, could have written a book of the length of Tom. Jones, and seen it through the press, in three months. It is much more likely to have occupied at least three years, and to have been, in its first conception, the result of recovery from the dejection caused by his wife's death, and from the disgust with authorship which appears in the above- mentioned Preface to David Simple, written in 1744. Tradition assigns various places to the actual writing of what is perhaps the most famous of English novels — Salisbury, Bath and its neighbourhood, especially the suburb of Twerton, Twickenham, etc. ; and there can be little doubt that he lived at all these places in the years immediately preceding its publication. But when that publication took place he was finally settled in Bow Street, the house being afterwards transferred, with the XX HENRY FIELDING magistracy, to his half-brother, Sir John, and burnt by the mob in the Gordon riots. The book was popular at once and for ever ; and Millar, who had given Fielding what was then the very handsome price of six hundred pounds, added another hundred in consideration of the rapid sale. It was not so bad: Esmond, a hundred years later, only brought Thackeray three hundred more. But it would probably be not difficult to find examples ot books not one-tenth as good which have been worth to their authors nearly, or quite, ten times the money. Richardson, in one of the half-disgusting and more than half-amusing letters in which he betrays the insana- bile irulnus of the Pamela parody, characterizes Fielding as "an unyielding-spirited man ": and though the com- pound is rather cumbrous, the characterization is un- doubtedly true. It was very well for him at this moment that his spirit was unyielding. His health had for years been hopelessly broken ; although he had at last some- thing like a regular income, and although the ;^7oo that Tom brought in must have been delightfully useful, his means must have been still very straitened for his position ; and in the half-vagabond life which he had been living he can have had no possible opportunity of getting things handsome about him. Probably, when in the early days of his Bow Street residence, according to a famous anecdote of Horace Walpole's, his table-cloth was dirty, and he had mutton and ham in one dish, poor Mrs. Fielding (who seems to have been an excellent housekeeper) had had no time to replenish her stores of linen and crockery, of which she certainly could not have accumulated much in the apparently peripatetic existence they had led since her marriage. His professional work, which must in any case have been severe (and which, according to this very anecdote, was at least considered by the public never to be over), must have been made heavier still by his determination to get it into proper order. Soon after his appointment as Chairman of Quarter Sessions he composed and delivered an admir- able and almost classical Charge to the Grand Jury ; and shortly afterwards he wrote a pamphlet, the Case of INTRODUCTION xxi Bosavem Penlez, which sounds exactly like a novel itself, but which was really a justification of a death sentence that had excited public feeling. It is by no means im- probable that overwork had something to do with the serious attack of fever, added to his usual gout, which came on him at the end of 1749. But his own death-sentence was reprieved for another lustrum; and the "unyielding spirit" set itself once more to do with its might the things, greater and lesser, that the hand found to do. In January, 1751, he issued another pamphlet on the subject of the lawlessness then existing in London, drawing particular attention to the disorders attending the sale of spirituous liquors, which was then practically carried on without duty on the com- modity or license for the vendor. It seems very likely that Hogarth, who was a friend of Fielding's (both men being in cordial sympathy), issued his famous "Beer Street " and " Gin Lane " prints as auxiliaries, and the matter actually formed the subject of legislation in the same year. In this year also, Bishop Hurd, dining with Mr. Allworthy (alias Ralph Allen) met Mr. Fielding, and thought him " a poor, emaciated, worn-out rake, whose infirmities have got the better even of his buff'oonery." Now Hurd, though he was a man of divers merits, and, in particular, a much better critic than it is usual to allow, was a prig of the very first water, and it was not in nature that a prig should get on with Fielding. More- over, the novelist had already received, as we know, many favours from Allen, and had paid his debts in Tom Jones after a fashion which might naturally attract more. And favours from Allen might injure the prospects of Allen's nephew-in-law, Warburton, to whom Hurd was a great deal more of a faithful follower than Partridge was to Jones. So it is not surprising that the future bishop (he had not yet reached the bench on which, though there have not been few better, there certainly have been many worse) did not apparently take a fancy to Fielding, whose " emaciation " is only too likely. He had scarcely recovered from the dangerous illness above noted ; he was just going to experience relief (alas 1 only xxii HENRY FIELDING temporary) from the newly discovered springs of Glaston- bury (interesting references to Antaeus would certainly have been made by his contemporaries, for he had been born close by), and the one recognized portrait of him is but "skull and skin." But this worn-out rake was still just about to produce something which had very little of the rake in it except experience, and nothing of the worn-out — the great novel of Amelia, which appeared in Decembe r, 1 25 1 • It also will "cStne up — not for judgement, which would be a phrase as impertinent as silly, but for attempt to estimate — later. It is enough to say here that Millar ventured a thousand pounds on it, and had not to repent his bar- 'gain ; that it conquered — not Richardson of course, but Fielding's almost as irreconcilable enemy, Johnson ; and that, which was then a nearly unheard-of thing, a second edition was in demand on the day of the issue of the first. Grub Street, after its usual fashion towards its lost leaders, seems to have been rather abusive : and it was, perhaps, questionably wise of Fielding to provoke this abuse, almost by anticipation, in the starting of a new periodical, the Covent Garden Journal. It lasted for about a year, and contained some vigorous work, but perhaps nothing that could not be spared ; and, it may be, a good deal that stood in the way of something better. He seems to have intended (as Fate had deter- mined that he actually should do) to ' ' bury his books " in the novel way with Amelia. But the author, in the very shadow of death, of the Voyage to Lisbon, must have had in his wallet not a little that would hardly have been alms for oblivion had he brought it forth. This work, however, in pure and applied literature, did not in the least interfere with his professional energies. He published in 175 2 a sort of collection of cases of detected murders, mtended to check that rather homicidal time in its neglect of the sixth commandment ; he issued a proposal for improved poor-houses, and he intervened (after fashions which have been variously judged) in the curious and rather tiresome mystery-case of Elizabeth INTRODUCTION xxiii Canning. As late as the autumn of 1753 he undertook an extraordinary job of dispersing certain gangs of murderous " hooligans" or "Apaches" (as would be said now), and accomplished it in a few weeks. But he had postponed for this business a visit to Bath which he had been positively ordered to make, and when he had finished it he was too ill to go. He seems indeed (though the facts are not known) to have actually resigned his office to his brother, who had been his assistant for some time. He spent the winter in the country somewhere, moved in May to a cottage called Fordhook, near Ealing Common, and just after mid- summer began his own "Journey from this World to the Next " by embarking at Rotherhithe on a ship bound , for Lisbon — then not an uncommon sanatorium-cemetery for English invalids. His gout was now complicated with asthma, jaundice, and dropsy, and fits of acute pain served as variations to a situation of invariable discom- fort. The ship was The Queen of Portugal, the master Richard Veal. Fielding was accompanied by his wife, his daughter. Miss Margaret Collier (a daughter of that remarkable person Arthur Collier, author of Clavis Uni- versalis, and a Berkeleian before Berkeley), and two servants. The voyage has its history, which will be spoken of and excerpted later. It took them a month to leave the Isle of Wight, and nearly another to reach Lisbon, which they did on the 14th August. Of Fielding's actual residence there we know nothing ; but his case ' was hopeless, and he died on the 8th October. He was buried in the English cemetery of the Estrella, and his compatriots of the Factory there built him a tomb. This was succeeded nearly eighty years later by a second, for which subscriptions were procured by the Rev. Christ- opher Neville, English Chaplain. At least one other of the occupants of this office has bestowed pious care on the monument of one whom Borrow perhaps did not quite happily style " the most singular genius which England ever produced," but who certainly was one of the mightiest and, in so far as genius is concerned with ordin- ary human life, one of the most universal. xxiv HENRY FIELDING In person, Fielding was, during his youth at any rate, a tall and handsome man, strongly built; in fact, pretty much the "great, broad-shouldered, genial Englishman" of Tennyson's well-known line. It does not appear that we have any genuine portrait except the well-known sketch — chap-fallen and rather ghastly, but still noble and impressive — of Hogarth. Other so-called portraits, not derived from this, are hard to reconcile with it, and one — that in the Mineral Water Hospital at Bath — has been thought much more probably to represent Allen. There is no doubt that this beau-ideal of the eighteenth- century patron — who could only be associated with "want " and the "jail " because he spent his life in extri- cating men from them — was for many years most liberal to Fielding, whose family, moreover, he helped to support after their father's death. That Fielding himself after such a career should have had much to leave was im- possible, but he apparently had managed to collect a library by no means despicable. This was sold after his death, and it shows, as indeed do his own books, that he had not allowed the talent of literary knowledge which he had received at Eton to rust, but had put it out to fair use. Besides the monument at Lisbon, there is another to him, about five-and-twenty years old, in the Shire Hall of his native county at Taunton, including a bust modelled after the Hogarth portrait (with a certain "filling in") by Miss Margaret Thomas; and yet another bust at Eton by W. F. Woodington. II In the foregoing biographical sketch, it may have been noticed, a few critical remarks have been interspersed as to Fielding's lesser productions : but none, or hardly any, as to his greater ones. This section, on the other hand, which will be nothing if not critical, will be entirely de- voted to these greater works. They all, even the Voyage, INTRODUCTION xxv hang together as being direct pictures of life : and they all possess merit and quality which is positively unmis- takable, requiring nothing to eke it, or give it allowance. With the plays, the periodicals, the pamphlets, the poems, it is quite different. They are, almost without exception, merely interesting because they were written by Fielding : it is not rash to say in regard to the others that Fielding is interesting because he wrote them. For poetry he had no mission at all: and though he wrote decent, easy pedestrian verse, even as mere verse it has no special attraction. Of his plays and periodicals enough has been said: one need only add that the objection taken by a few of his critics to his incorporation in the novels of phrase, situation, or scene from some of these minor works appears rather asinine. His pamphlets, etc. , are for the most part extremely sensible thought, clothed in the vigorous English of which he was always a master. But he can hardly be said to belong to literature in regard to them — certainly he does not belong to it as a con- sequence of any of these things. There are, it has been said, notable touches in the Journey from this World to the Next; not a little just and lively satire ; some extremely acute and bold observations of human nature ; a touching picture (which has been not unjustly thought to refer to the death of his own child in 1743) of the meeting of father and daughter in the world of shades. But we can give it no more room here: and none in the extracts which are to follow. Here and there Fielding must be the Fielding of Joseph Andrews, Jonathan Wild, Tom- Jones, Amelia, and the Voyage to Lisbon. Warton, who saw him at Miss Sarah Fielding's house in 1746, tells us that the author himself thought Joseph Andrews his best work: but it has been very properly pointed out that this was three years before the publica- tion of Tom, Jones, and must, almost certainly, have re- ferred only to the Miscellanies, the plays, etc. Yet, though it is very unlikely that he did do so, Fielding would not have shown the almost proverbial favouritism of mothers in the flesh, and authors in the spirit, if he had given Joseph the primacy. That its design is in a manner c xxvi HENRY FIELDING parasitic, being formed upon Pamela, matters very little: for the question with a work of art is not ' ' What sug- gested this?" but "Is this good?" Pi.nd Joseph most certainly is good. In hardly any case is Dryden's famous but never to be hackneyed phrase of the ' ' first sprightly runnings " more applicable than here. Fielding strikes at once that astonishing vein of life, which it was to be his province to work and teach others to work, and the working of which was to transform, if not practically to create, the English Novel: and such a "bonanza" no miner, in wet or dry, ever struck for abundance and quality. In particular, common consent has decided that Mr. Abraham Adams is one of the most consummate characters in fiction. He is said to have had an original of the name of William Young, who was actually the witness to the deed conveying the property in his own second creation : but, as usual, this has merely the in- terest of gossip. Velasquez's ' ' Admiral " is not the worse picture because historians assure us that there was an actual dignitary who sat, or stood, for it; his "Venus" is not the better because other authorities assure us that there never was such a person as Venus. The art that re-creates the model is certainly not less great than the art that invents out of the head ; perhaps, indeed, it is the greater and the more difficult art of the two when once the stipulation is made that the result shall be real. Now everybody in Joseph Andrews is ., real. How far Fielding, who undoubtedly began the book as a parody of Pamela, continued it as such, and how far the parody scheme was of advantage or disadvantage to him, are questions which need hardly be discussed here. The disadvantages come mostly at the end, where it is impossible for the author (or, at least, where he does not choose) to follow his original directly, yet where he is hampered a little with the personages whom the parody forced on him. It may also be objected (with some, though not complete, justice) that Mr. Wilson's account of his history, good as it is, and excellently as it brings out Adams, is rather more like a clever paper INTRODUCTION xxvii or two of the Addison kind^ than a chapter in a novel. And any one who is (as most modern critics seem to be) irreconcilable to the eighteenth-century fancy for in- set stories that are hardly even episodic, will find him- self out of touch with Fielding both here and throughout. The wiser mind, perhaps, will not take this line of _ criticism. It will say "How many pages are there in this book that I have not read with interest? " and having answered that question it will go on to ask another: " In how many books of older date have I found cause for the same sort of satisfaction? " The answers to both these questions depend, of course, to some, and the first to a large extent, upon individual taste. But in regard to the second, the material of any competent answer is for the most part solid matter of history ; with which knowledge and ignorance, not taste or (as the Germans say) "wwtaste," are concerned. In- dependently of Pamela, but in common with Pamela it- self, Joseph Andrews belongs to a kind of literature which, very slowly elaborated, had during the seventeenth century taken, in Spain first and then in France, the form of what from its earliest, or almost earliest, variety is called the "picaresque" novel. This novel is a direct reaction from, and contrast to, the heroic romance : the picaro or common rogue being substituted for the knightly hero, and adventures — varied, but of common and possible life — for combats with giants and enchanters. Cervantes had in a manner combined the two in parody- ing the heroic romance itself: and Fielding from the first inscribed himself- as a-follower ofXervafttes; ' -""TiiTJngland the kind has sometimes been regarded as starting with Nash's Jack Wilton or The Unfortunate Traveller in Elizabethan times : but the present writer regards this as a fond thing patriotically invented. After the Restoration, Head and Kirkman's English Rogue is a lowering, to the very gutters and sewers, of the lowest Spanish kind: and The Pilgrim's Progress, through an ^ He actually took this line with Wilson and Adams in The True Patriot, a little later. xxviii HENRY FIELDING infinite exaltation thereof and achieving the true life- likeness of character-drawing, loses, perhaps unduly, in some estimations, the character of a novel because of its religious tone and its allegorical method. Fifty years later again Defoe made new attempts, and came rnuch nearer the goal: but Defoe, never unlifelike, misses complete lifelikeness after a fashion, the reasons of which it would tax an introduction to him on the present scale to indicate, and which are quite impossible to deal with in an introduction to Fielding. 7 Lastly, Pamela itself brought the process still nearer reality : but something was wanting: and this something Fielding gave in Joseph Andrews/ Exactly how he gave it, genuine critic- ism will always confess that it is unable to tell : but some circumstances and conditions of the giving are within reach of analytical discovery. It is certain that, since Cervantes himself, such a combination of qualities had not been found in any novelist; and that, since Cer- vantes, and in England, the times had become infinitely more favourable to novel-writing, because the merely ordinary life, which is the appointed novel soil and at- mosphere, was becoming more widely diffused. War and brigandage, the galleys and the auto-da-fd, an upper and a lower class separated by hardly any middle, are cap- ital ^things for romance — less capital for novel. This advantage Fielding had over Cervantes : over his Eng- lish predecessors, putting actual genius aside, he had others. He was a scholar, if not of any extraordinary scholarship, yet of such as neither Bunyan, Defoe, nor Richardson could lay claim to : and this helped him to the general knowledge of humanity, which never varies. Un- like Richardson, he was a gentleman : and could avoid 1 Richardson's conventionalities and absurdities in the delineation of those "upper classes" who still played such an immensely important part in English society. Yet he had been much thrown with the lower classes, and made no mistake about them. Unlike Defoe, he was a man of wide-ranging humour, and could constantly en- liven his presentation with that : while he had nearly as much eye for detail as Defoe himself, and could notice it INTRODUCTION xxix in regions to which Defoe's eyes were utterly closed, such as those of beauty. Unlike Bunyan, he was not ex- clusively devoted to religious and moral purpose, though he was absolutely opposed to the shameless immorality and to the affectation of irreligion which were the dis- grace of his day. So far, it must be admitted that he had in a remarkable union both the positive and the negative ingredients of any possible recipe "To Make a Good Novelist." It pleased the fates that he should also have the genius without which all these ingredients would have lain as an inert heap in the bowl. ^ He had, however, after all, rather shown in Joseph Andrews what he could 'do than actually done i^ and objections might be taken to the apparent indebtedness of the piece to its original, to its unambitious character in plfiJ;4to the absence, except Adams, of any command- ing personage in it, and to the further absence of any- thing like a heroin^ For little Fanny, though a very nice young person, is hardly a character; poor Lady Booby is only introduced in a most equivocal situation, and is dismissed as unceremoniously as she has been employed; and though Mrs. Slipslop is, as Mr. Gray the poet condescendingly acknowledged, "perfectly well," you would not exactly call her a heroine. It was natural that his own soul, let alone other people, should say to him, Paullo majora canamus, and he did not gainsay his soul : no man ever did who has done greatly. So he set about (with how much or how little delay we have seen is an unsolved question) the making of Tom Jones. But between Joseph and Tom there appeared something else, not necessarily, or indeed probably, in the order of its composition, but a very important further document of his own powers. Jonathan Wild may be best described for our present purpose as a special side-study, or preliminary exercise, in two methods or processes which undoubtedly together give its principal distinction to Fielding's work. One of these methods is the ironic-sarcastic; the other is the unsparing analysis of human motive and character. As if of purpose. Fielding has in this book not exactly XXX HENRY FIELDING exaggerated (for exaggeration implies a certain falsity, and there is nothing false in Jonathan Wild), but concen- trated and essentialized both his processes, till the result is shocking to some, distasteful to many, and, it would seem, not fully intelligible, and therefore not enjoyable, to any but a very few. From beginning to end the temper and tone are purely ironic ; there is hardly a sentence in the book where some word, or words, or the whole clause, does not either bear a meaning quite opposite to the ostensible one, or suggest something which is at any rate quite different from the ostensible. From beginning to end — with the exception of one main character whose heart is better than his head, and a few minor ones grouped round him — the entire dramatis personae is com- posed of the dregs or the scum of society. But the author, unlike some more modern, and one or two more ancient, dealers in rascality, has not the slightest sym- pathy with it ; appeals in his delineation of it to none of the lower instincts of humanity: scorches and brands it all through, not indeed with indignation, but with thrice distilled and sublimated scorn. The consequence necessarily has been that while proper moral persons have been scandalized by the subjects, and amiable ones pained by the tone, those who enjoy grimy books for the grime have found no pasture here, and have let the book more or less alone. But those who can thoroughly ap- preciate it will usually regard it as one of the greatest of intellectual and literary achievements : and it can hardly be denied that it represents a ' ' bottle of quint- essence " of a certain sort from which drops were taken to fortify, inspirit, and colour the milder and more generally potable beverages of the other books. This metaphor is all the more applicable because Fielding undoubtedly composed his books with rather unusual system. The popular idea of him as a heedless slapdash genius has naturally brought with it the notion that his elaborate prefaces are merely "his fun," — that his reading was scanty and somewhat paraded; his critical disquisitions a humorous pretence ; and his books in reality things written currente calamo to amuse him- INTRODUCTION xxxi self and others and to obtain the much needed guinea. Never was there a much greater mistake. Fielding may for some — probably too many — years of his life have been extravagant and wild in his personal habits, but from ih^ Journey from this World to the Afejc/ (so-called), of his early manhood, to that final work which might almost have borne the same title, almost everything of his bears the marks of careful preparation ; if you were to take the prefaces themselves away, they could be deduced from the text. He may, or may not, have, as tradition , says he did, arranged a complete digest of the Statutes ; at Large in two folio volumes. But it is' quite certain that he had meditated on prose fiction — comparatively few and scanty as were the capital examples which he had before him — and had studied these latter, as an ambitious barrister studies statute and case, day and night for years. I think it extremely probable that he had made no small study of criticism itself: and it is quite certain that the definition of the novel which he sets in the forefront of Joseph (v. inf. ) is (as all critical utterances should be) the result of much thought and study ; that it is (as too few of them are) admirably just ; and that it is, further (as but one or two such things have ever had the chance of being), perfectly carried out by its author in practice after being enunciated in principle. Lucian and Swift were evidently his chief models in style and attitude : though he had less of the purely " rhetorical " detachment than the first, and much less misanthropy than the second. Cervantes and Le Sage stood to him in the same relation for character- drawing and tale-telling, though he ranged wider than the first and worked deeper than the second. But his " comic epic " theory made it necessary for him to devote himself to plot in a manner for which Lucian and Swift had had no occasion, and which Cervantes, and still more Le Sage, had not attempted. It must have been in reference to this last point that he could least satisfy himself with Joseph Andrews : for though construction there is neither absent nor con- temptible, the parody-scheme affects it, not wholly to xxxii HENRY FIELDING its advantage, both at the beginning and at the end: while it can hardly be pretended that everything in the middle leads, except in a purely physical sense, to that ^nd itself. In Tom Jones he set his whole strength to '' the task of removing this reproach : and one may ven- ture, in spite of the contrary opinion of some distin- guished modern critics, to " say ditto to Mr." Coleridge in opining that he has succeeded. The enormous digres- sion of the " Man of the Hill" has been often made an ogicilon : but this objection may be promptly overruled. In the first place, these inset stories were merely a trick of the time, and things very like them had been ad- mitted by quite severe unity-critics. In the second (which is much more important), the " Man of the Hill" story has nothing more really to do with the story of Tom Jones than if it had been inserted with a new title-page at the end to make the last volume as thick as the others. You need only "lift it out," set it aside^ and pass on without so much as looking at it: thg__dis- carding of it will iiot in the slightest degree afecL^your comprehensibh"6T the play of the hand. All that actual play is "perfectly logical and right, perfectly adjusted, built up, and tapered from beginning to end. Yet there may be some to whom these niceties of con- struction do not specially appeal: who feel inclined to say, "Very pretty," and pass on. The actual construc- tion of life is a great deal more rough and ready, not to say haphazard, than this meticulous tessellation and tally of antecedent and consequent. But though Fielding attends to it here with extraordinary, and almost every- where with considerable, attention, he does not in the least depend on it. Indeed, if it were possible to strip it oflF entirely, he would, in the opinion of some, remain one of the very greatest of novelists — one of the abso- lutely first group of the greatest — in virtue of his com- mand of character, and of what may be called, in its widest and largest sense, style. In the former respect Tom Jones was up to its own time absolutely unrivalled; it has since only been sur- passed by the work of Thackeray, who does not enter INTRODUCTION xxxiii into competition on the point of plot. With the doubtful exception of the villain, Blifil, who, though nothing that he does or says can be pronounced impossible or even improbable, somehow does not seem to come up to the rest in complete verisimilitude, everybody in Tom Jones, for alLllie antique dress and speech and manners, is a person whom you might meet every day: one' or other of them you do meet almost every day. This divine or diabolical Jifelikeness is achieved by the presence of all sorts of little true strokes, but most of all by the absence of any stroke that is false. NeTtTiertheir speech nor their action ever bewrayeth them : they are never " out." You may argue whether Tom did or did not overstrain the license accorded to the eighteenth-century gentleman ; you may wonder whether Sophia did or did not over- strain the tolerance which was required of the eighteenth- century lady ; you may be shocked or not at the morals of Lady Bellaston and the manners of Squire Western. But if you know a live human being when you see him, or her, you know that the population of Tom Jones is a flesh- and-blood population." Almost higher again, for some readers'perhaps, are the attractions which we have rather promiscuously accumulated under the head of style — the clear, vigorous, picturesque English, sometimes flouting the grammar-books, but always in perfect keeping with grammar itself; the constant, never overdone, ever pre- sentflow of irxmy — always dry, never bitter, and with the dryness softened like that of the greatest wines by the volume and roundness of flavour; above all, the ever- recurring jewels of phrase, too quiet and unpretentious for the now hopelessly vulgarized word " epigram," but specimen-examples of wit and wisdom mingled ; flashing light over the pages, sometimes down to the depths, sometimes up to the heights, of humanity. There are books, many and delightful, which breathe, as it were, the spirit of the library: they are not false to life, but its spirit is not eminently theirs. There are others, many and delightful too, which breathe life first of all, and sometimes have very little literature in them. There are some, not many, but most delightful of all, in xxxiv HENRY FIELDING which the spirit of life and the spirit of letters go hand in hand. And of these books is Tom Jones. This unique combination of powers — for there is no novelist, French, English, or in any other language to Russian, who unites command of plot, character, and phrase as Fielding does — could hardly be shown again in equal substance. His business increased, and his health fell off, too much for that. But in Amelia, his last novel, and in the Voyage, his last work of any conse- quence, something very much more than its shadow remains. One might — not, perhaps, quite foolishly — say of Amelia that the horses are the same but the driving power is rather weaker : they are not so thoroughly in hand. Even here it is a question whether it is not the readers rather than the writer who are in fault. Johnson and Thackeray — an enemy who sometimes allowed his reason to be overcome by his enmity, and a friend who did not always let his friendship be thoroughly under command of his reason, considered it Fielding's best work: and who are most of us that we should be set against the consent of Thackeray and Johnson? The fact is, that Fielding's very genius is here against him with readers of less genius than himself. Booth is an elder Tom Jones in unfavourable circumstances : and an elder Tom Jones in unfavourable circumstances loses much of the unfair excuse that we have extended to his earlier stage. Amelia is an elder Sophia mutatis m,utandis, and we ungratefully and ungraciously dislike the muta- tion. But perhaps nature and we are to blame rather than Fielding. The gaol scenes; the masterly, though on the scheme of the book necessarily not fully de- veloped, part of Miss Matthews ; Colonel James; Colonel Bath ; Mrs. James's portrait of Amelia; scores of other things ; who shall blame these? Who, if he has the face to blame, will have the kindness to indicate things superior to them? And then the Voyage finishes all with its subdued but matchless portrait of a great nature accepting the in- evitable without fuss and without pretension, retaining its plastic powers almost uninjured to the last, softening INTRODUCTION xxxv though keeping its irony ; enjoying what there is to enjoy, suffering what there is to suffer, thinking for others in the one sense, thinking for itself and for us in the second ; reaUzing, as has hardly been realized elsewhere, the memorable and constantly applicable line : Mais le plus sage en rit, sachant qu'il doit mourir. Ill In Fielding's time, it need hardly be said, the institu- tion of regular reviewing was not yet, and the few periodicals in which it was coming into existence — the Gentleman's Magazine, the one or two published Reviews, the occasional Addisonian imitations, in which he him- self took part more than once — supplied it but fit- fully and irregularly, not to mention that they were, even to a greater extent than has since been the case, far too likely to be the instruments either of booksellers' puffing or of private partisanship or spite. For critical estimates of any value, therefore, we have for the most part to look to individual utterances of remarkable persons in letters, conversations, etc. In regard to Fielding, it would ol course be idle to pay any attention but that of, as has been said, half-amused, half-disgusted curiosity to the expressions of rivals, such as Richardson and Smollett. Both of these disgraced themselves by extreme ex- hibitions of their respective besetting sins — old-maidish spite in the one case, and swashbuckling Billingsgate in the other. But, indirectly, the conduct of both is a testimony to the way in which they felt his superior- ity. Of professionally disinterested persons, competent in literature, our chief references to him are from Gray, Walpole, Johnson, and Lady Mary. Gray (it was very early in his career, and he still had the coxcombry of youth, while he was always a little given to literary " superfineness,") has left an amusingly patronizing verdict on Joseph Andrews, when it appeared, as "ill xxxvi HENRY FIELDING laid and without invention," but having a "great deal of nature in the characters" and "very good reflect- tions." He is quite sorry for people who are insensible to " these light things"; and is himself good enough to admit that "Parson Adams is perfectly well; so is Mrs. Slipslop" and the story of Wilson. But one imagines that Fielding's smile, could he have read this, would have been perfectly better. As for Horace Walpole, his attitude to Fielding is at once intelligible, and not quite so. He could not (for Horace was no fool) but perceive his genius ; he himself allows him, in the context of a coarse epithet applied to his- Muse, ' ' unimaginable wit. " Many years later, though this may perhaps be called merely a case of ' ' one nail [i.e., one dislike] driving out another," he classes Field- ing with Prior and Swift, and (less closely) with Gray, as instances of Johnson's failure to appreciate genius. But his personal references to the novelist are always disobliging: and he stigmatizes him as "low," "want- ing grace," and so on. It is indeed impossible to imagine two men more opposite in temperament and tastes than Fielding and Walpole; and the latter was not likely to be conciliated by the fact that Fielding was as good a gentleman as himself, or a little better. The author of Pasquin, moreover, and of the Historical Register, though a good Whig and at times a eulogist of Sir Robert, no doubt came in for a share of that obstin- ate partisanship, which made Horace determine to show himself the son of his father by never forgiving his father's enemies. But I think it has escaped general notice that there is in Tom Jones a passage which might almost seem as if it were written directly " at " Walpole, inasmuch as it contrasts the boisterous plea- sures of drinking, etc. , indulged in by the gilded youth of the last generation, with the borough-mongering, gaming, and connoisseur-fribbling of those of the present. Now this certainly hits " Horry " pretty hard. As for Johnson himself, his famous denunciation of the novelist as a "blockhead," that is to say, "a barren rascal," is obviously of as much or as little validity as any INTRODUCTION xxxvii other vague explosion of abuse. And the two attempts which he made to defend his attitude to Boswell (who, to do him justice, was not in the least convinced by them) are, if not such mere vain breath, obviously fal- lacious. At one time he distinguished "characters of nature " from "characters of manners," assigning the latter only to Fielding, the former to Richardson, and observ- ing that characters of nature could only be obtained by "diving into the recesses of the human heart." ^ Of course, the admirers of Fielding will meet this with an absolute denial, which is far more valid now than it could have been a hundred and fifty years ago. For the " manners " in Fielding amuse us now but languidly, though they do amuse us ; his " nature " is what attracts generation after generation to him in spite of the change of the manners, which has sunk so many other novelists. But Johnson's greatest fallacy on the subject was his still more famous adoption of, I think, a comparison of Fontenelle's, by saying that " Fielding could no doubt tell the hour by looking at the dial plate, but Richardson knew how the watch was made." For here Johnson was evidently making a wholly wrong comparison. The real difference, if difference there be, is between a man who ostentatiously exposes the works and the processes by which they are made, and one who goes through the same preliminary labour, but artistically concealing the processes of art, gives you the time with infallible cor- rectness. On the whole, however, it is so evident that the case was a case of mere partisanship, that little more need be said of it. I have elsewhere suggested that there may be a special reason — that Johnson, as a tempted ascetic, resented Fielding's extremely indulgent attitude towards ' ' crimes of sense " that were not " crimes of malice." ' I do not know whether any one has noticed that Johnson took these very words (unconsciously, of course, or else most ungrate- fully) from the praise which had been given to his own Life of Savage in Fielding's Chatnpion. It is true that the notice is said to have been written by Ralph, not by Fielding himself. xxxviii HENRY FIELDING Boswell's context of expostulation, however, is an invaluable evidence that the general opinion among Johnson's younger contemporaries was pretty sound on Fielding; and this is confirmed, in higher place, by Gib- bon's well-known and magniloquent, but also magnifi- cent and just declaration in reference to the supposed Hapsburg pedigree of the Fieldings, that " Tom Jones, that exquisite picture of human manners, will outlive the palace of the Escurial and the Imperial lineage of Austria." In yet another and yet a greater generation, Coleridge took up the strain : and it may be confidently asserted that at no time for the last hundred years has there been the slightest doubt among competent critics, who judge literature as literature, as to Fielding's genius. On the other hand, the alleged licence of his sentiments and situations has never wanted objectors; even at the present day, when novels which Fielding would have characterized very much as he characterized the pornography of his own time are common. It is a subject on which silence is best. At any rate, it may be enough to say, from the pot-and-kettle side, that there are scenes in Richardson which are far more ' ' indecent " than anything in Fielding; and, from a wider outlook, that only the most morbid of natures could possibly be injured by anything in Fielding himself. It is said that that extremely moral nation the French — which was at the moment solacing itself with the works of Cr6billon_;f/^ and of Diderot — objected to Tom Tones as "shocking," and laid interdict on aversion of it. Nor, though he had some readers at the time, and though that one-sided but sturdy critic Gustave Planche has left one of the best estimates of Fielding's genius, has he ever shared in French affection the popularity of Richard- son. But the books are said to have been tolerably widely translated, and to have been specially popular in Spain, where no doubt not merely the direct compliments to Cervantes, but the Cervantesque flavour, might attract readers. On the whole, however, there is little doubt that Fielding has not been one of the great English writers who have been most popular abroad. And this is INTRODUCTION xxxix not very wonderful, for he is one of the most intensely English of these English writers themselves, while Richardson and Sterne have much more in common with Continental tastes. His influence at home has been indirectly very great ; in fact, Scott (whose judgement was nothing if not sane and sensible, and who was even not very partial to Fielding) has applied, more justly than usual, a frequently futile form of praise in calling him the ' ' Father of the EngUsh Novel." But like most very great writers (not, of course, all) he is not easy to imitate, and the most direct and complete imitation — the Henry of the dra- matist Cumberland — is chiefly worth reading, if it is worth reading at all, because of its utter failure. In his early days Dickens followed Fielding's fashion of bur- lesque invocations and descriptions at the opening of chapters to a small extent, but wisely gave it up. On the other hand, Thackeray is practically Fielding redi- vtvus; with, it is true, an immense diff^erence of environ- ment, with an amply sufficient one of idiosyncrasy, and with no mere copying, even in formal and external things, but still exhibiting a quite marvellous spiritual kinship. IV With one important exception, Fielding's works under- went little variation from their first appearances, though he occasionally availed himself, like other people, of subsequent editions to make corrections. One instance of this latter concerns a small matter which has had a rather absurd amount of attention in his own time and since. His first wife, it appears, had a carriage accident, which for a time disfigured her nose ; and in introducing this, according to his odd way, in the fictitious portrait of Amelia, he used words which seemed to imply that the cartilage had been permanently injured. Richardson actually triumphed {parole d'honneur/) over his enemy's dead wife's " noselessness " ; Lady Mary lamented it; many grave writers since as gravely discussed it — till xl HENRY FIELDING Mr. Austin Dobson pointed out that in the second edition of the novel Fielding, sensible of his slip, had in- serted in the half-deprecatory, half-complimentary de- scription which Mrs. James gives of Amelia, a sentence mentioning that the feature, well shaped as it was, had a slight scar from the accident. Since which all is well. After rather a surprising number of years a complete edition of the works in four quarto volumes appeared by the dramatist Arthur Murphy, and in this, as well as in a contemporary separate edition, the Viyyage to Lisbon appeared very considerably changed from the version which had been produced immediately after the author's death. For the bibliographical questions affecting this references must be made to special dealings with the sub- ject. Since 1762 editions of separate books have been very numerous, and — especially in the last twenty or thirty years — those of more or less complete collections not few. The text in the following selections is that of the edition of Roscoe, which appeared originally with the life, and with illustrations by Cruikshank in 1840, and has been reissued in various forms by the publishers of this volume. In the present volume it has been care- fully collated with the originals. George Saintsbury. HENRY FIELDING JOSEPH ANDREWS FIELDING'S first novel starts, as has been said, with a parody 6"f the situation of Richardson's "Pamela," where a young libertine of fortune, "Mr. B." (the extension of this to " Booby " was very likely one of the parodist's greatest crimes in Richardson's eyes) persecutes, with dishonourable attentions and attempts, his deceased mother's pretty companion, Pamela Andrews. Her resistance, her adventures, and the final con- version of Mr. B. to honourable addresses and marriage form the main, in fact, all but the entire subject of the book, at least of its first part, which alone Fielding had !n view. He starts (after the preliminary matter to be presently given) with the temptation of Joseph (who is supposed to be Pamela's brother, and is a footman in the service of Lady Booby, a member of Mr. B.'s family) by his widowed mistress, and her dismissal of him when he rejects her advances. This rejection is at least partly due to his affection for a pretty village girl, Fanny, who is soon produced in person, and shares Joseph's adventures, the proprieties being preserved, and the largest part of the interest provided, by Parson Adams, curate of the parish to which they belong, and one of the greatest triumphs of English fiction. In the course of these adventures they come to the house of a certain Mr. Wilson, a ci-devant man about town, who has retired to a modest livelihood in the country, but has had the misfortune to lose his eldest son by kidnappers. The adventures close at the home of Joseph and Fanny, where, after various "alarums and excursions," and the reappearance of Mr. B., Pamela, Lady Booby, and some other characters (the most important of whom is Mrs. Slipslop, Lady Booby's maid) the due revolutions and dis- coveries come about. Joseph turns out to be the lost Master Wilson ; he marries Fanny, and everybody lives as happily as Fate may permit afterwards. B HENRY FIELDING I [The Preface and the first three chapters may be given entire, as they supply a perfect introduction to the manner and method of the book, and to most of its principal characters. ] {Preface) I As it is possible the mere English readei-i may have a different idea of romance with the author of these little ' volumes, and may consequently expect a kind of enter- tainment not to be found, nor which was even intended, in the following pages, it may not be improper to premise a few words concerning this kind of writing, which I do not remember to have seen hitherto attempted in our language. The Epic, as well as the Drama, is divided into tragedy and comedy. Homer, who was the father of this species of poetry, gave us a pattern of both these, though that of the latter kind is entirely lost; which Aristotle tells us, bore the same relation to comedy which his Iliad bears to tragedy. And, perhaps, that we have no more instances of it among the writers of antiquity, is owing to the loss of this great pattern, which, had it survived, would have found its imitators equally with the other poems of this great original. And farther, as this poetry may be tragic or comic, I will not scruple to say it may be likewise either in verse or prose : for though it wants one particular, which the critic enumerates in the constituent parts of an epic poem, namely, metre ; yet, when any kind of writing contains all its other parts, such as fable, action, characters, sen- timents, and diction, and is deficient in met»e only; it seems, I think, reasonable to refer it to the epic; at ' Joseph Andrews was originally published in two vols., i2mo. JOSEPH ANDREWS 3 least, as no critic hath thought proper to r'ange it under any other head, or to assign it a particular name to it- self. Thus the Telemachus of the Archbishop of Cambray appears to me of the epic kind, as well as the Odyssey of Homer ; indeed, it is much fairer and more reasonable to give it a name common with that species from which it differs only in a single instance, than to confound it with those which it resembles in no other. Such as those voluminous works, commonly called Romances, namely Clelia, Cleopatra, Astraea, Cassandra, the Grand Cyrus, and innumerable others, which contain, as I apprehend, very little instruction or entertainment. Now, a comic romance is a comic epic poem in prose ; differing from comedy, as the serious epic from tragedy : its action being more extended and comprehensive ; con- taining a much larger circle of incidents, and introducing a greater variety of characters. It differs from the serious romance in its fable and action', in this ; that, as in the one these are grave and solemn, so in the other they are light and ridiculous : it differs in its characters by intro- ducing persons of inferior rank, and consequently of in- ferior manners, whereas the grave romance sets the highest before us ; lastly, in its sentiments and diction, by preserving the ludicrous instead of the sublime. In the diction, I think, burlesque itself may be sometimes admitted; of which many instances will occur in this work, as in the description of the battles, and some other places, not necessary to be pointed out to the classical reader, for whose entertainment those parodies or bur- lesque imitations are chiefly calculated. But, though we have sometimes admitted this in our diction, we have carefully excluded it from our senti- ments and characters ; for there it i s ii# ver properly in- troduced, unless in writings of the bi^j^i^ue kind, which this is not intended to be. Indeed, no two speaies of writing can differ more w'idely than the comic and the burlesque ; for as the latter is ever the exhibition of what •s monstrous and unnatural, and where our delight, if we examine it, arises from t* surprising absurdity, as 4 HENRY FIELDING in appropriating the manners of the highest to the lowest, or ^ cowverso ; so in the former we should ever confine ourselves strictly to nature, from the just imitation of which will flow all the pleasure we can this way convey to a sensible reader. And perhaps there is one reason why a comic writer should of all others be the least ex- cused for deviating from nature, since it may not be always so easy for a serious poet to meet with the great and the admirable: but life everywhere furnishes an accurate observer with the ridiculous. I have hinted this little concerning burlesque, because I have often heard that name given to performances which have been truly of the comic kind, from the author's having sometimes admitted it in his diction only ; which, as it is the dress of poetry, doth, like the dress of men, establish characters, (the one of the whole poem, and the other of the whole man,) in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater excellencies : but surely, a certain drollery in style, where the characters and sentiments are perfectly natural, no more constitutes the burlesque than an empty pomp and dignity of words, where everything else is mean and low, can entitle any performance to the ap- pellation of the true sublime. And I apprehend my lord Shaftesbury's opinion of mere burlesque agrees with mine, when he asserts, " There is no such thing to be found in the writings of the ancients." But perhaps I have less abhorrence than he professes for it ; and that, not because I have had some little success on the stage this way, but rather as it con- tributes more to exquisite mirth and laughter than any other; and these are probably more wholesome physic for the mind, and conduce better to purge away spleen, melancholy, and ill affections, than is generally imagined. Nay, I will appeal to common observation, whether the same companies are not found more full of good-humour and benevolence, after they have been sweetened for two or three hours with entertainments of this kind, than when soured by a tragedy or a grave lecture. But to illustrate all this by another science, in which, perhaps, we shall see the distinction more clearly and JOSEPH ANDREWS 5 plainly, let us examine the works of a comic history painter, with those performances which the Italians call Caricatura, where we shall find the true excellence of the former to consist in the exactest copying of nature ; in- somuch that a judicious eye instantly rejects anything outrd, any liberty which the painter hath taken with the features of that alma mater; whereas in the Caricatura we allow all licence, its aim is to exhibit monsters, not men; and all distortions and exaggerations whatever are within its proper province. Now, what Caricatura is in painting, Burlesque is in writing ; and, in the same manner the comic writer and painter correlate to each other. And here I shall ob- serve, that, as in the former the painter seems to have the advantage, so it is in the latter infinitely on the side of the writer ; for the Monstrous is much easier to paint than describe, and the Ridiculous to describe than paint. And though perhaps this latter species doth not in either science so strongly affect and agitate the muscles as the other, yet it will be owned, I believe, that a more rational and useful pleasure arises to us from it. He who should call the ingenious Hogarth a burlesque painter, would, in my dpinion, do him very little honour ; for sure it is much easier, much less the subject of admiration, to paint a man with a nose, or any other feature, of a pre- posterous size, or to expose him in some absurd or mon- strous attitude, than to express the affections of men on canvas. It hath been thought a vast commendation of a painter to say his figures seem to breathe ; but surely it is a much greater and nobler applause, that they appear to think. But to return. The Ridiculous only, as I have before said, falls within my province in the present work. Nor will some explanation of this word be thought impertin- ent by the reader if he considers how wonderfully it hath been mistaken, even by writers who have professed it ; for to what but such a mistake can we attribute the many attempts to ridicule the blackest villanies, and, what is yet worse, the most dreadful calamities? What 6 HENRY FIELDING could exceed the absurdity of an author, who should write the comedy of Nero, with the merry incident of ripping up his mother's belly? or what would give a greater shock to humanity than an attempt to expose the miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule? And yet the reader will not want much learning to suggest such instances to himself. Besides, it may seem remarkable, that Aristotle, who is so fond and free of definitions, hath not thought proper to define the Ridiculous. Indeed, where he tells us it is proper to comedy, he hath remarked that villany is not its object : but he hath not, as I remember, posi- tively asserted what is. Nor doth the Abb^ Belle- garde, who hath writ a treatise on this subject, though he shows us many species of it, once trace it to its fountain. The only source of the true Ridiculous (as it appears to me) is affectation. But though it arises from one spring only, when we consider the infinite streams into which this one branches, we shall presently cease to admire at the copious field it affords to an observer. Now, affectation proceeds from one of these two causes, vanity or hypocrisy ; for as vanity puts us on affecting false characters, in order to purchase applause, so hypo- crisy sets us on an endeavour to avoid censure, by con- cealing our vices under an appearance of their opposite virtues. And though these two causes are often con- founded (for there is some difficulty in distinguishing them), yet as they proceed from very different motives, so they are as clearly distinct in their operations ; for indeed, the affectation which arises from vanity is nearer to truth than the other, as it hath not that violent repug- nancy of nature to struggle with, which that of the hypocrite hath. It may be likewise noted, that affecta- tion doth not imply an absolute negation of those qualities which are affected; and, therefore, though, when it proceeds from hypocrisy, it be nearly allied to deceit ; yet, when it comes from vanity only, it partakes of the nature of ostentation : for instance, the affectation of liberality in a vain man differs visibly from the same JOSEPH ANDREWS 7 affectation in the avaricious; for though the vain man is not what he would appear, or hath not the virtue he affects to the degree he would be thought to have it; yet it sits less awkwardly on him than on the avaricious man, who is the very reverse of what he would seem to be. From the discovery of this affectation arises the Ridiculous, which always strikes the reader with sur- prise and pleasure ; and that in a higher and stronger degree when the affectation arises from hypocrisy than when from vanity ; for to discover any one to be exact the reverse of what he affects, is more surprising, and consequently more ridiculous, than to find him a little deficient in the quality he desires the reputation of. I might observe that our Ben Jonson, who of all men understood the Ridiculous the best, hath chiefly used the hypocritical affectation. 3 ^Now, from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities of life, or the imperfections of nature, may become the objects of ridicule. Surely he hath a very ill-framed mind who can look on ugliness, infirmity, or poverty, as ridiculous in themselves: nor do I believe any man living, who meets a dirty fellow riding through the streets in a cart, is struck with an idea of the Ridiculous from it; but if he should see the same figure descend from his coach and six, or bolt from his chair with his hat under his arm, he would then begin to laugh, and with justice. In the same manner, were we to enter a poor house and behold a wretched family shivering with cold and languishing with hunger, it would not incline us to laughter (at least we must have very diabolical natures if it would) ; but should we dis- cover there a grate instead of coals adorned with flowers, empty plate or china dishes on the sideboard, or any other affectation of riches and finery, either on their persons or in their furniture, we might then indeed be excused for ridiculing so fantastical an appearance. Much less are natural imperfections the object of de- rision ; but when ugliness aims at the applause of beauty, or lameness endeavours to display agility, it is 8 HENRY FIELDING then that these unfortunate circumstances, which at first moved our compassion, tend only to raise our mirth. The poet carries tliis very far : — None are for being what they are in fault, But for not being- what they would be thought. Where if the metre would suffer the word Ridiculous to close the first line, the thought would be rather more proper. Great vices are the proper objects of our de- testation, smaller faults of our pity; but affectation appears to me the only true source of the Ridiculous. But perhaps it may be objected to me, that I have, against my own rules, introduced vices, and of a very black kind, into this work. To which I shall answer: First, that it is very difficult to pursue a series of human actions, and keep clear from them. Secondly, that the vices to be found here are rather the accidental con- sequences of some human frailty or foible than causes habitually existing in the mind. Thirdly, that they are never set forth as the objects of ridicule, but detestation. Fourthly, that they are never the principal figure at that time on the scene : and, lastly, they never produce the intended evil. Having thus distinguished Joseph Andrews from the productions of romance writers on the one hand and burlesque writers on the other, and given some few very short hints (for I intended no more) of this species of writing, which I have affirmed to be hitherto unattempted in our language; I shall leave to my good-natured reader to apply my piece to my observations, and will detain him no longer than with a word concerning the characters in this work. And here I solemnly protest I have no intention to vilify or asperse any one; for though everything is copied from the book of nature, and scarce a character or action produced which I have not taken from my own observations and experience ; yet I have used the utmost care to obscure the persons by such different circum- stances, degrees, and colours, that it will be impossible to guess at them With any degree of certainty ; and if it JOSEPH ANDREWS 9 ever happens otherwise, it is only where the failure characterized is so minute that it is a foible only which the party himself may laugh at as well as any other. As to the character of Adams, as it is the most glaring in the whole, so I conceive it is not to be found in any book now extant. It is designed a character of perfect simplicity ; and as the goodness of his heart will recommend him to the good-natured, so I hope it will excuse me to the gentlemen of his cloth ; for whom, while they are worthy of their sacred order, no man can possibly have a greater respect. They will therefore excuse me, notwithstanding the low adventures in which he is engaged, that I have made him a clergyman ; since no other office could have given him so many oppor- tunities of displaying his worthy inclinations. (Book I.— Chapter I) It is a trite but true observation, that examples work more forcibly on the mind than precepts : and if this be just in what is odious and blameable, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and praiseworthy. Here emula- tion most effectually operates upon us, and inspires our imitation in an irresistible manner. A good man there- fore is a standing lesson to all his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrow circle than a good book. But, as it often happens, that the best men are but little known, and consequently cannot extend the use- fulness of their examples a great way ; the writer may be called in aid to spread their history farther, and to present the amiable pictures to those who have not the happiness of knowing the originals ; and so, by com- municating such valuable patterns to the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive service to mankind than the person whose life originally afforded the pat- tern. In this light I have always regarded those biographers who have recorded the actions of great and worthy lo HENRY FIELDING persons of both sexes. Not to mention those ancient writers which of late days are little read, being written in obsolete, and as they are generally thought, unin- telligible languages, such as Plutarch, Nepos, and others, which I heard of in my youth ; our own language affords many of excellent use and instruction, finely calculated to sow the seeds of virtue in youth, and very easy to be comprehended by persons of moderate capacity. Such are the history of John the Great, who, by his brave and heroic actions against men of large and athletic bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the Giant-killer ; that of an earl of Warwick, whose christian name was Guy; the lives of Argalus and Parthenia ; and above all, the history of those seven worthy personages, the Cham- pions of Christendom. In all these delight is mixed with instruction, and the reader is almost as much im- proved as entertained. But I pass by these and many others to mention two books lately published, which represent an admirable pattern of the amiable in either sex. The former of these, which deals in male virtue, was written by the great person himself, who lived the life he hath recorded, and is by many thought to have lived such a life only in order to write it. The other is communicated to us by an historian who borrows his lights, as the common method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, I believe, already conjectures, I mean the lives of Mr. Colley Gibber and of Mrs. Pamela Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by insinuating that he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in church and state, teach us a contempt of worldly gran- deur ! how strongly doth he inculcate an absolute sub- mission to our superiors ! Lastly, how completely doth he arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a passion as the fear of shame ! how clearly doth he expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom, reputation! What the female readers are taught by the memoirs of Mrs. Andrews is so well set forth in the excellent essays or letters prefixed to the second and subsequent editions of that work, that it would be here a needless JOSEPH ANDREWS ii repetition. The authentic history with which I now present the public is an instance of the great good that book is likely to do, and of the prevalence of example which I have just observed : since it will appear that it was by keeping the excellent pattern of his sister's virtues before his eyes that Mr. Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to preserve his purity in the midst of such great temptations. I shall only add that this char- acter of male chastity, though doubtless as desirable and becoming in one part of the human species as in the other, is almost the only virtue which the great apologist hath not given himself for the sake of giving the ex- ample to his readers. {Chapter II) Mr. Joseph Andrews, the hero of our ensuing history, was esteemed to be the only son of Gafi"er and Gammer Andrews, and brother to the illustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so famous. As to his ancestors, we have searched with great diligence, but little success ; being unable to trace them farther than his great-grand- father, who, as an elderly person in the parish remembers to have heard his father say, was an excellent cudgel- player. Whether he had any ancestors before this, we must leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding nothing of sufficient certainty to rely on. However, we cannot omit inserting an epitaph which an ingenious friend of ours hath communicated : Stay, traveller, for underneath this pew Lies fast asleep that merry man Andrew: When the last day's great sun shall gild the skies, Then he shall from his tomb get up and rise. Be merry while thou canst, for surely thou Shall shortly be as sad as he is now. The words are almost out of the stone with antiquity. But it is needless to observe that Andrew here is writ without an s, and is, besides, a christian name. My friend, moreover, conjectures this to have been the 12 HENRY FIELDING founder of that sect of laughing philosophers since called Merry-andrews. To waive, therefore, a circumstance, which, though mentioned in conformity to the exact rules of biography, is not greatly material, I proceed to things of more con- sequence. Indeed, it is sufficiently certain that he had as many ancestors as the best man living, and, perhaps, if we look five or six hundred years backwards, might be related to some persons of very great figure at present, whose ancestors within half the last century are buried in as great obscurity. But suppose, for argu- ment's sake, we should admit that he had no ancestors at all, but had sprung up, according to the modern phrase, out of a dunghill, as the Athenians pretended they themselves did from the earth, would not this autokopros ' have been justly entitled to all the praise arising from his own virtues ? Would it not be hard that a man who hath no ancestors should therefore be ren- dered incapable of acquiring honour; when we see so many who have no virtues enjoying the honour of their forefathers? At ten years old (by which time his educa- tion was advanced to writing and reading) he was bound an apprentice, according to the statute, to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr. Booby's by the father's side. Sir Thomas' having then an estate in his own hands, the young Andrews was at first employed in what in the country they call keeping birds. His office was to per- form the part the ancients assigned to the god Priapus, which deity the moderns call by the name of Jack o' Lent ; but his voice being so extremely musical, that it rather allured the birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the fields into the dog-kennel, where he was placed under the huntsman, and made what sportsmen term a whipper-in. For this place likewise the sweetness of his voice disqualified him; the dogs pre- ferring the melody of his chiding to all the alluring notes of the huntsman ; who soon became so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to provide otherwise ' In English, sprung from a dunghill. JOSEPH ANDREWS 13 for him, and constantly laid every fault the dogs were at to the account of the poor boy, who was now trans- planted to the stable. Here he soon gave proofs of strength and agility beyond his years, and constantly rode the most spirited and vicious horses to water, with an intrepidity which surprised every one. While he was in this station, he rode several races for Sir Thomas, and this with such expertness and success, that the neigh- bouring gentlemen frequently solicited the knight to permit little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their matches. The best gamesters, before they laid their money, always inquired which horse little Joey was to ride ; and the bets were rather proportioned by the rider than by the horse himself; especially after he had scorn- fully refused a considerable bribe to play booty on such an occasion. This extremely raised his character, and so pleased the Lady Booby, that she desired to have him (being now seventeen years of age) for her own footboy. Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend on his lady, to go on her errands, stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry her prayer-book to church ; at which place his voice gave him an opportunity of distin- guishing himself by singing psalms : he behaved likewise in every other respect so well at divine service, that it recommended him to the notice of Mr. Abraham Adams, the curate; who took an opportunity one day, as he was drinking a cup of ale in Sir Thomas's kitchen, to ask the young man several questions concerning religion ; with his answers to which he was wonderfully pleased. {Chapter III) Mr. Abraham Adams was an excellent scholar. He was a perfect master of the Greek and Latin languages ; to which he added a great share of knowledge in the oriental tongues, and could read and translate French, Italian, and Spanish. He had applied many years to the most severe study, and had treasured up a fund of learning rarely to be met with in a university. He was, besides, a man of good sense, good parts, and good 14 HENRY FIELDING nature ; but was at the same time as entirely ignorant of the ways of this world as an infant just entered into it could possibly be. As he had never any intention to deceive, so he never suspected such a design in others. He was generous, friendly, and brave, to an excess; but simplicity was his characteristic : he did no more than Mr. Colley Gibber apprehend any such passions as malice and envy to exist in mankind ; which was indeed less remarkable in a country parson than in a gentleman who hath passed his life behind the scenes — a place which hath been seldom thought the school of inno- cence, and where a very little observation would have convinced the great apologist that those passions have a real existence in the human mind. His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they ren- dered him equal to his office, so they made him an agree- able and valuable companion, and had so much endeared and well recommended him to a bishop, that at the age of fifty he was provided with a handsome income of twenty-three pounds a-year; which, however, he could not make any great figure with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a wife and six children. It was this gentleman who, having, as I have said, observed the singular devotion of young Andrews, had found means to question him concerning several particu- lars ; as, how many books there were in the New Testa- ment; which were they? how many chapters they contained? and such like: to all which, Mr. Adams privately said, he answered much better than Sir Thomas, or two other neighbouring justices of the peace, could probably have done. Mr. Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what time, and by what opportunity, the youth became acquainted with these matters : Joey told him that he had very early learnt to read and write by the goodness of his father, who, though he had not interest enough to get him into a charity school, because a cousin of his father's landlord did not vote on the right side for a churchwarden in a borough town, yet had been himself JOSEPH ANDREWS 15 at the expense of sixpence a week for his learning. He told him likewise, that ever since he was in Sir Thomas's family he had employed all his hours of leisure in read- ing good books ; that he had read the Bible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas k Kempis ; and that as often as he could, without being perceived, he had studied a great good book which lay open in the hall window, where he had read, " as how the devil carried away half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one of the congrega- tion ; " and " as how a field of corn ran away down a hill with all the trees upon it, and covered another man's meadow." This sufficiently assured Mr. Adams that the good book meant could be no other than Baker's Chronicle. The curate, surprised to find such instances of industry and application in a young man who had never met witli the least encouragement, asked him, if he did not ex- tremely regret the want of a liberal education, and the not having been born of parents who might have in- dulged his talents and desire of knowledge? To which he answered, " He hoped he had profited somewhat better from the books he had read than to lament his condition in this world. That, for his part, he was per- fectly content with the state to which he was called; that he should endeavour to improve his talent, which was all required of him ; but not repine at his own lot, nor envy those of his betters." " Well said, my lad," replied the curate; "and I wish some who have read many more good books, nay, and some who have written books themselves, had profited so much by them." Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady than through the waiting-gentlewoman ; for Sir Thomas was too apt to estimate men merely by their dress or fortune ; and my lady was a woman of gaiety, who had been blessed with a town education, and never spoke of any of her country neighbours by any other appella- tion than that of " the brutes." They both regarded the curate as a kind of domestic only, belonging to the par- son of the parish, who was at this time at variance with i6 HENRY FIELDING the knight ; for the parson had for many years lived in a constant state of civil war, or, which is perhaps as bad, of civil law, with Sir Thomas himself and the tenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel was a modus, by setting which aside an advantage of several shillings per annum would have accrued to the rector ; but he had not yet been able to accomplish his purpose, and had reaped hitherto nothing better from the suits than the pleasure (which he used indeed frequently to say was no small one) of reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the poor tenants, though he had at the same time greatly impoverished himself. Mrs. Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman being herself the daughter of a curate, preserved some respect for Adams : she professed great regard for his learning, and would frequently dispute with him on points of theology; but always insisted on a deference to be paid to her un- derstanding, as she had been frequently at London, and knew more of the world than a country parson could pretend to. She had in these disputes a particular advantage over Adams ; for she was a mighty afFecter of hard words, which she used in such a manner that the parson, who durst not offend her by calling her words in question, was frequently at some loss to guess her meaning, and would have been much less puzzled by an Arabian manu- script. Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after a pretty long discourse with her on the essence (or, as she pleased to term it, the incense) of matter, to mention the case of young Andrews ; desiring her to recommend him to her lady as a youth very susceptible of learning, and one whose instruction in Latin he would himself undertake ; by which means he might be qualified for a higher station than that of a footman ; and added, she knew it was in his master's power easily to provide for him in a better manner. He therefore desired that the boy might be left behind under his care. "La! Mr. Adams, "said Mrs. Slipslop, "do you think my lady will suffer any preambles about any such matter? JOSEPH ANDREWS 17 She is going to London very concisely, and I am con- fidous would not leave Joey behind her on any account; for he is one of the genteelest young fellows you may see in a summer's day ; and I am confidous she would as soon think of parting with a pair of her grey mares, for she values herself as much on one as the other." Adams would have interrupted, but she proceeded : " And why is Latin more necessitous for a footman than a gentleman? It is very proper that you clergymen must learn it, because you can't preach without it : but I have heard gentlemen say in London, that it is fit for nobody else. I am confidous my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it; and I shall draw myself into no such delemy." At which words her lady's bell rung, and Mr. Adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a second opportunity with her before their London journey, which happened a few days afterwards. How- ever, Andrews behaved very thankfully and gratefully to him for his intended kindness, which he told him he never would forget, and at the same time received from the good man many admonitions concerning the regula- tion of his future conduct, and his perseverance in inno- cence and industry. II [Joseph, having been besieged by Mrs. Slipslop as well as by her lady, and having resisted both, is turned off, but his journey after a tolerable first stage, is not lucky.] (Chapter XII) He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hope of shortly seeing his beloved Fanny, when he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and ordered to stand and deliver. He readily gave them all the money he had, which was somewhat less than two pounds ; and told them he hoped they would be so generous as to re- turn him a few shillings, to defray his charges on his way home. One of the ruffians answered with an oath, "Yes, i8 HENRY FIELDING we'll give you something presently : but first strip and be d— n'd to you."— " Strip," cried the other, "or I'll blow your brains to the devil." Joseph, remembering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches of a friend, and that he should be ashamed of making any excuse for not returning them, replied, he hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which were not worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. "You are cold, are you, you rascal?" says one of the robbers: "I'll warm you with a vengeance ; " and, damning his eyes, snapped a pistol at his head ; which he had no sooner done than the other levelled a blow at him with his stick, which Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with his, and returned the favour so successfully on his adversary, that he laid him sprawling at his feet, and at the same instant received a blow from behind, with the butt end of a pistol, from the other villain, which felled him to the ground, and totally deprived him of his senses. The thief who had been knocked down had now re- covered himself; and both together fell to belabouring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they were convinced they had put an end to his miserable being : they then stripped him entirely naked, threw him into a ditch, and departed with their booty. The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began to recover his senses as a stage-coach came by. The postilion, hearing a man's groans, stopped his horses, and told the coachman he was certain there was a dead man lying in the ditch, for he heard him groan. " Go on, sirrah," says the coachman; "we are confounded late, and have no time to look after dead men." A lady, who heard what the postilion said, and likewise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coachman to stop and see what was the matter. Upon which he bid the pos- tilion alight, and look into the ditch. He did so, and re- turned, " that there was a man sitting upright, as naked as ever he was born." — "OJ — sus!" cried the lady; "a naked man I Dear coachman, drive on and leave him." Upon this the gentlemen got out of the coach; JOSEPH ANDREWS 19 and Joseph begged them to have mercy upon him : for that he had been robbed and almost beaten to death. "Robbed!" cries an old gentleman: " let us make all the haste imaginable, or we shall be robbed too." A young man who belonged to the law answered, " He wished they had passed by without taking any notice ; but that now they might be proved to have been last in his company ; if he should die they might be called to some account for his murder. He therefore thought it advisable to save the poor creature's life, for their own sakes, if possible; at least, if he died, to prevent the jury's finding that they fled for it. He was therefore of opinion to take the man into the coach, and carry him to the next inn." The lady insisted, "That he should not come into the coach. That if they lifted him in, she would herself alight: for she had rather stay in that place to all eternity than ride with a naked man." The coachman objected, " That he could not suffer him to be taken in unless somebody would pay a shilling for his carriage the four miles." Which the two gentlemen re- fused to do. But the lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief happening to himself, if the wretch was left behind in that condition, saying no man could be too cautious in these matters, and that he remembered very extraordinary cases in the books, threatened the coach- man, and bid him deny taking him up at his peril ; for that, if he died, he should be indicted for his murder; and if he lived, and brought an action against him, he would willingly take a brief in it. These words had a sensible effect on the coachman, who was well acquainted with the person who spoke them ; and the old gentleman above mentioned, thinking the naked man would afford him frequent opportunities of showing his wit to the lady, offered to join with the company in giving a mug of beer for his fare; till, partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the promises of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with compassion at the poor creature's condition, who stood bleeding and shiver- ing with the cold, he at length agreed ; and Joseph was now advancing to the coach, where, seeing the lady. 20 HENRY FIELDING who held the sticks of her fan before her eyes, he abso- lutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, unless he was furnished with sufficient covering to prevent giving the least offence to decency — so perfectly modest was this young man ; such mighty effects had the spotless example of the amiable Pamela, and the excellent sermons of Mr. Adams wrought upon him. Though there were several great-coats about the coach, it was not easy to get over this difficulty which Joseph had started. The two gentlemen complained they were cold, and could not spare a rag ; the man of wit saying, with a laugh, that charity began at home ; and the coachman, who had two great-coats spread under him, refused to lend either, lest they should be made bloody : the lady's footman desired to be excused for the same reason, which the lady herself, notwithstanding her ab- horrence of a naked man, approved : and it is more than probable poor Joseph, who obstinately adhered to his modest resolution, must have perished, unless the pos- tilion (a lad who hath been since transported for robbing a hen-roost) had voluntarily stripped off a great-coat, his only garment, at the same time swearing a great oath (for which he was rebuked by the passengers), "That he would rather ride in his shirt all his life than suffer a fellow-creature to He in so miserable a condition." Joseph, having put on the great-coat, was lifted into the coach, which now proceeded on its journey. He de- clared himself almost dead with the cold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the lady if she could not ac- commodate him with a dram. She answered, with some resentment, " She wondered at his asking her such a question; but assured him she never tasted any such thing." The lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances of the robbery, when the coach stopped, and one of the ruffians, putting a pistol in, demanded their money of the passengers, who readily gave it them ; and the lady, in her fright, delivered up a little silver bottle, of about a half-pint size, which the rogue, clapping it to his mouth, and drinking her health, declared, held some of the best JOSEPH ANDREWS ai Nantes he had ever tasted: this the lady afterwards assured the company was the mistake of her maid, for that she had ordered her to fill the bottle with Hungary- water. As soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, it seems, a case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the company, that if it had been daylight, and he could have come at his pistols, he would not have submitted to the robbery : he likewise set forth that he had often met highwaymen when he travelled on horse- back, but none ever durst attack him ; concluding that, if he had not been more afraid for the lady than for himself, he should not have now parted with his money so easily. The coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid only was up, in readiness to attend the coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and a dram. Joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed prepared for him, which the maid readily promised to perform; and, being a good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapped a large fagot on the fire, and, furnishing Joseph with a great-coat belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm himself while she made his bed. The coachman, in the mean time, took an opportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors ; after which, he reminded his passengers how late they were, and, after they had taken leave of Joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could. The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use her interest to borrow him a shirt ; but imagined, as she afterward s said, by his being so bloody, that he must be a dead man: she ran with all speed to hasten the surgeon, who was more than half dressed, appre- hending that the coach had been overturned, and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as the wench had in- formed him at his window that it was a poor foot- passenger who had been stripped of all he had, and almost murdered, he chid her for disturbing him so early, 32 HENRY FIELDING slipped off his clothes again, and very quietly returned to bed and to sleep. Aurora now began to show her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten millions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes a thousand times sweeter than those of our laureate, and sung both the day and the song ; when the master of the inn, Mr. Tow-wouse, arose, and, learning from his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of his poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, " good-lack-a-day ! " and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his own shirts. Mrs. Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched out her arms in vain to fold her departed husband, when the maid entered the room. "Who's there? Betty?" — " Yes, madam." — " Where 's your master? " — " He 's without, madam ; he hath sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been robbed and murdered." — "Touch one if you dare, you slut," said Mrs. Tow- wouse : " your master is a pretty sort of a man, to take in naked vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have no such doings. If you offer to touch anything, I will throw the chamber-pot at your head. Go, send your master to me." — "Yes, madam," answered Betty. As soon as he came in, she thus began : "What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Tow-wouse? Am I to buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby rascals? " — "My dear," said Mr. Tow-wouse, "this is a poor wretch." — "Yes," says she, " I know it is a poor wretch; but what the devil have we to do with poor wretches? The law makes us provide for too many already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red coats shortly."- — "My dear," cries Tow-wouse, "this man hath been robbed of all he hath."— "Well then," said she, " Where's his money to pay his reckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go to an alehouse? I shall send him packing as soon as I am up, I assure you." — " My dear," said he, "common charity won't suffer you to do that." — "Common charity, a !" says she, "com- mon charity teaches us to provide for ourselves and our families ; and I and mine won't be ruined by your charity. JOSEPH ANDREWS 23 I assure you." — " Well," says he, " my dear, do as you will, when you are up ; you know I never contradict you. " — " No," says she; " if the devil was to contradict me, I would make the house too hot to hold him." With such-like discourses they consumed near half an hour, whilst Betty provided a shirt from the hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and put it on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last visited him, and washed and dressed his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr. Tow-wouse that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he scarce saw any hopes of his recovery. "Here's a pretty kettle of fish," cries Mrs. Tow-wouse, "you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeral at our own expense." Tow-wouse (who notwithstanding his charity, would have given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that any other house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his guest) answered, " My dear, I am not to blame; he was brought hither by the stage-coach, and Betty had put him to bed before I was stirring." — " I'll Betty her," says she. — At which, with half her garments on, the other half under her arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate Betty, whilst Tow-wouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor Joseph and inquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair. HI [Physic and divinity show little of the good Samaritan to Joseph, and Betty, his only friend in the inn, carries her kindness rather too far. But, before this, succour arrives in the person of Mr. Abraham Adams.] {Chapter XIV) It was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave person rode into the inn, and, committing his horse to the hostler, went directly into the kitchen, and, having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the fireside, where several other persons were likewise assembled. 24 HENRY FIELDING The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was committed the night before, and on the poor wretch who lay above in the dreadful condition in which we have already seen him. Mrs. Tow-wouse said, " She wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell meant by bringing such guests to her house, when there were so many alehouses on the road proper for their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the parish should be at the expense of the funeral." She added, "Nothing would serve the fellow's turn but tea, she would assure him." Betty, who was just returned from her charitable office, answered, she believed he was a gentleman, for she never saw a finer skin in her life. "Pox on his skin! " replied Mrs. Tow-wouse, " I suppose that is all we are like to have for the reckoning. I desire no such gentlemen should ever call at the Dragon " (which it seems was the sign of the inn). The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of emotion at the distress of this poor creature, whom he observed to be fallen not into the most compassionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs. Tow-wouse had given no utterance to the sweetness of her temper, nature had taken such pains in her countenance, that Hogarth him- self never gave more expression to a picture. Her person was short, thin, and crooked. Her fore- head projected in the middle, and thence descended in a declivity to the top of her nose, which was sharp and red, and would have hung over her lips, had not nature turned up the end of it. Her lips were two bits of skin, which, whenever she spoke, she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked; and at the upper end of that skin, which composed her cheeks, stood two bones, that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. Add to this a voice most wonderfully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being both loud and hoarse. It is not easy to say whether the gentleman had con- ceived a greater dislike for his landlady or compassion for her unhappy guest. He inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, who was now come into the kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery? He begged JOSEPH ANDREWS 25 him to use all possible means towards it, telling him, ' ' it was the duty of men of all professions to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor and necessitous." The surgeon answered, " He should take proper care; but he defied all the surgeons in London to do him any good." — "Pray, sir," said the gentleman, "what are his wounds?" — "Why, do you know anything of wounds?" says the surgeon (winking upon Mrs. Tow- wouse). "Sir, I have a small smattering in surgery," answered the gentleman. "A smattering — ho, ho, ho ! " said the surgeon; " I believe it is a smattering indeed." The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor, who was what they call a dry fellow, expose the gentleman. He began therefore with an air of triumph: " I sup- pose, sir, you have travelled?" — "No, really, sir," said the gentleman. "Ho! then you have practised in the hospitals perhaps?" — "No, sir." — "Hum! not that neither? Whence, sir, then, if I may be so bold to in- quire, have you got your knowledge in surgery? " — "Sir," answered the gentleman, "I do not pretend to much; but the little I know I have from books." — "Books!" cries the doctor. "What, I suppose you have read Galen and Hippocrates!" — "No, sir," said the gentleman. "How! you understand surgery," an- swers the doctor, "and not read Galen and Hippo- crates? "—" Sir," cries the other, "I believe there are many surgeons who have never read these authors." — "I believe so too," says the doctor, "more shame for them; but, thanks to my education, I have them by heart, and very seldom go without them both in my pocket."— "They are pretty large books," said the gentleman. "Aye," said the doctor, " I believe I know how large they are better than you." (At which he fell a winking, and the whole company burst into a laugh.) The doctor, pursuing his triumph, asked the gentle- man, "If he did not understand physic as well as surgery." "Rather better," answered the gentleman. ' ' Aye, like enough, " cries the doctor with a wink. ' ' Why, I know a little of physic too."—" I wish I knew half so 26 HENRY FIELDING much," said Tow-wouse, " I'd never wear an apron again." — "Why, I believe, landlord," cries the doctor, "there are few men, though I say it, within twelve miles of the place, that handle a fever better. — Ventente accurrite morbo: that is my method. I suppose, brother, you understand Latin?" — "A little," says the gentle- man. "Aye, and Greek now, I'll warrant you: Ton dapomibominos poluflosboio thalasses. But I have almost forgot these things: I could have repeated Homer by heart once." — ^" I fags! the gentleman has caught a traitor," says Mrs. Tow-wouse; at which they all fell a laughing. The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, very contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, which he did with no small satisfaction; and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, told him, "He was thoroughly convinced of his great learning and abilities ; and that he would be obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion of his patient's case above stairs." — "Sir," says the doctor, "his case is that of a dead man — The contusion on his head has perforated the internal membrane of the occiput, and divellicated that radical small minute invisible nerve which coheres to the pericranium ; and this was attended with a fever at first symptomatic, then pneumatic ; and he is at length grown deliruus, or deUrious, as the vulgar express it." He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty noise interrupted him. Some young fellows in the neighbourhood had taken one of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Betty ran up stairs with this news to Joseph, who begged they might search for a little piece of broken gold, which had a ribbon tied to it, and which he could swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in the universe. Notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his inno- cence, the mob were very busy in searching him, and presently, among other things, pulled out the piece of gold just mentioned ; which Betty no sooner saw than she laid violent hands on it, and conveyed it up to Joseph, JOSEPH ANDREWS 27 who received it with raptures of joy, and, hugging it in his bosom, declared he could now die contented. Within a few minutes afterwards came in some other fellows, with a bundle which they had found in a ditch, and which was indeed the clothes which had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other things they had taken from him. The gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he de- clared he knew the livery; and, if it had been taken from the poor creature above stairs, desired he might see him; for that he was very well acquainted with the family to whom that livery belonged. He was accordingly conducted up by Betty; but what, reader, was the surprise on both sides, when he saw Joseph was the person in bed, and when Joseph dis- covered the face of his good friend Mr. Abraham Adams! It would be impertinent to insert a discourse which chiefly turned on the relation of matters already well known to the reader; for, as soon as the curate had satisfied Joseph concerning the perfect health of his Fanny, he was on his side very inquisitive into all the particulars which had produced this unfortunate accident. To return therefore to the kitchen, where a great variety of company were now assembled from all the rooms of the house, as well as the neighbourhood : so much delight do men take in contemplating the countenance of a thief. Mr. Tow-wouse began to rub his hands with pleasure at seeing so large an assembly; who would, he hoped, shortly adjourn into several apartments, in order to dis- course over the robbery, and drink a health to all honest men. But Mrs. Tow-wouse, whose misfortune it was commonly to see things a little perversely, began to rail at those who brought the fellow into her house; telling her husband, "They were very likely to thrive who kept a house of entertainment for beggars and thieves." The mob had now finished their search, and could find nothing about the captive likely to prove any evid- ence; for as to the clothes, though the mob were very well satisfied with that proof, yet, as the surgeon ob- served, they could not convict him, because they were 38 HENRY FIELDING not found in his custody; to which Barnabas agreed, and added that these were bona waviata, and belonged to the lord of the manor. " How," says the surgeon, " do you say these goods belong to the lord of the manor?" — " I do," cried Barna- bas. "Then I deny it," says the surgeon: " what can the lord of the manor have to do in the case? Will any one attempt to persuade me that what a man finds is not his own?"—" I have heard," says an old fellow in the corner, "justice Wiseone say, that, if every man had his right, whatever is found belongs to the King of London." — "That maybe true, "says Barnabas, "in some sense; for the law makes a difference between things stolen and things found ; for a thing may be stolen that never is found, and a thing may be found that never was stolen : Now, goods that are both stolen and found are waviata; and they belong to the lord of the manor." — "So the lord of the manor is the receiver of stolen goods," says the doctor ; at which there was an universal laugh, being first begun by himself. While the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had almost (as there was no evidence against him) brought over Barnabas, the surgeon, Tow-wouse, and several others to his side, Betty informed them that they had overlooked a little piece of gold, which she had carried up to the man in bed, and which he offered to swear to amongst a million, aye, amongst ten thousand. This im- mediately turned the scale against the prisoner, and every one now concluded him guilty. It was resolved, therefore, to keep him secured that night, and early in the morning to carry him before a justice. {Chapter XV) Betty told her mistress she believed the man in bed was a greater man than they took him for ; for besides the extreme whiteness of his skin, and the softness of his hands, she observed a very great familiarity between the gentleman and him; and added, she was certain they were intimate acquaintance, if not relations. JOSEPH ANDREWS 29 This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs. Tow- wouse's countenance. She said, " God forbid she should not discharge the duty of a christian, since the poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had a natural antipathy to vagabonds ; but could pity the misfortunes of a christian as soon as another. " Tow-wouse said, ' ' If the traveller be a gentleman, though he hath no money about him now, we shall most likely be paid hereafter; so you may begin to score whenever you will." Mrs. Tow-wouse answered, " Hold your simple tongue, and don't instruct me in my business. I am sure I am sorry for the gentleman's misfortune with all my heart; and I hope the villain who hath used him so barbarously will be hanged. Betty, go see what he wants. God forbid he should want any thing in my house." Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph to satisfy themselves concerning the piece of gold ; Joseph was with difficulty prevailed upon to show it them, but would by no entreaties be brought to deliver it out of his own possession. He however attested this to be the same which had been taken from him, and Betty was ready to swear to the finding it on the thief. The only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this gold before the justice ; for as to carrying Joseph himself, it seemed impossible ; nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him, for he had fastened it with a ribbon to his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing but irresistible force should ever separate them; in which resolution, Mr. Adams, clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle of an ox, declared he would sup- port him. A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence not very necessary to be related here; after which the surgeon dressed Mr. Joseph's head, still persisting in the imminent danger in which his patient lay, but con- cluding, with a very important look, "That he began to have some hopes ; that he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and would see him in the morn- ing." After which Barnabas and he departed, and left Mr. Joseph and Mr. Adams together. 30 HENRY FIELDING Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this jour- ney which he was making to London, namely, to pub- Hsh three volumes of sermons; being encouraged, he said, by an advertisement lately set forth by a society of booksellers, who proposed to purchase any copies offered to them, at a price to be settled by two persons; but though he imagined he should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his family were in urgent need of, he protested he would not leave Joseph in his present condition: finally, he told him, " He had nine shillings and threepence halfpenny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as he pleased." This goodness of parson Adams brought tears into Joseph's eyes; he declared, "He had now a second reason to desire life, that he might show his gratitude to such a friend." Adams bade him be cheerful; for that he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his ignor- ance, desired to make a merit of curing him, though the wounds in his head, he perceived, were by no means dangerous; that he was convinced he had no fever, and doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day or two." These words infused a spirit into Joseph ; he said, " He found himself very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to think any of his bones injured, or that he had received any harm in his inside, unless that he felt something very odd in his stomach ; but he knew not whether that might not arise from not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four hours." Being then asked if he had any inclination to eat, he answered in the affirmative. Then parson Adams desired him to "name what he had the greatest fancy for; whether a poached egg, or chicken-broth." He answered, "He could eat both very well ; but that he seemed to have the greatest appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage." Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he had not the least fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for that evening. He accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl, I never could with any tolerable certainty dis- cover which; after this he was, by Mrs. Tow-wouse's JOSEPH ANDREWS 31 order, conveyed into a better bed and equipped with one of her husband's shirts. In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to the inn, in order to see the thief conveyed before the justice. They had consumed the whole night in debating what measures they should take to produce the piece of gold in evidence against him; for they were both ex- tremely zealous in the business, though neither of them were in the least interested in the prosecution; neither of them had ever received any private injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever been suspected of loving the public well enough to give them a sermon or a dose of physic for nothing. To help our reader, therefore, as much as possible to account for this zeal, we must inform him that, as this parish was so unfortunate as to have no lawyer in it, there had been a constant contention between the two doctors, spiritual and physical, concerning their abilities in a science, in which, as neither of them professed it, they had equal pretensions to dispute each other's opinions. These disputes were carried on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided the parish; Mr. Tow- wouse and one half of the neighbours inclining to the surgeon, and Mrs. Tow-wouse with the other half to the parson. The surgeon drew his knowledge from those estimable fountains, called The Attorney's Pocket Com- panion, and Mr. Jacob's Law-Tables; Barnabas trusted entirely to Wood's Institutes. It happened on this occa- sion, as was pretty frequently the case, that these two learned men diifered about the sufficiency of evidence ; the doctor being of opinion that the maid's oath would convict the prisoner without producing the gold; the parson d contra, totis mrihus. To display their parts, therefore, before the justice and the parish, was the sole motive which we can discover to this zeal which both of them pretended to have for public justice. 32 HENRY FIELDING IV [Mr. Adams having- had some discourse with the parish parson, Mr. Barnabas, on the subject of the sermons which he wishes to have published, Barnabas introduces him to a publisher who is returning to London. ] {Chapter XVII) As soon as Adams came into the room, Mr. Barnabas introduced him to the stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely to deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting the stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him ; that nothing could be more convenient, for he had no other business to the great city, and was heartily desirous of returning with the young man, who was just recovered of his misfortune. He then snapped his fingers (as was usual with him), and took two or three turns about the room in an ecstasy. And to in- duce the bookseller to be as expeditious as possible, as likewise to offer him a better price for his commodity, he assured him their meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for that he had the most pressing occasion for money at that time, his own being almost spent, and having a friend then in the same inn, who was just recovered from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a most indigent condition. " So that nothing," says he, " could be so opportune for the supplying both our necessities as my making an immedi- ate bargain with you." As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in these words: " Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engaging in what my friend Mr. Barnabas recommends; but sermons are mere drugs. The trade is so vastly stocked with them, that really, unless they come out with the name of Whitefield or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or those sort of people, I don't care to touch; unless now it was a sermon preached orl the 30th of January ; or we could say in the title-page, JOSEPH ANDREWS 33 published at the earnest request of the congregation, or the inhabitants ; but, truly, for a dry piece of sermons, I had rather be excused ; especially as my hands are so full at present. However, sir, as Mr. Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you please, take the manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very short time." " Oh! " said Adams, " if you desire it, I will read two or three discourses as a specimen." This Barnabas, who loved sermons no better than a grocer doth figs, imme- diately objected to, and advised Adams to let the book- seller have his sermons: telling him, " If he gave him a direction, he might be certain of a speedy answer:" adding, he need not scruple trusting them in his posses- sion. " No," said the bookseller, " if it was a play that had been acted twenty nights together, I believe it would be safe." Adams did not at all relish the last expression ; he said "he was sorry to hear sermons compared to plays." "Not by me, I assure you," cried the bookseller, "though I don't know whether the licensing act may not shortly bring them to the same footing ; but I have formerly known a hundred guineas given for a play. " — "More shame for those who gave it," cried Barnabas. " Why so? " said the bookseller, "for they got hundreds by it." — " But is there no difference between conve3'ing good or ill instructions to mankind?" said Adams: "Would not an honest mind rather lose money by the one than gain it by the other? " — " If you can find any such, I will not be their hindrance," answered the book- seller; "but I think those persons who get by preach- ing sermons are the properest to lose by printing them : for my part, the copy that sells best will be always the best copy in my opinion ; I am no enemy to sermons, but because they don't sell : for I would as soon print one of Whitefield's as any farce whatever." ' ' Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged," says Barnabas. "Sir," said he, turning to Adams, ' ' this fellow's writings (I know not whether you have seen them) are levelled at the clergy. He would D 34 HENRY FIELDING reduce us to the example of the primitive ages, forsooth! and would insinuate to the people that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and praying. He pretends to understand the Scripture literally ; and would make mankind believe that the poverty and low estate which was recommended to the church in its infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to her under persecu- tion, was to be preserved in her flourishing and estab- lished state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all the freethinkers, are not calculated to do half the mischief, as those professed by this fellow and his followers." "Sir," answered Adams, "if Mr. Whitefield had carried his doctrine no farther than you mention, I should have remained, as I once was, his well-wisher. I am, myself, as great an enemy to the luxury and splendour of the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing estate of the church, under- stand the palaces, equipages, dress, furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. Surely those things, which savour so strongly of this world, become not the servants of one who professed His king- dom was not of it. But when he began to call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the detestable doctrine of faith against good works, I was his friend no longer; for surely that doctrine was coined in hell; and one would think none but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach it. For can anything be more derogatory to the honour of God than for men to imagine that the all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good and virtuous, ' Notwithstanding the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that constant rule of virtue and goodness in which thou walkest upon earth, still, as thou didst not believe everything in the true orthodox manner, thy want of faith shall condemn thee ! ' Or, on the other side, can any doctrine have a more pernicious influence on society, than a persuasion that it will be a good plea for the villain at the last day — ' Lord, it is true I never obeyed one of Thy commandments, yet punish me not, for I believe them all?'" — " I suppose. JOSEPH ANDREWS 35 sir," said the bookseller, "your sermons are of a differ- ent kind." — "Aye, sir," said Adams; "the contrary, I thank Heaven, is inculcated in almost every page, or I should belie my own opinion, which hath always been, that a virtuous and good Turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the sight of their Creator than a vicious and wicked christian, though his faith was as perfectly orthodox as St. Paul's himself."—" I wish you success," says the bookseller, "but must beg to be excused, as my hands are so very full at present ; and, indeed, I am afraid you will find a backwardness in the trade to en- gage in a book which the clergy would be certain to cry do wn. " — " God forbid, " says Adams, ' ' any books should be propagated which the clergy would cry down ; but if you mean by the clergy, some few designing factious men, who have it at heart to establish some favourite schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence of religion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any book they please ; witness that ex- cellent book called, ' A Plain Account of the Nature and End of the Sacrament ; ' a book written (if I may venture on the expression) with the pen of an angel, and calcu- lated to restore the true use of Christianity, and of that sacred institution ; for what could tend more to the noble purposes of religion than frequent cheerful meet- ings among the members of a society, in which they should, in the presence of one another, and in the ser- vice of the Supreme Being, make promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each other? Now, this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccess- fully." At these words Barnabas fell a ringing with all the violence imaginable ; upon which a servant attend- ing, he bid him ' ' bring a bill immediately ; for that he was in company, for aught he knew, with the devil him- self; and he expected to hear the Alcoran, the Leviathan, or Woolston commended, if he staid a few minutes longer." Adams desired, "as he was so much moved at his mentioning a book which he did without appre- hending any possibility of offence, that he would be so kind to propose any objections he had to it, which he 36 HENRY FIELDING would endeavour to answer." — " I propose objections ! " said Barnabas, " I never read a syllable in any such wicked book; I never saw it in my life, I assure you." V [A disturbance, of which Betty is the cause, interrupts the con- versation: after it is settled Adams discovers that, as his manu- scripts have been left behind, his journey to London is useless: and he determines to return home with Joseph. Various incidents, a meeting with Mrs. Slipslop, and a long interpolated story, " Leonora, or the Unfortunate Jilt," follow, leading to a night adventure. In this Adams gets into trouble by rescuing a girl from an assailant, who turns the tables on him and her by accusing them of robbery.] (Book II.— Chapter X) The silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night and loneliness of the place, struck dreadful appre- hensions into the poor woman's mind ; she began to fear as great an enemy in her deliverer as he had delivered her from ; and as she had not light enough to discover the age of Adams, and the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspected he had used her as some very honest men have used their country; and had rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in order to rifle her himself. Such were the suspicions she drew from his silence; but indeed they were ill-grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely weighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of the two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgment sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the other ; for both seemed to him so equally advisable and so equally dangerous, that pro- bably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, on that very spot, before he had taken any resolution; at length he lifted up his eyes, and spied a light at a distance, to which he instantly ad- dressed himself with Heus tu, traveller, heus tu! He presently heard several voices, and perceived the light JOSEPH ANDREWS 37 approaching toward him. The persons who attended the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and others to hollo, at which the woman testified some fear (for she had concealed her suspicions of the parson him- self); but Adams said, "Be of good cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Providence which hath hitherto protected thee, and never will forsake the innocent." These people, who now approached, were no other, reader, than a set of young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit of a diversion which they call bird-batting. This, if thou art ignorant of it (as perhaps if thou hast never travelled beyond Kensington, Isling- ton, Hackney, or the Borough, thou mayest be), I will inform thee, is performed by holding a large clap-net before a lantern, and at the same time beating the bushes; for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places of rest, or roost, immediately make to the light, and so are enticed within the net. Adams imme- diately told them what had happened, and desired them to hold the lantern to the face of the man on the ground, for he feared he had smote him fatally. But indeed his fears were frivolous ; for the fellow, though he had been stunned by the last blow he received, had long since recovered his senses, and, finding himself quit of Adams, had listened attentively to the discourse between him and the young woman; for whose departure he had patiently waited, that he might likewise withdraw him- self, having no longer hopes of succeeding in his desires, which were moreover almost as well cooled by Mr. Adams as they could have been by the young woman herself had he obtained his utmost wish. This fellow, who had a readiness at improving any accident, thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man ; and accordingly, the moment the candle was held to his face, he leaped up, and, laying hold on Adams, cried out, " No, villain, I am not dead, though you and your wicked might well think me so, after the barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. Gentlemen," said he, "you are luckily come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who would otherwise have been robbed and 38 HENRY FIELDING murdered by this vile man and woman, who led me hither out of my way from the high-road, and both falling on me have used me as you see." Adams was going to answer, when one of the young fellows cried, " D — n them, let's carry them both before the justice." The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his voice, but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him ; and one holding the lantern to his face, they all agreed he had the most villanous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney's clerk, who was of the company, declared he was sure he had remembered him at the bar. As to the woman, her hair was dishevelled in the struggle, and her nose had bled ; so that they could not perceive whether she was handsome or ugly, but they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. And searching her pockets, as they did those of Adams, for money, which the fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a purse with some gold in it, which abun- dantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offered to swear to it. Mr. Adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny about him. This the clerk said ' ' was a great presumption that he was an old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman." To which all the rest readily assented. This accident promising them better sport than what they had proposed, they quitted their intention of catch- ing birds, and unanimously resolved to proceed to the justice with the offenders. Being informed what a desperate fellow Adams was, they tied his hands behind him ; and, having hid their nets among the bushes, and the lantern being carried before them, they placed the two prisoners in their front, and then began their march ; Adams not only submitting patiently to his own fate, but comforting and encouraging his companion under her sufferings. Whilst they were on their way the clerk informed the rest that this adventure would prove a very beneficial one ; for that they would be all entitled to their propor- tions of 80/. for apprehending the robbers. This occa- sioned a contention concerning the parts which they had JOSEPH ANDREWS 39 severally borne in taking them ; one insisting he ought to have the greatest share, for he had first laid his hands on Adams ; another claiming a superior part for having first held the lantern to the man's face on the ground, " by which," he said, " the whole was discovered." The clerk claimed four-fifths of the reward for having pro- posed to search the prisoners, and likewise the carrying them before the justice: he said, indeed, "in strict justice, he ought to have the whole." These claims, however, they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed all to agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated what money should be allotted to the young fellow who had been employed only in holding the nets. He very modestly said, " that he did not apprehend any large proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would allow him something ; he desired them to consider that they had assigned their nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in laying hold of the robbers" (for so these innocent people were called); "that if he had not occupied the nets, some other must;" concluding, however, "that he should be con- tented with the smallest share imaginable, and should think that rather their bounty than his merit." But they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever, the clerk particularly swearing, " If they gave him a shilling, they might do what they pleased with the rest; for he would not concern himself with the aff'air." This contention was so hot, and so totally en- gaged the attention of all the parties, that a dexterous nimble thief, had he been in Mr. Adams's situation, would have taken care to have given the justice no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art of a Sheppard to escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so much befriended him ; but Adams trusted rather to his innocence than his heels, and, without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance (which was im- possible, as there were six lusty young fellows, besides the villain himself, present), he walked with perfect re- signation the way they thought proper to conduct him. 40 HENRY FIELDING Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations dur- ing their journey ; at last, poor Joseph Andrews occur- ring to his mind, he could not refrain sighing forth his name, which being heard by his companion in affliction, she cried with some vehemence, " Sure I should know that voice; you cannot certainly, sir, be Mr. Abraham Adams?" — "Indeed, damsel," says he, "that is my name ; there is something also in your voice which per- suades me I have heard it before."^ — " La! sir," says she, " don't you remember poor Fanny? " — " How, Fanny!" answered Adams: "indeed, I very well re- member you ; what can have brought you hither? " — • "I have told you, sir," replied she, "I was travelling towards London ; but I thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews ; pray what is become of him? " — " I left him, child, this afternoon," said Adams, " in the stage-coach, in his way towards our parish, whither he is going to see you." — "To see me! La, sir," answered Fanny, " sure you jeer me ; what should he be going to see me for? " — "Can you ask that? " replied Adams. " I hope, Fanny, you are not inconstant ; I assure you he deserves much better of you." — "La! Mr. Adams," said she, " what is Mr. Joseph to me? I am sure I never had any- thing to say to him, but as one fellow-servant might to another." — " I am sorry to hear this," said Adams; " a virtuous passion for a young man is what no woman need be ashamed of. You either do not tell me the truth, or you are false to a very worthy man." Adams then told her what had happened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively ; and a sigh often escaped from her, notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to the con- trary; nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousand questions, which would have assured any one but Adams, who never saw farther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of a passion she en- deavoured to conceal. Indeed, the fact was, that this poor girl, having heard of Joseph's misfortune, by some of the servants belonging to the coach which we have formerly mentioned to have stopped at the inn while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that instant aban- JOSEPH ANDREWS 41 doned the cow she was milking, and, taking with her a little bundle of clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth in her own purse, without consulting any one, immediately set forward in pursuit of one whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved with inexpressible violence, though with the purest and most delicate passion. This shyness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend her character to all our female readers, and not greatly surprise such of our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex, we shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindicate. {Chapter XT) Their fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dis- pute concerning the division of the reward for appre- hending these innocent people, that they attended very little to their discourse. They were now arrived at the justice's house, and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint his worship that they had taken two robbers and brought them before him. The justice, who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not yet finished his dinner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into the stable, whither they were attended by all the servants in the house, and all the people in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see them with as much curiosity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, or that a rogue did not look like other people. The justice, now being in the height of his mirth and his cups, bethought himself of the prisoners; and, telling his company he believed they should have good sport in their examination, he ordered them into his presence. They had no sooner entered the room than he began to revile them, saying, "That robberies on the highway were now grown so frequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, and assured them they both should be made examples of at the ensuing assizes." After he had gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded by his clerk, "That it would be proper to take the de- positions of the witnesses against them. " Which he bid 42 HENRY FIELDING him do, and he would light his pipe in the mean time. Whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the deposition of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice employed himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by all the company at table. One asked, " Whether she was to be indicted for a highwayman?" Another whispered in her ear, " If she had not provided herself a great belly, he was at her service." A third said, " He warranted she was a rela- tion of Turpin." To which one of the company, a great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered, "He believed she was nearer related to Turpis;" at which there was an universal laugh. They were pro- ceeding thus with the poor girl, when somebody, smok- ing the cassock peeping forth from under the great-coat of Adams, cried out, "What have we here, a parson?" " How, sirrah," says the justice, " do you go robbing in the dress of a clergyman? let me tell you your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy." " Yes," said the witty fellow, "he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be exalted above the heads of the people; '' at which there was a second laugh. And now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in spirits ; and, turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verses, and, provoking him by giving the first blow, he repeated, " Molle meum levibus cord est viUhile telis." Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable con- tempt, told him, "He deserved scourging for his pro- nunciation." The witty fellow answered, "What do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer the first time? Why, I'll give one, you blockhead, with an S. ' Si licet J ut fulvum spectatur in ignibus haurum. ' "What, canst not with an M neither? Thou art a pretty fellow for a parson! Why didst not steal some of the parson's Latin as well as his gown? " Another at the table then answered, "If he had, you would have been too hard for him; I remember you at the college a very devil at this sport ; I have seen you catch a fresh JOSEPH ANDREWS 43 man, for nobody that knew you would engage with you." " I have forgot those things now," cried the wit. " I believe I could have done pretty well formerly. Let 's ' see, what did I end with? — an M again — aye ' Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum. ' " I could have done it once." "Ah! evil betide you, and so you can now," said the other: "nobody in this country will undertake you." Adams could hold no longer: "Friend," said he, "I have a boy not above eight years old who would instruct thee that the last verse runs thus : — 'Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum, ' " I'll hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, throwing the money on the table. "And I'll go your halves," cries the other. "Done," answered Adams; but upon applying to his pocket he was forced to retract, and own he had no money about him; which set them all a laugh- ing, and confirmed the triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more than the approbation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he must go a little longer to school before he attempted to attack that gentleman in Latin. The clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the fellow himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered them to the justice; who, having sworn the several witnesses without reading a syllable, ordered his clerk to make the mittimus. Adams then said, "He hoped he should not be con- demned unheard." " No, no," cries the justice, "you will be asked what you have to say for yourself when you come on your trial : we are not trying you now ; I shall only commit you to gaol : if you can prove your inno- cence at 'size, you will be found ignoramus, and so no harm done." "Is it no punishment, sir, for an innocent man to lie several months in gaol?" cries Adams: " I beg you would at least hear me before you sign the mittimus." " What signifies all you can say? " says the justice: "is it not here in black and white against you? 44 HENRY FIELDING I must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow to take up so much of my time. So make haste with his mittimus." The clerk now acquainted the justice that among other suspicious things, as a penknife, etc., found in Adams's pocket, they had discovered a book written, as he appre- hended, in ciphers : for no one could read a word in it. " Aye," says the justice, " the fellow may be more than a common robber, he may be in a plot against the government. Produce the book." Upon which the poor manuscript of .^Eschylus, which Adams had transcribed with his own hand, was brought forth ; and the justice, looking at it, shook his head, and, turning to the prisoner, asked the meaning of those ciphers. ' ' Ciphers? " answered Adams, "it is a manuscript of ^schylus." "Who? who?" said the justice. Adams repeated, "^schylus." "That is an outlandish name," cried the clerk. "A fictitious name rather, I believe," said the justice. One of the company declared it looked very much like Greek. " Greek? " said the justice; "why 'tis all writing." " No," says the other, " I don't positively say it is so ; for it is a very long time since I have seen any Greek. There 's one," says he, turning to the parson of the parish, who was present, "will tell us immediately." The parson, taking up the book, and putting on his spectacles and gravity together, muttered some words to himself, and then pronounced aloud — " Aye, indeed, it is a Greek manuscript; a very fine piece of antiquity. I make no doubt but it was stolen from the same clergyman from whom the rogue took the cassock." "What did the rascal mean by his .^s- chylus?" says the justice. "Pooh!" answered the doctor, with a contemptuous grin, "do you think that fellow knows anything of this book? JEschylus ! ho! ho ! ho ! I see now what it is — a manuscript of one of the fathers. I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of money for such a piece of antiquity. Aye, aye, question and answer. The beginning is the Catechism in Greek. P^ys, ays, Pollaki toi: What 's your name? " " Aye, what 's your name? " says the justice to Adams; JOSEPH ANDREWS 45 who answered, "It is ^schylus, and I will maintain it."— "Oh! it is, "says the justice: " make Mr. ^schylus his mittimus. I will teach you to banter me with a false name." One of the company, having looked steadfastly at Adams, asked him, " If he did not know Lady Booby? " Upon which Adams, presently calling him to mind, answered in a rapture, "O squire! are you there? I believe you will inform his worship I am innocent."— " I can indeed say," replied the squire, " that I am very much surprised to see you in this situation : " and then, addressing himself to the justice, he said, " Sir, I assure you Mr. Adams is a clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very good character. I wish you would inquire a little farther into this affair; for I am con- vinced of his innocence." — "Nay," says the justice, "if he is a gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, I don't desire to commit him, not I : I will commit the woman by herself, and take your bail for the gentle- man: look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to take bail — come — and make the mittimus for the woman as fast as you can." — "Sir," cries Adams, "I assure you she is as innocent as myself." — "Perhaps," said the squire, "there may be some mistake : pray let us hear Mr. Adams's relation." — " With all my heart," answered the justice; "and give the gentleman a glass to whet his whistle before he begins. I know how to behave myself to a gentleman as well as another. Nobody can say I have committed a gentleman since I have been in the commission." Adams then began the narrative, in which, though he was very prolix, he was uninterrupted, unless by several hums and ha's of the justice, and his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to him most material. When he had finished, the justice, who, on what the squire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his bare affirmation, notwithstanding the de- positions on oath to the contrary, began to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, whom he ordered to stand forth, but in vain; the said witness, long since finding what turn matters were like to take, 46 HENRY FIELDING had privily withdrawn, without attending the issue. The justice now flew into a violent passion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocent fellows who had been imposed on as well as himself. He swore, " They had best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before him within two days, or he would bind them all over to their good behaviour." They all promised to use their best endeavours to that purpose, and were dismissed. Then the justice insisted that Mr. Adams should sit down and take a glass with him ; and the parson of the parish delivered him back the manuscript without saying a word; nor would Adams, who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she was, at her own request, recom- mended to the care of a maid-servant of the house, who helped her to new dress and clean herself. The company in the parlour had not been long seated before they were alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the persons who had apprehended Adams and Fanny had been regaling, according to the custom of the house, with the justice's strong beer. These were all fallen together by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. The justice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his presence soon put an end to the fray. On his return into the parlour, he re- ported, " That the occasion of the quarrel was no other than a dispute to whom, if Adams had been convicted, the greater share of the reward for apprehending him had belonged. " All the company laughed at this, except Adams, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and said, "He was concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. That he remembered a story something like it in one of the parishes where his cure lay : — There was," continued he, "a competition between three young fellows for the place of the clerk, which 1 disposed of, to the best of my abilities, according to merit; that is, I gave it to him who had the happiest knack at setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner established in his place than a contention began between the two disappointed candidates concerning their excellence ; JOSEPH ANDREWS 47 each contending on whom, had they two been the only competitors, my election would have fallen. This dispute frequently disturbed the congregation, and introduced a discord into the psalmody, till I was forced to silence them both. But alas ! the litigious spirit could not be stifled; and, being no longer able to vent itself in sing- ing, it now broke forth in fighting. It produced many battles (for they were very near a match), and I believe would have ended fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity to promote one of them to his place; which presently put an end to the dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties." Adams then proceeded to make some philosophical observations on the folly of growing warm in disputes in which neither party is interested. He then applied himself vigorously to smoking; and a long silence ensued, which was at length broke by the justice, who began to sing forth his own praises, and to value himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in the cause which had lately been before him. He was quickly interrupted by Mr. Adams, between whom and his worship a dispute now arose, whether he ought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said Adams; in which the latter maintained he ought to have been committed, and the justice as vehemently held he ought not. This had most probably produced a quarrel (for both were very violent and positive in their opinions), had not Fanny accident- ally heard that a young fellow was going from the justice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach, in which Joseph was, put up. Upon this news, she imme- diately sent for the parson out of the parlour. Adams, when he found her resolute to go (though she would not own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces of those who had suspected her of such a crime), was as fully determined to go with her; he ac- cordingly took leave of the justice and company: and so ended a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a magistrate and a divine together by the ears. 48 HENRY FIELDING {Chapter XI l) Adams, Fanny, and the guide, set out together about one in the morning, the moon being then just risen. They had not gone above a mile before a most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or rather alehouse, where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content, utterly forgetting everything that had happened. Fanny sat likewise down by the fire ; but was much more impatient at the storm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of the house, and the young fellow who was their guide ; they all conceived they had never seen anything half so handsome; and indeed, reader, if thou art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the next paragraph; which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to set down, humbly hoping that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion ; for if it should happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, we should be perhaps in as helpless a con- dition as Narcissus, and might say to ourselves, quod petis est nusquam. Or, if the finest features in it should set lady 's image before our eyes, we should be still in as bad a situation, and might say to our desires, Coelum ipsum petimus stultitia. Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she was tall and delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women who seem rather intended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist than for any other pur- pose. On the contrary, she was so plump that she seemed bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confined her swelling breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to extend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbs which she concealed ; and though they were a little reddened by her labour, yet, if her sleeve slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchief discovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest Italian paint would be unable to reach. Her hair was of a chestnut brown, JOSEPH ANDREWS 49 and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut, and on Sundays used to curl down her neck, in the modern fashion. Her forehead was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise. Her eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the Roman; her lips red and moist, and her under lip, according to the opinion of the ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The small- pox had left one only mark on her chin, which was so large, it might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced one so neap a neighbour to it, that the former served only for a foil to the latter. Her complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, but overspread with such a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged all their white for it ; add to these a countenance in which, though she was extremelj' bash- ful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible; and a sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imita- tion or description. To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, superior to the acquisition of art, and which surprised all who beheld her. This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, when her attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room, which sung the following song : THE SONG Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray Who is by thy beauties undone? To wash their remembrance away, To what distant Lethe must run? The wretch who is sentenced to die May escape, and leave justice behind ; From his country perhaps he may fly, But oh ! can he fly from liis mind? O rapture, unthought of before ! To be thus of Chloe possessed ; Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power, Her imag'e can tear from my breast. But felt not Narcissus more joy, With his eyes he beheld his loved charms? Yet what he beheld the fond boy More eagerly wished in his arms. E 50 HENRY FIELDING How can it thy dear image be Which fills thus my bosom with woe? Can aught bear resemblance to thee Which grief and not joy can bestow? This counterfeit snatch from my heart, Ye powers, though with torment I rave, Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart : I then shall find rest in my grave. Ah, see the dear nymph o"er the plain Comes smiling and tripping along ! A thousand Loves dance in her train. The Graces around her all throng. To meet her soft Zephyrus flies, And wafts all the sweets from the flowers ; Ah, rogue ! whilst he kisses her eyes, More sweets from her breath he devours. My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire : But her looks were so tender and kind, My hope almost reached my desire, And left lame despair far behind. Transported with madness, I flew, And eagerly seized on my bliss ; Her bosom but half she withdrew, But half she refused my fond kiss. Advances like these made me bold ; I whisper'd her, — Love, we 're alone — The rest let immortals unfold ; No language can tell but their own. Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried. How long I thy cruelty bore ! Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied, You ne'er was so pressing before. Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in ./Eschylus, without attending in the least to the voice, though one of the most melodious that ever vi^as heard, when, casting his eyes on Fanny, he cried out, "Bless us, you look extremely pale!" — "Pale! Mr. Adams," says she; " O Jesus! " and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung his ^schylus into the fire, and fell a roaring to the people of the house for help. He soon summoned every one into the room, and the song- ster among the rest; but, O reader ! when this nightin- gale, who was no other than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in the situation we have de- JOSEPH ANDREWS 51 scribed her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind? If thou canst not, wave that meditation to behold his happiness, when, clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her cheeks ; when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the softest accent whisper, "Are you Joseph Andrews?" — "Art thou my Fanny? " he answered eagerly ; and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present. If prudes are oifended at the lusciousness of this pic- ture, they may take their eyes off from it, and survey Parson Adams dancing about the room in a rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps doubt whether he was not the happiest of the three ; for the goodness of his heart enjoyed the blessings which were exulting in the breasts of both the other two, together with his own. But we shall leave such disquisitions, as too deep for us, to those who are building some favourite hypothesis, which they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support : for our part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not only greater than the parson's, but of longer duration ; for as soon as the first tumults of Adams's rapture were over he cast his eyes towards the fire, where /Eschylus lay expiring ; and immediately rescued the poor remains, to wit, the sheep- skin covering, of his dear friend, which was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion for upwards of thirty years. Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she began to restrain the impetuosity of her transports ; and, reflecting on what she had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was immediately covered with confusion; and, pushing Joseph gently from her, she begged him to be quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer. Then, seeing Mrs. Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to advance to her; but that high woman would not return her curtsies ; but, casting her eyes another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as she went, she wondered who the creature was. 52 HENRY FIELDING VI [The trio are happy though Mrs. Slipslop is not, and though Adams (with Fanny's concurrence) very properly refuses Joseph's desire to be instantly joined in the bonds of wedlock to his beloved. But they have no money, and the innocent Adams, hearing that the parish is blessed with a resident clergyman, proceeds to wait upon him for supplies.] {Chapter XIV) Parson Adams came to the house of Parson TruUiber, whom he found stripped into his waistcoat, with an apron on, and a pail in his hand, just come from serving- his hogs; for Mr. TruUiber was a parson on Sundays, but all the other six might more properly be called a farmer. He occupied a small piece of land of his own, besides which he rented a considerable deal more. His wife milked his cows, managed his dairy, and followed the markets with butter and eggs. The hogs fell chiefly to his care, which he carefully waited on at home, and attended to fairs ; on which occasion he was liable to many jokes, his own size being, with much ale, rendered little inferior to that of the beasts he sold. He was in- deed one of the largest men you should see, and could have acted the part of Sir John Falstaff without stuffing. Add to this that the rotundity of his belly was consider- ably increased by the shortness of his stature, his shadow ascending very near as far in height, when he lay on his back, as when he stood on his legs. His voice was loud and hoarse, and his accents extremely broad. To complete the whole, he had a stateliness in his gait, when he walked, not unlike that of a goose, only he stalked slower. Mr. TruUiber, being informed that somebody wanted to speak with him, immediately slipped off his apron and clothed himself in an old night-gown, being the dress in which he always saw his company at home. His wife, who informed him of Mr. Adams's arrival, had made a small mistake ; for she had told her husband, JOSEPH ANDREWS 53 " She believed there was a man come for some of his hogs." This supposition made Mr. Trulliber hasten with the utmost expedition to attend his guest. He no sooner saw Adams than, not in the least doubting the cause of his errand to be what his wife had imagined, he told him, " he was come in very good time; that he ex- pected a dealer that very afternoon ; " and added, "they were all pure and fat, and upwards of twenty score a-piece." Adams answered, "He believed he did not know him." " Yes, yes," cried Trulliber, " I have seen you often at fair ; why, we have dealt before now, mun, I warrant you. Yes, yes," cries he, "I remember thy face very well, but won't mention a word more till you have seen them, though I have never sold thee a flitch of such bacon as is now in the sty." Upon which he laid violent hands on Adams, and dragged him into the hog-sty, which was indeed but two steps from his parlour- window. They were no sooner arrived there than he cried out, "Do but handle them; step in, friend; art welcome to handle them, whether dost buy or no." At which words, opening the gate, he pushed Adams into the pig-sty, insisting on it that he should handle them before he would talk one word with him. Adams, whose natural complacence was beyond any artificial, was obliged to comply before he was suff"ered to explain himself; and, laying hold on one of their tails, the unruly beast gave such a sudden spring, that he threw poor Adams all along in the mire. Trulliber, instead of assisting him to get up, burst into a laughter, and, entering the sty, said to Adams, with some con- tempt, "Why, dost not know how to handle a hog?" and was going to lay hold of one himself; but Adams, who thought he had carried his complacence far enough, was no sooner on his legs than he escaped out of the reach of the animals, and cried out, '■^ Nihil habeo cum porcis : I am a clergyman, sir, and am not come to buy hogs." Trulliber answered, " he was sorry for the mis- take, but that he must blame his wife," adding, "she was a fool, and always committed blunders." He then desired him to walk in and clean himself, that he would 54 HENRY FIELDING only fasten up the sty and follow him. Adams desired leave to dry his great-coat, wig-, and hat by the fire, which Trulliber granted. Mrs. Trulliber would have brought him a basin of water to wash his face, but her husband bid her be quiet Hke a fool as she was, or she would commit more blunders, and then directed Adams to the pump. While Adams was thus employed, Trulli- ber, conceiving no great respect for the appearance of his guest, fastened the parlour door, and now conducted him into the kitchen, telling him he believed a cup of drink would do him no harm, and whispered his wife to draw a little of the worst ale. After a short silence Adams said, "I fancy, sir, you already perceive me to be a clergyman." — "Aye, aye," cries Trulliber, grinning, "I perceive you have some cassock; I will not venture to caale it a whole one." Adams answered, " It was indeed none of the best, but he had the misfor- tune to tear it about ten years ago in passing over a stile." Mrs. Trulliber, returning with the drink, told her husband "She fancied the gentleman was a traveller, and that he would be glad to eat a bit." Trulliber bid her hold her impertinent tongue, and asked her, " If parsons used to travel without horses?" adding, "He supposed the gentleman had none by his having no boots on." — " Yes, sir, yes," says Adams; " I have a horse, but I have left him Ijehind me." — " I am glad to hear you have one," says Trulliber; "for I assure you I don't love to see clergymen on foot ; it is not seemly nor suiting the dignity of the cloth." Here Trulliber made a long oration on the dignity of the cloth (or rather gown) not much worth relating, till his wife had spread the table and set a mess of porridge on it for his breakfast. He then said to Adams, " I don't know, friend, how you came to caale on me ; however, as you are here, if you think proper to eat a morsel, you may." Adams ac- cepted the invitation, and the two parsons sat down to- gether ; Mrs. Trulliber waiting behind her husband's chair, as was, it seems, her custom. Trulliber ate heartily, but scarce put anything in his mouth without finding fault with his wife's cookery. All which the poor JOSEPH ANDREWS 55 woman bore patiently. Indeed, she was so absolutely an admirer of her husband's greatness and importance, of which she had frequent hints from his own mouth, that she almost carried her adoration to an opinion of his in- fallibility. To say the truth, the parson had exercised her more ways than one ; and the pious woman had so well edified by her husband's sermons, that she had resolved to receive the bad things of this world together with the good. She had indeed been at first a little contentious ; but he had long since got the better ; partly by her love for this, partly by her fear of that, partly by her religion, partly by the respect he paid himself, and partly by that which he received from the parish. She had, in short, absolutely submitted, and now worshipped her husband, as Sarah did Abraham, calling him (not lord, but) master. Whilst they were at table her husband gave her a fresh example of his greatness ; for, as she had just delivered a cup of ale to Adams, he snatched it out of his hand, and, crying out " I caal'd vurst," swallowed down the ale. Adams denied it; it was referred to the wife, who, though her conscience was on the side of Adams, durst not give it against her husband ; upon which he said, " No, sir, no; I should not have been so rude to have taken it from you if you had caal'd vurst, but I'd have you know I'm a better man than to suffer the best he in the kingdom to drink before me in my own house when I caale vurst." As soon as their breakfast was ended, Adams began in the following manner: " I think, sir, it is high time to inform you of the business of my embassy. I am a traveller and am passing this way in company with two young people, a lad and a damsel, my parishioners, to- wards my own cure ; we stopped at a house of hospi- tality in the parish, where they directed me to you as having the cure." — "Though I am but a curate," says TruUiber, " I believe I am as warm as the vicar himself, or perhaps the rector of the next parish too ; I believe 1 could buy them both." — " Sir," cries Adams, " I rejoice thereat. Now, sir, my business is, that we are by various accidents stripped of our money, and are not 56 HENRY FIELDING able to pay our reckoning, being seven shillings. I there- fore request you to assist me with the loan of those seven shillings, and also seven shillings more, which, peradventure, I shall return to you; but if not, I am convinced you will joyfully embrace such an opportunity of laying up a treasure in a better place than any this world affords." Suppose a stranger, who entered the chambers of a lawyer, being imagined a client, when the lawyer was preparing his palm for the fee, should pull out a writ against him. Suppose an apothecary, at the door of a chariot containing some great doctor of eminent skill, should, instead of directions to a patient, present him with a potion for himself. Suppose a minister should, instead of a good round sum, treat my Lord , or Sir , or Esq. with a good broomstick. Suppose a civil companion, or a led captain, should, instead of virtue, and honour, and beauty, and parts, and admira- tion, thunder vice, and infamy, and ugliness, and folly, and contempt, in his patron's ears. Suppose, when a tradesman first carries in his bill, the man of fashion should pay it ; or suppose, if he did so, the tradesman should abate what he had overcharged, on the supposi- tion of waiting. In short — suppose what you will, you never can nor will suppose anything equal to the astonish- ment which seized on Trulliber, as soon as Adams had ended his speech. A while he rolled his eyes in silence; sometimes surveying Adams, then his wife ; then cast- ing them on the ground, then lifting them up to heaven. At last he burst forth in the following accents: " Sir, I believe I know where to lay up my little treasure as well as another. I thank God, if I am not so warm as some, I am content ; that is a blessing greater than riches ; and he to whom that is given need ask no more. To be content with a little is greater than to possess the world ; which a mafrmay possess without being so. Lay up my treasure ! what matters where a man's treasure is whose heart is in the Scriptures? there is the treasure ot a christian." At these words the water ran from Adams's eyes ; and, catching Trulliber by the hand in a rapture, JOSEPH ANDREWS 57 " Brother," says he, " Heavens bless the accident by which I came to see you ! I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you ; and, believe me, I will shortly pay you a second visit; but my friends, I fancy, by this time, wonder at my stay; so let me have the money immediately." Trulliber then put on a stern look, and cried out, "Thou dost not intend to rob me? " At which the wife, bursting into tears, fell on her knees and roared out, "O dear sir! for Heaven's sake don't rob my master: we are but poor people." "Get up, for a fool as thou art, and go about thy business," said Trulliber: "dost think the man will venture his life? he is a beggar, and no robber." "Very true, indeed," answered Adams. " I wish, with all my heart, the tithing-man was here," cries Trulliber: " I would have thee punished as a vagabond for thy impudence. Four- teen shillings indeed ! I won't give thee a farthing. I believe thou art no more a clergyman than the woman there (pointing to his wife) ; but if thou art, dost deserve to have thy gown stripped over thy shoulders for run- ning about the country in such a manner." " I forgive your suspicions," says Adams; " but suppose I am not a clergyman, I am nevertheless thy brother ; and thou, as a christian, much more as a clergyman, art obliged to relieve my distress." " Dost preach to me?" replied Trulliber: "dost pretend to instruct me in my duty?" " Ifacks, a good story," cries Mrs. Trulliber, " to preach to my master." "Silence, woman," cries Trulliber. " I would have thee know, friend," (addressing himself to Adams,) " I shall not learn my duty from such as thee. I know what charity is, better than to give to vaga- bonds." " Besides, if we were inclined, the poor's rate obliges us to give so much charity," cries the wife. "Pugh! thou art a fool. Poor's rate! Hold thy non- sense," answered Trulliber ; and then, turning to Adams, he told him, "he would give him nothing." "I am sorry," answered Adams, "that you do. know what charity is, since you practise it no better : I must tell you, if you trust to your knowledge for your justification, you will find yourself deceived, though you should add faith 58 HENRY FIELDING to it, without good works." " Fellow," cries Trulliber, " dost thou speak against faith in my house? Get out of my doors : I will no longer remain under the same roof with a wretch who speaks wantonly of faith and the Scriptures." " Name not the Scriptures," says Adams. " How! not name the Scriptures! Do you disbelieve the Scriptures?" cries Trulliber. "No; but you do," an- swered Adams, " if I may reason from your practice; for their commands are so explicit, and their rewards and punishments so immense, that it is impossible a man should steadfastly believe without obeying. Now, there is no command more express, no duty more frequently enjoined, than charity. Whoever, therefore, is void of charity, I make no scruple of pronouncing that he is no christian." "I would not advise thee," says Trulliber, " to say that I am no christian : I won't take it of you; for I believe I am as good a man as thyself" (and in- deed, though he was now rather too corpulent for athletic exercises, he had, in his youth, been one of the best boxers and cudgel-players in the county). His wife, seeing him clench his fist, interposed, and begged him not to fight, but show himself a true christian, and take the law of him. As nothing could provoke Adams to strike, but an absolute assault on himself or his friend, he smiled at the angry look and gestures of Trulliber ; and telling him he was sorry to see such men in orders, de- parted without further ceremony. [Chapter XV) When he came back to the inn he found Joseph and Fanny sitting together. They were so far from thinking his absence long, as he had feared they would, that they never once missed or thought of him. Indeed, I have been often assured by both, that they spent these hours in a most delightful conversation ; but, as I never could prevail on either to relate it, so I cannot communicate it to the reader. Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success of his enterprise. They were all greatly confounded, none JOSEPH ANDREWS 59 being able to propose any method of departing, till Joseph at last advised calling in the hostess, and desir- ing her to trust them ; which Fanny said she despaired of her doing, as she was one of the sourest-faced women she had ever beheld. But she was agreeably disappointed ; for the hostess was no sooner asked the question than she readily agreed; and, with a curtsy and smile, wished them a good journey. However, lest Fanny's skill in physio- gnomy should be called in question, we will venture to assign one reason which might probably incline her to this confidence and good-humour. When Adams said he was going to visit his brother, he had unwittingly imposed on Joseph and Fanny, who both believed he had meant his natural brother, and not his brother in divinity, and had so informed the hostess, on her inquiry after him. Now Mr. TruUiber had, by his professions of piety, by his gravity, austerity, reserve, and the opinion of his great wealth, so great an authority in his parish, that they all lived in the utmost fear and apprehension of him. It was therefore no wonder that the hostess, who knew it was in his option whether she should ever sell another mug of drink, did not dare to affront his supposed brother by denying him credit. They were now just on their departure when Adams recollected he had left his great-coat and hat at Mr. Trulliber's. As he was not desirous of renewing his visit, the hostess herself, having no servant at home, offered to fetch them. This was an unfortunate expedient; for the hostess was soon undeceived in the opinion she had entertained of Adams, whom Trulliber abused in the grossest terms, especially when he heard he had had the assurance to pretend to be his near relation. At her return, therefore, she entirely changed her note. She said, " Folks might be ashamed of travelling about, and pretending to be what they were not. That taxes were high, and for her part she was obliged to pay for what she had ; she could not therefore possibly, nor would she, trust anybody ; no, not her own father. 6o HENRY FIELDING That money was never scarcer, and she wanted to make up a sum. That she expected, therefore, they should pay their reckoning before they left the house." Adams was now greatly perplexed ; but, as he knew that he could easily have borrowed such a sum in his own parish, and as he knew he would have lent it him- self to any mortal in distress, so he took fresh courage, and sallied out all round the parish, but to no purpose; he returned as penniless as he went, groaning and lamenting that it was possible, in a country professing Christianity, for a wretch to starve in the midst of his fellow-creatures who abounded. Whilst he was gone, the hostess, who staid as a sort of guard with Joseph and Fanny, entertained them with the goodness of Parson Trulliber. And, indeed, he had not only a very good character as to other qualities in the neighbourhood, but was reputed a man of great charity ; for, though he never gave a farthing, he had always that word in his mouth. , Adams was no sooner returned the second time than the storm grew exceeding high, the hostess declaring, among other things, that, if they oifered to stir without paying her, she would soon overtake them with a warrant. Plato and Aristotle, or somebody else, hath said, that when the most exquisite cunning fails, chance often hits the mark, and that by means the least expected. Virgil expresses this very boldly : — Turne^ quod optanti divtwt promittere nemo Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultra, I would quote more great men if I could ; but my memory not permitting me, I will proceed to exemplify these observations by the following instance : — There chanced (for Adams had not cunning enough to contrive it) to be at that time in the alehouse a fellow who had been formerly a drummer in an Irish regiment, and now travelled the country as a pedlar. This man, having attentively listened to the discourse of the hostess, at last took Adams aside, and asked him what the sum JOSEPH ANDREWS 6i was for which they were detained. As soon as he was informed, he sighed, and said, "He was sorry it was so much ; for that he had no more than six shilUngs and sixpence in his pocket, which he would lend them with all his heart." Adams gave a caper, and cried out, " It would do; for that he had sixpence himself." And thus these poor people, who could not engage the compassion of riches and piety, were at length delivered out of their distress by the charity of a poor pedlar. I shall refer it to my reader to make what observations he pleases on this incident : it is sufficient for me to in- form him that, after Adams and his companions had returned him a thousand thanks, and told him where he might call to be repaid, they all sallied out of the house without any compliments from their hostess, or indeed without paying her any ; Adams declaring he would take particular care never to call there again ; and she on her side assuring them she wanted no such guests. vn [Adams's next trials (for at this time he occupies quite the fore- most "place i' the story") are with a sham liberal squire and a "sea-lawyer" of a host. But the opening chapters of Book III (after one of Fielding's usual prefaces) are very important to the novel.] {Book III.— Chapter II) It was so late when our travellers left the inn or ale- house (for it might be called either), that they had not travelled many miles before night overtook them, or met them, which you please. The reader must excuse me if I am not particular as to the way they took ; for, as we are now drawing near the seat of the Boobies, and as that is a ticklish name, which malicious persons may apply, according to their evil inclinations, to several worthy country squires, a race of men whom we look upon as entirely inoffensive, and for whom we have an adequate regard, we shall lend no assistance to any such malicious purposes. 62 HENRY FIELDING Darkness had now overspread the hemisphere, when Fanny whispered Joseph " that she begged to rest her- self a little ; for that she was so tired she could walk no farther." Joseph immediately prevailed with Parson Adams, who was as brisk as a bee, to stop. He had no sooner seated himself than he lamented the loss of his dear ^schylus; but was a little comforted when re- minded that, if he had it in his possession, he could not see to read. The sky was so clouded, that not a star appeared. It was indeed, according to Milton, darkness visible. This was a circumstance, however, very favourable to Joseph; for Fanny, not suspicious of being overseen by Adams, gave a loose to her passion which she had never done before, and, reclining her head on his bosom, threw her arm carelessly round him, and suffered him to lay his cheek close to hers. All this infused such happiness into Joseph, that he would not have changed his turf for the finest down in the finest palace in the universe. Adams sat at some distance from the lovers, and, being unwilling to disturb them, applied himself to meditation ; in which he had not spent much time before he discovered a light at some distance that seemed approaching towards him. He immediately hailed it; but, to his sorrow and surprise, it stopped for a moment, and then disappeared. He then called to Joseph, asking him, " if he had not seen the light? " Joseph answered, "he had." — "And did you not mark how it vanished?" returned he: "though I am not afraid of ghosts, I do not absolutely disbelieve them." He then entered into a meditation on those unsub- stantial beings ; which was soon interrupted by several voices, which he thought almost at his elbow, though in fact they were not so extremely near. However, he could distinctly hear them agree on the murder of any one they met; and a little after heard one of them say, " he had killed a dozen since that day fortnight." Adams now fell on his knees, and committed himself to the care of Providence ; and poor Fanny, who like- wise heard those terrible words, embraced Joseph so JOSEPH ANDREWS 63 closely, that had not he, whose ears were also open, been apprehensive on her account, he would have thought no danger which threatened only himself too dear a price for such embraces. Joseph now drew forth his penknife, and Adams, having finished his ejaculations, grasped his crabstick, his only weapon, and, coming up to Joseph, would have had him quit Fanny, and place her in the rear ; but his advice was fruitless ; she clung closer to him, not at all regarding the presence of Adams, and in a soothing voice declared, " she would die in his arms." Joseph, clasping her with inexpressible eagerness, whispered her, " that he preferred death in hers to life out of them." Adams, brandishing his crabstick, said, "he despised death as much as any man," and then repeated aloud, Mst hiCf est animus lucis contemptor et illum^ Qui vita bene credat emi quo tendisj honorem. Upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and then one of them called out, " D — n you, who is there? " To which Adams was prudent enough to make no reply; and of a sudden he observed half-a-dozen lights, which seemed to rise all at once from the ground and advance briskly towards him. This he immediately concluded to be an apparition ; and now, beginning to perceive that the voices were of the same kind, he called out, " In the name of the L — d, what wouldst thou have?" He had no sooner spoke than he heard one of the voices cry out, "D — n them, here they come;" and soon after heard several hearty blows, as if a number of men had been engaged at quarterstaff. He was just advancing to- wards the place of combat, when Joseph, catching him by the skirts, begged him that they might take the opportunity of the dark to convey away Fanny from the danger which threatened her. He presently complied, and, Joseph lifting up Fanny, they all three made the best of their way; and without looking behind them, or being overtaken, they had travelled full two miles, poor Fanny not once complaining of being tired, when they saw far off several lights scattered at a small distance 64 HENRY FIELDING from each other, and at the same time found themselves on the descent of a very steep hill. Adams's foot slipping, he instantly disappeared, which greatly frighted both Joseph and Fanny: indeed, if the light had permitted them to see it, they would scarce have refrained laugh- ing to see the parson rolling down the hill ; which he did from top to bottom, without receiving any harm. He then holloed as loud as he could, to inform them of his safety, and relieve them from the fears which they had conceived for him. Joseph and Fanny halted some time, considering what to do ; at last they advanced a few paces, where the declivity seemed least steep ; and then Joseph, taking his Fanny in his arms, walked firmly down the hill, without making a false step, and at length landed her at the bottom, where Adams soon came to them. Learn hence, my fair countrywomen, to consider your own weakness, and the many occasions on which the strength of a man may be useful to you; and, duly weighing this, take care that you match not yourselves with the spindle-shanked beaux and petit-mattres of the age, who, instead of being able, like Joseph Andrews, to carry you in lusty arms through the rugged ways and downhill steeps of life, will rather want to support their feeble limbs with your strength and assistance. Our travellers now moved forwards where the nearest light presented itself; and, having crossed a common field, they came to a meadow, where they seemed to be at a very little distance from the light, when, to their grief, they arrived at the banks of a river. Adams here made a full stop, and declared he could swim, but doubted how it was possible to get Fanny over; to which Joseph answered, "If they walked along its banks, they might be certain of soon finding a bridge, especially as by the number of lights they might be assured a parish was near." " Odso, that 's true indeed," said Adams ; " I did not think of that." Accordingly, Joseph's advice being taken, they passed over two meadows, and came to a little orchard, which led them to a house. Fanny begged of Joseph to knock JOSEPH ANDREWS 65 at the door, assuring him "she was so weary that she could hardly stand on her feet." Adams, who was fore- most, performed this ceremony; and, the door being immediately opened, a plain kind of man appeared at it: Adams acquainted him " that they had a young woman with them who was so tired with her journey that he should be much obliged to him if he would suffer her to come in and rest herself." The man, who saw Fanny by the light of the candle which he held in his hand, perceiving her innocent and modest look, and having no apprehensions from the civil behaviour of Adams, pre- sently answered, "That the young woman was very welcome to rest herself in his house, and so were her company." He then ushered them into a very decent room, where his wife was sitting at a table : she im- mediately rose up and assisted them in setting forth chairs, and desired them to sit down ; which they had no sooner done than the man of the house asked them if they would have anything to refresh themselves with? Adams thanked him, and answered he should be obliged to him for a cup of his ale, which was likewise chosen by Joseph and Fanny. Whilst he was gone to fill a very large jug with this liquor, his wife told Fanny she seemed greatly fatigued, and desired her to take something stronger than ale; but she refused with many thanks, saying it was true she was very much tired, but a little rest she hoped would restore her. As soon as the com- pany were all seated, Mr. Adams, who had filled himself with ale, and by public permission had lighted his pipe, turned to the master of the house, asking him, " If evil spirits -^id not use to walk in that neighbourhood? " To which receiving no answer, he began to inform him of the adventure which they had met with on the downs ; nor had he proceeded far in his story when somebody knocked very hard at the door. The company expressed some amazement, and Fanny and the good woman turned pale: her husband went forth, and whilst he was absent, which was some time, they all remained silent, looking at one another, and heard several voices discoursing pretty loudly. Adams was fully persuaded 66 HENRY FIELDING that spirits were abroad, and began to meditate some exorcisms; Joseph a little inclined to the same opinion; Fanny was more afraid of men; and the good woman herself began to suspect her guests, and imagined those without were rogues belonging to their gang. At length the master of the house returned, and, laughing, told Adams he had discovered his apparition ; that the mur- derers were sheep-stealers, and the twelve persons murdered were no other than twelve sheep; adding, that the shepherds had got the better of them, had secured two, and were proceeding with them to a jus- tice of peace. This account greatly relieved the fears of the whole company; but Adams muttered to him- self, "He was convinced of the truth of apparitions for all that." They now sat cheerfully round the fire, till the master of the house, having surveyed his guests, and con- ceiving that the cassock, which, having fallen down, appeared under Adams's great-coat, and the shabby livery on Joseph Andrews, did not well suit with the familiarity between them, began to entertain some sus- picions not much to their advantage: addressing him- self therefore to Adams, he said, "He perceived he was a clergyman by his dress, and supposed that honest man was his footman." "Sir," answered Adams, "I am a clergyman at your service ; but as to that young man, whom you have rightly termed honest, he is at present in nobody's service ; he never lived in any other family than that of lady Booby, from whence he was discharged, I assure you, for no crime." Joseph said, "He did not wonder the gentleman was surprised to see one of Mr. Adams's character condescend to so much goodness with a poor man." — "Child," said Adams, " I should be ashamed of my cloth if I thought a poor man, who is honest, below my notice or my familiarity. I know not how those who think otherwise can profess themselves followers and servants of Him who made no distinction, unless, peradventure, by pre- ferring the poor to the rich. — Sir," said he, addressing himself to the gentleman, "these two poor young JOSEPH ANDREWS 67 people are my parishioners, and I look on them and love them as my children. There is something singular enough in their history, but I have not now time to recount it." The master of the house, notvsrithstanding the simplicity which discovered itself in Adams, knew too much of the world to give a hasty belief to pro- fessions. He was not yet quite certain that Adams had any more of the clergyman in him than his cassock. To try him therefore further, he asked him, " If Mr. Pope had lately published anything new? " Adams answered, " He had heard great commendations of that poet, but that he had never read nor knew any of his works. "^ — "Ho! ho!" says the gentleman to himself, "have I caught you? What!" said he, "have you never seen his Homer?" Adams answered, "he had never read any translation of the classics." " Why, truly," replied the gentleman, "there is a dignity in the Greek lan- guage which I think no modern tongue can reach." — " Do you understand Greek, sir? " said Adams hastily. "A little, sir," answered the gentleman. "Do you know, sir, " cried Adams, ' ' where I can buy an ^schylus ? an unlucky misfortune lately happened to mine." j^schy- lus was beyond the gentleman, though he knew him very well byname ; he therefore, returning back to Homer, asked Adams, " What part of the Iliad he thought most excellent?" Adams returned, "His question would be properer. What kind of beauty was the chief in poetry? for that Homer was equally excellent in them all. And, indeed," continued he, "what Cicero says of a com- plete orator may well be applied to a great poet : • He ought to comprehend all perfections.' Homer did this in the most excellent degree ; it is not without reason, therefore, that the philosopher, in the twenty-second chapter of his Poetics, mentions him by no other appella- tion than that of ' the Poet.' He was the father of the drama as well as the epic ; not of tragedy only, but of comedy also ; for his Margites, which is deplorably lost, bore, says Aristotle, the same analogy to comedy as his Odyssey and Iliad to tragedy. To him, therefore, we owe Aristophanes as well as Euripides, Sophocles, and 68 HENRY FIELDING my poor ^schylus. But if you please we will confine ourselves (at least for the present) to the Iliad, his noblest work ; though neither Aristotle nor Horace give it the preference, as I remember, to the Odyssey. First, then, as to his subject, can anything be more simple, and at the same time more noble? He is rightly praised by the first of those judicious critics for not choosing the whole war, which, though he says it hath a complete beginning and end, would have been too great for the understanding to comprehend at one view. I have, therefore, often wondered why so correct a writer as Horace should, in his epistle to Lollius, call him the Trojani Belli Scriptorem. Secondly, his action, termed by Aristotle, Pragmaton Systasis ; is it possible for the mind of man to conceive an idea of such perfect unity, and at the same time so replete with greatness? And here I must observe, what I do not remember to have seen noted by any, the Harmotton, that agreement of his action to his subject: for, as the subject is anger, how agreeable is his action, which is war; from which every incident arises and to which every episode imme- diately relates. Thirdly, his manners, which Aristotle places second in his description of the several parts of tragedy, and which he says are included in the action ; I am at a loss whether I should rather admire the exact- ness of his judgment in the nice distinction or the im- mensity of his imagination in their variety. For, as to the former of these, how accurately is the sedate, in- jured resentment of Achilles, distinguished from the hot, insulting passion of Agamemnon ! How widely doth the brutal courage of Ajax differ from the amiable bravery of Diomedes ;. and the wisdom of Nestor, which is the result of long reflection and experience, from the cun- ning of Ulysses, the effect of art and subtlety only ! If we consider their variety, we may cry out, with Aristotle in his 24th chapter, that no part of this divine poem is destitute of manners. Indeed, I might affirm that there is scarce a character in human nature untouched in some part or other. And, as there is no passion which he is not able to describe, so is there none in his reader which JOSEPH ANDREWS 69 he cannot raise. If he hath any superior excellence to the rest, I have been inclined to fancy it is in the pathetic. I am sure I never read with dry eyes the two episodes where Andromache is introduced, in the former lamenting the danger, and in the latter the death, of Hector. The images are so extremely tender in these, that I am convinced the poet had the worthiest and best heart imaginable. Nor can I help observing how Sophocles falls short of the beauties of the original, in that imitation of the dissuasive speech of Andromache which he hath put into the mouth of Tecmessa. And yet Sophocles was the greatest genius who ever wrote tragedy ; nor have any of his successors in that art, that is to say, neither Euripides nor Seneca the tragedian, been able to come near him. As to his sentiments and diction, I need say nothing ; the former are particularly remarkable for the utmost perfection on that head, namely, propriety ; and as to the latter, Aristotle, whom doubtless you have read over and over, is very diffuse. I shall mention but one thing more, which that great critic in his division of tragedy calls Opsis, or the scenery; and which is as proper to the epic as to the drama, with this difference, that in the former it falls to the share of the poet, and in the latter to that of the painter. But did ever painter imagine a scene like that in the 13th and 14th Iliads? where the reader sees at one view the prospect of Troy, with the army drawn up before it; the Grecian army, camp and fleet; Jupiter sitting on Mount Ida, with his head wrapped in a cloud, and a thunderbolt in his hand, looking towards Thrace ; Neptune driving through the sea, whicji divides on each side to permit his passage, and then seating himself on Mount Samos; the heavens opened, and the deities all seated on their thrones. This is sublime! This is poetry! " Adams then rapt out a hundred Greek verses, and with such a voice, emphasis, and action, that he almost frightened the women ; and as for the gentleman, he was so far from entertaining any further suspicion of Adams, that he now doubted whether he had not a bishop in his house. He ran into the most extravagant 70 HENRY FIELDING encomiums on his learning; and the goodness of his heart began to dilate to all the strangers. He said he had great compassion for the poor young woman, who looked pale and faint with her journey ; and in truth he conceived a much higher opinion of her quality than it deserved. He said he was sorry he could not accom- modate them all: but if they were contented with his fire-side, he would sit up with the men ; and the young woman might, if she pleased, partake his wife's bed, which he advised her to ; for tliat they must walk up- wards of a mile to any house of entertainment, and that not very good neither. Adams, who liked his seat, his ale, his tobacco, and his company, persuaded Fanny to accept this kind proposal, in which solicitation he was seconded by Joseph. Nor was she very difficultly pre- vailed on ; for she had slept little the last night and not at all the preceding; so that love itself was scarce able to keep her eyes open any longer. The offer there- fore being kindly accepted, the good woman produced everything eatable in her house on the table, and the guests, being heartily invited, as heartily regaled them- selves, especially Parson Adams. As to the other two, they were examples of the truth of that physical observa- tion, that love, like other sweet things, is no whetter of the stomach. Supper was no sooner ended, than Fanny at her own request, retired, and the good woman bore her com- pany. The man of the house, Adams, and Joseph, who would modestly have withdrawn, had not the gentleman insisted on the contrary, drew round the fire-side, where Adams (to use his own words) replenished his pipe, and the gentleman produced a bottle of excellent beer, being the best liquor in his house. The modest behaviour of Joseph, with the graceful- ness of his person, the character which Adams gave of him, and the friendship he seemed to entertain for him, began to work on the gentleman's affections, and raised in him a curiosity to know the singularity which Adams had mentioned in his history. This curiosity Adams was no sooner informed of than, with Joseph's consent. JOSEPH ANDREWS 71 he agreed to gratify it ; and accordingly related all he knew, with as much tenderness as was possible for the character of Lady Booby ; and concluded with the long, faithful, and mutual passion between him and Fanny, not concealing the meanness of her birth and education. These latter circumstances entirely cured a jealousy which had lately risen in the gentleman's mind, that Fanny was the daughter of some person of fashion, and that Joseph had run away with her, and Adams was concerned in the plot. He was now enamoured of his guests, drank their healths with great cheerfulness, and returned many thanks to Adams, who had spent much breath, for he was a circumstantial teller of a story. Adams told him it was now in his power to return that favour; for his extraordinary goodness, as well as that fund of literature he was master of,' which he did not expect to find under such a roof, had raised in him more curiosity than he had ever known. "Therefore," said he, "if it be not too troublesome, sir, your history if you please." The gentleman answered, he could not refuse him what he had so much right to insist on ; and after some of the common apologies, which are the usual preface to a story, he thus began. (Chapter III) Sir, I am descended of a good family, and was born a gentleman. My education was liberal, and at a public school, in which I proceeded so far as to become master ^ The author hath by some been represented to have made a blunder here : for Adams had indeed shown some learning (say they), perhaps all the author had ; but the g-entleman hath shown none, unless his approbation of Mr. Adams be such : but surely it would be preposterous in him to call it so. I have, however, not- withstandingf this criticism, which I am told came from the mouth of a great orator in a public coifee-house, left this blunder as it stood in the first edition. I will not have the vanity to apply to anything in this work the observation which Mme. Dacier makes in her preface to her Aristophanes : Je tiens pour une maxime con- 72 HENRY FIELDING of the Latin, and to be tolerably versed in the Greek language. My father died when I was sixteen, and left me master of myself. He bequeathed me a moderate fortune, which he intended I should not receive till I attained the age of twenty-five : for he constantly asserted that was full early enough to give up any man entirely to the guidance of his own discretion. However, as this intention was so obscurely worded in his will that the lawyers advised me to contest the point with my trustees, I own I paid so little regard to the inclinations of my dead father, which were sufficiently certain to me, that I followed their advice, and soon succeeded, for the trustees did not contest the matter very obstinately on their side. "Sir," said Adams, "may I crave the favour of your name?" The gentleman answered his name was Wilson, and then proceeded. I staid a very little while at school after his death; for, being a forward youth, I was extremely impatient to be in the world, for which I thought my parts, know- ledge, and manhood, thoroughly qualified me. And to this early introduction into life, without a guide, I im- pute all my future misfortunes ; for, besides the obvious mischiefs which attend this, there is one which hath not been so generally observed : the first impression which mankind receives of you will be very difficult to eradi- cate. How unhappy, therefore, must it be to fix your character in life, before you can possibly know its value, or weigh the consequences of those actions which are to establish your future reputation ! A little under seventeen I left my school, and went to London with no more than six pounds in my pocket : a great sum, as I then conceived ; and which I was after- wards surprised to find so soon consumed. The character I was ambitious of attaining was that of a fine gentleman ; the first requisites to which I ap- stante, gu'une heaut4 midiocre plait plus gin4rahm.ent qu'uneheauti sans difaut. Mr. Congreve hath made such another blunder in his " Love for Love," where Tattle tells Miss Prue, " She should ad- mire him as much for the beauty he commends in her as if he him- self was possessed of it." JOSEPH ANDREWS 73 prehended were to be supplied by a tailor, a periwig- maker, and some few more tradesmen who deal in furnishing out the human body. Notwithstanding the lowness of my purse, I found credit with them more easily than I expected, and was soon equipped to my wish. This I own then agreeably surprised me ; but I have since learned that it is a maxim among many tradesmen at the polite end of the town to deal as largely as they can, reckon as high as they can, and arrest as soon as they can. The next qualifications, namely, dancing, fencing, riding the great horse, and music, came into my head : but, as they required expense and time, I comforted myself, with regard to dancing, that I had learned a little in my youth, and could walk a minuet genteelly enough ; as to fencing, I thought my good-humour would preserve me from the danger of a quarrel ; as to the horse, I hoped it would not be thought of; and for music, I imagined I could easily acquire the reputation of it ; for I had heard some of my school-fellows pretend to knowledge in operas, without being able to sing or play on the fiddle. Knowledge of the town seemed another ingredient ; this I thought I should arrive at by frequenting public places. Accordingly I paid constant attendance to them all ; by which means I was soon master of the fashion- able phrases, learned to cry up the fashionable diver- sions, and knew the names and faces of the most fashionable men and women. Nothing now seemed to remain but an intrigue, which I was resolved to have immediately; I mean the reputa- tion of it; and indeed I was so successful, that in a very short time I had half a dozen with the finest women in town. At these words Adams fetched a deep groan, and then, blessing himself, cried out, "Good Lord! what wicked times these are ! " Not so wicked as you imagine, continued the gentle- man; for I assure you they were all vestal virgins for anything which I knew to the contrary. The reputation 74 HENRY FIELDING of intriguing with them was all I sought, and was what I arrived at : and perhaps I only flattered myself even in that ; for very probably the persons to whom I showed their billets knew as well as I that they were counterfeits, and that I had written them to myself. "Write letters to yourself! " said Adams, staring. O sir, answered the gentleman, it is the very error of the times. Half our modern plays have one of these characters in them. It is incredible the pains I have taken, and the absurd methods I employed, to traduce the character of women of distinction. When another had spoken in raptures of any one, I have answered, "D — n her, she! We shall have her at H d's very soon." When he hath replied, "He thought her virtuous," I have answered, "Ay, thou wilt always think a woman virtuous, till she is in the streets ; but you and I, Jack or Tom (turning to another in company), know better." At which I have drawn a paper out of my pocket, perhaps a tailor's bill, and kissed it, crying at the same time, " By Gad I was once fond of her." " Proceed, if you please, but do not swear any more," said Adams. Sir, said the gentleman, I ask your pardon. Well, sir, in this course of life I continued full three years. — "What course of life?" answered Adams; " I do not remember you have mentioned any." — Your remark is just, said the gentleman, smiling; I should rather have said, in this course of doing nothing. I remember some time afterwards I wrote the journal of one day, which would serve, I believe, as well for any other during the whole time. I will endeavour to repeat it to you. In the morning I arose, took my great stick, and walked out in my green frock, with my hair in papers (a groan from Adams), and sauntered about till ten. Went to the auction ; told Lady she had a dirty face ; laughed heartily at something Captain said, I can't remember what, for I did not very well hear it; whis- pered Lord ; bowed to the Duke of ; and was going to bid for a snuff-box, but did not, for fear I should have had it. JOSEPH ANDREWS 75 From 2 to 4, dressed myself. A groan. 4 to 6, dined. A groan. 6 to 8, coffee-house. 8 to 9, Drury-Lane playhouse. 9 to 10, Lincoln's Inn Fields. ID to 12, Drawing-room. A great groan. At all which places nothing happened worth remark. At which Adams said, with some vehemence, " Sir, this is below the life of an animal, hardly above vegeta- tion : and I am surprised what could lead a man of your sense into it." What leads us into more follies than you imagine, doctor, answered the gentleman — vanity; for as contemptible a creature as I was, and I assure you yourself cannot have more contempt for such a wretch than I now have, I then admired myself, and should have despised a person of your present appearance (you will pardon me), with all your learning and those excel- lent qualities which I have remarked in you. Adams bowed, and begged him to proceed. After I had con- tinued two years in this course of life, said the gentle- man, an accident happened which obliged me to change the scene. As I was one day at St. James's coffee-house, making very free with the character of a young lady of quality, an officer of the guards, who was present, thought proper to give me the lie. I answered I might possibly be mistaken, but I intended to tell no more than the truth. To which he made no reply but by a scornful sneer. After this I observed a strange cold- ness in all my acquaintance ; none of them spoke to me first, and very few returned me even the civility of a bow. The company I used to dine with left me out, and within a week I found myself in as much solitude at St. James's as if I had been in a desert. An honest elderly man, with a great hat and long sword, at last told me he had a compassion for my youth, and there- fore advised me to show the world I was not such a rascal as they thought me to be. I did not at first under- stand him; but he explained himself, and ended with telling me, if I would write a challenge to the captain, he would, out of pure charity, go to him with it. "A 76 HENRY FIELDING very charitable person, truly! " cried Adams. I desired till the next day, continued the gentleman, to consider on it, and, retiring- to my lodgings, I weighed the conse- quences on both sides as fairly as I could. On the one, I saw the risk of this alternative, either losing my own life, or having on my hands the blood of a man with whom I was not in the least angry. I soon determined that the good which appeared on the other was not worth this hazard. I therefore resolved to quit the scene, and presently retired to the Temple, where I took cham- bers. Here I soon got a fresh set of acquaintance, who knew nothing of what had happened to me. Indeed, they were not greatly to my approbation ; for the beaux of the Temple are only the shadows of the others. They are the affectation of affectation. The vanity of these is still more ridiculous, if possible, than of the others. Here I met with smart fellows who drank with lords they did not know, and intrigued with women they never saw. Covent Garden was now the farthest stretch of my ambition; where I shone forth in the balconies at the playhouses, visited whores, made love to orange-wenches, and damned plays. This career was soon put a stop to by my surgeon, who convinced me of the necessity of confining myself to my room for a month. At the end of which, having had leisure to reflect, I resolved to quit all further conversation with beaux and smarts of every kind, and to avoid, if possible, any occasion of return- ing to this place of confinement. " I think," said Adams, " the advice of a month's retirement and reflection was very proper ; but I should rather have expected it from a divine than a surgeon." The gentleman smiled at Adams's simplicity, and, without explaining himself farther on such an odious subject, went on thus : I was no sooner perfectly restored to health than I found my passion for women, which I was afraid to satisfy as I had done, made me very uneasy ; I determined, there- fore, to keep a mistress. Nor was I long before I fixed my choice on a young woman, who had before been kept by two gentlemen, and to whom I was recommended by a celebrated bawd. I took her home to my chambers, JOSEPH ANDREWS 77 and made her a settlement during cohabitation. This would, perhaps, have been very ill paid: however, she did not suffer me to be perplexed on that account ; for, before quarter-day, I found her at my chambers in too familiar conversation with a young fellow who was dressed like an officer, but was indeed a city apprentice. Instead of excusing her inconstancy, she rapped out half a dozen oaths, and, snapping her fingers at me, swore she scorned to confine herself to the best man in Eng- land. Upon this we parted, and the same bawd presently provided her another keeper. I was not so much con- cerned at our separation as I found, within a day or two, I had reason to be for our meeting; for I was obliged to pay a second visit to my surgeon. I was now forced to do penance for some weeks, during which time I contracted an acquaintance with a beautiful young girl, the daughter of a gentleman who, after having been forty years in the army, and in all the campaigns under the Duke of Marlborough, died a lieutenant on half-pay, and had left a widow, with this only child, in very dis- tressed circumstances : they had only a small pension from the government, with what little the daughter could add to it by her work, for she had great excellence at her needle. This girl was, at my first acquaintance with her, solicited in marriage by a young fellow in good circumstances. He was apprentice to a linen-draper, and had a little fortune, sufficient to set up his trade. The mother was greatly pleased with this match, as indeed she had sufficient reason. However, I soon pre- vented it. I represented him in so low a light to his mistress, and made so good an use of flattery, promises, and presents, that, not to dwell longer on this subject than is necessary, I prevailed with the poor girl, and conveyed her away from her mother ! In a word, I de- bauched her. — (At which words Adams started up, fetched three strides across the room, and then replaced himself in his chair.) You are not more affected with this part of my story than myself; I assure you it will never be sufficiently repented of in my own opinion : but, if you already detest it, how much more will your 78 HENRY FIELDING indignation be raised when you hear the fatal conse- quences of this barbarous, this villanous action! If you please, therefore, I will here desist. — "By no means," cries Adams; "goon, I beseech you; and Heaven grant you may sincerely repent of this and many other things you have related! " — I was now, continued the gentleman, as happy as the possession of a fine young creature, who had a good education, and was endued with many agreeable qualities, could make me. We lived some months with vast fondness together, without any com- pany or conversation, more than we found in one another: but this could not continue always ; and, though I still pre- served a great affection for her, I began more and more to want the relief of other company, and consequently to leave her by degrees — at last, whole days to herself. She failed not to testify some uneasiness on these occa- sions, and complained of the melancholy life she led ; to remedy which, I introduced her into the acquaintance of some other kept mistresses, with whom she used to play at cards, and frequent plays and other diversions. She had not lived long in this intimacy before I perceived a visible alteration in her behaviour ; all her modesty and innocence vanished by degrees, till her mind became thoroughly tainted. She affected the company of rakes, gave herself all manner of airs, was never easy but abroad, or when she had a party at my chambers. She was rapacious of money, extravagant to excess, loose in her conversation ; and, if ever I demurred to any of her demands, oaths, tears, and fits were the im- mediate consequences. As the first raptures of fondness were long since over, this behaviour soon estranged my affections from her ; I began to reflect with pleasure that she was not my wife, and to conceive an intention of parting with her ; of which having given her a hint, she took care to prevent me the pains of turning her out of doors, and accordingly departed herself, having first broken open my escritoire, and taken with her all she could find, to the amount of about 200/. In the first heat of my resentment I resolved to pursue her with all the vengeance of the law: but, as she had the good JOSEPH ANDREWS 79 luck to escape me during that ferment, my passion after- wards cooled ; and, having reflected that I had been the first aggressor, and had done her an injury for which I could make her no reparation, by robbing her of the innocence of her mind ; and hearing at the same time that the poor old woman her mother had broke her heart on her daughter's elopement from her, I, concluding myself her murderer ("As you very well might," cries Adams, with a groan), was pleased that God Almighty had taken this method of punishing me, and resolved quietly to submit to the loss. Indeed, I could wish I had never heard more of the poor creature, who became in the end an abandoned profligate ; and, after being some years a common prostitute, at last ended her miserable life in Newgate. — Here the gentleman fetched a deep sigh, which Mr. Adams echoed very loudly ; and both continued silent, looking on each other for some minutes. At last the gentleman proceeded thus : I had been per- fectly constant to this girl during the whole time I kept her : but she had scarce departed before I discovered more marks of her infidelity to me than the loss of my money. In short, I was forced to make a third visit to my surgeon, out of whose hands I did not get a hasty discharge. I now forswore all future dealings with the sex, com- plained loudly that the pleasure did not compensate the pain, and railed at the beautiful creatures in as gross language as Juvenal himself formerly reviled them in. I looked on all the town harlots with a detestation not easy to be conceived ; their persons appeared to me as painted palaces, inhabited by Disease and Death: nor could their beauty make them more desirable objects in my eyes than gilding could make me covet a pill, or golden plates a coffin. But though I was no longer the absolute slave, I found some reasons to own myself still the subject, of love. My hatred for women decreased daily; and I am not positive but time might have be- trayed me again to some common harlot, had I not been secured by a passion for the charming Sapphira, which having once entered upon, made a violent progress in 8o HENRY FIELDING my heart. Sapphira was wife to a man of fashion and gallantry, and one who seemed, I own, every way worthy of her affections; which, however, he had not the re- putation of having. She was indeed a coquette achevee. "Pray, sir," says Adams, "what is a coquette? I have met with the word in French authors, but never could assign any idea to it. I believe it is the same with une sotte, Anglic^, a fool." Sir, answered the gentleman, perhaps you are not much mistaken ; but, as it is a par- ticular kind of folly, I will endeavour to describe it. Were all creatures to be ranked in the order of creation according to their usefulness, I know few animals that would not take place of a coquette; nor indeed hath this creature much pretence to anything beyond in- stinct ; for though sometimes we might imagine it was animated by the passion of vanity, yet far the greater part of its actions fall beneath even that low motive ; for instance, several absurd gestures and tricks, infinitely more foolish than what can be observed in the most ridiculous birds and beasts, and which would persuade the beholder that the silly wretch was aiming at our contempt. Indeed its characteristic is affectation, and this led and governed by whim only: for as beauty, wisdom, wit, good-nature, politeness, and health, are sometimes affected by this creature, so are ugliness, folly, nonsense, ill-nature, ill-breeding, and sickness, likewise put on by it in their turn. Its life is one con- stant lie ; and the only rule by which you can form any judgment of them is, that they are never what they seem. If it was possible for a coquette to love (as it is not, for if ever it attains this passion the coquette ceases instantly), it would wear the face of indifference, if not of hatred, to the beloved object ; you may therefore be assured, when they endeavour to persuade you of their liking, that they are indifferent to you at least. And indeed this was the case of my Sapphira, who no sooner saw me in the number of her admirers than she gave me what is com- monly called encouragement: she would often look at me, and, when she perceived me meet her eyes, would instantly take them off, discovering at the same time as JOSEPH ANDREWS 8i much surprise and emotion as possible. These arts failed not of the success she intended ; and, as I grew more particular to her than the rest of her admirers, she advanced, in proportion, more directly to me than to the others. She affected the low voice, whisper, lisp, sigh, start, laugh, and many other indications of passion which daily deceive thousands. When I played at whist with her, she would look earnestly at me, and at the same time lose deal or revoke ; then burst into a ridi- culous laugh, and cry, "La! I can't imagine what I was thinking of." To detain you no longer, after I had gone through a sufficient course of gallantry, as I thought, and was thoroughly convinced I had raised a violent passion in my mistress, I sought an opportunity of com- ing to an iclaircissement with her. She avoided this as much as possible; however, great assiduity at length presented me one. I will not describe all the particulars of this interview; let it suffice that, till she could no longer pretend not to see my drift, she first affected a violent surprise, and immediately after as violent a pas- sion : she wondered what I had seen in her conduct which could induce me to affront her in this manner ; and, breaking from me the first moment she could, told me I had no other way to escape the consequence of her resentment than by never seeing, or at least speaking to her more. I was not contented with this answer; I still pursued her, but to no purpose ; and was at length con- vinced that her husband had the sole possession of her person, and that neither he nor any other had made any impression on her heart. I was taken off from following this ignis fatuus by some advances which were made me by the wife of a citizen, who, though neither very young nor handsome, was yet too agreeable to be rejected by my amorous constitution. I accordingly soon satisfied her that she had not cast away her hints on a barren or cold soil : on the contrary, they instantly produced her an eager and desiring lover. Nor did she give me any reason to complain ; she met the warmth she had raised with equal ardour. I had no longer a coquette to deal with, but one who was wiser than to prostitute the G 82 HENRY FIELDING noble passion of love to the ridiculous lust of vanity. We presently understood one another; and, as the pleasures we sought lay in a mutual gratification, we soon found and enjoyed them. I thought myself at first greatly happy in the possession of this new mistress, whose fondness would have quickly surfeited a more sickly appetite; but it had a different effect on mine: she carried my passion higher by it than youth or beauty had been able. But my happiness could not long con- tinue uninterrupted. The apprehensions we lay under from the jealousy of her husband gave us great uneasi- ness. "Poor wretch! I pity him," cried Adams. He did indeed deserve it, said the gentleman ; for he loved his wife with great tenderness ; and, I assure you, it is a great satisfaction to me that I was not the man who first seduced her affections from him. These apprehen- sions appeared also too well grounded, for in the end he discovered us, and procured witnesses of our caresses. He then prosecuted me at law, and recovered 3,000/. damages, which much distressed my fortune to pay ; and, what was worse, his vi/ife, being divorced, came upon my hands. I led a very uneasy life with her ; for, besides that my passion was now much abated, her excessive jealousy was very troublesome. At length death delivered me from an inconvenience which the consideration of my having been the author of her misfortunes would never suffer me to take any other method of discarding. I now bade adieu to love, and resolved to pursue other less dangerous and expensive pleasures. I fell into the acquaintance of a set of jolly companions, who slept all day and drank all night; fellows who might rather be said to consume time than to live. Their best conversation was nothing but noise : singing, holloing, wrangling, drinking, toasting, sp — wing, smoking, were the chief ingredients of our entertainment. And yet, bad as they were, they were more tolerable than our graver scenes, which were either excessive tedious narratives of dull common matters of fact, or hot disputes about trifling matters, which commonly ended in a wager. This way of life the first serious reflection put a period JOSEPH ANDREWS 83 to ; and I became member of a club frequented by young men of great abilities. The bottle was now only called in to the assistance of our conversation, which rolled on the deepest points of philosophy. These gentlemen were engaged in a search after truth, in the pursuit of which they threw aside all the prejudices of education, and governed themselves only by the infallible guide of human reason. This great guide, after having shown them the falsehood of that very ancient but simple tenet, that there is such a being as a Deity in the universe, helped them to establish in his stead a certain rule of right, by adhering to which they all arrived at the utmost purity of morals. Reflection made me as much delighted with this society as it had taught me to de- spise and detest the former. I began now to esteem my- self a being of a higher order than I had ever before conceived ; and was the more charmed with this rule of right, as I really found in my own nature nothing re- pugnant to it. I held in utter contempt all persons who wanted any other inducement to virtue besides her in- trinsic beauty and excellence ; and had so high an opinion of my present companions, with regard to their morality, that I would have trusted them with whatever was nearest and dearest to me. Whilst I was engaged in this delightful dream, two or three accidents happened successively, which at first much surprised me ; — for one of our greatest philosophers, or rule-of-right men, with- drew himself from us, taking with him the wife of one of his most intimate friends. Secondly, another of the same society left the club without remembering to take leave of his bail. A third, having borrowed a sum of money of me, for which I received no security, when 1 asked him to repay it, absolutely denied the loan. These several practices, so inconsistent with our golden rule, made me begin to suspect its infallibility ; but when I communicated my thoughts to one of the club, he said, " There was nothing absolutely good or evil in itself; that actions were denominated good or bad by the cir- cumstances of the agent. That possibly the man who ran away with his neighbour's wife might be one of very 84 HENRY FIELDING good inclinations, but over-prevailed on by the violence of an unruly passion ; and, in other particulars, might be a very worthy member of society : that if the beauty of any woman created in him an uneasiness, he had a right from nature to relieve himself ; " — with many other things, which I then detested so much, that I took leave of the society that very evening and never returned to it again. Being now reduced to a state of solitude, which I did not like, I became a great frequenter of the play- houses, which indeed was always my favourite diversion; and most evenings passed away two or three hours behind the scenes, where I met with several poets, with whom I made engagements at the taverns. Some of the players were likewise of our parties. At these meetings we were generally entertained by the poets with reading their performances, and by the players with repeating their parts: upon which occasions, I observed the gen- tleman who furnished our entertainment was commonly the best pleased of the company ; who, though they were pretty civil to him to his face, seldom failed to take the first opportunity of his absence to ridicule him. Now I made some remarks which probably are too obvious to be worth relating. " Sir," says Adams, "your remarks if you please." First then, says he, I concluded that the general observation, that wits are most inclined to vanity, is not true. Men are equally vain of riches, strength, beauty, honours, etc. But these appear of themselves to the eyes of the beholders, whereas the poor wit is obliged to produce his performance to show you his perfection ; and on his readiness to do this that vulgar opinion I have before mentioned is grounded ; but doth not the person who expends vast sums in the furni- ture of his house or the ornaments of his person, who consumes much time and employs great pains in dress- ing himself, or who thinks himself paid for self-denial, labour, or even villany, by a title or a ribbon, sacrifice as much to vanity as the poor wit who is desirous to read you his poem or his play? My second remark was, that vanity is the worst of passions, and more apt to contaminate the mind than any other : for, as selfishness JOSEPH ANDREWS 85 is much more general than we please to allow it, so it is natural to hate and envy those who stand between us and the good we desire. Now, in lust and ambition these are few ; and even in avarice we find many who are no obstacles to our pursuits ; but the vain man seeks pre-eminence; and everything which is excellent or praiseworthy in another renders him the mark of his antipathy. Adams now began to fumble in his pockets, and soon cried out^ "O la! I have it not about me." Upon this, the gentleman asking him what he was searching for, he said he searched after a sermon, which he thought his masterpiece, against vanity. " Fie upon it, fie upon it!" cries he, "why do I ever leave that sermon out of my pocket; I wish it was within five miles; I would willingly fetch it, to read it you." The gentleman answered that there was no need, for he was cured of the passion. " And for that very reason," quoth Adams, " I would read it, for I am confident you would admire it: indeed, I have never been a greater enemy to any passion than that silly one of vanity." The gentle- man smiled, and proceeded — From this society I easily passed to that of the gamesters, where nothing remark- able happened but the finishing my fortune, which those gentlemen soon helped me to the end of. This opened scenes of life hitherto unknown ; poverty and distress, with their horrid train of duns, attorneys, bailiffs, haunted me day and night. My clothes grew shabby, my credit bad, my friends and acquaintance of all kinds cold. In this situation the strangest thought imaginable came into my head ; and what was this but to write a play? for I had sufficient leisure : fear of bailiffs confined me every day to my room; and, having always had a little inclination and something of a genius that way, I set myself to work, and within a few months produced a piece of five acts, which was accepted of at the theatre. I remembered to have formerly taken tickets of other poets for their benefits, long before the appearance of their performances ; and, resolving to follow a precedent which was so well suited to my present circumstances, I immediately provided myself with a large number of 86 HENRY FIELDING little papers. Happy indeed would be the state of poetry, would these tickets pass current at the bake- house, the ale-house, and the chandler's-shop : but alas ! far otherwise ; no tailor will take them in payment for buckram, stays, staytape; nor no bailiff for civility- money. They are, indeed, no more than a passport to beg with ; a certificate that the owner wants five shill- ings, which induces well-disposed christians to charity. I now experienced what is worse than poverty, or rather what is the worst consequence of poverty, I mean at- tendance and dependence on the great. Many a morn- ing have I waited hours in the cold parlours of men of quality ; where, after seeing the lowest rascals in lace and embroidery, the pimps and buffoons in fashion, ad- mitted, I have been sometimes told, on sending in my name, that my lord could not possibly see me this morn- ing : a sufficient assurance that I should never more get entrance into that house. Sometimes I have been at last admitted; and the great man hath thought proper to excuse himself, by telling me he was tied up. "Tied up," says Adams, "pray what's that?" Sir, says the gentleman, the profit which booksellers allowed authors for the best works, was so very small, that certain men of birth and fortune some years ago, who were the patrons of wit and learning, thought fit to encourage them farther by entering into voluntary subscriptions for their encouragement. Thus Prior, Rowe, Pope, and some other men of genius, received large sums for their labours from the public. This seemed so easy a method of getting money that many of the lowest scribblers of the times ventured to publish their works in the same way ; and many had the assurance to take in subscrip- tions for what was not writ, nor ever intended. Sub- scriptions in this manner growing infinite, and a kind of tax on the public, some persons, finding it not so easy a task to discern good from bad authors, or to know what genius was worthy encouragement and what was not, to prevent the expense of subscribing to so many, invented a method to excuse themselves from all sub- scriptions whatever; and this was to receive a small JOSEPH ANDREWS 87 sum of money in consideration of giving a large one if ever they subscribed; which many have done, and many more have pretended to have done, in order to silence all solicitation. The same method was likewise taken with playhouse tickets, which were no less a public grievance; and this is what they call being tied up from sub- scribing. " I can't say but the term is apt enough, and somewhat typical," said Adams; "for a man of large fortune, who ties himself up, as you call it, from the en- couragement of men of merit, ought to be tied up in reality." Well, sir, says the gentleman, to return to my story. Sometimes I have received a guinea from a man of quality, given with as ill a grace as alms are gener- ally to the meanest beggar; and purchased too with as much time spent in attendance as, if it had been spent in honest industry, might have brought me more profit with infinitely more satisfaction. After about two months spent in this disagreeable way, with the utmost mortification, when I was pluming my hopes on the prospect of a plentiful harvest from my play, upon ap- plying to the prompter to know when it came into re- hearsal, he informed me he had received orders from the managers to return me the play again, for that they could not possibly act it that season; but, if I would take it and revise it against the next, they would be glad to see it again. I snatched it from him with great indignation, and retired to my room, where I threw myself on the bed in a fit of despair. " You should rather have thrown yourself on your knees," says Adams, " for despair is sinful." As soon, continued the gentleman, as I had indulged the first tumult of my passion, I began to consider coolly what course I should take, in a situation without friends, money, credit, or reputation of any kind. After revolving many things in my mind, I could see no other possibility of furnishing myself with the miserable necessaries of life than to retire to a garret near the Temple, and commence hackney-writer to the lawyers, for which I was well qualified, being an ex- cellent penman. This purpose I resolved on, and im- mediately put it in execution. I had an acquaintance 88 HENRY FIELDING with an attorney who had formerly transacted affairs for me, and to him I applied ; but, instead of furnishing me with any business, he laughed at my undertaking, and told me, "He was afraid I should turn his deeds into plays, and he should expect to see them on the stage." Not to tire you with instances of this kind from others, I found that Plato himself did not hold poets in greater abhorrence than these men of business do. Whenever I durst venture to a coffee-house, which was on Sundays only, a whisper ran round the room, which was con- stantly attended with a sneer — That 's poet Wilson ; for I know not whether you have observed it, but there is a malignity in the nature of man, which, when not weeded out, or at least covered by a good education and polite- ness, delights in making another uneasy or dissatisfied with himself. This abundantly appears in all assemblies, except those which are filled by people of fashion, and es- pecially among the younger people of both sexes whose birth and fortunes place them just without the polite circles; I mean the lower class of the gentry, and the higher of the mercantile world, who are, in reality, the worst-bred part of mankind. Well, sir, whilst I con- tinued in this miserable state, with scarce sufficient business to keep me from starving, the reputation of a poet being my bane, I accidentally became acquainted with a bookseller, who told me, " It was pity a man of my learning and genius should be obliged to such a method of getting his livelihood; that he had a com- passion for me, and, if I would engage with him, he would undertake to provide handsomely for me." A man in my circumstances, as he very well knew, had no choice. I accordingly accepted his proposal with his conditions, which were none of the most favourable, and fell to translating with all my might. I had no longer reason to lament the want of business ; for he furnished me with so much, that in half a year I almost writ my- self blind. I likewise contracted a distemper by my sedentary life, in which no part of my body was exer- cised but my right arm, which rendered me incapable of writing for a long time. This unluckily happening to JOSEPH ANDREWS 89 delay the publication of a work, and my last perform- ance not having sold well, the bookseller declined any further engagement, and aspersed me to his brethren as a careless idle fellow. I had, however, by having half- worked and half-starved myself to death during the time I was in his service, saved a few guineas, with which I bought a lottery-ticket, resolving to throw myself into Fortune's lap, and try if she would make me amends for the injuries she had done me at the gaming-table. This purchase, being made, left me almost pennyless; when, as if I had not been sufficiently miserable, a bailiff in women's clothes got admittance to my chamber, whither he was directed by the bookseller. He arrested me at my tailor's suit for thirty-five pounds ; a sum for which I could not procure bail ; and was therefore conveyed to his house, where I was locked up in an upper chamber. I had now neither health (for I was scarce recovered from my indisposition), liberty, money, or friends; and had abandoned all hopes, and even the desire of life; "But this could not last long," said Adams; "for doubtless the tailor released you the moment he was truly acquainted with your affairs, and knew that your circumstances would not permit you to pay him." Oh, sir, answered the gentleman, he knew that before he arrested me ; nay, he knew that nothing but incapacity could prevent me paying my debts ; for I had been his customer many years, had spent vast sums of money with him, and had always paid most punctually in my prosperous days; but when I reminded him of this, with assurances that, if he would not molest my endeav- ours, I would pay him all the money I could by my utmost labour and industry procure, reserving only what was sufficient to preserve me alive, he answered, his patience was worn out ; that I had put him off from time to time ; that he wanted the money ; that he had put it into a lawyer's hands; and if I did not pay him im- mediately, or find security, I must lie in gaol and expect no mercy. "He may expect mercy," cries Adams, starting from his chair, " where he will find none! How can such a wretch repeat the Lord's prayer ; where the go HENRY FIELDING word, which is translated, I know not for what reason, trespasses, it is in the original, debts? And as surely as we do not forgive others their debts, when they are unable to pay them, so surely shall we ourselves be un- forgiven when we are in no condition of paying." He ceased, and the gentleman proceeded. While I was in this deplorable situation, a former acquaintance, to whom I had communicated my lottery-ticket, found me out, and, making me a visit, with great delight in his countenance, shook me heartily by the hand, and wished me joy of my good fortune: for, says he, your ticket is come up a prize of 3,000/. Adams snapped his fingers at these words in an ecstasy of joy ; which, however, did not continue long; for the gentleman thus proceeded: — Alas! sir, this was only a trick of Fortune to sink me the deeper; for I had disposed of this lottery-ticket two days before to a relation, who refused lending me a shilling without it, in order to procure myself bread. As soon as my friend was acquainted with my unfortunate sale he began to revile me and remind me of all the ill- conduct and miscarriages of my life. He said " I was one whom Fortune could not save if she would; that I was now ruined without any hopes of retrieval, nor must expect any pity from my friends; that it would be ex- treme weakness to compassionate the misfortunes of a man who ran headlong to his own destruction." He then painted to me, in as lively colours as he was able, the happiness I should have now enjoyed, had I not foolishly disposed of my ticket. I urged the plea of necessity; but he made no answer to that, and began again to re- vile me, till I could bear it no longer, and desired him to finish his visit. I soon exchanged the bailiff's house for a prison; where, as I had not money sufficient to procure me a separate apartment, I was crowded in with a great number of miserable wretches, in common with whom I was destitute of every convenience of life, even that which all the brutes enjoy, wholesome air. In these dreadful circumstances I applied by letter to several of my old acquaintance, and such to whom I had formerly lent money without any great prospect of its being re- JOSEPH ANDREWS 91 turned, for their assistance; but in vain. An excuse, in- stead of a denial, was the gentlest answer I received. Whilst I languished in a condition too horrible to be de- scribed, and which, in a land of humanity, and, what is much more, Christianity, seems a strange punishment for a little inadvertency and indiscretion; whilst I was in this condition, a fellow came into the prison, and, in- quiring me out, delivered me the following letter : — Sm, — My father, to whom you sold your ticket in the last lottery, died the same day in which it came up a prize, as you have pos- sibly heard, and left me sole heiress of all his fortune. I am so much touched with your present circumstances, and the uneasi- ness you must feel at having been driven to dispose of what might have made you happy, that I must desire your acceptance of the enclosed, and am your humble servant. Harriet Hearty. And what do you think was enclosed? "I don't know," cried Adams; " not less than a guinea, I hope." Sir, it was a bank-note for 200A — " 200/. ?" says Adams, in a rapture. No less, I assure you, answered the gen- tleman ; a sum I was not half so delighted with as with the dear name of the generous girl that sent it me; and who was not only the best but the handsomest creature in the universe, and for whom I had long had a passion which I never durst disclose to her. I kissed her name a thousand times, my eyes overflowing with tenderness and gratitude; I repeated — but not to detain you with these raptures, I immediately acquired my liberty; and, having paid all my debts, departed, with upwards of fifty pounds in my pocket, to thank my kind deliverer. She happened to be then out of town, a circumstance which, upon reflection, pleased me; for by that means I had an opportunity to appear before her in a more decent dress. At her return to town, within a day or two, I threw myself at her feet with the most ardent acknowledgments, which she rejected with an unfeigned greatness of mind, and told me I could not oblige her more than by never mentioning, or if possible thinking on, a circumstance which must bring to my mind an 92 HENRY FIELDING accident that might be grievous to me to think on. She proceeded thus: " What I have done is in my own eyes a trifle, and perhaps infinitely less than would have become me to do. And if you think of engaging in any business where a larger sum may be serviceable to you, I shall not be over-rigid either as to the security or interest. " I endeavoured to express all the gratitude in my power to this profusion of goodness, though perhaps it was my enemy, and began to afflict my mind with more agonies than all the miseries I had underwent; it affected me with severer reflections than poverty, dis- tress, and prisons united had been able to make me feel ; for, sir, these acts and professions of kindness, which were sufficient to have raised in a good heart the most violent passion of friendship to one of the same, or to age and ugliness in a different sex, came to me from a woman, a young and beautiful woman ; one whose per- fections I had long known, and for whom I had long conceived a violent passion, though with a despair which made me endeavour rather to curb and conceal, than to nourish or acquaint her with it. In short, they came upon me united with beauty, softness, and tenderness : such bewitching smiles! O Mr. Adams, in that moment I lost myself, and, forgetting our different situations, nor considering what return I was making to her good- ness by desiring her, who had given me so much, to bestow her all, I laid gently hold of her hand, and, con- veying it to my lips, I pressed it with inconceivable ardour ; then, lifting up my swimming eyes, I saw her face and neck overspread with one blush : she offered to withdraw her hand, yet not so as to deliver it from mine, though I held it with the gentlest force. We both stood trembling ; her eyes cast on the ground, and mine stead- fastly fixed on her. Good God, what was then the condition of my soul ! burning with love, desire, admira- tion, gratitude, and every tender passion, all bent on one charming object. Passion at last got the better of both reason and respect, and, softly letting go her hand, I offered madly to clasp her in my arms ; when, a little recovering herself, she started from me, asking me. JOSEPH ANDREWS 93 with some show of anger, " If she had any reason to expect this treatment from me." I then fell prostrate before her, and told her, if I had offended, my life was absolutely in her power, which I would in any manner lose for her sake. Nay, madam, said I, you shall not be so ready to punish me as I to suffer. I own my guilt. I detest the reflection that I would have sacrificed your happiness to mine. Believe me, I sincerely repent my ingratitude ; yet, believe me too, it was my passion, my unbounded passion for you, which hurried me so far: I have loved you long and tenderly, and the goodness you have shown me hath innocently weighed down a wretch undone before. Acquit me of all mean, mer- cenary views ; and, before I take my leave of you for ever, which I am resolved instantly to do, believe me that Fortune could have raised me to no height to which I could not have gladly lifted you. O, cursed be For- tune : "Do not," says she, interrupting me with the sweetest voice, " Do not curse Fortune, since she hath made me happy : and, if she hath put your happiness in my power, I have told you you shall ask nothing in reason which I will refuse." Madam, said I, you mistake me if you imagine, as you seem, my happiness is in the power of Fortune now. You have obliged me too much already ; if I have any wish, it is for some blessed acci- dent, by which I may contribute with my life to the least augmentation of your felicity. As for myself, the only happiness I can ever have will be hearing of yours ; and if Fortune will make that complete, I will forgive her all her wrongs to me. "You may, indeed," answered she, smiling, " for your own happiness must be included in mine. I have long known your worth; nay, I must confess," said she, blushing, " I have long discovered that passion for me you profess, notwithstanding those endeavours, which I am convinced were unaffected, to conceal it; and if all I can give with reason will not suffice, take reason away ; and now I believe you cannot ask me what I will deny." She uttered these words with a sweetness not to be imagined. I immediately started; my blood, which lay freezing at my heart. 94 HENRY FIELDING rushed tumultuously through every vein. I stood for a moment silent ; then, flying to her, I caught her in my arms, no longer resisting, and softly told her she must give me then herself. O, sir! can I describe her look? She remained silent, and almost motionless, several minutes. At last, recovering herself a little, she insisted on my leaving her, and in such a manner that I instantly obeyed : you may imagine, however, I soon saw her again. — But I ask pardon : I fear I have detained you too long in relating the particulars of the former inter- view. " So far otherwise," said Adams, licking his lips, "that I could willingly hear it over again." Well, sir, continued the gentleman, to be as concise as possible, within a week she consented to make me the happiest of mankind. We were married shortly after; and when I came to examine the circumstances of my wife's fortune (which, I do assure you, I was not presently at leisure enough to do), I found it amounted to about six thousand pounds, most part of which lay in effects ; for her father had been a wine merchant, and she seemed willing, if I liked it, that I should carry on the same trade. I readily, and too inconsiderately, undertook it; for, not having been bred up to the secrets of the business, and endeavour- ing to deal with the utmost honesty and uprightness, I soon found our fortune in a declining way, and my trade decreasing by little and little ; for my wines, which I never adulterated after their importation, and were sold as neat as they came over, were universally decried by the vintners, to whom I could not allow them quite as cheap as those who gained double the profit by a less price. I soon began to despair of improving our fortune by these means ; nor was I at all easy at the visits and familiarity of many who had been my acquaintance in my prosperity, but had denied and shunned me in my ad- versity, and now very forwardly renewed their acquaint- ance with me. In short, I had sufficiently seen that the pleasures of the world are chiefly folly, and the business of it mostly knavery, and both nothing better than vanity ; the men of pleasure tearing one another to pieces from the emulation of spending money, and the men of JOSEPH ANDREWS 95 business from envy in getting it. My happiness con- sisted entirely in my wife, whom I loved with an inex- pressible fondness, which was perfectly returned; and my prospects were no other than to provide for our growing family ; for she was now big of her second child : I therefore took an opportunity to ask her opinion of entering into a retired life, which, after hearing my reasons and perceiving my affection for it, she readily embraced. We soon put our small fortune, now reduced under three thousand pounds, into money, with part of which we purchased this little place. Whither we retired soon after her delivery, from a world full of bustle, noise, hatred, envy, and ingratitude, to ease, quiet, and love. We have here lived almost twenty years, with little other conversation than our own, most of the neighbourhood taking us for very strange people; the squire of the parish representing me as a madman, and the parson as a presbyterian, because I will not hunt with the one nor drink with the other. "Sir," says Adams, " Fortune hath, I think, paid you all her debts in this sweet retirement." Sir, replied the gentleman, I am thankful to the great Author of all things for the blessings I here enjoy. I have the best of wives and three pretty children, for whom I have the true tender- ness of a parent. But no blessings are pure in this world : within three years of my arrival here I lost my eldest son. (Here he sighed bitterly.) " Sir," says Adams, "we must submit to Providence, and consider death is common to all." We must submit, indeed, answered the gentleman ; and if he had died I could have borne the loss with patience ; but alas ! sir, he was stolen away from my door by some wicked travelling people whom they call gipsies ; nor could I ever, with the most diligent search, recover him. Poor child! he had the sweetest look — the exact picture of his mother ; at which some tears unwittingly dropped from his eyes, as did likewise from those of Adams, who always sym- pathized with his friends on those occasions. Thus, sir, said the gentleman, I have finished my story, in which if I have been too particular, I ask your pardon ; 96 HENRY FIELDING and now, if you please, I will fetch you another bottle : which proposal the parson thankfully accepted. {Chapter IV) The gentleman returned with the bottle; and Adams and he sat some time silent, when the former started up and cried, " No, that won't do." The gentleman inquired into his meaning; he answered, "He had been considering that it was possible the late famous King Theodore might have been the very son whom he had lost;" but added, "that his age could not answer that imagination. However," says he, " G — disposes all things for the best; and very probably he may be some great man, or duke, and may, one day or other, revisit you in that capacity." The gentleman answered, he should know him amongst ten thousand, for he had a mark on his left breast of a strawberry, which his mother had given him by longing for that fruit. That beautiful young lady the Morning now rose from her bed, and with a countenance blooming with fresh youth and sprightliness, like Miss — ,' with soft dews hanging on her pouting lips, began to take her early walk over the eastern hills ; and presently after, that gallant person the Sun stole softly from his wife's chamber to pay his addresses to her ; when the gentle- man asked his guest if he would walk forth and survey his little garden, which he readily agreed to ; and Joseph, at the same time awaking from a sleep in which he had been two hours buried, went with them. No parterres, no fountains, no statues, embellished this little garden. Its only ornament was a short walk, shaded on each side by a filbert hedge, with a small alcove at one end, whither in hot weather the gentleman and his wife used to retire and divert themselves with their children, who played in the walk before them. But, though vanity had no votary in this little spot, here was variety of fruit and everything useful for the kitchen, which was abund- ' Whoever the reader pleases. JOSEPH ANDREWS 97 antly sufficient to catch the admiration of Adams, who told the gentleman he had certainly a good gardener. Sir, answered he, that gardener is now before you: whatever you see here is the work solely of my own hands. Whilst I am providing necessaries for my table, I likewise procure myself an appetite for them. In fair seasons I seldom pass less than six hours of the twenty- four in this place, where I am not idle ; and by these means I have been able to preserve my health ever since my arrival here, without assistance from physic. Hither I generally repair at the dawn, and exercise myself whilst my wife dresses her children and prepares our breakfast; after which we are seldom asunder during the residue of the day, for, when the weather will not permit them to accompany me here, I am usually within with them; for I am neither ashamed of con- versing with my wife nor of playing with my children : to say the truth, I do not perceive that inferiority of understanding which the levity of rakes, the dullness of men of business, or the austerity of the learned, would persuade us of in women. As for my woman, I declare I have found none of my own sex capable of making juster observations on life, or of delivering them more agreeably ; nor do I believe any one possessed of a faith- fuller or braver friend. And sure as this friendship' is sweetened with more delicacy and tenderness, so it is confirmed by dearer pledges than can attend the closest male alliance; for what union can be so fast as our common interest in the fruits of our embraces? Perhaps, sir, you are not yourself a father; if you are not, be assured you cannot conceive the delight I have in my little ones. Would you not despise me if you saw me stretched on the ground, and my children playing round me? "I should reverence the sight," quoth Adams; " I myself am now the father of six, and have been of eleven, and I can say I never scourged a child of my own, unless as his schoolmaster, and then have felt every stroke on my own posteriors. And as to what you say concerning women, I have often lamented my own wife did not understand Greek." — The gentleman smiled, H 98 HENRY FIELDING and answered, he would not be apprehended to insinuate that his own had an understanding above the care of her family; on the contrary, says he, my Harriet, I assure you, is a notable housewife, and few gentlemen's housekeepers understand cookery or confectionery better ; but these are arts which she hath no great occa- sion for now : however, the wine you commended so much last night at supper was of her own making, as is indeed all the liquor in my house, except my beer, which falls to my province. " And I assure you it is as excel- lent," quoth Adams, "as ever I tasted." We formerly kept a maid-servant, but since my girls have been growing up she is unwilling to indulge them in idleness ; for as the fortunes I shall give them will be very small, we intend not to breed them above the rank they are likely to fill hereafter, nor to teach them to despise or ruin a plain husband. Indeed, I could wish a man of my own temper, and a retired life, might fall to their lot ; for I have experienced that calm serene happiness, which is seated in content, is inconsistent with the hurry and bustle of the world. He was proceeding thus when the little things, being just risen, ran eagerly towards him and asked him blessing. They were shy to the strangers, but the eldest acquainted her father, that her mother and the young gentlewoman were up, and that breakfast was ready. They all went in, where the gen- tleman was surprised at the beauty of Fanny, who had now recovered herself from her fatigue, and was entirely clean dressed ; for the rogues who had taken away her purse had left her her bundle. But if he was so much amazed at the beauty of this young creature, his guests were no less charmed at the tenderness which appeared in the behaviour of the husband and wife to each other, and to the children, and at the dutiful and affectionate behaviour of these to their parents. These instances pleased the well-disposed mind of Adams equally with the readiness which they expressed to oblige their guests., and their forwardness to offer them the best of every- thing in their house; and what delighted him still more was an instance or two of their charity ; for whilst they JOSEPH ANDREWS 99 were at breakfast the good woman was called forth to assist her sick neighbour, which she did with some cordials made for the public use, and the good man went into his garden at the same time to supply another with something which he wanted thence, for they had nothing which those who wanted it were not welcome to. These good people were in the utmost cheerfulness when they heard the report of a gun, and immediately afterwards a little dog, the favourite of the eldest daughter, came limping in all bloody and laid himself at his mistress's feet : the poor girl, who was about eleven years old, burst into tears at the sight ; and presently one of the neighbours came in and informed them that the young squire, the son of the lord of the manor, had shot him as he passed by, swearing at the same time he would prosecute the master of him for keeping a spaniel, for that he had given notice he would not suffer one in the parish. The dog, whom his mistress had taken into her lap, died in a few minutes, licking her hand. She expressed great agony at her loss, and the other children began to cry for their sister's misfortune; nor could Fanny herself refrain. Whilst the father and mother attempted to comfort her, Adams grasped his crabstick and would have sallied out after the squire had not Joseph withheld him. He could not however bridle his tongue — he pronounced the word rascal with great emphasis ; said he deserved to be hanged more than a highwayman, and wished he had the scourging him. The mother took her child, lamenting and carrying the dead favourite in her arms, out of the room, when the gentleman said this was the second time this squire had endeavoured to kill the little wretch, and had wounded him smartly once before; adding, he could have no motive but ill-nature, for the little thing, which was not near as big as one's fist, had never been twenty yards from the house in the six years his daughter had had it. He said he had done nothing to deserve this usage, but his father had too great a fortune to contend with : that he was as absolute as any tyrant in the universe, and had killed all the dogs and taken away all the guns in lOo HENRY FIELDING the neighbourhood ; and not only that, but he trampled down hedges and rode over corn and gardens, with no more regard than if they were the highway. " I wish I could catch him in my garden," said Adams ; " though I would rather forgive him riding through my house than such an ill-natured act as this." The cheerfulness of their conversation being interrupted by this accident, in which the guests could be of no service to their kind entertainer ; and as the mother was taken up in administering consolation to the poor girl, whose disposition was too good hastily to forget the sudden loss of her little favourite, which had been fondling with her a few minutes before ; and as Joseph and Fanny were impatient to get home and begin those previous ceremonies to their happiness which Adams had insisted on, they now offered to take their leave. The gentleman importuned them much to stay dinner; but when he found their eagerness to depart he sum- moned his wife ; and accordingly, having performed all the usual ceremonies of bows and curtsies, more pleasant to be seen than to be related, they took their leave, the gentleman and his wife heartily wishing them a good journey, and they as heartily thanking them for their kind entertainment. They then departed, Adams declar- ing that this was the manner in which the people had lived in the golden age. VIII [This " History of Mr. Wilson " is not only a very good specimen of the eighteenth-century " inset " tale, but also (as will have been seen from the general abstract above) has a real connection with the story. This now " appropinques an end." The incidents be- come more and more lively : and after Adams has barely escaped being eaten by a pack of hounds, he is (reversing the order of things) "roasted " by their master as follows :] {Chapter Vll) They arrived at the squire's house just as his dinner was ready. A little dispute arose on the account of JOSEPH ANDREWS loi Fanny, whom the squire, who was a bachelor, was de- sirous to place at his own table ; but she would not con- sent, nor would Mr. Adams permit her to be parted from Joseph ; so that she was at length with him consigned over to the kitchen, where the servants were ordered to make him drunk ; a favour which was likewise intended for Adams ; which design being executed, the squire thought he should easily accomplish what he had when he first saw her intended to perpetrate with Fanny. It may not be improper, before we proceed farther, to open a little the character of this gentleman, and that of his friends. The master of this house, then, was a man of a very considerable fortune ; a bachelor, as we have said, and about forty years of age : he had been educated (if we may use the expression) in the country, and at his own home, under the care of his mother and a tutor, who had orders never to correct him, nor to compel him to learn more than he liked, which it seems was very little, and that only in his childhood ; for from the age of fifteen he addicted himself entirely to hunting and other rural amusements, for which his mother took care to equip him with horses, hounds, and all other necessaries ; and his tutor, endeavouring to ingratiate himself with his young pupil, who would, he knew, be able handsomely to provide for him, became his com- panion, not only at these exercises, but likewise over a bottle, which the young squire had a very early relish for. At the age of twenty his mother began to think she had not fulfilled the duty of a parent ; she therefore re- solved to persuade her son, if possible, to that which she imagined would well supply all that he might have learned at a public school or university. This is what they commonly call travelling; which, with the help of the tutor, who was fixed on to attend him, she easily succeeded in. He made in three years the tour of Europe, as they term it, and returned home well furnished with French clothes, phrases, and servants, with a hearty contempt for his own country ; especially what had any savour of the plain spirit and honesty of our ancestors. His mother greatly applauded herself at his return. And I02 HENRY FIELDING now, being master of his own fortune, he soon procured himself a seat in parliament, and was in the common opinion one of the finest gentlemen of his age : but what distinguished him chiefly was a strange delight which he took in everything which is ridiculous, odious, and absurd in his own species ; so that he never chose a companion without one or more of these ingredients, and those who were marked by nature in the most eminent degree with them were most his favourites. If he ever found a man who either had not, or endeavoured to conceal, these imperfections, he took great pleasure in inventing methods of forcing him into absurdities wjiich were not natural to him, or in drawing forth and exposing those that were ; for which purpose he was always provided with a set of fellows, whom we have before called curs, and who did, indeed, no great honour to the canine kind ; their business was to hunt out and display everything that had any savour of the above- mentioned qualities, and especially in the gravest and best characters ; but if they failed in their search, they were to turn even virtue and wisdom themselves into ridicule, for the diversion of their master and feeder. The gentlemen of curlike disposition who were now at his house, and whom he had brought with him from London, were, an old half-pay officer, a player, a dull poet, a quack-doctor, a scraping fiddler, and a lame German dancing-master. As soon as dinner was served, while Mr. Adams was saying grace, the captain conveyed his chair from behind him ; so that when he endeavoured to seat himself he fell down on the ground, and this completed joke the first, to the great entertainment of the whole company. The second joke was performed by the poet, who sat next him on the other side, and took an opportunity, while poor Adams was respectfully drinking to the master of the house, to overturn a plate of soup into his breeches; which, with the many apologies he made, and the par- son's gentle answers, caused much mirth in the company. Joke the third was served up by one of the waiting-men, who had been ordered to convey a quantity of gin into JOSEPH ANDREWS 103 Mr. Adams's ale, which he declaring to be the best liquor he ever drank, but rather too rich of the malt, contributed again to their laughter. Mr. Adams, from whom we had most of this relation, could not recollect all the jests of this kind practised on him, which the in- offensive disposition of his own heart made him slow in discovering ; and indeed, had it not been for the informa- tion which we received from a servant of the family, this part of our history, which we take to be none of the least curious, must have been deplorably imperfect ; though we must own it probable that some more jokes were (as they call it) cracked during their dinner; but we have by no means been able to come at the know- ledge of them. When dinner was removed, the poet began to repeat some verses, which, he said, were made extempore. The following is a copy of them, procured with the greatest difficulty: An extempore Poem on Parson Adams. Did ever mortal such a parson view? His cassock old, his wig not over-new. Well might the hounds have him for fox mistaken, In smell more like to that than rusty bacon ; ' But would it not make any mortal stare To see this parson taken for a hare? Could Phoebus err thus grossly, even he For a good player might have taken thee. At which words the bard whipt off' the player's wig, and received the approbation of the company, rather perhaps for the dexterity of his hand than his head. The player, instead of retorting the jest on the poet, began to display his talents on the same subject. He repeated many scraps of wit out of plays, reflecting on the whole body of the clergy, which were received with great acclamations by all present. It was now the dancing-master's turn to exhibit his talents; he there- fore, addressing himself to Adams in broken English, told him, " He was a man ver well made for de dance, and he suppose by his walk dat he had learn of some ' All hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will hunt a piece of rusty bacon trailed on the ground. I04 HENRY FIELDING great master." He said, "It was ver pretty quality in clerg-yman to dance ; " and concluded with desiring him to dance a minuet, telling him, " his cassock would serve for petticoats ; and that he would himself be his partner. " At which words, without waiting for an answer, he pulled out his gloves, and the fiddler was preparing his fiddle. The company all offered the dancing-master wagers that the parson out-danced him, which he refused, saying " he believed so too, for he had never seen any man in his life who looked de dance so well as de gentleman " : he then stepped forwards to take Adams by the hand, which the latter hastily withdrew, and, at the same time clenching his fist, advised him not to carry the jest too far, for he would not endure being put upon. The danc- ing-master no sooner saw the fist than he prudently re- tired out of its reach, and stood aloof, mimicking Adams, whose eyes were fixed on him, not guessing what he was at, but to avoid his laying hold on him, which he had once attempted. In the mean while, the captain, perceiving an opportunity, pinned a cracker or devil to the cassock, and then lighted it with their little smoking- candle. Adams, being a stranger to this sport, and be- lieving he had been blown up in reality, started from his chair, and jumped about the room, to the infinite joy of the beholders, who declared he was the best dancer in the universe. As soon as the devil had done tormenting him, and he had a little recovered his confusion, he re- turned to the table, standing up in the posture of one who intended to make a speech. They all cried out. Hear him, hear him; and he then spoke in the following manner : ' ' Sir, I am sorry to see one to whom Provid- ence hath been so bountiful in bestowing his favours make so ill and ungrateful a return for them ; for, though you have not insulted me yourself, it is visible you have delighted in those that do it, nor have once discouraged the many rudenesses which have been shown towards me ; indeed, towards yourself, if you rightly understood them ; for I am your guest, and by the laws of hos- pitality entitled to your protection. One gentleman hath thought proper to produce some poetry upon me, of JOSEPH ANDREWS 105 which I shall only say, that I had rather be the subject than the composer. He hath pleased to treat me with disrespect as a parson. I apprehend my order is not the subject of scorn, nor that I can become so, unless by being- a disgrace to it, which I hope poverty will never be called. Another gentleman, indeed, hath repeated some sentences, where the order itself is mentioned with contempt. He says they are taken from plays. I am sure such plays are a scandal to the government which permits them, and cursed will be the nation where they are represented. How others have treated me I need not observe; they themselves, when they reflect, must allow the behaviour to be as improper to my years as to my cloth. You found me, sir, travelling with two of my parishioners (I omit your hounds falling on me ; for I have quite forgiven it, whether it proceeded from the wantonness or negligence of the huntsman): my appear- ance might very well persuade you that your invitation was an act of charity, though in reality we were well provided; yes, sir, if we had had an hundred miles to travel, we had sufficient to bear our expenses in a noble manner." (At which words he produced the half-guinea which was found in the basket.) " I do not show you this out of ostentation of riches, but to convince you I speak truth. Your seating me at your table was an honour which I did not ambitiously affect. When I was here, I endeavoured to behave towards you with the utmost respect ; if I have failed, it was not with design ; nor could I, certainly, so far be guilty as to deserve the insults I have suffered. If they were meant, therefore, either to my order or my poverty (and you see I am not very poor), the shame doth not lie at my door, and I heartily pray that the sin may be averted from yours." He thus finished, and received a general clap from the whole company. Then the gentleman of the house told him, "He was sorry for what had happened; that he could not accuse him of any share in it ; that the verses were, as himself had well observed, so bad, that he might easily answer them ; and for the serpent, it was undoubtedly a very great affront done him by the danc- io6 HENRY FIELDING ing-master, for which, if he well thrashed him, as he deserved, he should be very much pleased to see it " (in which, probably, he spoke truth). Adams answered, "Whoever had done it, it was not his profession to punish him that way ; but for the person whom he had accused, I am a witness," says he, "of his innocence; for I had my eye on him all the while. Whoever he was, God forgive him, and bestow on him a little more sense as well as humanity." The captain answered with a surly look and accent, "That he hoped he did not mean to reflect upon him; d — n him, he had as much imanity as another, and, if any man said he had not, he would convince him of his mistake by cutting his throat." Adams, smiling, said, " He believed he had spoke right by accident." To which the captain returned, "What do you mean by my speaking right? If you was not a parson, I would not take these words ; but your gown protects you. If any man who wears a sword had said so much, I had pulled him by the nose before this." Adams replied, "If he attempted any rudeness to his person, he would not find any protection for himself in his gown;" and, clenching his fist, declared "he had thrashed many a stouter man." The gentleman did all he could to encourage this warlike disposition in Adams, and was in hopes to have produced a battle, but he was disappointed; for the captain made no other answer than, "It is very well you are a parson;" and so, drinking off a bumper to old mother Church, ended the dispute. Then the doctor, who had hitherto been silent, and who was the gravest but most mischievous dog of all, in a very pompous speech highly applauded what Adams had said, and as much discommended the behaviour to him. He proceeded to encomiums on the church and poverty ; and, lastly, recommended forgiveness of what had passed to Adams, who immediately answered, "That everything was forgiven ; " and in the warmth of his goodness he filled a bumper of strong beer (a liquor he preferred to wine), and drank a health to the whole company, shaking the captain and the poet heartily by JOSEPH ANDREWS 107 the hand, and addressing himself with great respect to the doctor ; who, indeed, had not laughed outwardly at anything that passed, as he had a perfect command of his muscles, and could laugh inwardly without betraying the least symptoms in his countenance. The doctor now began a second formal speech, in which he declaimed against all levity of conversation, and what is usually called mirth. He said, "There were amusements fitted for persons of all ages and degrees, from the rattle to the discussing a point of philosophy ; and that men dis- covered themselves in nothing more than in the choice of their amusements ; for," says he, " as it must greatly raise our expectation of the future conduct in life of boys whom in their tender years we perceive, instead of taw or balls, or other childish playthings, to choose, at their leisure hours, to exercise their genius in contentions of wit, learning, and such like; so must it inspire one with equal contempt of a man, if we should discover him playing at taw or other childish play." Adams highly commended the doctor's opinion, and said, "He had often wondered at some passages in ancient authors, where Scipio, Laelius, and other great men, were repre- sented to have passed many hours in amusements of the most trifling kind." The doctor replied, "He had by him an old Greek manuscript where a favourite diver- sion of Socrates was recorded." "Aye! " says the parson eagerly: " I should be most infinitely obliged to you for the favour of perusing it." The doctor promised to send it him, and farther said, " That he believed he could de- scribe it. I think," says he, " as near as I can remember, it was this: There was a throne erected, on one side of which sat a king, and on the other a queen, with their guards and attendants ranged on both sides; to them was introduced an ambassador, which part Socrates always used to perform himself; and when he was led up to the footsteps of the throne he addressed himself to the monarchs in some grave speech, full of virtue, and goodness, and morality, and such like. After which, he was seated between the king and queen, and royally entertained. This I think was the chief part. Perhaps io8 HENRY FIELDING I may have forgot some particulars ; for it is long since I read it." Adams said, "It was, indeed, a diversion wforthy the relaxation of so great a man ; and thought something resembling it should be instituted among our great men, instead of cards and other idle pastime, in which, he was informed, they trifled away too much of their lives." He added, "The Christian religion was a nobler subject for these speeches than any Socrates could have invented." The gentleman of the house approved what Mr. Adams said, and declared " He was resolved to perform the ceremony this very evening." To which the doctor objected, as no one was prepared with a speech, "unless," said he (turning to Adams with a gravity of countenance which would have deceived a more knowing man), "you have a sermon about you, doctor." " Sir," says Adams, "I never travel without one, for fear of what may happen." He was easily prevailed on by his worthy friend, as he now called the doctor, to undertake the part of the ambassador ; so that the gentleman sent immediate orders to have the throne erected, which was performed before they had drank two bottles; and, per- haps, the reader will hereafter have no great reason to admire the nimbleness of the servants. Indeed, to con- fess the truth, the throne was no more than this : there was a great tub of water provided, on each side of which were placed two stools raised higher than the surface of the tub, and over the whole was laid a blanket; on these stools were placed the king and queen, namely, the master of the house and the captain. And now the ambassador was introduced between the poet and the doctor ; who, having read his sermon, to the great enter- tainment of all present, was led up to his place and seated between their majesties. They immediately rose up, when the blanket, wanting its suppprts at either end, gave way, and soused Adams over head and ears in the water. The captain made his escape, but, un- luckily, the gentleman himself not being as nimble as he ought, Adams caught hold of him before he descended from his throne, and pulled him in with him, to the entire secret satisfaction of all the company. Adams after JOSEPH ANDREWS 109 ducking the squire twice or thrice, leaped out of the tub, and looked sharp for the doctor, whom he would certainly have conveyed to the same place of honour; but he had wisely withdrawn : he then searched for his crabstick, and having found that, as well as his fellow- travellers, he declared he would not stay a moment longer in such a house. He then departed, without tak- ing leave of his host, whom he had exacted a more severe revenge on than he intended ; for, as he did not use sufficient care to dry himself in time, he caught a cold by the accident which threw him into a fever that had like to have cost him his life. [The squire has his reveng-e by abducting Fanny. She, however, is saved from her captors by some of Lady Booby's people who meet her on the road : and the three now journey in safety to Booby Hall, where most of the characters of the story gather. There is fresh trouble for Fanny from a certain Beau Didapper : but virtue is once more triumphant, and after a false alarm as to Joseph and Fanny being brother and sister, they are united, a main agent in the finale being the pedlar, who has been so generous to Adams in the scene given above. — Booh II, c. xv, p. 61.] JONATHAN WILD IT will hav,e been apprehended by the discreet reader, from the remarks made in the general Introduction on this very powerful book, that, on the present occasion, minute analysis of it is difficult and extensive citation impossible. The following "character," however, while open to no kind of reasonable objection, exemplifies the general style of the novel almost per- fectly. As for its substance, a most deservedly respected book of reference says that it "is not historically trustworthy " — a statement which would, one thinks, have given Fielding no small delight. The existence of Jonathan, however, is quite historical, as is the fact that he was for some years winked at by v the authorities in his combined parts of thief, captain of thieves, receiver, recoverer of stolen goods for a fee, and informeragainst those who would not join his gang, or against rebellious and inconvenient members of it. He met his inevitable end at Tyburn in 1725. One or two of the other thieves mentioned in the novel were also real persons. But what may be called its "private business " and the characters concerned therein — the Count La Ruse, a foreign adventurer ; Snap, a sheriiFs officer; / his daughters Letitia and Theodosia; Heartfree, an amiable but semi-idiotic jeweller — the one virtuous character in the book except his wife and a few ' ' supers " — and others, are imaginary. The whole is adjusted to an ironical motif of ; satire on "Greatness" — Wild's proceedings being compared / to those of renowned conquerors, etc. — and this is perhaps a very little overdone at times. But the book has no equals as a piece of sustained sardonic handling, except Swift's "Tale of a Tub," which, though much more desultory, is its superior, and Thackeray's "Barry Lyndon," which is clearly imitated from it, and may appear to some on the whole inferior though more generally readable. {Book IV— Chapter XV) [This is practically the conclusion of the book; the omitted portion merely deals with the fates of the minor characters.] We will now endeavour to draw the character of this great man; and, by bringing- together those several JONATHAN WILD iii features as it were of his mind which lie scattered up and down in this history, to present our readers with a perfect picture of greatness. Jonathan Wild had every qualification necessary to form a great man. As his most powerful and pre- - dominant passion was ambition, so nature had, with consummate propriety, adapted all his faculties to the attaining those glorious ends to which this passion directed him. He was extremely ingenious in inventing designs, artful in contriving the means to accomplish his purposes, and resolute in executing them: for as the most exquisite cunning and most undaunted boldness qualified him for any undertaking, so was he not re- strained by any of those weaknesses which disappoint the views of mean and vulgar souls, and which are com- prehended in one general term of honesty, which is a corruption of honosty, a word derived from what the Greeks call an ass. He was entirely free from those low vices of modesty and good-nature, which, as he said, implied a total negation of human greatness, and were the only qualities which absolutely rendered a man in- capable of making a considerable figure in the world. His lust was inferior only to his ambition ; but, as for what simple people call love, he knew not what it was. His avarice was immense, but it was of the rapacious, not of the tenacious kind ; his rapaciousness was indeed so violent, that nothing ever contented him but the whole; for, however considerable the share was which his coadjutors allowed him of a booty, he was restless in inventing means to make himself master of the smallest pittance reserved by them. He said laws were made for the use oi prigs only, and to secure their property; they were never therefore more perverted than when their edge was turned against these ; but that this generally hap- pened through their want of sufficient dexterity. The character which he most valued himself upon, and which he principally honoured in others, was that of hypocrisy. His opinion was, that no one could carry priggism very far without it ; for which reason, he said, there was little greatness to be expected in a man who acknowledged 112 HENRY FIELDING his vices, but always much to be hoped from him who professed great virtues : wherefore, though he would always shun the person whom he discovered guilty of a good action, yet he was never deterred by a good char- acter, which was more commonly the effect of profession than of action : for which reason, he himself was always very liberal of honest professions, and had as much virtue and goodness in his mouth as a saint ; never in the least scrupling to swear by his honour, even to those who knew him the best; nay, though he held good-nature and modesty in the highest contempt, he constantly practised the affectation of both, and recommended this to others, whose welfare, on his own account, he wished well to. He laid down several maxims as the certain niethods of attaining greatness, to which, in his own pursuit of it, he constantly adhered. As, 1. Never to do more mischief to another than was necessary to the effecting his purpose; for that mischief was too precious a thing to be thrown away. 2. To know no distinction of men from affection, but to sacrifice all with equal readiness to his interest. 3. Never to communicate more of an affair than was necessary to the person who was to execute it. 4. Not to trust him who hath deceived you, nor who knows he hath been deceived by you. 5. To forgive no enemy; but to be cautious and often dilatory in revenge. 6. To shun poverty and distress, and to ally himself as close as possible to power and riches. 7. To maintain a constant gravity in his countenance and behaviour, and to affect wisdom on all occa- sions. 8. To foment eternal jealousies in his gang, one of another. 9. Never to reward any one equal to his merit; but always to insinuate that the reward was above it. 10. That all men were knaves or fools, and much the greater number a composition of both. JONATHAN WILD 113 11. That a good name, like money, must be parted with, or at least greatly risked, in order to bring the owner any advantage. 12. That virtues, like precious stones, were easily counterfeited ; that the counterfeits in both cases adorned the wearer equally and that very few had knowledge or discernment sufficient to distinguish the counterfeit jewel from the real. 13. That many men were undone by not going deep enough in roguery ; as in gaming any man may be a loser who doth not play the whole game. 14. That men proclaim their own virtues, as shopkeepers expose their goods, in order to profit by them. 15. That the heart was the proper seat of hatred, and the countenance of affection and friendship. He had many more of the same kind, all equally good with these, and which were after his decease found in his study, as the twelve excellent and celebrated rules were in that of King Charles the first ; for he never pro- mulgated them in his lifetime, not having them con- stantly in his mouth, as some grave persons have the rules of virtue and morality, without paying the least regard to them in their actions : whereas our hero, by a constant and steady adherence to his rules in conform- ing everything he did to them, acquired at last a settled habit of walking by them, till at last he was in no danger of inadvertently going out of the way; and by these means he arrived at that degree of greatness which few have equalled ; none, we may say, have ex- ceeded : for, though it must be allowed that there have been some few heroes who have done greater mischiefs to mankind, such as those who have betrayed the liberty of their country to others, or have undermined and over- powered it themselves ; or conquerors who have im- poverished, pillaged, sacked, burnt, and destroyed the countries and cities of their fellow-creatures, from no other provocation that that of glory, i.e., as the tragic poet calls it, a privilege to kill, A strong temptation to do bravely ill ; I 114 HENRY FIELDING yet, if we consider it in the light wherein actions are placed in this line, Laetius est, quoties magna tihi constat honestunt ; when we see our hero, without the least assistance or pretence, setting himself at the head of a gang which he had not any shadow of right to govern ; if we view him maintaining absolute power and exercising tyranny over a lawless crew, contrary to all law but that of his own will ; if we consider him setting up an open trade pub- licly, in defiance not only of the laws of his country but of the common sense of his countrymen ; if we see him first contriving the robbery of others, and again the defrauding the very robbers of that booty which they had ventured their necks to acquire, and which, without any hazard, they might have retained, here sure he must appear admirable, and we may challenge not only the truth of history, but almost the latitude of fiction, to equal his glory. , Nor had he any of those flaws in his character which, though they have been commended by weak writers, have (as I hinted in the beginning of this history) by the judicious reader been censured and despised. Such was the clemency of Alexander and Caesar, which nature had so grossly erred in giving them, as a painter would who should dress a peasant in robes of state, or give the nose or any other feature of a Venus to a satyr. What had the destroyers of mankind, that glorious pair, one of whom came into the world to usurp the dominion and abolish the constitution of his own country ; the other to conquer, enslave, and rule over the whole world, at least as much as was well known to him, and the shorthess of his life would give him leave to visit; what had, I say, such as these to do with clemency? Who cannot see the absurdity and contradiction of mixing such an ingredient with those noble and great qualities I have before mentioned? Now, in Wild everything was truly great, almost without alloy, as his imperfections (for surely some small ones he had) were only such as served JONATHAN WILD 115 to denominate him a human creature, of which kind none ever arrived at consummate excellence. But surely his whole behaviour to his friend Heartfree is a convinc- ing proof that the true iron or steel greatness of his heart was not debased by any softer metal. Indeed, while greatness consists in power, pride, insolence, and doing mischief to mankind — to speak out, while a great man and a great rogue are synonymous terms — so long shall Wild stand unrivalled on the pinnacle of great- ness. Nor must we omit here, as the finishing of his character, what indeed ought to be remembered on his tomb or his statue, the conformity above mentioned of his death to his life ; and that Jonathan Wild the Great, after all his mighty exploits, was, what so few great men can accomplish — hanged by the neck till he was dead. Indeed, whoever considers the common fate of great men must allow they well deserve and hardly earn that applause which is given them by the world ; for, when we reflect on the labours and pains, the cares, dis- quietudes, and dangers which attend their road to great- ness, we may say with the divine that a man may go to heaven with half the pains which it costs him. to purchase hell. To say the truth, the world have this reason at least to honour such characters as that of Wild : that, while it is in the power of every man to be perfectly honest, not one in a thousand is capable of being a com- plete rogue ; and few indeed there are who, if they were inspired with the vanity of imitating our hero, would not after much fruitless pains be obliged to own themselves inferior to Mr. Jonathan Wild the Great. TOM JONES THE plot of "Tom Jones "is famous, and by such great authorities as Scott and Coleridge — the one a master of practice, the other of theory — it has been extolled as almost the most perfect existing. This has been demurred to, but it is, perhaps, on the whole, not far from the truth. It follows that a complete analysis of it, exhibiting the way in which very small items of character and incident contribute to the wind- ing up of the whole, would be of verj' great lengfth ; but it follows likewise that the main course of the story can be pretty shortly told. "The hero, as an infant, is found in the bed of Mr. Allworthy, a gentleman of large property and great benevolence, who lives with his spinster sister in the West of England, and (in defiance of ^scandal) is in a manner adopted by him, the motlier being supposed rather than proved to be a certain Jenny Jones, who actually confesses the fact. After- wards Bridget Allworthy, the sister, marries a certain Captain Blifil, who dies before very long, leaving her with one child, a boy, who is brought up with the slightly older Tom "Jones." They early display remarkable differences of disposition, Jones being a scapegrace, but generous and affectionate, Blifil what is sufiiciently and satisfactorily labelled in the language of boys as a " sneak," and perhaps something worse. In the neigh- bourhood there is a Tory squire of rough manners but great wealtli. Western by name, who has an only daughter Sophia, while he too possesses a spinster sister who is a "politician," and whimsical, but not a bad sort of woman. Divers pecca- dilloes of Jones, exaggerated and ' ' tale-borne " by two parasites of AUworthy's, the pedagogue parson Thjtafikum, and Square, the freethinking philosopher, as well as by young Blifil him- self (especially in connection with Molly Seagrim, daughter of a gamekeeper known as " Black George ") lead at last to an explosion in which Allworthy, hoodwinked in part, in part not unjustly offended, turns Jones out of doors, assigning to him, however, a sum of £,^00, which, by the villany of Black George, is abstracted without his even knowing that it has been sent him. A long "Odyssey" of adventures, in which Jones's follower, Partridge (a schoolmaster who has shared in 116 TOM JONES 117 the original disgrace of Jenny) figures largely, brings the parties together again in London, where Jones has engaged in a discreditable intrigue with Lady Bellaston, a connection of the Westerns, and the fair Sophia is persecuted and plotted against diversely. All is however at last cleared up; the villany of Blifil and Black George is discovered ; Tom turns out to be the illegitimate son, not indeed of Allworthy, but of his sister; Sophia forgives ; et cloches de sonner ! ; I [The same reasons which were noted above make it impossible, in any but a very great space, to knit extracts from " Tom Jones " together as continuously and completely as was done in the case of "Joseph Andrews." The preliminary remarks will therefore be limited to supplying an intelligible abstract of context and circum- stance, leaving further connection to the general argument just given. It should be said, however, that the discursive prologues which already appear in the earlier novel, become a much more prominent feature in this, and that they contain some of Fielding's most accomplished and characteristic writing.] {Book I— Chapter I) An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. In the former case, it is well known that the entertainer provides what fare he pleases ; and though this should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not find any fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to com- mend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and whimsical these may prove ; and if everything is not agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to d— n their dinner without control. To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their cus- tomers by any such disappointment, it hath been usual ii8 HENRY FIELDING with the honest and well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse at their first en- trance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves with the entertainment which they may ex- pect, may either stay and regale with what is provided for them, or may depart to some other ordinary better accommodated to their taste. As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is capable of lending us either, we have condescended to take a hint from these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, but shall likewise give the reader particular bills to every course which is to be served up in this and the ensuing volumes. The provision, then, which we have here made is no other than Human Nature. Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, though most luxurious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, because I have named but one article. The tortoise, as the alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows by much experience, be- sides the delicious calipash and calipee, contains many different kinds of food; nor can the learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here collected under one general name, is such prodigious variety, that a cook will have sooner gone through all the several species of animal and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to exhaust so extensive a sub- ject. An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more delicate, that this dish is too common and vulgar; for what else is the subject of all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with which the stalls abound? Many exquisite viands might be rejected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient cause for his contemning of them as common and vulgar, that something was to be found in the most paltry alleys under the same name. In reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with in authors, as the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be found in the shops. But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, con- TOM JONES 119 sists in the cookery of the author; for, as Mr. Pope tells us, True wit is nature to advantage drest ; What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest. The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh eaten at the table of a duke, may per- haps be degraded in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the difference between the food of the noble- man and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garn- ishing, and the setting forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite, and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest. In like manner, the excellence of the mental enter- tainment consists less in the subject than in the author's skill in well dressing it up. How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to find that we have, in the following work, adhered closely to one of the highest principles of the best cook which the present age, or perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath produced? This great man, as is well known to all lovers of polite eating, begins at first by setting plain things before his hungry guests, rising afterwards by degrees as their stomachs may be sup- posed to decrease, to the very quintessence of sauce and spices. In like manner, we shall represent human nature at first to the keen appetite of our reader, in that more plain and simple manner in which it is found in the country, and shall hereafter hash and ragodt it with all the high French and Italian seasoning of affectation and vice which courts and cities afford. By these means, we doubt not but our reader may be rendered desirous to read on for ever, as the great person just above-men- tioned is supposed to have made some persons eat. Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who like our bill of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed directly to serve up the first course of our history for their entertainment. lao HENRY FIELDING {Chapter II) In that part of the western division of this kingdom which is commonly called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and perhaps lives still, a gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and who might well be called the favourite of both nature and fortune; for both of these seem to have contended which should bless and enrich him most. In this contention, nature may seem to some to have come off victorious, as she bestowed on him many gifts, while fortune had only one gift in her power; but in pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others perhaps may think this single endowment to have been more than equivalent to all the various blessings which he enjoyed from nature. From the former of these, he derived an agreeable person, a sound constitution, a solid understanding, and a benevolent heart; by the latter, he was decreed to the inheritance of one of the largest estates in the county. This gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and beautiful woman, of whom he had been extremely fond : by her he had three children, all of whom died in their infancy. He had likewise had the misfortune of burying this beloved wife herself, about five years before the time in which this history chooses to set out. This loss, however great, he bore like a man of sense and constancy, though it must be confessed he would often talk a little whimsically on this head ; for he sometimes said he looked on himself as still married, and considered his wife as only gone, a little before him, a journey which he should most certainly, sooner or later, take after her ; and that he had not the least doubt of meeting her again in a place where he should never part with her more — sentiments for which his sense was arraigned by one part of his neighbours, his religion by a second, and his sincerity by a third. He now lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with one sister, for whom he had a very tender affection. This lady was now somewhat past the age of thirty, an era at which, in the opinion of the malicious, the title of TOM JONES 121 old maid may with no impropriety be assumed. She was of that species of women whom you commend rather for good qualities than beauty, and who are generally called, by their bwn sex, very good sort of women — as good a sort of woman, madam, as you would wish to know. Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of beauty, that she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be called one, without contempt; and would often thank God she was not as handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty had led into errors which she might have otherwise avoided. Miss Bridget AUworthy (for that was the name of this lady) very rightly conceived the charms of person in a woman to be no better than snares for herself, as well as for others ; and yet so discreet was she in her conduct, that her prudence was as much on the guard as if she had all the snares to apprehend which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have observed, though it may seem unaccountable to the reader, that this guard of prudence, like the trained bands, is always readiest to go on duty where there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly deserts those paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sigh- ing, dying, and spreading every net in their power ; and constantly attends at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the other sex have a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from despair, I suppose, of success) they never venture to attack. Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to acquaint thee that I intend to digress, through this whole history, as often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better judge than any pitiful critic whatever ; and here I must desire all those critics to mind their own business, and not to intermeddle with affairs or works which no ways concern them ; for till they produce the authority by which they are constituted judges, I shall plead to their jurisdiction. 122 HENRY FIELDING II [Captain Blifil {v. sup.) having been introduced into Allworthy's family by his brother, a doctor, behaves to that brother vifith the grossest ingratitude, and though partly concealing his real char- acter when with Allworthy, manifests himself in all respects the father of the son who is to play such an important part as "villain." He and his wife hate each other with mutual exactness, though they maintain a tolerably decent exterior. The situation, how- ever, is relieved as follows.] {Book II— Chapter VIII) The captain was made large amends for the unpleasant minutes which he passed in tlie conversation of his wife (and which were as few as he could contrive to make them), by the pleasant meditations he enjoyed when alone. These meditations were entirely employed on Mr. Allworthy's fortune ; for, first, he exercised much thought in calculating, as well as he could, the exact value of the whole : which calculations he often saw occasion to alter in his own favour : and, secondly and chiefly, he pleased himself with intended alterations in the house and gardens, and in projecting many other schemes, as well for the improvement of the estate as of the grandeur of the place : for this purpose he applied himself to the studies of architecture and gardening, and read over many books on both these subjects ; for these sciences, indeed, employed his whole time, and formed his only amusement. He at last completed a most excellent plan; and very sorry we are, that it is not in our power to present it to our reader, since even the luxury of the present age, I believe, would hardly match it. It had, indeed, in a superlative degree, the two principal in- gredients which serve to recommend all great and noble designs of this nature; for it required an immoderate expense to execute, and a vast length of time to bring it to any sort of perfection. The former of these, the immense wealth of which the captain supposed Mr. All- worthy possessed, and which he thought himself sure of TOM JONES 123 inheriting-, promised very effectually to supply ; and the latter, the soundness of his own constitution, and his time of life, which was only what is called middle age, removed all apprehension of his not living to accom- plish. Nothing was wanting to enable him to enter upon the immediate execution of this plan, but the death of Mr. AUworthy; in calculating which he had employed much of his own algebra, besides purchasing every book extant that treats of the value of lives, reversions, etc. From all which he satisfied himself, that as he had every day a chance of this happening, so had he more than an even chance of its happening within a few years. But while the captain was one day busied in deep contemplations of this kind, one of the most unlucky as well as unseasonable accidents happened to him. The utmost malice of Fortune could, indeed, have contrived nothing so cruel, so mal-a-propos, so absolutely de- structive to all his schemes. In short, not to keep the reader in long suspense, just at the very instant when his heart was exulting in meditations on the happiness which would accrue to him by Mr. Allworthy's death, he himself died of an apoplexy. This unfortunately befell the captain as he was taking his evening walk by himself, so that nobody was present to lend him any assistance, if indeed any assistance could have preserved him. He took, therefore, measure of that proportion of soil which was now become adequate to all his future purposes, and he lay dead on the ground, a great (though not a living) example of the truth of that observation of Horace: Tu secanda martnora Locas sub ipsumfunus; et sepulchri Immemor, struts domos. Which sentiment I shall thus give to the English reader: "You provide the noblest materials for buildingf, when a pickaxe and a spade are only necessary: and build houses of five hundred by a hundred feet, forgetting that of six by two." 124 HENRY FIELDING {Chapter IX) Mr. Allworthy, his sister, and another lady, were as- sembled at the accustomed hour in the supper-room, where, having waited a considerable time longer than usual, Mr. Allworthy first declared he began to grow uneasy at the captain's stay (for he was always most punctual at his meals) ; and gave orders that the bell should be rung without the doors, and especially towards those walks which the captain was wont to use. All these summons proving ineffectual (for the captain had, by perverse accident, betaken himself to a new walk that evening), Mrs. Blifil declared she was seriously fright- ened. Uponwhich the other lady, who was one of her most intimate acquaintance, and who well knew the true state of her affections, endeavoured all she could to pacify her, telling her — To be sure she could not help being uneasy ; but that she should hope the best. That, perhaps the sweetness of the evening had enticed the captain to go farther than his usual walk ; or he might be detained at some neighbour's. Mrs. Blifil answered. No; she was sure some accident had befallen him ; for that he would never stay out without sending her word, as he must know how uneasy it would make her. The other lady, having no other arguments to use, betook herself to the entreaties usual on such occasions, and begged her not to frighten herself, for it might be of very ill consequence to her own health ; and, filling out a very large glass of wine, advised, and at last prevailed with, her to drink it. Mr. Allworthy now returned into the parlour; for he had been himself in search after the captain. His coun- tenance sufficiently showed the consternation he was under, which, indeed, had a good deal deprived him of speech ; but as grief operates variously on different minds, so the same apprehension which depressed his voice, elevated that of Mrs. Blifil. She now began to bewail herself in very bitter terms, and floods of tears accompanied her lamentations ; which the lady, her com- panion, declared she could not blame, but at the same time dissuaded her from indulging ; attempting to mode- TOM JONES 125 rate the grief of her friend by philosophical observations on the many disappointments to which human life is daily subject, which, she said, was a sufficient considera- tion to fortify our minds against any accidents, how sudden or terrible soever. She said her brother's ex- ample ought to teach her patience, who, though indeed he could not be supposed as much concerned as herself, yet was, doubtless, very uneasy, though his resignation to the Divine Will had restrained his grief within due bounds. "Mention not my brother," said Mrs. Blifil; " I alone am the object of your pity. What are the terrors of friendship to what a wife feels on these occasions? Oh, he is lost! Somebody hath murdered him — I shall never see him more! " — Here a torrent of tears had the same consequence with what the suppression had occasioned to Mr. AUworthy, and she remained silent. At this interval a servant came running in, out of breath, and cried out, "The captain was found;" and, before he could proceed farther, he was followed by two more, bearing the dead body between them. Here the curious reader may observe another diversity in the operations of grief: for as Mr. AUworthy had been before silent, from the same cause which had made his sister vociferous ; so did the present sight, which drew tears from the gentleman, put an entire stop to those of the lady ; who first gave a violent scream, and presently after fell into a fit. The room was soon full of servants, some of whom, with the lady visitant, were employed in care of the wife ; and others, with Mr. AUworthy, assisted in carrying off the captain to a warm bed; where every method was tried, in order to restore him to life. And glad should we be, could we inform the reader that both these bodies had been attended with equal success ; for those who undertook the care of the lady succeeded so well, that, after the fit had continued a decent time, she again revived, to their great satisfac- tion : but as to the captain, all experiments of bleeding, chafing, dropping, etc., proved ineffectual. Death, that 126 HENRY FIELDING inexorable judge, had passed sentence on him, and re- fused to grant him a reprieve, though two doctors who arrived, and were fee'd at one and the same instant, were his counsel. These two doctors, whom, to avoid any malicious applications, we shall distinguish by the names of Dr. Y. and Dr. Z., having felt his pulse; to wit, Dr. Y. his right arm, and Dr. Z. his left ; both agreed that he was absolutely dead ; but as to the distemper, or cause of his death, they differed ; Dr. Y. holding that he died of an apoplexy, and Dr. Z. of an epilepsy. Hence arose a dispute between the learned men, in which each delivered the reasons of their several opinions. These were of such equal force, that they served both to confirm either doctor in his own sentiments, and made not the least impression on his adversary. To say the truth, every physician almost hath his favourite disease, to which he ascribes all the victories obtained over human nature. The gout, the rheumatism, the stone, the gravel, and the consumption, have all their several patrons in the faculty ; and none more than the nervous fever, or the fever on the spirits. And here we may account for those disagreements in opinion, con- cerning the cause of a patient's death, which sometimes occur, between the most learned of the college; and which have greatly surprised that part of the world who have been ignorant of the fact we have above asserted. The reader may perhaps be surprised, that, instead of endeavouring to revive the patient, the learned gentle- men should fall immediately into a dispute on the occa- sion of his death; but in reality all such experiments had been made before their arrival : for the captain was put into a warm bed, had his veins scarified, his fore- head chafed, and all sorts of strong drops applied to his lips and nostrils. The physicians, therefore, finding themselves anti- cipated in every thing they ordered, were at a loss how to apply that portion of time which it is usual and decent to remain for their fee, and were therefore necessitated to find some subject or other for discourse ; and what TOM JONES 127 could more naturally present itself than that before mentioned? Our doctors were about to take their leave, when Mr. Allworthy, having- given over the captain, and acquiesced in the Divine Will, began to inquire after his sister, whom he desired them to visit before their departure. This lady was now recovered of her fit, and, to use the common phrase, was as well as could be expected for one in her condition. The doctors, therefore, all previous ceremonies being- complied with, as this was a newpatient, attended, according to desire, and laid hold on each of her hands, as they had before done on those of the corpse. The case of the lady was in the other extreme from that of her husband : for as he was past all the assistance of physic, so in reality she required none. There is nothing more unjust than the vulgar opinion, by which physicians are misrepresented as friends to death. On the contrary, I believe, if the number of those who recover by physic could be opposed to that of the martyrs to it, the former would rather exceed the latter. Nay, some are so cautious on this head, that, to avoid a possibility of killing the patient, they abstain from all methods of curing, and prescribe nothing but what can neither do good nor harm. I have heard some of these, with great gravity, deliver it as a maxim, " That nature should be left to do her own work," while the physician stands by as it were to clap her on the back, and en- courage her when she doth well. So little then did our doctors delight in death, that they discharged the corpse after a single fee ; but they were not so disgusted with their living patient ; con- cerning whose case they immediately agreed, and fell to prescribing with great diligence. Whether, as the lady had at first persuaded the phy- sicians to believe her ill, they had now in return per- suaded her to believe herself so, I will not determine; but she continued a whole month with all the decorations of sickness. During this time she was visited by phy- sicians, attended by nurses, and received constant mes- sages from her acquaintance to inquire after her health. 128 HENRY FIELDING At length the decent time for sickness and immoderate grief being expired, the doctors were discharged, and the lady began to see company ; being altered only from what she was before, by that colour of sadness in which she had dressed her person and countenance. The captain was now interred, and might, perhaps, have already made a large progress towards oblivion, had not the friendship of Mr. Allworthy taken (;are to preserve his memory, by the following epitaph, which was written by a man of as great genius as integrity, and one who perfectly well knew the captain. Here lies. In Expectation of a joyful Rising, The Body of CAPTAIN JOHN BLIFIL. London had the Honour of his Birth, Oxford of his Education. His Parts were an Honour to his Profession and to his Country : His Life, to his Religion and human Nature. He was a dutiful Son, a tender Husband, an aflfectionate Father, a most kind Brother, a sincere Friend, a devout Christian, and a good Man. His inconsolable Widow hath erected this Stone, the Monument of His Virtues and her Affection. TOM JONES 129 III [The story now makes a leap of some dozen years to the time when Tom is about fourteen. He has got into a poaching scrape, and has been unmercifully flogged by Thwackum for refusing to " peach " on his companion the gamekeeper.] Thwackum did all he could to dissuade AUworthy from showing any compassion or kindness to the boy, saying, " He had persisted in an untruth ; " and gave some hints, that a second whipping might probably bring the matter to light. But Mr. AUworthy absolutely refused to consent to the experiment. He said the boy had suffered enough already for conceaUng the truth, even if he was guilty, seeing that he could have no motive but a mistaken point of honour for so doing. "Honour! " cried Thwackum with some wrath, "mere stubbornness and obstinacy ! Can honour teach any one to tell a lie, or can any honour exist independent of religion?" This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended; and there were present Mr. AUworthy, Mr. Thwackum, and a third gentleman, who now entered into the debate, and whom, before we proceed any farther, we shall briefly introduce to our reader's acquaintance. {Book III— Chapter III) The name of this gentlernan, who had then resided some time at Mr. Allworthy's house, was Mr. Square. His natural parts were not of the first rate, but he had greatly improved them by a learned education. He was deeply read in the ancients, and a professed master of all the works of Plato and Aristotle. Upon which great models he had principally formed himself; sometimes according with the opinion of the one, and sometimes with that of the other. In morals he was a professed Platonist, and in religion he inclined to be an Aristotelian. But though he had, as we have said, formed his morals I30 HENRY FIELDING on the Platonic model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of Aristotle, in considering that great man rather in the quality of a philosopher or a speculatist, than as a legislator. This sentiment he carried a great way ; in- deed, so far as to regard all virtue as matter of theory only. This, it is true, he never affirmed, as I have heard, to any one*; and yet upon the least attention to his con- duct, I cannot help thinking it was his real opinion, as it will perfectly reconcile some contradictions which might otherwise appear in his character. This gentleman and Mr. Thwackum scarce ever met without a disputation ; for their tenets were indeed dia- metrically opposite to each other. Square held human nature to be the perfection of all virtue, and that vice was a deviation from our nature, in the same manner as deformity of body is. Thwackum, on the contrary, main- tained that the human mind, since the fall was nothing but a sink of iniquity, till purified and redeemed by grace. In one point only they agreed, which was, in all their discourses on morality never to mention the word good- ness. The favourite phrase of the former, was " the nat- ural beauty of virtue ; " that of the latter, was ' ' the divine power of grace." The former measured all actions by the unalterable rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; the latter decided all matters by authority; but in doing this, he always used the Scriptures and their commentators, as the lawyer doth his Coke upon Little- ton, where the comment is of equal authority with the text. After this short introduction, the reader will be pleased to remember, that the parson had concluded his speech with a triumphant question, to which he had apprehended no answer; viz. Can any honour exist independent of religion ? To this Square answered ; that it was impossible to dis- course philosophically concerning words, till their mean- ing was first established : that there were scarce any two words of a more vague and uncertain signification, than the two he had mentioned ; for that there were almost as many different opinions concerning honour, as concern- TOM JONES 131 ing religion. " But," says he, " if by honour you mean the true natural beauty of virtue, I will maintain it may exist independent of any religion whatever. Nay," added he, "you yourself will allow it may exist independent of all but one : so will a Mahometan, a Jew, and all the maintainers of all the different sects in the world. " Thwackum replied, this was arguing with the usual malice of all the enemies to the true church. He said, he doubted not but that all the infidels and heretics in the world would, if they could, confine honour to their own absurd errors and damnable deceptions; "but honour," says he, " is not therefore manifold, because there are many absurd opinions about it ; nor is religion manifold, because there are various sects and heresies in the world. When I mention religion, I mean the Christian religion ; and not only the Christian religion, but the protestant religion ; and not only the protestant religion, but the Church of England. And when I men- tion honour, I mean that mode of divine grace which is not only consistent with, but dependent upon, this re- ligion ; and is consistent with and dependent upon no other. Now to say that the honour I here mean, and which was, I thought, all the honour I could be sup- posed to mean, will uphold, much less dictate, an un- truth, is to assert an absurdity too shocking to be conceived." " I purposely avoided," says Square, " drawing a con- clusion which I thought evident from what I have said ; but if you perceived it, I am sure you have not attempted to answer it. However, to drop the article of religion, I think it is plain, from what you have said, that we have different ideas of honour; or wh}' do we not agree in the same terms of its explanation? I have asserted, that true honour and true virtue are almost synonym- ous terms, and they are both founded on the unalter- able rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things ; to which an untruth being absolutely repugnant and con- trary, it is certain that true honour cannot support an untruth. In this, therefore, I think we are agreed ; but that this honour can be said to be founded on religion. 132 HENRY FIELDING to which it is antecedent, if by religion be meant any positive law " " I agree," answered Thwackum, with great warmth, ' ' with a man who asserts honour to be antecedent to religion! Mr. Allworthy, did I agree ?" He was proceeding when Mr. Allworthy interposed, telling them very coldly, they had both mistaken his meaning; for that he had said nothing of true honour. — It is possible, however, he would not have easily quieted the disputants, who were growing equally warm, had not another matter now fallen out, which put a final end to the conversation at present. {Chapter IV) Before I proceed farther, I shall beg leave to obviate some misconstructions into which the zeal of some few readers may lead them ; for I would not willingly give offence to any, especially to men who are warm in the cause of virtue or religion. I hope, therefore, no man will, by the grossest mis- understanding or perversion of my meaning, misrepre- sent me, as endeavouring to cast any ridicule on the greatest perfections of human nature; and which do indeed, alone purify and ennoble the heart of man, and raise him above the brute creation. This, reader, I will venture to say (and by how much the better man you are yourself, by so much the more will you be in- clined to believe me), that I would rather have buried the sentiments of these two persons in eternal oblivion, than have done any injury to either of these glorious causes. On the contrary, it is with a view to their service, that I have taken upon me to record the lives and actions of two of their false and pretended champions. A treacherous friend is the most dangerous enemy; and I will say boldly, that both religion and virtue have received more real discredit from hypocrites, than the wittiest profligates or infidels could ever cast upon them : nay, farther, as these two, in their purity, are rightly TOM JONES 133 called the bands of civil society, and are indeed the greatest of blessings ; so when poisoned and corrupted with fraud, pretence, and affectation, they have become the worst of civil curses, and have enabled men to per- petrate the most cruel mischiefs to their own species. Indeed, I doubt not but this ridicule will in general be allowed : my chief apprehension is, as many true and just sentiments often came from the mouths of these persons, lest the whole should be taken together, and I should be conceived to ridicule all alike. Now the reader will be pleased to consider, that, as neither of these men were fools, they could not be supposed to have holden none but wrong principles, and to have uttered nothing but absurdities ; what injustice, therefore, must I have done to their characters, had I selected only what was bad! And how horribly wretched and maimed must their arguments have appeared ! Upon the whole, it is not religion or virtue, but the want of them, which is here exposed. Had notThwackum too much neglected virtue, and Square, religion, in the composition of their several systems, and had not both utterly discarded all natural goodness of heart, they had never been represented as the objects of derision in this history; in which we will now proceed. This matter then, which put an end to the debate mentioned in the last chapter, was no other than a quarrel between Master Blifil and Tom Jones, the con- sequence of which had been a bloody nose to the former ; for though Master Blifil, notwithstanding he was the younger, was in size above the other's match, yet Tom was much his superior at the noble art of boxing. Tom, however, cautiously avoided all engagements with that youth; for besides that Tommy Jones was an inoffensive lad amidst all his roguery, and really loved Blifil, Mr. Thwackum being always the second of the latter, would have been sufficient to deter him. But well says a certain author, No man is wise at all hours; it is therefore no wonder that a boy is not so. A difference arising at play between the two lads, Master Blifil called Tom a beggarly bastard. Upon 134 HENRY FIELDING which the latter, who was somewhat passionate in his disposition, immediately caused that phenomenon in the face of the former, which we have above remembered. Master BHfil now, with his blood running from his nose, and the tears galloping after from his eyes, ap- peared before his uncle and the tremendous Thwackum. In which court an indictment of assault, battery, and wounding, was instantly preferred against Tom ; who in excuse only pleaded the provocation, which was indeed all the matter that Master Blifil had omitted. It is indeed possible that this circumstance might have escaped his memory; for, in his reply, he posi- tively insisted, that he had made use of no such appella- tion; adding, "Heaven forbid such naughty words should ever come out of his mouth ! " Tom, though against all form of law, rejoined in affirmance of the words. Upon which Master Blifil said, " It is no wonder. Those who will tell one fib, will hardly stick at another. If I had told my master such a wicked fib as you have done, I should be ashamed to show my face." " What fib, child? " cries Thwackum pretty eagerly. " Why, he told you that nobody was with him a shooting when he killed the partridge ; but he knows " (here he burst into a flood of tears), "yes, he knows, for he confessed it to me, that Black George the game- keeper was there. Nay, he said — yes, you did — deny it if you can, that you would not have confessed the truth, though master had cut you to pieces." At this the fire flashed from Thwackum's eyes, and he cried out in triumph — "Oh! oh! this is your mis- taken notion of honour ! This is the boy who was not to be whipped again ! " But Mr. Allworthy, with a more gentle aspect, turned towards the lad, and said, " Is this true, child? How came you to persist so obstinately in a falsehood ? " Tom said, "He scorned a lie as much as any one; but he thought his honour engaged him to act as he did ; for he had promised the poor fellow to conceal him: which," he said, " he thought himself farther obliged to, TOM JONES 135 as the gamekeeper had begged him not to go into the gentleman's manor, and had at last gone himself, in compliance with his persuasions." He said, " this was the whole truth of the matter, and he would take his oath of it;" and concluded with very passionately begging Mr. Allworthy ' ' to have compassion on the poor fellow's family, especially as he himself only had been guilty, and the other had been very difficultly pre- vailed on to do what he did. Indeed, sir," said he, " it could hardly be called a lie that I told; for the poor fellow was entirely innocent of the whole matter. I should have gone alone after the birds ; nay, I did go at first, and he only followed me to prevent more mischief. Do, pray, sir, let me be punished ; take my little horse away again; but pray, sir, forgive poor George." Mr. Allworthy hesitated a few moments, and then dismissed the boys, advising them to live more friendly and peaceably together. IV [Other escapades of the same kind follow, and three or four more years pass; but it is now time to introduce Sophia.] {Book IV— Chapter II) Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of the winds confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy Boreas, and the sharp-pointed nose of bitter- biting Eurus. Do thou, sweet Zephyrus, rising from thy fragrant bed, mount the western sky, and lead on those delicious gales, the charms of which call forth the lovely Flora from her chamber, perfumed with pearly dews, when on the ist of June, her birth day, the bloom- ing maid in loose attire, gently trips it over the verdant mead, where every flower rises to do her homage, till the whole field becomes enamelled, and colours contend with sweets which shall ravish her most. So charming may she now appear! and you the feathered choristers of nature, whose sweetest notes not 136 HENRY FIELDING even Handel can excel, tune your melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. From love proceeds your music, and to love it returns. Awaken therefore that gentle passion in every swain : for lo ! adorned with all the charms in which nature can array her; bedecked with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence, modesty, and tenderness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and darting brightness from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia comes ! Reader, perhaps thou hast seen the statue of the Venus de Medici. Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beauties at Hampton Court. Thou mayest remember each bright Churchill of the galaxy, and all the toasts of the Kit-cat. Or, if their reign was before thy times, at least thou hast seen their daughters, the no less dazzling beauties of the present age ; whose names, should we here insert, we apprehend they would fill the whole volume. Now if thou hast seen all these, be not afraid of the rude answer which Lord Rochester once gave to a man who had seen many things. No. If thou hast seen all these without knowing what beauty is, thou hast no eyes ; if without feeling its power, thou hast no heart. Yet is it possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all these without being able to form an exact idea of Sophia ; for she did not exactly resemble any of them. She was most like the picture of Lady Ranelagh: and, I have heard, more still to the famous Duchess of Mazarine; but most of all, she resembled one whose image never can depart from my breast, and whom, if thou dost remember, thou hast then, my friend, an adequate idea of Sophia. But lest this should not have been thy fortune, we will endeavour with our utmost skill to describe this paragon, though we are sensible that our highest abilities are very inadequate to the task. Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr. Western, was a middle-sized woman ; but rather inclining to tall. Her shape was not only exact, but extremely delicate: and the nice proportion of her arms promised the truest TOM JONES 137 symmetry in her limbs. Her hair, which was black, was so luxuriant, that it reached her middle, before she cut it to comply with the modern fashion ; and it was now curled so gracefully in her neck, that few could believe it to be her own. If envy could find any part of the face which demanded less commendation than the rest, it might possibly think her forehead might have been higher without prejudice to her. Her eyebrows were full, even, and arched beyond the power of art to imitate. Her black eyes had a lustre in them, which all her softness could not extinguish. Her nose was exactly regular, and her mouth, in which were two rows of ivory, exactly answered Sir John Suckling's description in those lines : — Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin. Some bee had stung it newly. Her cheeks were of the oval kind ; and in her right she had a dimple, which the least smile discovered. Her chin had certainly its share in forming the beauty of her face ; but it was difficult to say it was either large or small, though perhaps it was rather of the former kind. Her complexion had rather more of the lily than of the rose; but when exercise or modesty increased her natural colour, no vermilion could equal it. Then one might indeed cry out with the celebrated Dr. Donne : Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought That one might almost say her body thought. Her neck was long and finely turned : and here, if I was not afraid of offending her delicacy, I might justly say, the highest beauties of the famous Venus de Medici were outdone. Here was whiteness which no lilies, ivory, nor alabaster could match. The finest cambric might indeed be supposed from envy to cover that bosom which was much whiter than itself. — It was indeed, Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius. "A gloss shining beyond the purest brightness of Parian marble." Such was the outside of Sophia ; nor was this beautiful 138 HENRY FIELDING frame disgraced by an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind was every way equal to her person ; nay, the latter borrowed some charms from the former ; for when she smiled, the sweetness of her temper diffused that glory over her countenance which no regularity of features can give. But as there are no perfections of the mind which do not discover themselves in that perfect intimacy to which we intend to introduce our reader with this charm- ing young creature, so it is needless to mention them here: nay, it is a kind of tacit affront to our reader's understanding, and may also rob him of that pleasure which he will receive in forming his own judgment of her character. It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental accomplishments she had derived from nature, they were somewhat improved and cultivated by art: for she had been educated under the care of an aunt, who was a lady of great discretion, and was thoroughly acquainted with the world, having lived in her youth about the court, whence she had retired some years since into the country. By her conversation and instruc- tions Sophia was perfectly well bred, though perhaps she wanted a little of that ease in her behaviour which is to be acquired only by habit, and living within what is called the polite circle. But this, to say the truth, is often too dearly purchased ; and though it hath charms so inexpressible, that the French, perhaps, among other qualities, mean to express this, when they declare they know not what it is ; yet its absence is well compensated by innocence; nor can good sense and a natural gentility ever stand in need of it. [Chapter II T) The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year, when she is introduced into this history. Her father, as hath been said, was fonder of her than of any other human creature. To her, therefore, Tom Jones applied, in order to engage her interest on the behalf of his friend the gamekeeper. TOM JONES 139 But before we proceed to this business, a short re- capitulation of some previous matters may be necessary. Though the different tempers of Mr. Allworthy and of Mr. Western did not admit of a very intimate corre- spondence, yet they lived upon what is called a decent footing together ; by which means the young people of both families had been acquainted from their infancy; and as they were all near of the same age, had been fre- quent playmates together. The gaiety of Tom's temper suited better with Sophia, than the grave and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the preference which she gave the former of these, would often appear so plainly, that a lad of a more pas- sionate turn than Master Blifil was, might have shown some displeasure at it. As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the most secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their closets and cupboards, only to discover their poverty and meanness to the world. However, as persons who suspect they have given others cause of offence, are apt to conclude they are offended; so Sophia imputed an action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the superior sagacity of Thwackum and Square discerned to have arisen from a much better principle. Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a little bird, which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up, and taught to sing. Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so extremely fond, that her chief business was to feed and tend it, and her chief pleasure to play with it. By these means little Tommy, for so the bird was called, was become so tame, that it would feed out of the hand of its mistress, would perch upon her finger, and lie contented in her bosom, where it seemed almost sensible of its own happiness ; though she always kept a small string about its leg, nor would ever trust it with the liberty of flying away. I40 HENRY FIELDING One day, when Mr. Allworthy and his whole family dined at Mr. Western's, Master Blifil, being in the garden with little Sophia, and observing the extreme fondness that she showed for the little bird, desired her to trust it for a moment in his hands. Sophia presently complied with the young gentleman's request, and after some pre- vious caution, delivered him her bird ; of which he was no sooner in possession, than he slipt the string from its leg and tossed it into the air. The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than forgetting all the favours it had received from Sophia, it flew directly from her, and perched on a bough at some distance. Sophia, seeing her bird gone screamed out so loud, that Tom Jones, who was at a little distance, imme- diately ran to her assistance. He was no sooner informed of what had happened, than he cursed Blifil for a pitiful malicious rascal ; and then immediately stripping off his coat he applied himself to climbing the tree to which the bird escaped. Tom had almost recovered his little namesake, when the branch on which it was perched, and that hung over a canal, broke, and the poor lad plumped over head and ears into the water. Sophia's concern now changed its object. And as she apprehended the boy's life was in danger, she screamed ten times louder than before; and indeed Master Blifil himself now seconded her with all the vociferation in his power. The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden, were instantly alarmed, and came all forth ; but just as they reached the canal, Tom (for the water was luckily pretty shallow in that part) arrived safely on shore. Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dropping and shivering before him, when Mr. Allworthy desired him to have patience; and turning to Master Blifil, said, "Pray, child, what is the reason of all this disturbance? " Master Blifil answered, "Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for what I have done; I have been unhappily the TOM JONES 141 occasion of it all. I had Miss Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the poor creature languished for liberty, I own I could not forbear giving it what it desired ; for I always thought there was something very cruel in con- fining anything. It seemed to be against the law of nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty ; nay, it is even unchristian, for it is not doing what we would be done by: but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would have been so much concerned at it, I am sure I would never have done it; nay, if I had known what would have happened to the bird itself: for when Master Jones, who climbed up that tree after it, fell into the water, the bird took a second flight, and presently a nasty hawk carried it away." Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy's fate (for her concern for Jones had prevented her per- ceiving it when it happened), shed a shower of tears. These Mr. Allworthy endeavoured to assuage, promising her a much finer bird : but she declared she would never have another. Her father chid her for crying so for a foolish bird; but could not help telling young Blifil, if he was a son of his, his backside should be well Head. Sophia now returned to her chamber, the two young gentlemen were sent home, and the rest of the company returned to their bottle ; where a conversation ensued on the subject of the bird, so curious, that we think it deserves a chapter by itself. [Chapter IV) Square had no sooner lighted his pipe, than, addressing himself to Allworthy, he thus began: "Sir, I cannot help congratulating you on your nephew; who, at an age when few lads have any ideas but of sensible objects, is arrived at a capacity of distinguishing right from wrong. To confine anything, seems to me against the law of nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty. These were his words; and the impression they have made on me is never to be eradicated. Can any man have a higher notion of the rule of right, and the 142 HENRY FIELDING eternal fitness of thing's? I cannot help promising myself, from such a dawn, that the meridian of this youth will be equal to that of either the elder or the younger Brutus." Here Thwackum hastily interrupted, and spilling some of his wine, and swallowing the rest with great eager- ness, answered, " From another expression he made use of, I hope he will resemble much better men. The law of nature is a jargon of words, which means nothing. I know not of any such law, nor of any right which can be derived from it. To do as we would be done by, is indeed a christian motive, as the boy well expressed himself; and I am glad to find my instructions have borne such good fruit." "If vanity was a thing fit," says Square, "I might indulge some on the same occasion ; for whence only he can have learnt his notions of right or wrong, I think is pretty apparent. If there be no law of nature, there is no right nor wrong. " " How ! " says the parson, " do you then banish revela- tion? Am I talking with a deist or an atheist? " "Drink about," says Western. "Pox of your laws of nature ! I don't know what you mean, either of you, by right and wrong. To take away my girl's bird was wrong, in my opinion; and my neighbour Allworthy may do as he pleases ; but to encourage boys in such practices, is to breed them up to the gallows." Allworthy answered, " That he was sorry for what his nephew had done, but could not consent to punish him, as he acted rather from a generous than unworthy motive." He said, " If the boy had stolen the bird, none would have been more ready to vote for a severe chastise- ment than himself; but it was plain that was not his design : " and, indeed, it was as apparent to him, that he could have no other view but what he had himself avowed. (For as to that malicious purpose which Sophia suspected, it never once entered into the head of Mr. Allworthy.) He at length concluded with agai/i blaming the action as inconsiderate, and which, he said, was pardonable only in a child. Square had delivered his opinion so openly, that if he TOM JONES 143 was now silent, he must submit to have his judgment censured. He said, therefore, with some warmth, " That Mr. Allworthy had too much respect to the dirty con- sideration of property. That in passing our judgments on great and mighty actions, all private regards should be laid aside ; for by adhering to those narrow rules, the younger Brutus had been condemned of ingratitude, and the elder of parricide." "And if they had been hanged too for those crimes," cried Thwackum, "they would have had no more than their deserts. A couple of heathenish villains! Hea^-en be praised we have no Brutuses now-a-days! I wish, Mr. Square, you would desist from filling the minds of my pupils with such anti-christian stuff; for the conse- quence must be, while they are under my care, its being well scourged out of them again. There is your disciple Tom almost spoiled already. I overheard him the other day disputing with Master Blifil that there was no merit in faith without works. I know that is one of your tenets, and I suppose he had it from you." "Don't accuse me of spoiling him," says Square. " Who taught him to laugh at whatever is virtuous and decent, and fit and right in the nature of things? He is your own scholar, and I disclaim him. No, no. Master Blifil is my boy. Young as he is, that lad's notions of moral rectitude I defy you ever to eradicate." Thwackum put on a contemptuous sneer at this, and replied, "Aye, aye, I will venture him with you. He is too well grounded for all your philosophical cant to hurt. No, no, I have taken care to instil such principles into him " "And I have instilled principles into him too," cries Square. "What but the sublime idea of virtue could inspire a human mind with the generous thought of giving liberty? And I repeat to you again, if it was a fit thing to be proud, I might claim the honour of having infused that idea." "And if pride was not forbidden," said Thwackum, " I might boast of having taught him that duty which he himself assigned as his motive." 144 HENRY FIELDING " So between you both," says the squire, " the young gentleman hath been taught to rob my daughter of her bird. I find I must take care of rny partridge-mew. I 'shall have some virtuous religious man or other set all my partridges at liberty. " Then slapping a gentleman of the law, who was present, on the back, he cried out, "What say you to this, Mr. Counsellor? Is not this against law ? " The lawyer with great gravity delivered himself as follows : ' ' If the case be put of a partridge, there can be no doubt but an action would lie ; for though this be ferae naturae, yet being reclaimed, property vests : but being the case of a singing bird, though reclaimed, as it is a thing of base nature, it must be considered as nulliiis in bonis. In this case, therefore, I conceive the plaintiff must be nonsuited ; and I should disadvise the bringing any such action." " Well," sa)'S the squire, " if it be ?iullus bonus, let us drink about, and talk a little of the state of the nation, or some such discourse that we all understand ; for I am sure I don't understand a word of this. It may be learn- ing and sense for aught I know; but you shall never persuade me into it. Pox ! you have neither of you men- tioned a word of that poor lad who deserves to be com- mended : to venture breaking his neck to oblige my girl was a generous-spirited action : I have learning enough to see that. D — n me, here 's Tom's health ! I shall love the boy for it the longest day I have to live." Thus was the debate interrupted ; but it would prob- ably have been soon resumed, had not Mr. AUworthy presently called for his coach, and carried off the two combatants. Such was the conclusion of this adventure of the bird, and of the dialogue occasioned by it; which we could not help recounting to our reader, though it happened some years before that stage or period of time at which our history is now arrived. TOM JONES 145 V [Miss Western, ignorant of Jones's undue inclination for Molly Seagrim, has sent the gamekeeper's family (he has been deprived of his place for misconduct, and they are in destitution) presents, and among them some cast-off clothes, including a handsome sacque, which Molly imprudently wears to church. Fielding takes the opportunity for an exercise in heroi-comic burlesque.] {From Chapter VIII) So great envy had this sacque occasioned, that when Mr. AUworthy and the other gentry were gone from church, the rage, which had hitherto been confined, burst into an uproar ; and, having vented itself at first in opprobrious words, laughs, hisses, and gestures, be- took itself at last to certain missile weapons ; which, though from their plastic nature they threatened neither the loss of life or of limb, were however sufficiently dread- ful to a well-dressed lady. Molly had too much spirit to bear this treatment tamely. Having therefore- — but hold, as we are diffident of our own abilities, let us here invite a superior power to our assistance. Ye Muses, then, whoever ye are, who love to sing battles, and principally thou who whilom didst recount the slaughter in those fields where Hudibras and Trulla fought, if thou wert not starved with thy friend Butler, assist me on this great occasion. All things are not in the power of all. As a vast herd of cows in a rich farmer's yard, if, while they are milked, they hear their calves at a dis- tance, lamenting the robbery which is then committing, roar and bellow; so roared forth the Somersetshire mob an hallaloo, made up of almost as many squalls, screams, and other different sounds as there were persons, or in- deed passions among them : some were inspired by rage, others alarmed by fear, and others had nothing in their heads but the love of fun; but chiefly Envy, the sister of Satan, and his constant companion, rushed among the crowd, and blew up the fury of the women; who no sooner came up to Molly than they pelted her with dirt and rubbish. 146 HENRY FIELDING Molly, having endeavoured in vain to make a hand- some retreat, faced about; and laying hold of ragged Bess, who advanced in the front of the enemy, she at one blow felled her to the ground. The whole army of the enemy (though near a hundred in number), seeing the fate of their general, gave back many paces, and re- tired behind a new-dug grave ; for the churchyard was the field of battle, where there was to be a funeral that very evening. Molly pursued her victory, and catching up a skull which lay on the side of the grave, discharged it with such fury, that having hit a tailor on the head, the two skulls sent equally forth a hollow sound at their meeting, and the tailor took presently measure of his length on the ground, where the skulls lay side by side, and it was doubtful which was the more valuable of the two. Molly then taking a thigh-bone in her hand, fell in among the flying ranks, and dealing her blows with great liberality on either side, overthrew the carcass of many a mighty hero and heroine. Recount, O Muse, the names of those who fell on this fatal day. First, Jemmy Tweedle felt on his hinder head the direful bone. Him the pleasant banks of sweetly- winding Stour had nourished, where he first learnt the vocal art, with which, wandering up and down at wakes and fairs, he cheered the rural nymphs and swains, when upon the green they interweaved the sprightly dance; while he himself stood fiddling and jumping to his own music. How little now avails his fiddle! He thumps the verdant floor with his carcass. Next, old Echepole, the sowgelder, received a blow in his forehead from our Amazonian heroine, and immediately fell to the ground. He was a swingeing fat fellow, and fell with almost as much noise as a house. His tobacco-box dropped at the same time from his pocket, which Molly took up as law- ful spoils. Then Kate of the Mill tumbled unfortunately over a tomb-stone, which catching hold of her un- gartered stocking inverted the order of nature, and gave her heels the superiority to her head. Betty Pippin, with young Roger her lover, fell both to the ground ; where, O perverse fate ! she salutes the earth, and he the sky. TOM JONES 147 Tom Freckle, the smith's son, was the next victim to her rage. He was an ingenious workman, and made excellent pattens; nay, the very patten with which he was knocked down was his own workmanship. Had he been at that time singing psalms in the church, he would have avoided a broken head. Miss Crow, the daughter of a farmer; John Giddish, himself a farmer; Nan Slouch, Esther Codling, Will Spray, Tom Bennet; the three Misses Potter, whose father keeps the sign of the Red Lion; Betty Chambermaid, Jack Ostler, and many others of inferior note, lay rolling among the graves. Not that the strenuous arm of Molly reached all these ; for many of them in their flight overthrew each other. But now Fortune, fearing she had acted out of char- acter, and had inclined too long to the same side, es- pecially as it was the right side, hastily turned about : for now Goody Brown— whom Zekiel Brown caressed in his arms; nor he alone, but half the parish besides; so famous was she in the fields of Venus, nor indeed less in those of Mars. The trophies of both these her hus- band always bore about on his head and face ; for if ever human head did by its horns display the amorous glories of a wife, Zekiel's did ; nor did his well-scratched face less denote her talents (or rather talons) of a differ- ent kind. No longer bore this Amazon the shameful flight of her party. She stopped short, and, calling aloud to all who fled, spoke as follows: " Ye Somersetshire men, or rather ye Somersetshire women, are ye not ashamed thus to fly from a single woman? But if no other will oppose her, I myself and Joan Top here will have the honour of the victory." Having thus said, she flew at Molly Seagrim, and easily wrenched the thigh-bone from her hand, at the same time clawing off her cap from her head. Then laying hold of the hair of Molly with her left hand, she attacked her so furiously in the face with the right, that the blood soon began to trickle from her nose. Molly was not idle this while. She soon re- moved the clout from the head of Goody Brown, and then fastening on her hair with one hand, with the other 148 HENRY FIELDING she caused another bloody stream to issue forth from the nostrils of the enemy. When each of the combatants had borne off sufficient spoils of hair from the head of her antagonist, the next rag-e was against the garments. In this attack they exerted so much violence, that in a very few minutes they were both naked to the middle. It is lucky for the women that the seat of fistycuflf war is not the same with them as among men ; but though they may seem a little to deviate from their sex, when they go forth to battle, yet I have observed they never so far forget, as to assail the bosoms of each other; where a few blows would be fatal to most of them. This, I know, some derive from their being of a more bloody inclination than the males. On which account they ap- ply to the nose, as to the part whence blood may most easily be drawn; but this seems a far-fetched as well as ill-natured supposition. Goody Brown had great advantage of Molly in this par- ticular ; for the former had indeed no breasts, her bosom (if it may be so called), as well in colour as in many other properties, exactly resembling an ancient piece of parch- ment, upon which any one might have drummed a con- siderable while without doing her any great damage. Molly, beside her present unhappy condition, was dif- ferently formed in those parts, and might, perhaps, have tempted the envy of Brown to give her a fatal blow, had not the lucky arrival of Tom Jones at this instant put an immediate end to the bloody scene. This accident was luckily owing to Mr. Square ; for he. Master Blifil, and Jones, had mounted their horses, after church, to take the air, and had ridden about a quarter of a mile, when Square, changing his mind (not idly, but for a reason which we shall unfold as soon as we have leisure), desired the young gentlemen to ride with him another way than they had at first purposed. This motion being complied with, brought them of necessity back again to the churchyard. Master Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a mob as- sembled, and two women in the posture in which we left TOM JONES 149 the combatants, stopped his horse to inquire what was the matter. A country fellow, scratching his head, an- swered him : "I don't know, measter, un't I; an't please your honour, here hath been a vight, I think, between Goody Brown and Moll Seagrim." "Who, who? " cries Tom ; but without waiting for an answer, having dis- covered the features of his Molly through all the dis- composure in which they now were, he hastily alighted, turned his horse loose, and, leaping over the wall, ran to her. She now first bursting into tears, told him how barbarously she had been treated. Upon which, forget- ting the sex of Goody Brown, or perhaps not knowing it, in his rage — for, in reality, she had no feminine appear- ance but a petticoat, which he might not observe — he gave her a lash or two with his horsewhip ; and then flying at the mob, who were all accused by Moll, he dealt his blows so profusely on all sides, that unless I would again invoke the muse (which the good-natured reader may think a little too hard upon her, as she hath so lately been violently sweated), it would be impossible for me to recount the horse-whipping of that day. VI [The incident and its sequel make a good deal of scandal : but Tom has the g-ood fortune to save Sophia from a bad hunting ac- cident at the price of breaking his own arm, and two dialogues between the young lady and her maid and between the latter and Jones will indicate the state of the case.] {From Chapter XIV) Among the good company which had attended in the hall during the bone-setting, Mrs. Honour was one; who being summoned to her mistress as soon as it was over, and asked by her how the young gentleman did, presently launched into extravagant praises on the mag- nimity, as she called it, of his behaviour, which, she said, "was so charming in so pretty a creature." She then burst forth into much warmer encomiums on the beauty of his person; enumerating many particulars, and ending with the whiteness of his skin. ISO HENRY FIELDING This discourse had an effect on Sophia's countenance, which would not perhaps have escaped the observance of the sagacious waiting-woman, had she once looked her mistress in the face, all the time she was speaking : but as a looking-glass, which was most commodiously placed opposite to her, gave her an opportunity of sur- veying those features, in which, of all others, she took most delight; so she had not once removed her eyes from that amiable object during her whole speech. Mrs. Honour was so entirely wrapped up in the sub- ject on which she exercised her tongue, and the object before her eyes, that she gave her mistress time to con- quer her confusion ; which having done, she smiled on her maid, and told her, ' ' she was certainly in love with this young fellow." — " I in love, madam! " answers she: " upon my word, ma'am, I assure you, ma'am, upon my soul, ma'am, I am not." — "Why, if you was," cries her mistress, " I see no reason that you should be ashamed of it, for he is certainly a pretty fellow." — " Yes, ma'am," answered the other, "that he is, the most handsomest man I ever saw in my life. Yes, to be sure, that he is, and, as your ladyship says, I don't know why I should be ashamed of loving him, though he is my betters. To be sure, gentlefolks are but flesh and blood no more than us servants. Besides, as for Mr. Jones, thof Squire Allworthy hath made a gentleman of him, he was not so good as myself by birth: for thof I am a poor body, I am an honest person's child, and my father and mother were married, which is more than some people can say, as high as they hold their heads. Marry, come up ! I assure you, my dirty cousin ! thof his skin be so white, and to be sure it is the most whitest that ever was seen, I am a Christian as well as he, and nobody can say that I am base born: my grandfather was a clergyman,' and would have been very angry, I believe, to have thought ' This is the second person of low condition whom we have recorded in this history to have sprung from the clergy. It is to be hoped such instances will, in future ages, when some provision is made for the families of the inferior clergy, appear stranger than they can be thought at present. TOM JONES 151 any of his family should have taken up with Molly Sea- grim's dirty leavings." Perhaps Sophia might have suffered her maid to run on in this manner, from wanting sufficient spirits to stop her tongue, which the reader may probably conjecture was no very easy task; for certainly there were some passages in her speech which were far from being agree- able to the lady. However, she now checked the torrent, as there seemed no end of its flowing. " I wonder," says she, " at your assurance in daring to talk thus of one of my father's friends. As to the wench, I order you never to mention her name to me. And with regard to the young gentleman's birth, those who can say nothing more to his disadvantage, may as well be silent on that head, as I desire you will be for the future." " I am sorry I have offended your ladyship," answered Mrs. Honour. " I am sure I hate Molly Seagrim as much as your ladyship can ; and as for abusing Squire Jones, I can call all the servants in the house to witness, that whenever any talk hath been about bastards, I have always taken his part : for which of you, says I to the footman, would not be a bastard, if he could, to be made a gentleman of? And, says I, I am sure he is a very fine gentleman ; and he hath one of the whitest hands in the world; for to be sure so he hath: and, says I, one of the sweetest temperedest, best naturedest men in the world he is; and, says I, all the servants and neigh- bours all round the country loves him. And, to be sure, I could tell your ladyship something, but that I am afraid it would offend you." — "What could you tell me, Honour?" says Sophia. "Nay, ma'am, to be sure he meant nothing by it, therefore I would not have your ladyship be offended." — " Prithee tell me," says Sophia; " I will know it this instant." — " Why, ma'am, "answered Mrs. Honour, "He came into the room one day last week when I was at work, and there lay your ladyship's muff on a chair, and to be sure he put his hands into it ; that very muff your ladyship gave me but yesterday. La! says I, Mr. Jones, you will stretch my lady's muff, and spoil it ; but he still kept his hands in it : and then 152 HENRY FIELDING he kissed it — to be sure I hardly ever saw such a kiss in my life as he gave it." — " I suppose he did not know it was mine," replied Sophia. "Your ladyship shall hear, ma'am. He kissed it again and again, and said it was the prettiest muff in the world. La! sir, says I, you have seen it a hundred times. Yes, Mrs. Honour, cried he ; but who can see any thing beautiful in the presence of your lady but herself? — Nay, that 's not all neither ; but I hope your ladyship won't be offended, for to be sure he meant nothing. One day, as your ladyship was playing on the harpsichord to my master, Mr. Jones was sitting in the next room, and methought he looked melancholy. La! says I, Mr. Jones, what's the matter? a penny for your thoughts, says I. Why, hussy, says he, starting up from a dream, what can I be thinking of, when that angel your mistress is playing? And then squeezing me by the hand, Oh! Mrs. Honour, says he, how happy will that man be! — and then he sighed. Upon my troth, his breath is as sweet as a nosegay. — But to be sure he meant no harm by it. So I hope your ladyship will not mention a word: for he gave me a crown never to mention it, and made me swear upon a book, but I believe, indeed it was not the Bible." Till something of a more beautiful red than vermilion be found out, I shall say nothing of Sophia's colour on this occasion. "Ho — nour," says she, "I — if you will not mention this any more to me — nor to any body else, I will not betray you — I mean, I will not be angry; but I am afraid of your tongue. Why, my girl, will you give it such liberties?" — "Nay, ma'am," answered she, "to be sure, I would sooner cut out my tongue than offend your ladyship. To be sure I shall never mention a word that your ladyship would not have me. " — " Why I would not have you mention this any more," said Sophia, "for it may come to my father's ears, and he would be angry with Mr. Jones ; though I really believe, as you say, he meant nothing. I should be very angry myself, if I imagined — ." — "Nay, ma'am," says Honour, "I pro- test I believe he meant nothing. I thought he talked as if he was out of his senses ; nay, he said he beHeved he TOM JONES 153 was beside himself when he had spoken the words. Aye, sir, says I, I believe so too. Yes, says he. Honour. — But I ask your ladyship's pardon ; I could tear my tongue out for offending you." — "Go on," says Sophia; "you may mention any thing you have not told me before." — "Yes, Honour, says he (this was some time afterwards, when he gave me the crown), I am neither such a cox- comb, or such a villain, as to think of her in any other delight but as my goddess ; as such I will always worship and adore her while I have breath. — This was all, ma'am, I will be sworn, to the best of my remembrance. I was in a passion with him myself, till I found he meant no harm." — "Indeed, Honour," says Sophia, "I believe you have a real affection for me. I was provoked the other day when I gave you warning ; but if you have a desireto stay with me, you shall." — "To be sure, ma'am," answered Mrs. Honour, "I shall never desire to part with your ladyship. To be sure, I almost cried my eyes out when you gave me warning. It would be very un- grateful in me to desire to leave your ladyship ; because as why, I should never get so good a place again. I am sure I would live and die with your ladyship ; for, as poor Mr. Jones said, happy is the man " Here the dinner-bell interrupted a conversation which had wrought such an effect on Sophia, that she was, perhaps, more obliged to her bleeding in the morning, than she, at the time, had apprehended she should be. As to the present situation of her mind, I shall adhere to a rule of Horace, by not attempting to describe it, from despair of success. Most of my readers will suggest it easily to themselves; and the few who cannot, would not understand the picture, or at least would deny it to be natural, if ever so well drawn. (Book V— Chapter IV) Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the young gentleman in his confinement, Mrs. Honour was one. The reader, perhaps, when he reflects on some expressions which have formerly dropt from her, may 154 HENRY FIELDING conceive that she herself had a very particular affection for Mr. Jones ; but, in reality, it was no such thing. Tom was a handsome young fellow ; and for that species of men Mrs. Honour had some regard; but this was perfectly indiscriminate ; for having been crossed in the love which she bore a certain nobleman's footman, who had basely deserted her after a promise of marriage, she had so securely kept together the broken remains of her heart, that no maa had ever since been able to possess himself of any single fragment. She viewed all hand- some men with that equal regard and benevolence which a sober and virtuous mind bears to all the good. She might indeed be called a lover of men, as Socrates was a lover of mankind, preferring one to another for corpo- . real, as he for mental qualifications ; but never carrying this preference so far as to cause any perturbation in the philosophical serenity of her temper. The day after Mr. Jones had that conflict with himself which we have seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs. Honour came into his room, and finding him alone, be- gan in the following manner: "La, sir, where do you think I have been? I warrants you, you would not guess in fifty years ; but if you did guess, to be sure I must not tell you neither." — " Nay, if it be something which you must not tell me," said Jones, " I shall have the curiosity to inquire, and I know you will not be so bar- barous as to refuse me." — "I don't know," cries she, "why I should refuse you neither, for that matter; for to be sure you won't mention it any more. And for that matter, if you knew where I have been, unless you knew what I have been about, it would not signify much. Nay, I don't see why it should be kept a secret for my part; for to be sure she is the best lady in the world." Upon this, Jones began to beg earnestly to be let into this secret, and faithfully promised not to divulge it. She then proceeded thus: " Why you must know, sir, my young lady sent me to inquire after Molly Seagrim, and to see whether the wench wanted anything ; to be sure, I did not care to go, methinks ; but servants must do what they are ordered. — How could you undervalue TOM JONES iSS yourself so, Mr. Jotles? — So my lady bid me go and carry her some linen, and other things. She is too good. If such forward sluts were sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I told my lady, says I, madam, your la'ship is encouraging idleness." — "And was my Sophia so good?" says Jones. "My Sophia, I assure you! marry come up! " answered Honour. "And yet if you knew all — indeed, if I was as Mr. Jones, I should look a little higher than such trumpery as Molly Seagrim." "What do you mean by these words," replied Jones, " If I knew all? " " I mean what I mean," says Honour. " Don't you remember putting your hands in my lady's muff once? I vow I could almost find in my heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would never come to the hearing on't." Jones then made several solemn pro- testations. And Honour proceeded: " Then to be sure, my lady gave me that muff; and afterwards, upon hear- ing what you had done " "Then you told her what I had done! " interrupted Jones. — " If I did, sir," answered she, "you need not be angry with me. Many 's the man would have given his head to have had my lady told, if they had known — for, to be sure, the biggest lord in the land might be proud — but, I protest, I have a great mind not to tell you." Jones fell to entreaties, and soon prevailed on her to go on thus : ' ' You must know then, sir, that my lady had given this muff to me; but about a day or two after I had told her the story, she quarrels with her new muff, and to be sure it is the prettiest that ever was seen. Honour, says she, this is an odious muff; it is too big for me: I can't wear it: till I can get another, you must let me have my old one again, and you may have this in the room on 't — for she 's a good lady, and scorns to give a thing and take a thing, I promise you that. So to be sure I fetched it her back again, and, I believe, she hath worn it upon her arm almost ever since, and I warrants hath given it many a kiss when nobody hath seen her." Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr. Western himself, who came to summon Jones to the harpsichord ; whither the poor young fellow went all pale and trem- 156 HENRY FIELDING bling-. This Western observed, but, on seeing Mrs. Honour, imputed it to a wrong cause ; and having given Jones a hearty curse between jest and earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and not poach up the game in his warren. Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty, and we may believe it was no small addition to her charms, in the eye of Mr. Jones, that she now happened to have on her right arm this very muif. She was playing one of her father's favourite tunes, and he was leaning on her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers, and put her out. This so disconcerted the squire, that he snatched the muff from her, and with a hearty curse threw it into the fire. Sophia instantly started up, and with the utmost eagerness recovered it from the flames. Though this incident will probably appear of little consequence to many of our readers ; yet, trifling as it was, it had so violent an effect on poor Jones, that we thought it our duty to relate it. In reality, there are many little circumstances too often omitted by injudicious historians, from which events of the utmost importance arise. The world may indeed be considered as a vast machine, in which the great wheels are originally set in motion by those which are very minute, and almost im- perceptible to any but the strongest eyes. Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia; not all the dazzling brightness, and languishing softness of her eyes ; the harmony of her voice, and of her per- son ; not all her wit, good-humour, greatness of mind, or sweetness of disposition, had been able so absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of poor Jones, as this little incident of the muff. Thus the poet sweetly sings of Troy — Captique dolis lachrymisque coacH Quos negue Tydides, nee Larissaeus Achilles, Non anni domuere decern, non ■mille Carinae. What Diomede or Thetis' greater son, A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege had done, False tears and fawning words the city won. The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprise. All TOM JONES 157 those considerations of honour and prudence which our hero had lately with so much military wisdom placed as guards over the avenues of his heart, ran away from their posts, and the god of love marched in, in triumph. VII [So things go on, but the first crisis of the book is approaching. Tom, discovering that Molly has other lovers, has the less scruple in dismissing her from his heart, and at length makes something like a. formal declaration to Sophia, who scarcely rejects it. But there is no chance of Western's accepting such a suit, fond as he is of Tom personally, and now the latter gets into the worst scrape of all. His benefactor falls dangerously ill, and is in fact given up, having made his will and announced its provisions, among which is the bequest of ;£soo a year and £1,000 in ready money to Jones. But he recovers, though at the very moment news is brought of the death of his sister Bridget, who has been away on a visit to Salisbury. Unluckily Jones, in his joy at Allworthy's recovery, gets uproariously drunk, and commits all sorts of follies, which though not immediately punished, are stored up against him for use at the proper time by Blifil, Thwackum, and Square. The proper time soon comes, for. Miss Western having appeared on the scene, proposals are made for a marriage between Blifil and Sophia. She rejects them with horror ; her father finds her fainting in Jones's arms after an interview in which, though she bids him "fly from her," she evidently, as another great novelist has put it, means " if you can." The Squire is of course outrageous ; Jones's enemies tell all possible tales, true and false, against him, with the result given in the Argument. He sets out, and shortly afterwards Sophia, on whom her father wishes to force the odious Blifil, leaves home with her maid. / The greater and more interesting part of the "Odyssey" takes place at Upton-on-Severn, a small town a few miles from Mklvern, which was then an important stage on the Irish and North roads from the west and south. This part occupies Books IX-X of the original, and would fill from sixty to seventy of these pages. But some of it must be given. The opening chapter of Book IX is one of the best examples of that critical faculty which in Fielding accompanies the creative to a remarkable extent. It comes just after what has been rather unjustly (v. sup.) considered a blot on this book — the huge ' ' inset story " of " 'The Man of the Hill. ] (Book IX— Chapter I) Among other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute these several introductory chapters, I have iS8 HENRY FIELDING considered them as a kind of mark or stamp, which may hereafter enable a very indifferent reader to distinguish what is true and genuine in this historic kind of writing, from what is false and counterfeit. Indeed, it seems likely that some such mark may shortly become neces- sary, since the favourable reception which two or three authors have lately procured for their works of this nature from the public, will probably serve as an en- couragement to many others to undertake the like. Thus a swarm of foolish novels and monstrous romances will be Jiroduced, either to the great impoverishing of booksellers, or to the great loss of time and depravation of morals in the reader ; nay, often to the spreading of scandal and calumny, and to the prejudice of the char- acters of many worthy and honest people. I question not but the ingenious author of "The Spec- tator " was principally induced to prefix Greek and Latin mottos to every paper, from the same consideration of guarding against the pursuit of those scribblers, who having no talents of a writer but what is taught by the writing-master, and yet nowise afraid nor ashamed to assume the same titles with the greatest genius, than their good brother in the fable was of braying in the lion's skin. By the device therefore of his motto, it became im- practicable for any man to presume to imitate the Spec- tators, without understanding at least one sentence in the learned languages. In the same manner I have now secured myself from the imitation of those who are utterly incapable of any degree of reflection, and whose learning is not equal to an essay. I would not be here understood to insinuate, that the greatest merit of such historical productions can ever lie in these introductory chapters; but, in fact, those parts which contain mere narrative only, afford much more encouragement to the pen of an imitator, than those which are composed of observation and reflection. Here I mean such imitators as Rowe was of Shakspeare, or as Horace hints some of the Romans were of Cato, by bare feet and sour faces. TOM JONES 159 To invent good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very rare talents, and yet I have observed few persons who have scrupled to aim at both; and if we examine the romances and novels with which the world abounds, I think we may fairly conclude, that most of the authors would not have attempted to show their teeth (if the expression may be allowed me) in any other way of writing ; nor could indeed have strung together a dozen sentences on any other subject whatever. Scribimus indocti doctique passim,^ may be more truly said of the historian and biographer, than of any other species of writing; for all the arts and sciences (even criticism itself) require some little degree of learning and knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may perhaps be thought an exception; but then it demands numbers, or some- thing like numbers; whereas, to the composition of novels and romances, nothing is necessary but paper, pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using them. This I conceive, their productions show to be the opinion of the authors themselves ; and this must be the opinion of their readers, if indeed there be any such. Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world, who always denominate the whole from the majority, have cast on all historical writers who do not draw their materials from records. And it is the appre- hension of this contempt that hath made us so cautiously avoid the term romance, a name with which we might otherwise have been well enough contented. Though, as we have good authority for all our characters, no less indeed than the vast authentic doomsday-book of nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our labours have sufficient title to the name of history. Certainly they deserve some distinction from those works, which one of the wittiest of men regarded only as proceeding from a pruritus, or indeed rather from a looseness of the brain. But besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful as well as entertaining of all kinds of ' Each desperate blockhead dares to write : Verse is the trade of every living- wight. — Francis. i6o HENRY FIELDING writing, there is just reason to apprehend, that by en- couraging such authors we shall propagate much dis- honour of another kind; I mean to the characters of many good and valuable members of society; for the dullest writers, no more than the dullest companions, are always inoffensive. They have both enough of lan- guage to be indecent and abusive. And surely if the opinion just above cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so nastily derived should be nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make others so. To prevent therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of leisure, of letters, and of the liberty of the press, especially as the world seems at present to be more than usually threatened with them, I shall here venture to mention some qualifications, every one of which are in a pretty high degree necessary to this order of historians. The first is, genius, without a full vein of which no study, says Horace, can avail us. By genius 1 would understand that power or rather those powers of the mind, which are capable of penetrating into all things within our reach and knowledge, and of distinguishing their essential differences. These are no other than in- vention and judgment ; and they are both called by the collective name of genius, as they are of those gifts of nature which we bring with us into the world. Con- cerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very great errors ; for by invention, I believe, is gener- ally understood a creative faculty, which would indeed prove most romance writers to have the highest preten- sions to it; whereas by invention is really meant no more (and so the word signifies) than discovery, or finding out ; or, to explain it at large, a quick and saga- cious penetration into the true essence of all the objects of our contemplation. This, I think, can rarely exist without the concomitancy of judgment; for how we can be said to have discovered the true essence of two things, without discerning their diff'erence, seems to me hard to conceive. Now this last is the undisputed pro- vince of judgment, and yet some few men of wit have TOM JONES i6i agreed with all the dull fellows in the world in represent- ing these two to have been seldom or never the property of one and the same person. But though they should be so, they are not sufficient for our purpose without a good share of learning ; for which I could again cite the authority of Horace, and of many others, if any was necessary to prove that tools are of no service to a workman, when they are not sharpened by art, or when he wants rules to direct him in his work, or hath no matter to work upon. All these uses are supplied by learning ; for nature can only furnish us with capacity, or, as I have chose to illustrate it, with the tools of our profession ; learning must fit them for use, must direct them in it, and, lastly, must contri- bute part at least of the materials. A competent know- ledge of history and of the belles-lettres is here absolutely necessary; and without this share of knowledge at least, to affect the character of an historian, is as vain as to endeavour at building a house without timber or mortar, or brick or stone. Homer and Milton who, though they added the ornament of numbers to their works, were both historians of our order, and masters of all the learning of their times. Again, there is another sort of knowledge, beyond the power of learning to bestow, and this is to be had by conversation. So necessary is this to the understanding the characters of men, that none are more ignorant of them than those learned pedants whose lives have been entirely consumed in colleges, and among books ; for however exquisitely human nature may have been de- scribed by writers, the true practical system can be learnt only in the world. Indeed the like happens in every other kind of knowledge. Neither physic nor law are to be practically known from books. Nay, the farmer, the planter, the gardener, must perfect by experience what he hath acquired the rudiments of by reading. How accurately soever the ingenious Mr. Miller may have described the plant, he himself would advise his disciple to see it in the garden. As we must perceive, that after the nicest strokes of a Shakspeare or a Jonson, M i62 HENRY FIELDING of a Wycherly or an Otway, some touches of nature will escape the reader, which the judicious action of a Garrick, of a Gibber, or a Clive,'^ can convey to him ; so, on the real stage, the character shows himself in a stronger and bolder light than he can be described. And if this be the case in those fine and nervous descriptions which great authors themselves have taken from life, how much more strongly will it hold when the writer himself takes his lines not from nature, but from books! Such char- acters are only the faint copy of a copy, and can have neither the justness nor spirit of an original. Now this conversation in our historian must be uni- versal, that is, with all ranks and degrees of men; for the knowledge of what is called high life will not instruct him in low; nor, ^ converse, will his being acquainted with the inferior part of mankind teach him the manners of the superior. And though it may be thought that the knowledge of either may sufficiently enable him to de- scribe at least that in which he hath been conversant, yet he will even here fall greatly short of perfection ; for the follies of either rank do in reality illustrate each other. For instance, the affectation of high life appears more glaring and ridiculous from the simplicity of the low ; and again, the rudeness and barbarity of this latter, strikes with much stronger ideas of absurdity, when con- trasted with, and opposed to, the politeness which con- trols the former. Besides, to say the truth, the manners of our historian will be improved by both these con- versations ; for in the one he will easily find examples of plainness, honesty, and sincerity; in the other of refine- ment, elegance, and a liberality of spirit; which last quality I myself have scarce ever seen in men of low birth and education. Nor will all the qualities I have hitherto given my ^ There is a. peculiar propriety in mentioning this great actor, and these two most justly celebrated actresses, in this place, as they have all formed themselves on the study of nature only, and not on the imitation of their predecessors. Hence they have been able to excel all who have gone before them ; a degree of merit which the servile herd of imitators can never possibly arrive at. TOM JONES 163 historian avail him, unless he have what is g'enerally meant by a good heart, and be capable of feelingf. Thel author who will make me weep, says Horace, must first: weep himself. In reality, no man can paint a distress " well which he doth not feel while he is painting it; nor do I doubt, but that the most pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears. In the same manner it is with the ridiculous. I am convinced I never make my reader laugh heartily but where I have laughed be- fore him; unless it should happen at any time, that instead of laughing with me he should be inclined to laugh _.at me. Perhaps this may have been the case at some passages in this chapter, from which apprehension I will here put an end to it. VIII [Jones on his way to Upton has rescued a woman from a ruffian (Ensign Northerton, who has already appeared) endeavouring to hang her, and the precedent struggle has left her in a state of very considerable dishabille. The landlady of the principal inn objects strongly to receive the pair.] [From Chapter III) The landlady, therefore, had no sooner received an intimation of the entrance of the above-said persons, than she began to meditate the most expeditious means for their expulsion. In order to this, she had provided herself with a long and deadly instrument, with which, in times of peace, the chambermaid was wont to de- molish the labours of the industrious spider. In vulgar phrase, she had taken up the broomstick, and was just about to sally from the kitchen, when Jones accosted her with a demand of a gown and other vestments, to cover the half-naked woman above stairs. Nothing can be more provoking to the human temper, nor more dangerous to that cardinal virtue, patience, than solicitations of extraordinary offices of kindness on behalf of those very persons with whom we are highly incensed. For this reason Shakspeare hath artfully in- i64 HENRY FIELDING troduced his Desdemona soliciting favours for Cassio of her husband, as the means of inflaming, not only his jealousy, but his rage, to the highest pitch of madness; and we find the unfortunate Moor less able to command his passion on this occasion, than even when he beheld his valued present to his wife in the hands of his sup- posed rival. In fact, we regard these efforts as insults on our understanding, and to such the pride of man is very difficultly brought to submit. My landlady, though a very good-tempered woman, had, I suppose, some of this pride in her composition, for Jones had scarce ended his request, when she fell upon him with a certain weapon, which, though it be neither long, nor sharp, nor hard, nor indeed threatens from its appearance with either death or wound, hath been however held in great dread and abhorrence by many wise men — nay, by many brave ones; insomuch, that some who have dared to look into the mouth of a loaded cannon, have not dared to look into a mouth where this weapon was brandished ; and rather than run the hazard of its execution, have contented themselves with making a most pitiful and sneaking figure in the eyes of all their acquaintance. To confess the truth, I am afraid Mr. Jones was one of these ; for though he was attacked and violently be- laboured with the aforesaid weapon, he could not be provoked to make any resistance ; but in a most cowardly manner applied, with many entreaties to his antagonist to desist from pursuing her blows ; in plain English, he only begged her with the utmost earnestness to hear him ; but before he could obtain his request, my land- lord himself entered into the fray, and embraced that side of the cause which seemed to stand very little in need of assistance. There are a sort of heroes who are supposed to be determined in their choosing or avoiding a conflict by the character and behaviour of the person whom they are to engage. These are said to know their men, and Jones, I believe, knew his woman; for though he had been so submissive to her, he was no sooner attacked by TOM JONES 165 her husband, than he demonstrated an immediate spirit of resentment, and enjoined him silence under a very severe penalty; no less than that, I think, of being con- verted into fuel for his own fire. The husband, with great indignation, but with a mix- ture of pity, answered, " You must pray first to be made able. I believe I am a better man than yourself; aye, every way, that I am ; " and presently proceeded to dis- charge half-a-dozen whores at the lady above stairs, the last of which had scarce issued from his lips, when a swingeing blow from the cudgel that Jones carried in his hand assaulted him over the shoulders. It is a question whether the landlord or the landlady was the most expeditious in returning this blow. My landlord, whose hands were empty, fell to with his fist, and the good wife, uplifting her broom and aiming at the head of Jones, had probably put an immediate end to the fray, and to Jones likewise, had not the descent of this broom been prevented — not by the miraculous Intervention of any heathen deity, but by a very natural though fortunate accident, viz. by the arrival of Part- ridge; who entered the house at that instant (for fear had caused him to run every step from the hill), and who, seeing the danger which threatened his master or companion (which you choose to call him), prevented so sad a catastrophe, by catching hold of the landlady's arm, as it was brandished aloft in the air. The landlady soon perceived the impediment which prevented her blow; and being unable to rescue her arm from the hands of Partridge, she let fall the broom ; and then leaving Jones to the discipline of her husband, she fell with the utmost fury on that poor fellow, who had already given some intimation of himself, by crying, " Zounds! do you intend to kill my friend?" Partridge, though not much addicted to battle, would not however stand still when his friend was attacked ; nor was he much displeased with that part of the combat which fell to his share ; he therefore returned my land- lady's blows as soon as he received them: and now the fight was obstinately maintained on all parts, and it i66 HENRY FIELDING seemed doubtful to which side Fortune would incline, when the naked lady, who had listened at the top of the stairs to the dialogue which preceded the eng-agement, descended suddenly from above, and without weighing the unfair inequality of two to one, fell upon the poor woman who was boxing with Partridge; nor did that great champion desist, but rather redoubled his fury, when he found fresh succours were arrived to his assist- ance. Victory must now have fallen to the side of the tra- vellers (for the bravest troops must yield to numbers) had not Susan the chambermaid come luckily to support her mistress. This Susan was as two-handed a wench (according to the phrase) as any in the country, and would, I believe, have beat the famed Thalestris herself, or any of her suljject Amazons ; for her form was robust and manlike, and every way made for such encounters. As her hands and arms were formed to give blows with great mischief to an enemy, so was her face as well contrived to receive blows without any great injury to herself, her nose being already flat to her face ; her lips were so large, that no swelling could be perceived in them, and moreover they were so hard, that a fist could hardly make any impression on them. Lastly, her cheek- bones stood out, as if nature had intended them for two bastions to defend her eyes in those encounters for which she seemed so well calculated, and to which she was most wonderfully well inclined. This fair creature entering the field of battle, imme- diately filed to that wing where her mistress maintained so unequal a fight with one of either sex. Here she presently challenged Partridge to single combat. He accepted the challenge, and a most desperate fight began between them. Now the dogs of war being let loose, began to lick their bloody lips ; now Victory, with golden wings, hung hovering in the air; now Fortune, taking her scales from her shelf, began to weigh the fates of Tom Jones, his female companion, and Partridge, against the landlord, his wife, and maid: all which hung in exact balance TOM JONES 167 before her ; when a good-natured accident put suddenly an end to the bloody fray, with which half of the com- batants had already sufficiently feasted. This accident was the arrival of a coach and four; upon which my landlord and landlady immediately desisted from fight- ing, and at their entreaty obtained the same favour of their antagonists : but Susan was not so kind to Part- ridge ; for that Amazonian fair having overthrown and bestrid her enemy, was now cuffing him lustily with both her hands, without any regard to his request of a cessa- tion of arms, or to those Ipud exclamations of murder which he roared forth. No sooner, however, had Jones quitted the landlord, than he flew to the rescue of his defeated companion, from whom he with much difficulty drew off the enraged chambermaid: but Partridge was not immediately sen- sible of his deliverance, for he still lay flat on the floor, guarding his face with his hands ; nor did he cease roar- ing till Jones had forced him to look up, and to perceive that the battle was at an end. The landlord, who had no visible hurt, and the land- lady, hiding her well-scratched face with her handker- chief, ran both hastily to the door to attend the coach, from which a young lady and her maid now alighted. These the landlady presently ushered into that room where Mr. Jones had at first deposited his fair prize, as it was the best apartment in the house. Hither they were obliged to pass through the field of battle, which they did with the utmost haste, covering their faces with their handkerchiefs, as desirous to avoid the notice of any one. Indeed their caution was quite unnecessary; for the poor unfortunate Helen, the fatal cause of all the bloodshed, was entirely taken up in endeavouring to conceal her own face, and Jones was no less occupied in rescuing Partridge from the fury of Susan; which being happily eff'ected, the poor fellow immediately de- parted to the pump to wash his face, and to stop that bloody torrent which Susan had plentifully set a flowing from his nostrils. i68 HENRY FIELDING IX [The "young lady" is none other than Sophia herself, but for the moment she is unnoticed. Almost at the same nick of time arrives a sergeant with his party demanding billets, and this ser- geant recognizes Jones's companion as Mrs. Waters, lady of a captain in his own regiment. This quite changes the landlady's attitude, and the pair are as comfortably accommodated as the ways of the inn (Fielding's accounts of English innkeeping are almost invariably unfavourable) will permit. But Jones's unfor- tunate inflammableness once more betrays itself and him, and Sophia once again has good reason for having nothing more to do with him. The imbroglio here is indeed of the most complicated kind, for not only Sophia but Squire Western himself, and a niece of his and cousin of Sophia's who is running away from her hus- band, and for whom Mrs. Waters is mistaken, enter into it: but it is all perfectly managed and duly subserves the plot. Finally Sophia leaves in just dudgeon (sending the famous muff, with only her name pinned on it, to the traitor as a signal of dismissal) just in time to escape her father : and the adventures of Upton finish as follows :] {Book X— Chapter VII) In the first place, then, this gentleman just arrived was no other person than Squire Western himself, who was come hither in pursuit of his daughter; and, had he fortunately been two hours * earlier, he had not only- found her, but his niece into the bargain ; for such was the wife of Mr. Fitzpatrick, who had run away with her five years before, out of the custody of that sage lady, Madam Western. Now this lady had departed from the inn much about the same time with Sophia ; for, having been waked by the voice of her husband, she had sent up for the land- lady, and, being by her apprized of the matter, had bribed the good woman, at an extravagant price, to furnish her with horses for her escape. Such prevalence had money in this family, and though the mistress would have turned away her maid for a corrupt hussy, if she had known as much as the reader, yet she was no more proof against corruption herself than poor Susan had been. TOM JONES 169 Mr. Western and his nephew were not known to one another; nor indeed would the former have taken any notice of the latter if he had known him ; for, this being a stolen match, and consequently an unnatural one in the opinion of the good squire, he had, from the time of her committing it, abandoned the poor young creature, who was then no more than eighteen, as a monster, and had never since suffered her to be named in his presence. The kitchen was now a scene of universal confusion. Western inquiring after his daughter, and Fitzpatrick as eagerly after his wife, when Jones entered the room, unfortunately having Sophia's muff in his hand. As soon as Western saw Jones, he set up the same holla as is used by sportsmen when their game is in view. He then immediately run up and laid hold of Jones, crying, ''We have got the dog fox, I warrant the bitch is not far off." The jargon which followed for some minutes, where many spoke different things at the same time, as it would be very difficult to describe, so it would be no less unpleasant to read. Jones having, at length, shaken Mr. Western off, and some of the company having interfered between them, our hero protested his innocence as to knowing anything of the lady ; when Parson Supple stepped up, and said, " It is folly to deny it ; for why, the marks of guilt are in thy hands. I will myself asseverate and bind it by an oath, that the muff thou bearest in thy hand belongeth unto Madam Sophia ; for I have frequently observed her, of later days, to bear it about her." " My daughter's muff!" cries the squire in a rage. "Hath he got my daughter's muff? bear witness the goods are found upon him. I'll have him before a justice of peace this instant. Where is my daughter, villain? " " Sir," said Jones, " I beg you would be pacified. The muff, I acknowledge, is the young lady's ; but, upon my honour, I have never seen her." At these words Western lost all patience, and grew inarticulate with rage. Some of the servants had acquainted Fitzpatrick who Mr. Western was. The good Irishman, therefore, think- ing he had now an opportunity to do an act of service 17° HENRY FIELDING to his uncle, and by that means might possibly obtain his favour, stepped up to Jones, and cried out, " Upon my conscience, sir, you may be ashamed of denying your having seen the gentleman's daughter before my face, virhen you know I found you there upon the bed together." Then, turning to Western, he offered to conduct him immediately to the room where his daughter was; which offer being accepted, he, the squire, the parson, and some others, ascended directly to Mrs. Waters's chamber, which they entered with no less violence than Mr. Fitzpatrick had done before. The poor lady started from her sleep with as much amazement as terror, and beheld at her bedside a figure which might very well be supposed to have escaped out of Bedlam. Such wildness and confusion were in the looks of Mr. Western ; who no sooner saw the lady than he started back, showing sufficiently by his manner, before he spoke, that this was not the person sought after. So much more tenderly do women value their reputa- tion than their persons, that, though the latter seemed now in more danger than before, yet, as the former was secure, the lady screamed not with such violence as she had done on the other occasion. However, she no sooner found herself alone than she abandoned all thoughts of further repose; and, as she had sufficient reason to be dissatisfied with her present lodging, she dressed herself with all possible expedition. Mr. Western now proceeded to search the whole house, but to as little purpose as he had disturbed poor Mrs. Waters. He then returned disconsolate into the kitchen, where he found Jones in the custody of his servants. This violent uproar had raised all the people in the house, though it was yet scarcely daylight. Among these was a grave gentleman, who had the honour to be in the commission of the peace for the county of Worcester. Of which Mr. Western was no sooner in- formed than he offered to lay his complaint before him. The justice declined executing his office, as he said he TOM JONES 171 had no clerk present, nor no book about justice business; and that he could not carry all the law in his head about stealing away daughters, and such sort of things. Here Mr. Fitzpatrick offered to lend him his assist- ance, informing the company he had been himself bred to the law. (And indeed he had served three years as clerk to an attorney in the north of Ireland, when, choosing a genteeler walk in life, he quitted his master, came over to England, and set up that business which requires no apprenticeship, namely, that of a gentleman, in which he had succeeded, as hath been already partly mentioned.) Mr. Fitzpatrick declared that the law concerning daughters was out of the present case ; that stealing a muff was undoubtedly felony, and the goods being found upon the person, were sufficient evidence of the fact. The magistrate, upon the encouragement of so learned a coadjutor, and upon the violent intercession of the squire, was at length prevailed upon to seat himself in the chair of justice, where being placed, upon viewing the muff which Jones still held in his hand, and upon the parson's swearing it to be the property of Mr. Western, he desired Mr. Fitzpatrick to draw up a commitment, which he said he would sign. Jones now desired to be heard, which was at last, with difficulty, granted him. He then produced the evidence of Mr. Partridge, as to the finding it ; but, what was still more, Susan deposed that Sophia herself had delivered the muff to her, and had ordered her to convey it into the chamber where Mr. Jones had found it. Whether a natural love of justice, or the extraordinary comeliness of Jones, had wrought on Susan to make the discovery, I will not determine ; but such were the effects of her evidence, that the magistrate, throwing himself back in his chair, declared that the matter was now al- together as clear on the side of the prisoner as it had be- fore been against him : with which the parson concurred, saying, The Lord forbid he should be instrumental in committing an innocent person to durance. The justice then arose, acquitted the prisoner, and broke up the court. 172 HENRY FIELDING Mr. Western now gave every one present a hearty curse, and, immediately ordering his horses, departed in pursuit of his daughter, without taking the least notice of his nephew Fitzpatrick, or returning any answer to his claim of kindred, notwithstanding all the obligations he had just received from that gentleman. In the violence, moreover, of his hurry, and of his pas- sion, he luckily forgot to demand the muff of Jones : I say luckily ; for he would have died on the spot rather than have parted with it. Jones likewise, with his friend Partridge, set forward the moment he had paid his reckoning, in quest of his lovely Sophia, whom he now resolved never more to abandon the pursuit of. Nor could he bring himself even to take leave of Mrs. Waters; of whom he detested the very thoughts, as she had been, though not design- edly, the occasion of his missipg the happiest interview with Sophia, to whom he now vowed eternal constancy. As for Mrs. Waters, she took the opportunity of the coach which was going to Bath; for which place she set out in company with the two Irish gentlemen, the landlady kindly lending her her clothes; in return for which she was contented only to receive about double their value, as a recompense for their loan. Upon the road she was perfectly reconciled to Mr. Fitzpatrick, who was a very handsome fellow, and indeed did all she could to console him in the absence of his wife. Thus ended the many odd adventures which Mr. Jones encountered at his inn at Upton, where they talk, to this day, of the beauty and lovely behaviour of the charming Sophia, by the name of the Somersetshire angel. X [Much space is occupied after this, profitably enough in the original, but less so for purposes of extract, with the history of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who catches up her cousin and goes with her to London, and with Jones's adventures on a somewhat roundabout journey by Coventry to the same place — these latter including divers mwadventures of Partridge which recompense him duly for having blabbed (and blabbed ill-naturedly) at Upton. At last they TOM JONES 173 reach the capital, but Jones's researches for Sophia are hampered and blocked in divers ways, not least by want of money. He only provides himself with this by the liaison with Lady Bellaston, which IS the great article of indictment against him : and the vicissitudes of the story are incessant. The following passages will sample it fairly. Jones makes friends at his lodgings. Mr. Nightingale and Miss Nancy play a considerable part in the story later and are made happy, after difficulties, very mainly by Tom's good offices. It may be mentioned that whist was now in its first great vogue, much to Horace Walpole's disgust.] (From Book XIII— Chapter V) When Jones had spent the whole day in vain inquiries after Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he returned at last disconsolate to his apartment. Here, while he was venting his grief in private, he heard a violent uproar below stairs ; and soon after a female voice begged him for Heaven's sake to come and prevent murder. Jones, who was never backward on any occasion to help the distressed, im- mediately ran down stairs ; when, stepping into the dining-room, whence all the noise issued, he beheld the young gentleman of wisdom and vertu just before men- tioned, pinned close to the wall by his footman, and a young woman standing by, wringing her hands, and crying out, "He will be murdered! he will be mur- dered ! " and, indeed, the poor gentleman seemed in some danger of being choked, when Jones flew hastily to his assistance, and rescued him, just as he was breath- ing his last, from the unmerciful clutches of the enemy. Though the fellow had received several kicks and cuffs from the little gentleman, who had more spirit than strength, he had made it a kind of scruple of con- science to strike his master, and would have contented himself with only choking him ; but towards Jones he bore no such respect: he no sooner therefore found himself a little roughly handled by his new antagonist, than he gave him one of those punches in the guts which, though the spectators at Broughton's amphi- theatre have such exquisite delight in seeing them, convey but very little pleasure in the feeling. 174 HENRY FIELDING The lusty youth had no sooner received this blow than he meditated a most grateful return; and now ensued a combat between Jones and the footman, which was very fierce, but short; for this fellow was no more able to contend with Jones than his master had before been to contend with him. And now Fortune, according to her usual custom, reversed the face of affairs. The former victor lay breathless on the ground, and the vanquished gentleman had recovered breath enough to thank Mr. Jones for his seasonable assistance; he received likewise the hearty thanks of the young woman present, who was indeed no other than Miss Nancy, the eldest daughter of the house. The footman having now recovered his legs, shook his head at Jones, and, with a sagacious look, cried — " Oh, d — n me, I'll have nothing more to do with you; you have been upon the stage, or I'm d — nably mis- taken." And indeed we may forgive this his suspicion: for such was the agility and strength of our hero, that he was, perhaps, a match for one of the first-rate boxers, and could, with great ease, have beaten all the muffled ^ graduates of Mr. Broughton's school. The master, foaming with wrath, ordered his man immediately to strip, to which the latter very readily agreed, on condition of receiving his wages. This con- dition was presently complied with, and the fellow was discharged. '■ Lest posterity should be puzzled by this epithet, I think proper to explain it by an advertisement which was published Feb. i, i747- "JV.B, Mr. Broughton proposes, with proper assistance, to open an academy at his house in the Haymarket, for the instruction of those who are willing- to be initiated in the mystery of boxing : where the whole theory and practice of that truly British art, with all the various stops, blows, cross-buttocks, &c. , incideht to com- batants, will be fully taught and explained ; and that persons of quality and distinction may not be deterred from entering into a course of those lectures, they will be given with the utmost tender- ness and regard to the delicacy of the frame and constitution of the pupil, for which reason muffles are provided, that will effectually secure them from the inconveniency of black eyes, broken jaws, and bloody noses." TOM JONES I7S And now the young gentleman, whose name was Nightingale, very strenuously insisted that his deliverer should take part of a bottle of wine with him : to which Jones, after much entreaty, consented, though more out of complaisance than inclination ; for the uneasiness of his mind fitted him very little for conversation at this time. Miss Nancy likewise, who was the only female then in the house, her mamma and sister being both gone to the play, condescended to favour them with her company. When the bottle and glasses were on the table the gentleman began to relate the occasion of the preceding disturbance. " I hope, sir," said he to Jones, "you will not from this accident conclude, that I make a custom of striking my servants, for I assure you this is the first time I have been guilty of it in my remembrance, and I have passed by many provoking faults in this very fellow, before he could provoke me to it; but when you hear what hath happened this evening, you will, I believe, think me excusable. I happened to come home several hours before my usual time, when I found four gentle- men of the cloth at whist by my fire; and my Hoyle, sir — my best Hoyle, which cost me a guinea — lying open on the table, with a quantity of porter spilt on one of the most material leaves of the whole book. This, you will allow, was provoking; but I said nothing till the rest of the honest company were gone, and then gave the fellow a gentle rebuke, who, instead of expressing any concern, made me a pert answer, ' That servants must have their diversions as well as other people ; that he was sorry for the accident which had happened to the book, but that several of his acquaintance had bought the same for a shilling, and that I might stop as much in his wages, if I pleased.' I now gave him a severer reprimand than before, when the rascal had the inso- lence to In short, he imputed my early coming home to In short, he cast a reflection He mentioned the name of a young lady, in a manner — in such a manner that incensed me beyond all patience, and, in my passion, I struck him." 176 HENRY FIELDING Jones answered, " That he beHeved no person Hving would blame him: for my part," said he, " I confess I should, on the last-mentioned provocation, have done the same thing." Our company had not sat long before they were joined by the mother and daughter, at their return from the play. And now they all spent a very cheerful evening together; for all but Jones were heartily merry, and even he put on as much constrained mirth as possible. Indeed, half his natural flow of animal spirits, joined to the sweetness of his temper, was sufficient to make a most amiable companion; and notwithstanding the heaviness of his heart, so agreeable did he make himself on the present occasion, that, at their breaking up, the young gentleman earnestly desired his further acquaint- ance. Miss Nancy was well pleased with him ; and the widow, quite charmed with her new lodger, invited him, with the other, next morning to breakfast. Jones on his part was no less satisfied. As for Miss Nancy, though a very little creature, she was extremely pretty, and the widow had all the charms which can adorn a woman near fifty. As she was one of the most innocent creatures in the world, so she was one of the most cheerful. She never thought, nor spoke, nor wished any ill, and had constantly that desire of pleasing, which may be called the happiest of all desires in this, that it scarce ever fails of attaining its ends, when not disgraced by affectation. In short, though her power was very small, she was in her heart one of the warmest friends. She had been a most affectionate wife, and was a most fond and tender mother. As our history doth not, like a newspaper, give great characters to people who never were heard of before, nor will ever be heard of again ; the reader may hence conclude, that this excellent woman will hereafter appear to be of some importance in our history. Nor was Jones a little pleased with the young gentle- man himself, whose wine he had been drinking. He thought he discerned in him much good sense, though a little too much tainted with town foppery ; but what TOM JONES 177 recommended him most to Jones were some sentiments of great generosity and humanity, which occasionally dropped from him ; and particularly many expressions of the highest disinterestedness in the affair of love. On which subject the young gentleman delivered him- self in a language which might have very well become an Arcadian shepherd of old, and which appeared very extraordinary when proceeding from the lips of a modern fine gentleman ; but he was only one by imita- tion, and meant by nature for a much better character. XI [After many vain efforts he succeeds in finding Sophia and giving her a pocket-book of hers (with valuable contents) which he has found. But the pair are disturbed by Lady Bellaston, with whom he is already on too intimate terms, and with whom his appoint- ment has been on this very occasion.] {Chapter XI) Mr. Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than the lady ; whose arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of the place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents, very vexatious to one in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown into the drawing-room, where he had not been many minutes before the door opened, and in came no other than Sophia herself, who had left the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have already said, being a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar and an engagement between the two parties had so terrified our heroine, that she was glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman who safely conveyed her to her chair. As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her, without once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of N 178 HENRY FIELDING Jones now stood motionless. — In this glass it was, after contemplating her own lovely face, that she first dis- covered the said statue ; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the reality of the vision ; upon which she gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to her, and support her in his arms. To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is beyond my power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed that I should be able to express them : and the misfortune is, that few of my readers have been enough in love to feel by their own hearts what passed at this time in theirs. After a short pause, Jones, with faltering accents, said— " I see, madam, you are surprised !"—" Sur- prised!" answered she; "Oh Heavens! Indeed, I am surprised. I almost doubt whether you are the person you seem." — "Indeed," cries he, " my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for this once calling you so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom fortune, after so many disap- pointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you. Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in this long, fruitless pursuit." — "Pursuit of whom? " said Sophia, a little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved air. — " Can you be so cruel to ask that question?" cries Jones; "Need I say, of you?" " Of me !" answered Sophia: "Hath Mr. Jones, then, any such important business with me?" — "To some, madam," cries Jones, "this might seem an important business" (giving her the pocket-book). "I hope, madam, you will find it of the same value as when it was lost." Sophia took the pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her thus: — " Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments which fortune hath so kindly sent us. Oh, my Sophia! I have business of a much superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon." — " My pardon! " cries she: " Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect, after what I have heard." — " I scarce know what I say," TOM JONES 179 answered Jones. "By Heavens! I scarce wish you should pardon me. Oh my Sophia ! henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am. If any remem- brance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to that tender bosom, think of my unworthi- ness ; and let the remembrance of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind." Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than snow, and her heart was throbbing through her stays. But, at the mention of Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which before she had scarce lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a glance of dis- dain. He understood this silent reproach, and replied to it thus : " Oh my Sophia ! my only love ! you cannot hate or despise me more for what happened there than I do myself: but yet do me the justice to think that my heart was never unfaithful to you. That had no share in the folly I was guilty of; it was even then unalterably yours. Though I despaired of possessing you, nay, almost of ever seeing you more, I doted still on your charming idea, and could seriously love no other woman. But if my heart had not been engaged, she, into whose com- pany I accidentally fell at that cursed place, was not an object of serious love. Believe me, my angel, I have never seen her from that day to this ; and never intend or desire to see her again." Sophia, in her heart, was very glad to hear this ; but forcing into her face an air of more coldness than she had yet assumed, "Why," said she, "Mr. Jones, do you take the trouble to make a defence where you are not accused? If I thought it worth while to accuse you, I have a charge of unpardon- able nature indeed." — " What is it, for Heaven's sake? " answered Jones, trembUng and pale, expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston. "Oh," said she, "how is it possible? can everything noble and every- thing base be lodged together in the same bosom?" Lady Bellaston, and the ignominious circumstance of having been kept, rose again in his mind, and stopped his mouth from any reply. "Could I have expected," proceeded Sophia, "such treatment from you? Nay, i8o HENRY FIELDING from any gentleman, from any man of honour? To have my name traduced in public; in inns, among the meanest vulgar! to have any little favours that my unguarded heart may have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted of there ! nay, even to hear that you had been forced to fly from my love! " Nothing could equal Jones's surprise at these words of Sophia; but yet, not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend himself than if she had touched that tender string at which his conscience had been alarmed. By some examination he presently found, that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an outrage against his love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge's talk at the inns before landlords and ser- vants; for Sophia confessed to him it was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very great difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely inno- cent of an offence so foreign to his character: but she had a great deal to hinder him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to death, which he more than once swore he would do. This point being cleared up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with each other, that Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with conjuring her to give up all thoughts of him ; and she was in a temper to have given ear to a petition of a very different nature ; for before they were aware they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that sounded like a proposal of marriage. To which she replied, " That, did not her duty to her father forbid her to follow her own inclinations, ruin with him would be more welcome to her than the most affluent fortune with another man." At the mention of the word ruin he started, let drop her hand, which he had held for some time, and striking his breast with his own, cried out, "Oh, Sophia! can I then ruin thee? No; by Heavens, no ! I never will act so base a part. Dearest Sophia, whatever it costs me, I will renounce you; I will give you up; I will tear all such hopes from my heart as are inconsistent with your real good. My love I will ever retain, but it shall be in silence : it shall be at TOM JONES i8i a distance from yoii ; it shall be in some foreign land ; from whence no voice, no sigh of my despair, shall ever reach and disturb your ears. And when I am dead " — He would have gone on, but was stopped by a flood of tears which Sophia let fall in his bosom, upon which she leaned, without being able to speak one word. He kissed them off, which, for some moments, she allowed him to do without any resistance ; but then recollecting herself, gently withdrew out of his arms ; and, to turn the dis- course from a subject too tender, and which she found she could not support, bethought herself to ask him a question she never had time to put to him before, "How he came into that room? " He began to stammer, and would, in all probability, have raised her suspicions by the answer he was going to give, when, at once, the door opened, and in came Lady Bellaston. Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she suddenly stopped; when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting herself with admir- able presence of mind, she said — though with sufficient indications of surprise both in voice and countenance — "I thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play? " Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what means he had discovered her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion of the real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted, so she was very little confounded ; and the less, as the lady had, in all their conversations on the subject, entirely taken her side against her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she went through the whole story of what had happened at the playhouse, and the cause of her hasty return. The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed her, she put on an air of good humour, and said, " I should not have broke in so abruptly upon you. Miss Western, if I had known you had company." i82 HENRY FIELDING Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words. To which that poor young lady, having her face overspread with blushes and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, " I am sure, madam, I shall always think the honour of your ladyship's com- pany " "I hope, at least," cries Lady Bellaston, "I interrupt no business." — "No, madam," answered Sophia, ' ' our business was at an end. Your ladyship may be pleased to remember I have often mentioned the loss of my pocket-book, which this gentleman, having very luckily found, was so kind to return it to me with the bill in it." Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers, and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby squire, when he is first introduced into a polite assembly. He began, how- ever, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who he saw did not intend to claim any acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the stranger on his part. He said, " Ever since he had the pocket-book in his possession, he had used great diligence in inquiring out the lady whose name was writ in it ; but never till that day could be so fortunate to discover her." Sophia had indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket- book to Lady Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or other, had never once hinted to her that it was in his possession, she believed not one syllable ef what Sophia now said, and wonderfully admired the extreme quick- ness of the young lady in inventing such an excuse. The reason of Sophia's leaving the playhouse met with no better credit ; and though she could not account for the meeting between these two lovers, she was firmly per- suaded it was not accidental. With an aifected smile, therefore, she said, " Indeed, Miss Western, you have had very good luck in recover- ing your money. Not only as it fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he happened to discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not consent to TOM JONES 183 have it advertised. — It was great good fortune, sir, that you found out to whom the note belonged." "Oh madam," criesjones, "it was enclosedin apocket- book, in which the young lady's name was written." "That was very fortunate, indeed," cries the lady: — "And it was no less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house ; for she is very little known. " Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he conceived he had now an opportunity of satisfying Sophia as to the question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he proceeded thus : "Why, madam," answered he, "it was by the luckiest chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was men- tioning what I had found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a lady at the masquerade, who told me she believed she knew where I might see Miss Western; and if I would come to her house the next morning she would inform me. I went according to her appointment, but she was not at home ; nor could I ever meet with her till this morning, when she directed me to your Ladyship's house. I came accordingly, and did myself the honour to ask for your ladyship ; and upon my saying that I had very particular business, a servant showed me into this room ; where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the play." Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady Bellaston, without any fear of being re- marked by Sophia; for she was visibly too much con- founded to make any observations. This hint a little alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the agitations of Sophia's mind, resolved to take the only method of relieving her, which was by retiring ; but, before he did this, he said, "I believe, madam, it is customary to give some reward on these occasions— I must insist on a very high one for my honesty — it is, madam, no less than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit here." "Sir," replied the lady, " I make no doubt that you are a gentleman, and my doors are never shut to people of fashion." i84 HENRY FIELDING Jones then, after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly alarmed lest Lady Bellaston should dis- cover what she knew already but too well. Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs. Honour, who, notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well bred to behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky circumstance, as he communicated to her the house where he lodged, with which Sophia was unacquainted. (Chapter XII) The elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling too much truth: by which it may be fairly in- ferred, that, in some cases, to lie is not only excusable but commendable. And surely there are no persons who may so properly challenge a right to this commendable deviation from truth, as young women in the affair of love ; for which they may plead precept, education, and above all, the sanction, nay, I may say, the necessity of custom, by which they are restrained, not from submitting to the honest impulses of nature (for that would be a foolish prohibition) but from owning them. We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now pursued the dictates of the above-mentioned right honourable philosopher. As she was perfectly satisfied then, that Lady Bellaston was ignorant of the person of Jones, so she determined to keep her in that ignorance, though at the expense of a little fibbing. Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cried, " Upon my word, a good pretty young fellow; I wonder who he is; for I don't remember ever to have seen his face before." " Nor I neither, madam," cries Sophia. " I must say he behaved very handsomely in relation to my note." "Yes; and he is a very handsome fellow," said the lady : " don't you think so? " "I did not take much notice of him," answered TOM JONES 185 Sophia, "but 1 thought he seemed rather awkward, and ungenteel than otherwise." "You are extremely right," cries Lady Bellaston : "you may see, by his manner, that he hath not kept good company. Nay, notwithstanding his returning your note, and refusing the reward, I almost question whether he is a gentleman.— — I have always observed there is a something in persons well born, which others can never acquire. 1 think I will give orders not to be at home to him." "Nay, sure, madam," answered Sophia, "one can't suspect after what he hath done ; — besides, if your ladyship observed him, there was an elegance in his discourse, a delicacy, a prettiness of expression that, that " "I confess," said Lady Bellaston, "the fellow hath words And indeed, Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must." " I forgive your ladyship! " said Sophia. "Yes, indeed you must," answered she, laughing; "for I had a horrible suspicion when I first came into the room 1 vow you must forgive it ; but I suspected it was Mr. Jones himself." " Did your ladyship indeed? " cries Sophia, blushing, and affecting a laugh. "Yes, I vow I did," answered she. " I can't imagine what put it into my head : for, give the fellow his due, he was genteelly dressed; which, I think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the case with your friend." "This raillery," cries Sophia, "is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston, after my promise to your ladyship." " Not at all, child," said the lady " It would have been cruel before; but after you promised me never to marry without your father's consent, in which you know is implied your giving up Jones, sure you can bear a little raillery on a passion which was pardonable enough in a young girl in the country, and of which you tell me you have so entirely got the better. What must I think, my dear Sophy, if you cannot bear a little ridicule even on his dress? I shall begin to fear you are very far gone i86 HENRY FIELDING indeed; and almost question whether you have dealt ingenuously with me." "Indeed, madam," cries Sophia, "your ladyship mistakes me, if you imagine I had any concern on his account." " On his account!" answered the lady: "You must have mistaken me ; I went no farther than his dress for I would not injure your taste by any other comparison — I don't imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr. Jones had been such a fellow as this " " I thought," says Sophia, "your ladyship had allowed him to be handsome " "Whom, pray?" cried the lady, hastily. "Mr. Jones," answered Sophia — and immediately recollecting herself, "Mr. Jones! no, no; I ask your pardon — I mean the gentleman who was just now here." " O Sophy ! Sophy ! " cries the lady ; " this Mr. Jones, I am afraid, still runs in your head." "Then, upon my honour, madam," said Sophia, ' ' Mr. Jones is as entirely indifferent to me, as the gentleman who just now left us." " Upon my honour," said Lady Bellaston, " I believe it. Forgive me, therefore, a little innocent raillery; but I promise you I will never mention his name any more." And now the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the delight of Sophia than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented her rival a little longer, had not business of more importance called her away. As for Sophia, her mind was not perfectly easy under this first practice of deceit : upon which, when she retired to her chamber, she reflected with the highest uneasiness and conscious shame. Nor could the peculiar hardship of her situation, and the necessity of the case, at all reconcile her mind to her conduct; for the frame of her mind was too delicate to bear the thought of having been guilty of a falsehood, however qualified by circumstances. Nor did this thought once suffer her to close her eyes during the whole succeeding night. TOM JONES 187 XII [The lady conceives a violent jealousy of Sophia, which is aggra- vated by her overhearing some imprudent remarks of Honour to Jones. After some chapters, mainly devoted to young Nightingale's affairs, a plot is formed between her and a certain Lord Fellamar to secure Sophia for the latter by foul means, as fair will not do : and becoming convinced of her lover's real sentiments she extends her machinations to him also. Sophia (who has been locked up by her father) and Jones communicate by the agency of Black George with at least the result of sending him, in good humour, to a scene which is one of the best and most famous in the novel.] [Book XVI— Chapter V) Mr. Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the aforesaid letter, and being, at last, in a state of good spirits, from the last-mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an appointment, which he had before made, into execution. This was, to attend Mrs. Miller, and her younger daughter, into the gallery at the play- house, and to admit Mr. Partridge as one of the company. For as Jones had really that taste for humour which many affect, he expected to enjoy much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge ; from whom he expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise unadulterated, by art. In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When the first music was played, he said, " It was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one another out." While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of the Common-Prayer book before the Gunpowder-Treason service." Nor could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, "That here were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth." As soon as the play, which was " Hamlet, Prince of i88 HENRY FIELDING Denmark," began, Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the entrance of the Ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What man that was in the strange dress; something," said he, " like what I have seen in a picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?" Jones answered, "That is the Ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, " Persuade me to that, sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as that, neither." In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the neighbour- hood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the scene between the Ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage? " Oh la! sir," said he, " I perceive now it is what you told me. I am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person." "Why, who," cries Jones, "dost thou take to be such a coward here besides thyself? " " Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man frightened in my life. Aye, aye : go along with you! Aye, to be sure ! Who 's fool then ? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such foolhardiness? — Whatever happens, it is good enough for you. Follow you? I'd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps, it is the devil for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases. — Oh! here he is again. No farther! No, you have gone far enough already; farther than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried "Hush, hush! dear sir, don't you hear him?" And during the whole speech of the Ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the Ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open; the same passions TOM JONES 189 which succeeded each other in Hamlet, succeeding like- wise in him. When the scene was over Jones said, "Why, Partridge, you exceed my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible." "Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "if you are not afraid of the devil, I can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprised at such things, though I know there is nothing in them : not that it was the Ghost that surprised me, neither; for I should have known that to have been only a man in a strange dress ; but when I saw the little man so fright- ened himself, it was that which took hold of me." "And dost thou imagine, then. Partridge," cries Jones, "that he was really frightened? " " Nay, sir," said Partridge, " did not you yourself observe afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have been, had it been my own case? — But hush! Oh la! what noise is that? There he is again. Well, to be certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those men are." Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, "Aye, you may draw your sword; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil? " During the second act. Partridge made very few re- marks. He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses ; nor could he help observing upon the King's countenance. "Well," said he, "how people may be deceived by faces? Nulla fides fronti IS, I find, a true saying. Who would think, by looking in the King's face, that he had ever committed a murder? " He then inquired after the Ghost; but Jones, who intended he should be surprised, gave him no other satisfaction, than "that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire." Partridge sat in fearful expectation of this ; and now, when the Ghost made his next appearance. Partridge cried out, "There, sir, now; what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I igo HENRY FIELDING would not be in so bad a condition as what 's his name, Squire Hamlet, is there, for all the world. Bless me! what 's become of the spirit? As I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth." " Indeed, you saw right," answered Jones. "Well, well," cries Part- ridge, "I know it is only a play: and besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam Miller would not laugh so ; for as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person. — There, there — Aye, no wonder you are in such a passion, shake the vile wicked wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I should serve her so. To be sure, all duty to a mother is for- feited by such wicked doings. Aye, go about your business, I hate the sight of you." Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet introduces before the King. This he did not at first understand, till Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the spirit of it, than he began to bless himself that he had never committed murder. Then turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her, "If she did not imagine the King looked as if he was touched ; though he is," said he, "a good actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I would not have so much to answer for, as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he run away ; for your sake I'll never trust an innocent face again." The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who expressed much surprise at the num- ber of skulls thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered, " That it was one of the most famous burial- places about town." " No wonder then," cries Partridge, " that the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger. I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three graves while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Aye, aye, you may sing. You had rather sing than work, I believe." — Upon Hamlet's taking up the skull, he cried out, " Well! it is strange to see how fearless some men are : I never TOM JONES 191 could bring myself to touch anything belonging to a dead man, on any account. — He seemed frightened enough too at the Ghost, I thought. Nemo omnibris horis sapit." Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of which Jones asked him, "Which of the players he had liked best?" To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question, "The King, without doubt." " Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, " you are not of the same opinion with the town ; for they are all agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage." "He the best player! " cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer, "why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you call it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me ; but indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have seen acting before in the country ; and the King for my money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the other. — Anybody may see he is an actor." While Mrs. Miller was thus engaged in conversation with Partridge, a lady came up to Mr. Jones, whom he immediately knew to be Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She said, she had seen him from the other part of the gallery, and had taken that opportunity of speaking to him, as she had something to say, which might be of great service to himself. She then acquainted him with her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next day in the morn- ing ; which, upon recollection, she presently changed to the afternoon ; at which time Jones promised to attend her. Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse; where Partridge had afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs. Miller, but to all who sat within hearing, who were more attentive to what he said, than to anything that passed on the stage. 192 HENRY FIELDING He durst not go to bed all that night, for fear of the ghost ; and for many nights after sweated two or three hours before he went to sleep, with the same apprehen- sions, and waked several times in great horrors, crying out, " Lord have mercy upon us! there it is." XIII [Jones's happiness, however, is of short duration, for Lady Bellas- ton conveys to Sophia a proposal of marriage to herself which he has formerly made in hopes of getting rid of her, and Miss Western once more dismisses him. The dismissal comes at the worst of times. Jones has been visiting Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and her husband, who has just found out where she is, sees him coming from the house.] {Chapter X) Mr. Fitzpatrick having received the letter before men- tioned, from Mrs. Western, and being by that means acquainted with the place to which his wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence the day after set forward to London. The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of this gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the suspicion which he had con- ceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in the room with Mrs. Waters ; and, though sufficient reasons had afterwards appeared entirely to clear up that sus- picion, yet now the reading so handsome a character of Mr. Jones from his wife, caused him to reflect that she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and jumbled together such a confusion of circumstances in a head which was naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that green-eyed monster mentioned by Shak- speare in his tragedy of " Othello." And now, as he was inquiring in the street after his wife, and had just received directions to the door, un- fortunately Mr. Jones was issuing from it. Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones ; however, seeing a young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he made directly up to him, and asked TOM JONES 193 him what he had been doing in that house? "for I am sure," said he, "you must have been in it, as I saw you come out of it." Jones answered very modestly, " That he had been visiting a lady there." To which Fitzpatrick replied, " What business have you with the lady? " Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the voice, features, and indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out " Ha, my good friend ! give me your hand ; I hope there is no ill blood remaining between us, upon a small mistake which happened so long ago." " Upon my soul, sir," said Fitzpatrick, " I don't know your name nor your face." "Indeed, sir," said Jones, " neither have I the pleasure of knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to have seen before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened between us, which, if it is not made up yet, we will now make up over a bottle." "At Upton! " cries the other; — " Ha! upon my soul, I believe your name is Jones?" "Indeed," answered he, "it is." — "Oh! upon my soul," cries Fitzpatrick, "you are the very man I wanted to meet. — Upon my soul I will drink a bottle with you presently; but first I will give you a great knock over the pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my soul, if you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give you another." And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of defence, which was the only science he understood. Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat unexpectedly; but presently recovering him- self he also drew, and though he understood nothing of fencing, pressed on so boldly upon Fitzpatrick, that he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his sword in the body of the said gentleman, who had no sooner received it than he stepped backwards, dropped the point of his sword, and leaning upon it, cried, " I have satis- faction enough: I am a dead man." " I hope not," cries Jones, " but whatever be the con- sequence, you must be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself." At this instant a number of fellows rushed in o 194 HENRY FIELDING and seized Jones, who told them he should make no re- sistance, and begged some of them at least would take care of the wounded gentleman. " Aye," cries one of the fellows, " the wounded gentle- man will be taken care enough of; for I suppose he hath not many hours to live. As for you, sir, you have a month at least good yet." "D — n me. Jack," said another, " he hath prevented his voyage; he 's bound to another port now; " and many other such jests was our poor Jones made the subject of by these fellows, who were indeed the gang employed by Lord Fellamar, and had dogged him into the house of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, waiting for him at the corner of the street when this unfortunate accident happened. The officer who commanded this gang very wisely con- cluded that his business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands of the civil magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried to a public-house, where, having sent for a constable, he delivered him to his custody. The constable, seeing Mr. Jones very well dressed, and hearing that the accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner with great civility, and, at his re- quest, dispatched a messenger to inquire after the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon's hands. The report brought back was, that the wound was certainly mortal, and there were no hopes of life. Upon which the constable informed Jones that he must go before a justice. He answered, "Wherever you please ; I am indifferent as to what happens to me ; for though I am convinced I am not guilty of murder in the eye of the law, yet the weight of blood I find intoler- able upon my mind." Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who dressed Mr. Fitzpatrick appeared, and de- posed that he believed the wound to be mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the Gatehouse. It was very late at night, so that Jones would not send for Partridge till the next morning ; and, as he never shut his eyes till seven, so it was near twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly frightened at not hearing from TOM JONES igS his master so long, received a message which almost deprived him of his being when he heard it. He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart, and was no sooner arrived in the pre- sence of Jones than he lamented the misfortune that had befallen him with many tears, looking all the while fre- quently about him in great terror ; for as the news now arrived that Mr. Fitzpatrick was dead, the poor fellow apprehended every minute that his ghost would enter the room. At last he delivered him a letter, which he had like to have forgot, and which came from Sophia by the hands of Black George. Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, having eagerly broke open the letter, read as follows: "You owe the hearing from me again to an accident, which I own surprises me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter from you to Lady Bellaston, which contains a proposal of marriage. I am convinced it is your own hand; and what more surprises me is, that it is dated at the very time when you would have me imagine you was under such concern on my account. — I leave you to comment on this fact. All I desire is, that your name may never more be mentioned to " S. W." Of the present situation of Mr. Jones's mind, and of the pangs with which he was now tormented, we cannot give the reader a better idea than by saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would almost have pitied him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave him in it, as his good genius (if he really had any) seems to have done. XIV [Mrs. Miller, at whose lodgings Allworthy now is, acquaints him with Jones's situation and defends Tom, Blifil acting the accuser as usual, while the charitable woman afterwards visits Jones him- self in his prison, and also Sophia. Miss Western is all this while threatened both with Blifil and with Lord Fellamar. Her family's attitude in the matter is worth illustrating. ] {Book XVII— Chapter III) Mrs. Miller had not long left the room when Mr. Western entered ; but not before a small wrangling bout 196 HENRY FIELDING had passed between him and his chairmen; for the fellows, who had taken up their burden at the Hercules Pillars, had conceived no hopes of having any future good cvistomer in the Squire ; and they were moreover farther encouraged by his generosity (for he had given them of his own accord sixpence more than their fare) ; they therefore very boldly demanded another shilling, which so provoked the Squire, that he not only bestowed many hearty curses on them at the door, but retained his anger after he came into the room ; swearing that all the Londoners were like the court, and thought of nothing but plundering country gentlemen. " D — n me," says he, "if I won't walk in the rain rather than get into one of their hand-barrows again. They have jolted me more in a mile than Brown Bess would in a long fox-chase." When his wrath on this occasion was a little appeased, he resumed the same passionate tone on another. " There," says he, " there is fine business forwards now. The hounds have changed at last ; and when we imagined we had a fox to deal with, od-rat it, it turns out to be a badger at last ! " " Pray, my good neighbour," says Allworthy, "drop your metaphors, and speak a little plainer." " Why, then," says the Squire, "to tell you plainly, we have been all this time afraid of a son of a whore of a bastard of somebody's, I don't know whose, not I. And now here is a confounded son of a whore of a lord, who may be a bastard too for what I know or care, for he shall never have a daughter of mine by my consent. They have beggared the nation, but they shall never beggar me. My land shall never be sent over to Hanover. " "You surprise me much, my good friend," said Allworthy. "Why, zounds! I am surprised myself," answered the Squire. " I went to zee sister Western last night, according to her own appointment, and there I was a had into a whole room-full of women. There was my Lady cousin Bellaston, and my Lady Betty, and my Lady Catharine, and my Lady I don't know who ; d— n me, if ever you catch me among such a kennel of hoop- TOM JONES 197 petticoat b — s! D — n me, I'd rather be run by my own dogs, as one Acton was, that the story-book says was turned into a hare, and his own dogfs killed un and eat un. Od-rabbit it, no mortal was ever run in such a manner ; if I dogged one way, one had me ; if I offered to clap back, another snapped me. ' Oh ! certainly one of the greatest matches in England,' says one cousin (here he attempted to mimic them) ; ' A very advan- tageous offer indeed,' cries another cousin (for you must know they be all my cousins, thof I never zeed half o'um before). ' Surely, ' says that fatt a — se b — , my Lady Bellaston, ' cousin, you must be out of your wits to think of refusing such an offer.' " " Now I begin to understand," says Allworthy, " some person hath made proposals to Miss Western, which the ladies of the family approve, but is not to your liking." "My liking!" said Western, "how the devil should it? I tell you it is a lord; and those are always volks whom you know I always resolved to have nothing to do with. Did unt I refuse a matter of vorty years' pur- chase now for a bit of land, which one o'um had a mind to put into a park, only because I would have no deal- ings with lords, and dost think I would marry my daughter zu? Besides, ben't I engaged to you, and did I ever go off any bargain when I had promised? " "As to that point, neighbour," said Allworthy, "I entirely release you from any engagement. No contract can be binding between parties who have not a full power to make it at the time, nor ever afterwards acquire the power of fulfilling it. " " Slud! then," answered Western, " I tell you I have power, and I will fulfil it. Come along with me directl y to Doctors' Commons, I will get a licence; and I will go to sister and take away the wench by force, and she shall ha un, or I will lock her up, and keep her upon bread and water as long as she lives." "Mr. Western," said Allworthy, "shall I beg you ■will hear my full sentiments on this matter?" — " Hear thee; aye, to be sure I will," answered he. "Why, then, igS HENRY FIELDING sir," cries AUworthy, " I can truly say, without a com- pliment either to you or the young lady, that when this match was proposed, I embraced it very readily and heartily, from my regard to you both. An alliance between two families so nearly neighbours, and between whom there had always existed so mutual an intercourse and good harmony, I thought a most desirable event; and with regard to the young lady, not only the con- current opinion of all who knew her, but my own obser- vation assured me that she would be an inestimable treasure to a good husband. I shall say nothing of her personal qualifications, which certainly are admirable; her good nature, her charitable disposition, her modesty, are too well known to need any panegyric: but she hath one quality which existed in a high degree in that best of women, who is now one of the first of angels, which, as it is not of a glaring kind, more commonly escapes observation ; so little indeed is it remarked, that I want a word to express it. I must use negatives on this occasion. I never heard anything of pertness, or what is called repartee out of her mouth ; no pretence to wit, much less to that kind of wisdom which is the result only of great learning and experience ; the affectation of which, in a young woman, is as absurd as any of the affectations of an ape. No dictatorial sentiments, no judicial opinions, no profound criticism. Whenever I have seen her in the company of men, she hath been all attention, with the modesty of a learner, not the forwardness of a teacher. You'll pardon me for it, but I once, to try her only, desired her opinion on a point which was controverted between Mr. Thwackum and Mr. Square. To which she answered, with much sweetness, ' You will pardon me, good Mr. AUworthy, I am sure you cannot in earnest think me capable of deciding any point in which two such gentlemen disagree.' Thwackum and Square, who both alike thought themselves sure of a favourable decision, seconded my request. She answered with the same good humour, ' I must absolutely be excused : for I will affront neither so much as to give my judgment on his side.' Indeed, she always showed the highest TOM JONES 199 deference to the understandings of men; a quality absolutely essential to the making- a good wife. I shall only add, that as she is most apparently void of all affectation, this deference must be certainly real." Here Blifil sighed bitterly; upon which Western, whose eyes were full of tears, at the praise of Sophia, blubbered out, "Don't be chicken-hearted, for shat ha her, d — n me, shat ha her, if she was twenty times as good." " Remember your promise, sir," cried Allworthy, " I was not to be interrupted." " Well, shat unt," answered the Squire; " I won't speak another word." "Now, my good friend," continued Allworthy, "I have dwelt so long on the merit of this young lady, partly as I really am in love with her character, and partly that fortune (for the match in that light is really advantageous on my nephew's side) might not be imagined to be my principal view in having so eagerly embraced the proposal. Indeed, I heartily wished to receive so great a jewel into my family ; but though I may wish for many good things, I would not, there- fore, steal them, or be guilty of any violence or injustice to possess myself of them. Now to force a woman into a marriage contrary to her consent or approbation, is an act of such injustice and oppression, that I wish the laws of our country could restrain it; but a good con- science is never lawless in the worst-regulated state, and will provide those laws for itself, which the neglect of legislators hath forgotten to supply. This is surely a case of that kind ; for is it not cruel, nay, impious, to force a woman into that state against her will, for her behaviour in which she is to be accountable to the highest and most dreadful court of judicature, and to answer at the peril of her soul? To discharge the matri- monial duties in an adequate manner is no easy task ; and shall we lay this burthen upon a woman, while we at the same time deprive her of all that assistance which may enable her to undergo it? Shall we tear her very heart from her, while we enjoin her duties to which a whole heart is scarce equal ? I must speak very plainly 200 HENRY FIELDING here. I think parents who act in this manner are acces- sories to all the guilt which their children afterwards incur, and of course must, before a just judge, expect to partake of their punishment ; but if they could avoid this, good Heaven! is th^re a soul who can bear the thought of having contributed to the damnation of his child? " For these reasons, my best neighbour, as I see the inclinations of this young lady are most unhappily averse to my nephew, I must decline any further thoughts of the honour you intended him, though I assure you I shall always retain the most grateful sense of it." "Well, sir," said Western (the froth bursting forth from his lips the moment they were uncorked), "you cannot say but I have heard you out, and now I expect you'll hear me ; and if I don't answer every word on't, why then I'll consent to gee the matter up. First, then, I desire you to answer me one question — Did not I beget her? did not I beget her? answer me that. They say, indeed, it is a wise father that knows his own child; but I am sure I have the best title to her, for I bred her up. But I believe you will allow me to be her father, and if I be, am I not to govern my own child? I ask you that, am I not to govern my own child ? and if I am to govern her in other matters, surely I am to govern her in this, which concerns her most. And what am I desiring all this while? Am I desiring her to do anything for me? to give me anything? — Zu much on t'other side, that I am only desiring her to take away half my estate now, and t'other half when I die. Well, and what is it all vor? Why is unt it to make her happy? It's enough to make one mad to hear volks talk ; if I was going to marry myself, then she would ha reason to cry and to blubber ; but, on the contrary, han't I offered to bind down my land in zuch a manner, that I could not marry if I would, zeeing as narro' woman upon earth would ha me? What the devil in hell can I do more? I contribute to her damnation! — Zounds ! I'd zee all the world d — n'd bevore her little vinger should be hurt. Indeed, Mr. AUworthy, you TOM JONES 20I must excuse me, but I am surprised to hear you talk in zuch a manner, and I must say, take it how you will, that I thought you had more sense." A 11 worthy resented this reflection only with a smile ; nor could he, if he would have endeavoured it, have conveyed into that smile any mixture of malice or contempt. His smiles at folly were indeed such as we may suppose the angels bestow on the absurdities of mankind. Blifil now desired to be permitted to speak a few words. "As to using any violence on the young lady, I am sure I shall never consent to it. My conscience will not permit me to use violence on any one, much less on a lady for whom, however cruel she is to me, I shall always preserve the purest and sincerest affection ; but yet I have read that women are seldom proof against perseverance. Why may I not hope then by such per- severance at last to gain those inclinations, in which for the future I shall, perhaps, have no rival? as for this lord, Mr. Western is so kind to prefer me to him ; and sure, sir, you will not deny but that a parent hath at least a negative voice in these matters ; nay, I have heard this very young lady herself say so more than once, and declare that she thought children inexcusable who married in direct opposition to the will of their parents. Besides, though the other ladies of the family seem to favour the pretensions of my lord, I do not find the lady herself is inclined to give him any coun- tenance ; alas ! I am too well assured she is not ; I am too sensible that wickedest of men remains uppermost in her heart." "Aye, aye, so he does," cries Western. "But surely," says Blifil, "when she hears of this murder which he hath committed, if the law should spare his life " " What 's that? " cries Western. "Murder! hath he committed a murder, and is there any hopes of seeing him hanged?— Tol de rol, tol lol de rol." Here he fell a singing and capering about the room. "Child," says Allworthy, "this unhappy passion of 202 HENRY FIELDING yours distresses me beyond measure. I heartily pity you, and would do every fair thing to promote your success." " I desire no more," cries Blifil ; " I am convinced my dear uncle hath a better opinion of me than to think that I myself would accept of more." " Lookee," says Allworthy, "you have my leave to write, to visit, if she will permit it — but I insist on no thoughts of violence. I will have no confinement, no- thing of that kind attempted." " Well, well," cries the Squire, " nothing of that kind shall be attempted ; we will try a little longer what fair means will effect ; and if this fellow be but hanged out of the way — Tol lol de rol ! I never heard better news in my life — I warrant everything goes to my mind. — Do, prithee, dear Allworthy, come and dine with me at the Hercules Pillars: I have bespoke a shoulder of mutton roasted, and a sparerib of pork, and a fowl and egg- sauce. There will be nobody but ourselves, unless we have a mind to have the landlord ; for I have sent parson Supple down to Basingstoke after my tobacco-box, which I left at an inn there, and I would not lose it for the world ; for it is an old acquaintance of above twenty years' standing. I can tell you landlord is a vast comical bitch, you will like un hugely." Mr. Allworthy at last agreed to this invitation, and soon after the Squire went off, singing and capering at the hopes of seeing the speedy tragical end of poor Jones. When he was gone, Mr. Allworthy resumed the afore- said subject with much gravity. He told his nephew, ' ' He wished with all his heart he would endeavour to conquer a passion, in which I cannot," says he, "flatter you with any hopes of succeeding. It is certainly a vulgar error, that aversion in a woman may be conquered by perseverance. Indifference may, perhaps, sometimes yield to it ; but the usual triumphs gained by persever- ance in a lover are over caprice, prudence, affectation, and often an exorbitant degree of levity, which excites women not over-warm in their constitutions to indulge their vanity by prolonging the time of courtship, even TOM JONES 203 when they are well enough pleased with the object, and resolve (if they ever resolve at all) to make him a very pitiful amends in the end. But a fixed dislike, as I am afraid this is, will rather gather strength than be con- quered by time. Besides, my dear, I have another apprehension which you must excuse. I am afraid this passion which you have for this fine young creature hath her beautiful person too much for its object, and is unworthy of the name of that love which is the only foundation of matrimonial felicity. To admire, to like, and to long for the possession of a beautiful woman, without any regard to her sentiments towards us, is, I am afraid, too natural ; but love, I believe, is the child of love only ; at least, I am pretty confident that to love the creature who we are assured hates us is not in humannature. Examineyourheart, therefore, thoroughly, my good boy, and if, upon examination, you have but the least suspicion of this kind, I am syre your own virtue and religion will impel you to drive so vicious a passion from your heart, and your good sense will soon enable you to do it without pain." The reader may pretty well guess Blifil's answer; but, if he should be at a loss, we are not at present at leisure to satisfy him, as our history now hastens on to matters of higher importance, and we can no longer bear to be absent from Sophia. [Chapter IV) The lowing heifer and the bleating ewe, in herds and flocks, may ramble safe and unregarded through the pastures. These are, indeed, hereafter doomed to be the prey of man ; yet many years are they suffered to enjoy their liberty undisturbed. But if a plump doe be discovered to have escaped from the forest, and to repose herself in some field or grove, the whole parish is presently alarmed, every man is ready to set his dogs after her ; and, if she is preserved from the rest by the good squire, it is only that he may secure her for his own eating. 204 HENRY FIELDING I have often considered a very fine young woman of fortune and fashion, when first found strayed from the pale of her nursery, to be in pretty much the same situation with this doe. The town is immediately in an uproar ; she is hunted from park to play, from court to assembly, from assembly to her own chamber, and rarely escapes a single season from the jaws of some devourer or other ; for, if her friends protect her from some, it is only to deliver her over to one of their own choosing, often more disagreeable to her than any of the rest; while whole herds or flocks of other women securely, and scarce regarded, traverse the park, the play, the opera, and the assembly; and though, for the most part at least, they are at last devoured, yet for a long time do they wanton in liberty, without disturbance or control. Of all these paragons none ever tasted more of this persecution than poor Sophia. Her ill stars were not contented with all that she had suifered on account of Blifil, they now raised her another pursuer, who seemed likely to torment her no less than the other had done. For though her aunt was less violent, she was no less assiduous in teasing her, than her father had been before. The servants were no sooner departed after dinner than Mrs. Western, who had opened the matter to Sophia, informed her, "That she expected his lordship that very afternoon, and intended to take the first oppor- tunity of leaving her alone with him." " If you do, madam," answered Sophia, with some spirit, "I shall take the first opportunity of leaving him by himself." "How! madam!" cries the aunt; "is this the return you make me for my kindness in relieving you from your confinement at your father's?" "You know, madam," said Sophia, "the cause of that confinement was a re- fusal to comply with my father in accepting a man I de- tested; and will my dear aunt, who hath relieved me from that distress, involve me in another equally bad? " "And do you think, then, madam," answered Mrs. Western, ' ' that there is no difference between my Lord Fellamar and Mr. Blifil? " " Very little, in my opinion," TOM JONES 205 cries Sophia; "and, if I must be condemned to one, I would certainly have the merit of sacrificing myself to my father's pleasure." "Then my pleasure, I find," said the aunt, "hath very little weight with you; but that consideration shall not move me. I act from nobler motives. The view of aggrandizing my family, of en- nobling yourself, is what I proceed upon. Have you no sense of ambition? Are there no charms in the thoughts of having a coronet on your coach? " " None, upon my honour," said Sophia. " A pin-cushion upon my coach would please me just as well." "Never mention hon- our," cries the aunt. "It becomes not the mouth of such a wretch. I am sorry, niece, you force me to use these words, but I cannot bear your grovelling temper ; you have none of the blood of the Westerns in you. But, however mean and base your own ideas are, you shall bring no imputation on mine. I will never suffer the world to say of me that I encouraged you in refusing one of the best matches in England; a match which, besides its advantage in fortune, would do honour to almost any family, and hath, indeed, in title, the advan- tage of ours." " Surely," says Sophia, " I am born de- ficient, and have not the senses with which other people are blessed ; there must be certainly some sense which can relish the delights of sound and show, which I have not; for surely mankind would not labour so much, nor sacrifice so much for the obtaining, nor would they be so elate and proud with possessing, what appeared to them, as it doth to me, the most insignificant of all trifles." "No, no, miss," cries the aunt; "you are born with as many senses as other people ; but I assure you you are not born with a sufficient understanding to make a fool of me, or to expose my conduct to the world; so I declare this to you upon my word, and you know, I believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless you agree to see his lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own hands, deliver you to-morrow morning to my brother, and will never henceforth interfere with you, nor see your face again." Sophia stood a few moments silent 2o6 HENRY FIELDING after this speech, which was uttered in a most angry and peremptory tone; and then, bursting into tears, she cried, "Do with me, madam, whatever you please; I am the most miserable, undone wretch upon earth ; if my dear aunt forsakes me where shall I look for a protector?" " My dear niece," cries she, " you will have a very good protector in his lordship ; a protector whom nothing but a hankering after that vile fellow Jones can make you decline." " Indeed, madam," said Sophia, " you wrong me. How can you imagine, after what you have shown me, if I had ever any such thoughts, that I should banish them for ever ? If it will satisfy you, I will receive the sacrament upon it never to see his face again." " But, child, dear child," said the aunt, "be reasonable; can you invent a single objection?" "I have already, I think, told you a sufficient objection," answered Sophia. "What?" cries the aunt; " I remember none." " Sure, madam," said Sophia, " I told you he had used me in the rudest and vilest manner." " Indeed, child," an- swered she, ' ' I never heard you, or did not understand you : — but what do you mean by this rude vile manner?" " Indeed, madam," said Sophia, " I am almost ashamed to tell you. He caught me in his arms, pulled me down upon the settee, and thrust his hand into my bosom, and kissed it with such violence that I have the mark upon my left breast at this moment." " Indeed! " said Mrs. Western. "Yes, indeed, madam," answered Sophia; "my father luckily came in that instant, or Heaven knows what rudeness he intended to have pro- ceeded to." " I am astonished and confounded," cries the aunt. "No woman of the name of Western hath been ever treated so since we were a family. I would have torn the eyes of a prince out, if he had attempted such freedoms with me. It is impossible ! sure, Sophia, you must invent this to raise my indignation against him." " I hope, madam," said Sophia, "you have too good an opinion of me to imagine me capable of telling an untruth. Upon my soul it is true." " I should have stabbed him to the heart, had I been present," returned the aunt. "Yet surely he could have no dishonourable TOM JONES 207 design ; it is impossible ! he durst not : besides, his pro- posals show he had not ; for they are not only honour- able, but generous. I don't know ; the age allows too great freedoms. A distant salute is all I would have allowed before the ceremony. I have had lovers formerly, not so long ago neither; several lovers, though I never would consent to marriage, and I never encouraged the least freedom. It is a foolish custom, and what I never would agree to. No man kissed more of me than my cheek. It is as much as one can bring oneself to give lips up to a husband ; and, indeed, could I ever have been persuaded to marry, I believe I should not have soon been brought to endure so much." "You will par- don me, dear madam," said Sophia, " if I make one ob- servation : you own you have had many lovers, and the world knows it, even if you should deny it. You refused them all, and, I am convinced, one coronet at least among them." " You say true, dear Sophy," answered she; "I had once the offer of a title." "Why, then," said Sophia, "will you not suffer me to refuse this once? " "It is true, child," said she, " I have refused the offer of a title ; but it was not so good an offer ; that is, not so very, very good an offer." — "Yes, madam," said Sophia; "but you have had very great proposals from men of vast fortunes. It was not the first, nor the second, nor the third advantageous match that offered itself.' "I own it was not," said she. "Well, madam," con- tinued Sophia, "and why may not I expect to have a second, perhaps, better than this? You are now but a young woman, and I am convinced would not promise to yield to the first lover of fortune, nay, or of title too. I am a very young woman, and sure I need not despair." "Well, my dear, dear Sophy," cries the aunt, "what would you have me say?" "Why, I only beg that I may not be left alone, at least this evening; grant me that, and I will submit, if you think, after what is past, I ought to see him in your company." "Well, I will o:rant it," cries the aunt. " Sophy, 5^ou know I love you, and can deny you nothing. You know the easiness of my nature; I have not always been so easy. I have 2o8 HENRY FIELDING been formerly thought cruel ; by the men, I mean. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. I have broke many a window that has had verses to the cruel Parthenissa on it. Sophy, I was never so handsome as you, and yet I had something of you formerly. I am a little altered. Kingdoms and states, as Tully Cicero says in his epistles, undergo alterations, and so must the human form." Thus run she on for near half an hour upon' herself, and her conquests, and her cruelty, till the arrival of my lord, who, after a most tedious visit, during which Mrs. Western never once offered to leave the room, retired, not much more satisfied with the aunt than with the niece : for Sophia had brought her aunt into so excellent a temper, that she consented to almost everything her niece said; and agreed that a little distant behaviour might not be improper to so forward a lover. Thus Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which surely none will blame her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, at least, put off the evil day. And now we have seen our heroine in a better situation than she hath been for a long time before, we will look a little after Mr. Jones, whom we left in the most deplorable situation that can well be imagined. XV [Jones (whose agonies are complicated, though not for long, by a false notion that Mrs. Waters is his mother) has a narrow escape from false witness by two of Lord Fellamar's bravos, but Fitz- patrick, though neither saint nor Solomon, is not a scoundrel. The rest, with a few omissions, may be given entire, save the for- mal postscript.] {Book XVIII— Chapter V) Mr. Allworthy, in his last speech, had recollected some tender ideas concerning Jones, which had brought tears into the good man's eyes. This Mrs. Miller observing, said, "Yes, yes, sir, your goodness to this poor young man is known, notwithstanding all your care to conceal TOM JONES 209 it; but there is not a single syllable of truth in what those villains said. Mr. Nightingale hath now discovered the whole matter. It seems these fellows were employed by a lord, who is a rival of poor Mr. Jones, to have pressed him on board a ship. 1 assure them I don't know who they will press next. Mr. Nightingale here hath seen the officer himself, who is a very pretty gentle- man, and hath told him all, and is very sorry for what he undertook, which he would never have done, had he known Mr. Jones to have been a gentleman ; but he was told that he was a common strolling vagabond." Allworthy stared at all this, and declared he was a stranger to every word she said. " Yes, sir," an- swered she, " I believe you are. It is a very differ- ent story, I believe, from what those fellows told the lawyer." " What lawyer, madam? what is it you mean? " said Allworthy. " Nay, nay," said she, " this is so like you to deny your own goodness: but Mr. Nightingale here saw him." "Saw whom, madam?" answered he. "Why, your lawyer, sir," said she, " that you so kindly sent to inquire into the affair." " I am still in the dark, upon my honour," said Allworthy. " Why then, do you tell him, my dear sir," cries she. "Indeed, sir," said Nightingale, ' ' I did see that very lawyer who went from you when I came into the room, at an alehouse in Alders- gate, in company with two of the fellows who were em- ployed by Lord Fellamar to press Mr. Jones, and who were by that means present at the unhappy rencounter between him and Mr. Fitzpatrick. " "I own, sir," said Mrs. Miller, " when I saw this gentleman come into the room to you, I told Mr. Nightingale that I apprehended you had sent him thither to inquire into the affair. " All- worthy showed marks of astonishment in his countenance at this news, and was indeed for two or three minutes struck dumb by it. At last, addressing himself to Mr. Nightingale, he said, " I must confess myself, sir, more surprised at what you tell me than I have ever been before at anything in my whole life. Are you certain this was the gentleman?" "I am most certain," an- p 2IO HENRY FIELDING swered Nightingale. " At Aldersgate? " cries AUworthy. " And was you in company with this lawyer and the two fellows?" — "I was, sir," said the other, "very near half an hour." "Well, sir," said AUworthy, "and in what manner did the lawyer behave? did you hear all that passed between him and the fellows? " " No, sir," answered Nightingale, " they had been together before I came. — In my presence the lawyer said little; but, after I had several times examined the fellows, who per- sisted in a story directly contrary to what I had heard from Mr. Jones, and which I find by Mr. Fitzpatrick was a rank falsehood, the lawyer then desired the fellows to say nothing but what was the truth, and seemed to speak so much in favour of Mr. Jones, that, when I saw the same person with you, I concluded your goodness had prompted you to send him thither." — " And did you not send him thither?" says Mrs. Miller.— " Indeed I did not," answered AUworthy, "nor did I know he had gone on such an errand till this moment." — "I see it all! " said Mrs. Miller, "upon my soul, I see it all! No wonder they have been closeted so close lately. Son Nightingale, let me beg you run for these fellows imme- diately find them out if they are above ground. I will go myself." "Dear madam," said AUworthy, " be patient, and do me the favour to send a servant up stairs to call Mr. Dowling hither, if he be in the house, or, if not, Mr. Blifil." Mrs. Miller went out muttering something to herself, and presently returned with an answer, "That Mr. Dowling was gone; but that the t'other," as she called him, "was coming." AUworthy was of a cooler disposition than the good woman, whose spirits were all up in arms in the cause of her friend. He was not however without some sus- picions which were near akin to hers. When Blifil came into the room, he asked him with a very serious coun- tenance, and with a less friendly look than he had ever before given him, "Whether he knew anything of Mr. Dowling's having seen any of the persons who were present at the duel between Jones and another gentle- man?" TOM JONES 211 There is nothing so dangerous as a question which comes by surprise on a man whose business it is to con- ceal truth, or to defend falsehood. For which reason those worthy personages, whose noble office it is to save the lives of their fellow-creatures at the Old Bailey, take the utmost care, by frequent previous examination, to divine every question which may be asked their clients on the day of trial, that they may be supplied with proper and ready answers, which the most fertile invention can- not supply in an instant. Besides, the sudden and vio- lent impulse on the blood, occasioned by these surprises, causes frequently such an alteration in the countenance, that the man is obliged to give evidence against himself. And such indeed were the alterations which the coun- tenance of Blifil underwent from this sudden question, that we can scarce blame the eagerness of Mrs. Miller, who immediately cried out, "Guilty, upon my honour! guilty, upon my soul ! " Mr. Allworthy sharply rebuked her for this impetu- osity; and then turning to Blifil, who seemed sinking into the earth, he said, "Why do you hesitate, sir, at giving me an answer? You certainly must have em- ployed him ; for he would not, of his own accord, I be- lieve, have undertaken such an errand, and especially without acquainting me." Blifil then answered, "I own, sir, I have been guilty of an offence, yet may I hope your pardon? " " My pardon?" said Allworthy, very angrily. " Nay, sir," answered Blifil, "I knew you would be offended; yet surely my dear uncle will forgive the effects of the most amiable of human weaknesses. Compassion for those who do not deserve it, I own, is a crime ; and yet it is a crime from which you yourself are not entirely free. I know I have been guilty of it in more than one instance to this very person; and I will own I did send Mr. Dowling, not on a vain and fruitless inquiry, but to dis- cover the witnesses, and to endeavour to soften their evidence. This, sir, is the truth; which, though I in- tended to conceal from you, I will not deny." "I confess," said Nightingale, "this is the light in 212 HENRY FIELDING which it appeared to me from the gentleman's be- haviour." " Now, madam," said Allworthy, " I believe you will once in your life own you have entertained a wrong sus- picion, and are not so angry with my nephew as you was." Mrs. Miller was silent ; for, though she could not so hastily be pleased with Blifil, whom she looked upon to have been the ruin of Jones, yet in this particular in- stance he had imposed upon her as well as upon the rest; so entirely had the devil stood his friend. And, indeed, I look upon the vulgar observation, "That the devil often deserts his friends, and leaves them in the lurch," to be a great abuse on that gentleman's character. Perhaps he may sometimes desert those who are only his cup acquaintance ; or who at most, are but half his ; but he generally stands by those who are thoroughly his servants, and helps them off in all extremities, till their bargain expires. As a conquered rebellion strengthens a government, or as health is more perfectly established by recovery from some diseases, so anger, when removed, often gives new life to affection. This was the case of Mr. Allworthy; for Blifil having wiped off the greater suspicion, the lesser, which had been raised by Square's letter, sunk of course, and was forgotten; and Thwackum, with whom he was greatly offended, bore alone all the reflections which Square had cast on the enemies of Jones. As for that young man, the resentment of Mr. All- worthy began more and more to abate towards him. He told Blifil, "He did not only forgive the extra- ordinary efforts of his good-nature, but would give him the pleasure of following his example." Then, turning to Mrs. Miller with a smile which would have become an angel, he cried, "What say you, madam? shall we take a hackney-coach, and all of us together pay a visit to your friend? I promise you it is not the first visit I have made in a prison." Every reader, I believe, will be able to answer for the worthy woman; but they must have a great deal of good TOM JONES 313 nature, and be well acquainted with friendship, who can feel what she felt on this occasion. Few, I hope, are capable of feeling what now passed in the mind of Blifil; but those who are will acknowledge that it was im- possible for him to raise any objection to this visit. [The visit is delayed by the false news about Jones's relation to Mrs. Waters, who, after Partridge has told his own story with his usual wordiness, confesses the truth.] (From Chapter VII) " You must remember, sir," said she, "a young fellow, whose name was Summer." "Very well," cries All- worthy, "he was the son of a clergyman of great learn- ing and virtue, for whom I had the highest friendship." "So it appeared, sir," answered she, "for I believe you bred the young man up, and maintained him at the uni- versity; where, I think, he had finished his studies, when he came to reside at your house ; a finer man, I must say, the sun never shone upon ; for, besides the handsomest person I ever saw, he was so genteel, and had so much wit and good breeding." "Poor gentle- man," said Allworthy, " he was indeed untimely snatched away ; and little did I think he had any sins of this kind to answer for; for I plainly perceive you are going to tell me he was the father of your child." " Indeed, sir," answered she, "he was not." "How!" said Allworthy, "to what then tends all this preface? " "To a story, sir," said she, "which I am concerned falls to my lot to unfold to you. Oh, sir! prepare to hear something which will surprise you, will grieve you." "Speak," said Allworthy, "I am conscious of no crime, and cannot be afraid to hear." " Sir," said she, "that Mr. Summer, the son of your friend, educated at your expense, who, after living a year in the house as if he had been your own son, died there of the small-pox, was tenderly lamented by you, and buried as if he had been your own; that Summer, sir, was the father of this child." " How! " said Allworthy; " you contradict your- self." "That I do not," answered she; " he was indeed the father of this child, but not by me." "Take care. 214 HENRY FIELDING madam," said Allworthy, "do not, to shun the imputa- tion of any crime, be guilty of falsehood. Remember there is One from whom you can conceal nothing-, and before whose tribunal falsehood will only aggravate your guilt." "Indeed, sir," says she, "I am not his mother ; nor would I now think myself so for the world." " I know your reason," said Allworthy, " and shall rejoice as much as you to find it otherwise ; yet you must remember, you yourself confessed it before me." "So far what I confessed," said she, "was true, that these hands conveyed the infant to your bed ; conveyed it thither at the command of its mother; at her com- mands I afterwards owned it, and thought myself, by her generosity, nobly rewarded, both for my secrecy and my shame." "Who could this woman be?" said Allworthy. " Indeed, I tremble to name her," answered Mrs. Waters. "By all this preparation I am to guess that she was a relation of mine," cried he. "Indeed, she was a near one." At which words Allworthy started, and she continued — "You had a sister, sir." "A sister!" repeated he, looking aghast.— "As there is truth in heaven," cries she, " your sister was the mother of that child you found between your sheets." "Can it be possible?" cries he, " Good Heavens !" " Have patience, sir," said Mrs. Waters, "and I will unfold to you the whole story." [She then tells how Miss Allworthy confided in her, and how the child found its way to AUworthy's bed.] Mrs. Waters then made many protestations of the truth of this story, and concluded by saying, ' ' Thus, sir, you have at last discovered your nephew ; for so I am sure you will hereafter think him, and I question not but he will be both an honour and a comfort to you under that appellation." " I need not, madam," said Allworthy, "express my astonishment at what you have told me ; and yet surely you would not, and could not, have put together so many circumstances to evidence an untruth. I confess I recollect some passages relating to that Summer, which TOM JONES 215 formerly gave me a conceit that my sister had some liking to him. I mentioned it to her; for I had such a regard to the young man, as well on his own account as on his father's, that I should willingly have consented to a match between them ; but she expressed the highest disdain of my unkind suspicion, as she called it; so that I never spoke more on the subject. Good Heavens ! Well! the Lord disposeth all things. Yet sure it was a most unjustifiable conduct in my sister to carry this secret with her out of the world." " I promise you, sir," said Mrs. Waters, " she always professed a contrary in- tention, and frequently told me she intended one day to communicate it to you. She said, indeed, she was highly rejoiced that her plot had succeeded so well, and that you had of your own accord taken such a fancy to the child, that it was yet unnecessary to make any express declaration. Oh ! sir, had that lady lived to have seen this poor young man turned like a vagabond from your house ; nay, sir, could she have lived to hear that you had yourself employed a lawyer to prosecute him for a murder of which he was not guilty Forgive me, Mr. AUworthy, I must say it was unkind. — Indeed, you have been abused, he never deserved it of you." "Indeed, madam," said AUworthy, " I have been abused by the person, whoever he was, that told you so." " Nay, sir," said she, " I would not be mistaken, I did not presume to say you were guilty of any wrong. The gentleman who came to me proposed no such matter ; he only said, taking me for Mr. Fitzpatrick's wife, that, if Mr. Jones had murdered my husband, I should be assisted with any money I wanted to carry on the prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who, he said, was well apprised what a villain I had to deal with. It was by this man I found out who Mr. Jones was; and this man, whose name is Dowling, Mr. Jones tells me is your steward. I discovered his name by a very odd accident; for he himself refused to tell it me; but Partridge, who met him at my lodgings the second time he came, knew him formerly at Salisbury." "And did this Mr. Dowling," says AUworthy, with ai6 HENRY FIELDING great astonishment in his countenance, "tell you that I would assist in the prosecution?" "No, sir," answered she, "I will not charge him wrongfully. He said I should be assisted, but he mentioned no name. Yet you must pardon me, sir, if from circumstances I thought it could be no other." "Indeed, madam," says Allworthy, ' ' from circumstances I am too well con- vinced it was another. Good Heaven! by what wonder- ful means is the blackest and deepest villany sometimes discovered! — Shall I beg you, madam, to stay till the person you have mentioned comes, for I expect him every minute? nay, he may be, perhaps, already in the house." Allworthy then stepped to the door, in order to call a servant, when in came, not Mr. Dowling, but the gentle- man who will be seen in the next chapter. (Chapter VIII) The gentleman who now arrived was no other than Mr. Western. He no sooner saw Allworthy than, without considering in the least the presence of Mrs. Waters, he began to vociferate in the following manner: " Fine doings at my house ! A rare kettle of fish I have dis- covered at last ! who the devil would be plagued with a daughter?" "What's the matter, neighbour?" said Allworthy. "Matter enough, "answered Western: "when I thought she was a just coming to; nay, when she had in a manner promised me to do as I would ha her, and when I was a hoped to have had nothing more to do than to have sent for the lawyer, and finished all ; what do you think I have found out? that the little b— hath bin playing tricks with me all the while, and carrying on a correspondence with that bastard of yours. Sister Western, whom I have quarrelled with upon her ac- count, sent me word o't, and I ordered her pockets to be searched when she was asleep, and here I have got un signed with the son of a whore's own name. I have not had patience to read half o 't, for 'tis longer than one of Parson Supple's sermons ; but I find plainly it is TOM JONES 217 all about love; and indeed what should it be else? I have packed her up in chamber again, and to-morrow morning down she goes into the country, unless she consents to be married directly, and there she shall live in a garret upon bread and water all her days ; and the sooner such a b — breaks her heart the better, though, d — n her, that I believe is too tough. She will live long enough to plague me." " Mr. Western," answered All- worthy, "you know I have always protested against force, and you yourself consented that none should be used." " Aye," cries he, " that was only upon condition that she would consent without. What the devil and doctor Faustus! shan't I do what I will with my own daughter, especially when I desire nothing but her own good?" "Well, neighbour," answered Allworthy, "if you will give me leave, I will undertake once to argue with the young lady." "Will you!" said Western; "why that is kind now, and neighbourly, and mayhap you will do more than I have been able to do with her; for I promise you she hath a very good opinion of you." "Well, sir," said Allworthy, " if you will go home, and release the young lady from her captivity, I will wait upon her within this half-hour." "But suppose," said Western, "she should run away with un in the mean time? For Lawyer Dowling tells me there is no hopes of hanging the fellow at last ; for that the man is alive, and like to do well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of prison again presently." "How!" said Allworthy, "what, did you employ him then to inquire or to do any- thing in that matter? " "Not I," answered Western, "he mentioned it to me just now of his own accord." "Just now!" cries Allworthy, "why, where did you see him then? I want much to see Mr. Dowling." "Why, you may see un an you will presently at my lodgings; for there is to be a meeting of lawyers there this morning about a mortgage. 'Icod! I shall lose two or dree thousand pounds, I believe, by that honest gentleman, Mr. Nightingale." " Well, sir," said Allworthy, " I will be with you within the half-hour." " And do for once," cries the Squire, ' ' take a fool's advice ; never think of 2i8 HENRY FIELDING dealing with her by gentle methods, take my word for it those will never do. I have tried 'um long enough. She must be frightened into it, there is no other way. Tell her I'm her father; and of the horrid sin of disobedience, and of the dreadful punishment of it in t'other world, and then tell her about being locked up all her life in a garret in this, and being kept only on bread and water." "I will do all I can," said AUworthy; "for I promise you there is nothing I wish for more than an alliance with this amiable creature." "Nay, the girl is well enough for matter o' that," cries the Squire; "a man may go farther and meet with worse meat ; that I may declare o' her, thof she be my own daughter. And if she will be but obedient to me, there is n'arrow a father within a hundred miles o' the place, that loves a daughter better than I do ; but I see you are busy with the lady here, so I will go huome and expect you ; and so your humble servant." [After some conversation on Mrs. Waters's own affairs and life, AUworthy promises to provide for her.] Mrs. Waters fell now upon her knees before him, and, in a flood of tears, made him many most passionate acknowledgments of his goodness, which, as she truly said, savoured more of the divine than human nature. AUworthy raised her up, and spoke in the most tender manner, making use of every expression which his in- vention could suggest to comfort her, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Dowling, who, upon his first entrance, seeing Mrs. Waters, started, and ap- peared in some confusion ; from which he soon recovered himself as well as he could, and then said he was in the utmost haste to attend counsel at Mr. Western's lodg- ings ; but, however, thought it his duty to call and acquaint him with the opinion of counsel upon the case ^ which he had befpre told him, which was that the con- version of the moneys in that case could not be ques- tioned in a criminal cause, but that an action of trover ' Black George's theft of the £500 which has become known. TOM JONES 219 migfht be brought, and if it appeared to the jury to be the moneys of plaintiif, that plaintiff would recover a verdict for the value. AUworthy, without making any answer to this, bolted the door, and then, advancing with a stern look to Dowling, he said, " Whatever be your haste, sir, I must first receive an answer to some questions. Do you know this lady?" "That lady, sir!" answered Dowling, with great hesitation. AUworthy then, with the most solemn voice, said, " Look you, Mr. Dowling, as you value my favour, or your continuance a moment longer in my service, do not hesitate nor prevaricate; but answer faithfully and truly to every question I ask. Do you know this lady? " " Yes, sir," said Dowling, "I have seen the lady." "Where, sir?" "At her own lodgings."- — "Upon what business did you go thither, sir; and who sent you?" "I went, sir, to inquire, sir, about Mr. Jones." " And who sent you to inquire about him?" "Who, sir? why, sir, Mr. Blifil sent me." "And what did you say to the lady concerning that matter?" "Nay, sir, it is impossible to recollect every word." "Will you please, madam, to assist the gentle- man's memory? " " He told me, sir," said Mrs. Waters, "that if Mr. Jones had murdered my husband, I should be assisted by any money I wanted to carry on the prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who was well apprised what a villain I had to deal with. These, I can safely swear, were the very words he spoke." — "Were these the words, sir? " said AUworthy. " I cannot charge my memory exactly," cries Dowling, "but I believe I did speak to that purpose."^" And did Mr. Blifil order you to say so?" "I am sure, sir, I should not have gone on my own accord, nor have willingly exceeded my authority in matters of this kind. If I said so, I must have so understood Mr. Blifil's instructions." " Look you, Mr. Dowling," said AUworthy ; "I promise you before this lady, that whatever you have done in this affair by Mr. Blifil's order I will forgive, provided you now tell me strictly the truth ; for I believe what you say, that you would not have acted of your own 2ao HENRY FIELDING accord, and without authority in this matter. Mr. Blifil then likewise sent you to examine the two fellows at Aldersg-ate? "— " He did, sir." "Well, and what instruc- tions did he then give you? Recollect as well as you can, and tell me, as near as possible, the very words he used." "Why, sir, Mr. Blifil sent me to find out the persons who were eye-witnesses of this fight. He said, he feared they might be tampered with by Mr. Jones, or some of his friends. He said, blood required blood; and that not only all who concealed a murderer, but those who omitted anything in their power to bring him to justice, were sharers in his guilt. He said, he found you was very desirous of having the villain brought to justice, though it was not proper you should appear in it." " He did so? " says Allworthy.— " Yes, sir," cries Dowling; " I should not, I am sure, have proceeded such lengths for the sake of any other person living but your worship." — "What lengths, sir?" said Allworthy. — "Nay, sir," cries Dowling, "I would not have your worship think I would, on any account, be guilty of subornation of perjury ; but there are two ways of delivering evidence. I told them, therefore, that, if any offers should be made them on the other side, they should refuse them, and that they might be assured they should lose nothing by being honest men, and telling the truth. I said, we were told that Mr. Jones had assaulted the gentleman first, and that, if that was the truth, they should declare it; and I did give them some hints that they should be no losers." — " I think you went lengths indeed," cries Allworthy. "Nay, sir," answered Dowling, "I am sure I did not desire them to tell an untruth ; nor should I have said what I did, unless it had been to oblige you." "You would not have thought, I believe," says All- worthy, "to have obliged me, had you known that this Mr. Jones was my own nephew." " I am sure, sir," answered he, ' ' it did not become me to take any notice of what I thought you desired to conceal." — " How! " cries Allworthy, " and did you know it then? "— " Nay, sir," answered Dowling, "if your worship bids me speak the truth, I am sure I shall do it. — Indeed, sir, I did TOM JONES 221 know it; for they were almost the last words which Madam Blifil ever spoke, which she mentioned to me as I stood alone by her bedside, when she delivered me the letter I brought your worship from her." — "What letter?" cries Allworthy. — "The letter, sir," answered Dowling, "which I brought from Salisbury, and which I delivered into the hands of Mr. Blifil. ' ' ' ' O Heavens ! " cries Allworthy; "Well, and what were the words? What did my sister say to you?" — "She took me by the hand," answered he, "and, as she delivered me the letter, said, ' I scarce know what I have written. Tell my brother, Mr. Jones is his nephew — He is my son. — Bless him,' says she, and then fell backward, as if dying away. I presently called in the people, and she never spoke more to me, and died within a few minutes after- wards." — Allworthy stood a minute silent, lifting up his eyes; and then, turning to Dowling, said, " How came you, sir, not to deliver me this message?" "Your worship," answered he, "must remember that you was at that time ill in bed ; and, being in a violent hurry, as indeed I always am, I delivered the letter and message to Mr. Blifil, who told me he would carry them both to you, which he hath since told me he did, and that your worship, partly out of friendship to Mr. Jones, and partly out of regard to your sister, would never have it men- tioned, and did intend to conceal it from the world ; and therefore, sir, if you had not mentioned it to me first, I am certain I should never have thought it belonged to me to say anything of the matter, either to your wor- ship or any other person." We have remarked somewhere already, that it is possible for a man to convey a lie in the words of truth ; this was the case at present ; for Blifil had, in fact, told Dowling what he now related, but had not imposed upon him, nor indeed had imagined he was able so to do. In reality, the promises which Blifil had made to Dowling were the motives which had induced him to secrecy; and, as he now very plainly saw Blifil would not be able to keep them, he thought proper now to make this confession, which the promises of forgiveness, 222 HENRY FIELDING joined to the threats, the voice, the looks of Allworthy, and the discoveries he had made before, extorted from him, who was besides taken unawares, and had no time to consider of evasions. Allworthy appeared well satisfied with this relation, and, having enjoined on Dowling strict silence as to what had passed, conducted that gentleman himself to the door, lest he should see Blifil, who was returned to his chamber, where he exulted in the thoughts of his last deceit on his uncle, and little suspected what had since passed below stairs. As Allworthy was returning to his room he met Mrs. Miller in the entry, who, with a face all pale and full of terror, said to him, " Oh, sir! I find this wicked woman hath been with you, and you know all; yet do not on this account abandon the poor young man. Consider, sir, he was ignorant it was his own mother; and the discovery itself will most probably break his heart, with- out your unkindness." "Madam," says Allworthy, "I am under such an astonishment at what I have heard, that I am really un- able to satisfy you ; but come with me into my room. Indeed, Mrs. Miller, I have made surprising discoveries, and you shall soon know them." The poor woman followed him trembling; and now Allworthy, going up to Mrs. Waters, took her by the hand, and then, turning to Mrs. Miller, said, "What reward shall I bestow upon this gentlewoman, for the services she hath done me? — Oh, Mrs. Miller, you have a thousand times heard me call the young man to whom you are so faithful a friend, my son. Little did I then think he was indeed related to me at all. — Your friend, madam, is my nephew ; he is the brother of that wicked viper which I have so long nourished in my bosom. — She will herself tell you the whole story, and how the youth came to pass for her son. Indeed, Mrs. Miller, I am convinced that he hath been wronged, and that I have been abused ; abused by one whom you too justly suspected of being a villain. He is, in truth, the worst of villains." TOM JONES 223 The joy which Mrs. Miller now felt bereft her of the power of speech, and might perhaps have deprived her of her senses, if not of life, had not a friendly shower of tears come seasonably to her relief. At length, recover- ing so far from her transport as to be able to speak, she cried, "And is my dear Mr. Jones then your nephew, sir, and not the son of this lady? And are your eyes opened to him at last? And shall I live to see him as happy as he deserves? " " He certainly is my nephew," says Allworthy, "and I hope all the rest." — "And is this the dear good woman, the person," cries she, "to whom all this discovery is owing?" — "She is indeed," says Allworthy. — "Why, then," cried Mrs. Miller, upon her knees, " may Heaven shower down its choicest bless- ings upon her head, and for this one good action forgive her all her sins, be they never so many! " Mrs. Waters then informed them that she believed Jones would very shortly be released ; for that the sur- geon was gone, in company with a nobleman, to the justice who committed him, in order to certify that Mr. Fitzpatrick was out of all manner of danger, and to pro- cure his prisoner his liberty. Allworthy said he should be glad to find his nephew there at his return home ; but that he was then obliged to go on some business of consequence. He then called to a servant to fetch him a chair, and presently left the two ladies together. Mr. Blifil, hearing the chair ordered, came down stairs to attend upon his uncle ; for he never was deficient in such acts of duty. He asked his uncle if he was going out, which is a civil way of asking a man whither he is going : to which the other making no answer, he again desired to know when he would be pleased to return? — Allworthy made no answer to this neither, till he was just going into his chair, and then, turning about, he said — " Harkee, sir, do you find out, before my return, the letter which your mother sent me on her death-bed." Allworthy then departed, and left Blifil in a situation to be envied only by a man who is just going to be hanged. 224 HENRY FIELDING (Chapter IX) Allworthy took an opportunity, whilst he was in the chair, of reading the letter from Jones to Sophia, which Western delivered him ; and there were some expressions in it concerning himself which drew tears from his eyes. At length he arrived at Mr. Western's, and was intro- duced to Sophia. When the first ceremonies were past, and the gentle- man and lady had taken their chairs, a silence of some minutes ensued ; during which the latter, who had been prepared for the visit by her father, sat playing with her fan, and had every mark of confusion both in her coun- tenance and behaviour. At length Allworthy, who was himself a little disconcerted, began thus : "I am afraid. Miss Western, my family hath been the occasion of giving you some uneasiness ; to which, I fear, I have innocently become more instrumental than I intended. Be assured, madam, had I at first known how disagree- able the proposals had been, I should not have suffered you to have been so long persecuted. I hope, therefore, you will not think the design of this visit is to trouble you with any further solicitations of that kind, but en- tirely to relieve you from them." "Sir," said Sophia, with a little modest hesitation, ' ' this behaviour is most kind and generous, and such as I could expect only from Mr. Allworthy ; but as you have been so kind to mention this matter, you will pardon me for saying it hath, indeed, given me great uneasiness, and hath been the occasion of my suffering much cruel treatment from a father who was, till that unhappy affair, the tenderest and fondest of all parents. I am convinced, sir, you are too good and generous to resent my refusal of your nephew. Our inclinations are not in our own power ; and whatever may be his merit, I cannot force them in his favour." " I assure you, most amiable young lady," said Allworthy, " I am capable of no such resent- ment, had the person been my own son, and had I entertained the highest esteem for him. For you say truly, madam, we cannot force our inclinations, much TOM JONES 225 less can they be directed by another." "Oh, sir!" answered Sophia, " every word you speak proves you to deserve that good, that great, that benevolent character the whole world allows you. I assure you, sir, nothing less than the certain prospect of future misery could have made me resist the commands of my father." " I sincerely believe you, madam," replied Allworthy, "and I heartily congratulate you on your prudent foresight, since by so justifiable a resistance you have avoided misery indeed!" "You speak now, Mr. Allworthy," cries she, ' ' with a delicacy which few men are capable of feeling ! but surely, in my opinion, to lead our lives with one to whom we are indifferent must be a state of wretchedness — Perhaps that wretchedness would be even Increased by a sense of the merits of an object to whom We cannot give our affections. If I had married Mr. Blifil " "Pardon my interrupting you, madam," answered Allworthy, " but I cannot bear the supposition. — Believe me. Miss Western, I rejoice from my heart, I rejoice in your escape. 1 have discovered the wretch, for whom you have suffered all this cruel violence from your father, to be a villain." " How, sir! " cries Sophia, — "you must believe this surprises me." "It hath surprised me, madam," answered Allworthy, "and so it will the world — But I have acquainted you with the real truth." "Nothing but truth," says Sophia, "can, I am convinced, come from the lips of Mr. All- worthy. Yet, sir, such sudden, such unexpected news Discovered, you say may villany be ever so!" "You will soon enough hear the story," cries Allworthy; "at present let us not mention so detested a name. — I have another matter of a very serious nature to propose. — Oh, Miss Western, I know your vast worth, nor can I so easily part with the ambition of being allied to it. — I have a near relation, madam, a young man whose character is, I am convinced, the very opposite to that of this wretch, and whose fortune I will make equal to what his was to have been. Could I, madam, hope you would admit a visit from him?" Sophia, after a minute's silence, answered, " I will deal with the Q 226 HENRY FIELDING utmost sincerity with Mr. AUworthy. His character, and the obligation I have just received from him, demand it. I have determined at present to listen to no such pro- posals from any person. My only desire is to be restored to the affection of my father, and to be again the mistress of his family. This, sir, I hope to owe to your good offices. Let me beseech you, let me conjure you, by all the goodness which I, and all who know you, have ex- perienced, do not, the very moment when you have re- leased me from one persecution, do not engage me in another as miserable and as fruitless." " Indeed, Miss Western," replied AUworthy, " I am capable of no such conduct ; and if this be your resolution, he must submit to the disappointment, whatever torments he may suffer under it." "I must smile now, Mr. AUworthy," an- swered Sophia, "when you mention the torments of a man whom I do not know, and who can consequently have so little acquaintance with me." " Pardon me, dear young lady," cries AUworthy, " I begin now to be afraid he hath had too much acquaintance for the repose of his future days ; since, if ever man was capable of a sincere, violent and noble passion, such, I am convinced, is my unhappy nephew's for Miss Western. " "A nephew of yours, Mr. AUworthy!" answered Sophia. "It is surely strange, I never heard of him before." " Indeed, madam," cries AUworthy, "it is only the circumstance of his being my nephew to which you are a stranger, and which, till this day, was a secret to me. — Mr. Jones, who has long loved you, he! he is my nephew! " " Mr. Jones your nephew, sir ! " cries Sophia; " can it be pos- sible? " — " He is, indeed, madam," answered AUworthy; "he is my own sister's son — as such I shall always own him; nor am I ashamed of owning him. I am much more ashamed of my past behaviour to him ; but I was as ignorant of his merit as of his birth. Indeed, Miss Western, I have used him cruelly -Indeed I have." Here the good man wiped his eyes, and after a short pause proceeded — "I never shall be able to re- ward him for his sufferings without your assistance. Believe me, most amiable young lady, I must have a TOM JONES 227 great esteem of that offering which I make to your worth. I know he hath been guilty of faults ; but there is great goodness of heart at the bottom. Believe me, madam, there is." Here he stopped, seeming to expect an answer, which he presently received from Sophia, after she had a little recovered herself from the hurry of spirits into which so strange and sudden information had thrown her: "I sincerely wish you joy, sir, of a dis- covery in which you seem to have such satisfaction. I doubt not but you will have all the comfort you can promise yourself from it. The young gentleman hath certainly a thousand good qualities which makes it im- possible he should not behave well to such an uncle." — " I hope, madam," said Allworthy, " he hath those good qualities which must make him a good husband. — He must, I am sure, be of all men the most abandoned, if a lady of your merit should condescend " " You must pardon me, Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia; " I can- not listen to a proposal of this kind. Mr. Jones, I am convinced, hath much merit ; but I shall never receive Mr. Jones as one who is to be my husband — Upon my honour I never will." — "Pardon me, madam," cries Allworthy, " if I am a little surprised, after what I have heard from Mr. Western 1 hope the unhappy young man hath done nothing to forfeit your good opinion, if he had ever the honour to enjoy it. — Perhaps he may have been misrepresented to you, as he was to me. The same villany may have injured him everywhere. — He is no murderer, I assure you, as he hath been called." — "Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia, "I have told you my resolution. I wonder not at what my father hath told you ; but, whatever his apprehensions or fears have been, if I know my heart, I have given no occasion for them ; since it hath always been a fixed principle with me, never to have married without his consent. This is, I think, the duty of a child to a parent ; and this, I hope, nothing could ever have prevailed with me to swerve from. I do not indeed conceive that the authority of any parent can oblige us to marry in direct opposition to our inclinations. To avoid a force of this kind, which I had 228 HENRY FIELDING reason to suspect, I left my father's house, and sought protection elsewhere. This is the truth of my story ; and if the world, or my father, carry my intentions any far- ther, my own conscience will acquit me." " I hear you. Miss Western," cries Allworthy, "with admiration. I admire the justice of your sentiments ; but surely there is more in this. I am cautious of offendingf you, young lady ; but am I to look on all which I have hitherto heard or seen as a dream only? And have you suffered so much cruelty from your father on the account of a man to whom you have been always absolutely indifferent? " "I beg, Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia, "you will not insist on my reasons ; — yes, I have suffered indeed ; I will not, Mr. Allworthy, conceal 1 will be very sin- cere with you — I own I had a great opinion of Mr. Jones — I believe — I know I have suffered for my opinion I have been treated cruelly by my aunt, as well as by my father ; but that is now past— I beg I may not be farther pressed ; for, whatever hath been, my resolution is now fixed. Your nephew, sir, hath many virtues — he hath great virtues, Mr. Allworthy. I question not but he will do you honour in the world, and make you happy." " I wish I could make him so, madam," replied Allworthy; ' ' but that I am convinced is only in your power. It is that conviction which hath made me so earnest a solicitor in his favour. " ' ' You are deceived indeed, sir; you are deceived," said Sophia; " I hope not by him — It is suf- ficient to have deceived me. Mr. Allworthy, I must insist on being pressed no farther on this subject. I should be sorry — nay, I will not injure him in your favour. I wish Mr. Jones very well. I sincerely wish him well ; and I repeat it again to you, whatever demerit he may have to me, I am certain he hath many good qualities. I do not disown my former thoughts ; but nothing can ever recall them. At present there is not a man upon earth whom I would more resolutely reject than Mr. Jones ; nor would the addresses of Mr. Blifil himself be less agreeable to me." Western had been long impatient for the event of this conference, and was just now arrived at the door to TOM JONES 229 listen; when, having heard the last sentiments of his daughter's heart, he lost all temper, and, bursting open the door in a rage, cried out — "It is a lie! It is a d — ned he! It is all owing to that d — ned rascal Juones; and if she could get at un, she'd ha un any hour of the day." Here Allworthy interposed, and addressing him- self to the Squire with some anger in his look, he said, " Mr. Western, you have not kept your word with me. You promised to abstain from all violence." — "Why so I did," cries Western, " as long as it was possible; but to hear a wench telling such confounded lies Zounds! doth she think, if she can make vools of other volk, she can make one of me? No, no, I know her better than thee dost." " I am sorry to tell you, sir," answered All- worthy, " it doth not appear, by your behaviour to this young lady, that you know her at all. I ask pardon for what I say: but I think our intimacy, your own desires, and the occasion, justify me. She is your daughter, Mr. Western, and I think she doth honour to your name. If I was capable of envy, I should sooner envy you on this account than any other man whatever." — " Odrabbit it!" cries the Squire, "I wish she was thine, with all my heart — wouldst soon be glad to be rid of the trouble o' her." " Indeed, my good friend," answered Allworthy, " you yourself are the cause of all the trouble you com- plain of. Place that confidence in the young lady which she so well deserves, and I am certain you will be the happiest father on earth." "I confidence in her!" cries the Squire. " 'Sblood! what confidence can I place in her, when she won't do as I would ha her? Let her gi' but her consent to marry as I would ha her, and I'll place as much confidence in her as wouldst ha me." "You have no right, neighbour," answered All- worthy, "to insist on any such consent. A negative voice your daughter allows you, and God and nature have thought proper to allow you no more."—" A nega- tive voice ! " cries the Squire, " Aye ! aye! I'll show you what a negative voice I ha. — Go along, go into your chamber, go, you stubborn ." " Indeed, Mr. West- ern," said Allworthy, "indeed you use her cruelly — I 230 HENRY FIELDING cannot bear to see this — you shall, you must behave to her in a kinder manner. She deserves the best of treat- ment." " Yes, yes," said the Squire, " I know what she deserves : now she 's gone, I'll show you what she de- serves. See here, sir, here is a letter from my cousin, my Lady Bellaston, in which she is so kind to gi' me to understand that the fellow is got out of prison again; and here she advises me to take all the care I can o' the wench. Odzookers! neighbour Allworthy, you don't know what it is to govern a daughter." The Squire ended his speech with some compliments to his own sagacity ; and then Allworthy, after a formal preface, acquainted him with the whole discovery which he had made concerning Jones, with his anger to Blifil, and with every particular which hath been disclosed to the reader in the preceding chapters. Men over-violent in their dispositions are, for the most part, as changeable in them. No sooner then was Western informed of Mr. AUworthy's intention to make Jones his heir, than he joined heartily with the uncle in every commendation of the nephew, and became as eager for her marriage with Jones as he had before been to couple her to Blifil. Here Mr. Allworthy was again forced to interpose, and to relate what had passed between him and Sophia, at which he testified great surprise. The Squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with astonishment at this account. — At last he cried out, ' ' Why, what can be the meaning of this, neighbour Allworthy? Vond o' un she was, that I'll be sworn to. Odzookers ! I have hit o't. As sure as a gun I have hit o' the very right o't. It 's all along o' zister. The girl hath got a hankering after this son of a whore of a lord. I vound 'em together at my cousin my Lady Bellaston's. He hath turned the head o' her, that 's cer- tain — but d — n me if he shall ha her — I'll ha no lords nor courtiers in my vamily." Allworthy now made a long speech, in which he re- peated his resolution to avoid all violent measures, and very earnestly recommended gentle methods to Mr. TOM JONES 231 Western, as those by which he might be assured of suc- ceeding best with his daughter. He then took his leave, and returned back to Mrs. Miller, but was forced to comply with the earnest entreaties of the Squire, in pro- mising to bring Mr. Jones to visit him that afternoon, that he might, as he said, "make all matters up with the young gentleman." At Mr. Allworthy's departure. Western promised to follow his advice in his behaviour to Sophia, saying, " I don't know how 'tis, but d — nme, AUworthy, if you don't make me always do just as you please ; and yet I have as good an esteate as you, and am in the commission of the peace as well as yourself." {Chapter X) When AUworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr. Jones was just arrived before him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty chamber, whither he ordered Mr. Jones to be brought to him alone. It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the meeting between the uncle and nephew (for Mrs. Waters, as the reader may well suppose, had at her last visit discovered to him the secret of his birth). The first agonies of joy which were felt on both sides are indeed beyond my power to describe : I shall not there- fore attempt it. After AUworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he had prostrated himself, and received him into his arms, "Oh, my child!" he cried, "how have I been to blame ! how have I injured you ! What amends can I ever make you for those unkind, those unjust sus- picions which I have entertained, and for all the suffer- ings they have occasioned to you? " " Am I not now made amends? " cries Jones. "Would not my sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have been now richly repaid? Oh, my dear uncle, this goodness, this tender- ness overpowers, unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the transports which flow so fast upon me. To be again restored to your presence, to your favour; to be once more thus kindly received by my great, my noble, my generous benefactor." — " Indeed, child," cries AUworthy, " I have used you cruelly." He then explained to him 232 HENRY FIELDING all the treachery of Blifil, and again repeated expressions of the utmost concern, for having been induced by that treachery to use him so ill. " Oh, talk not so ! " answered Jones ; ' ' indeed, sir, you have used me nobly. The wisest man might be deceived as you were ; and, under such a deception, the best must have acted just as you did. Your goodness displayed itself in the midst of your anger, just as it then seemed. I owe everything to that goodness, of which I have been most unworthy. Do not put me on self-accusation, by carrying your gener- ous sentiments too far. Alas ! sir, I have not been punished more than I have deserved ; and it shall be the whole business of my future life to deserve that happi- ness you now bestow on me ; for, believe me, my dear uncle, my punishment hath not been thrown away upon me : though I have been a great, I am not a hardened sinner; I thank Heaven, I have had time to reflect on my past life, where, though I cannot charge myself with any gross villany, yet I can discern follies and vices more than enough to repent and to be ashamed of ; follies which have been attended with dreadful consequences to myself, and have brought me to the brink of destruc- tion." "I am rejoiced, my dear child," answered All- worthy, "to hear you talk thus sensibly; for as I am convinced hypocrisy (good Heaven ! how have I been imposed on by it in others !) was never among your faults, so I can readily believe all you say. You now see, Tom, to what dangers imprudence alone may subject virtue (for virtue, I am now convinced, you love in a great degree). Prudence is indeed the duty which we owe to ourselves ; and if we will be so much our own enemies as to neglect it, we are not to wonder if the world is deficient in discharging their duty to us; for when a man lays the foundation of his own ruin, others will, I am afraid, be too apt to build upon it. You say, how- ever, you have seen your errors, and will reform them. I firmly believe you, my dear child ; and therefore, from this moment, you shall never be reminded of them by me. Remember them only yourself so far as for the future to teach you the better to avoid them ; but still TOM JONES 233 remember, for your comfort, that there is this great difference between those faults which candour may construe into imprudence, and those which can be de- duced from villany only. The former, perhaps, are even more apt to subject a man to ruin ; but if he reform, his character will, at length, be totally retrieved ; the world, though not immediately, will in time be reconciled to him ; and he may reflect, not without some mixture of pleasure, on the dangers he hath escaped ; but villany, my boy, when once discovered, is irretrievable; the stains which this leaves behind, no time will wash away. The censures of mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn will abash him in public ; and if shame drives him into retirement, he will go to it with all those terrors with which a weary child, who is afraid of hob- goblins, retreats from company to go to bed alone. Here his murdered conscience will haunt him. Repose, like a false friend, will fly from him. Wherever he turns his eyes, horror presents itself; if he looks backward, unavailable repentance treads on his heels ; if forward, incurable despair stares him in the face ; till, like a con- demned prisoner confined in a dungeon, he detests his present condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour which is to relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that this is not your case ; and rejoice with thankfulness to Him who hath suffered you to see your errors, before they have brought on you that destruction to which a persistence in even those errors must have led you. You have deserted them; and the prospect now before you is such, that happiness seems in your own power." At these words Jones fetched a deep sigh ; upon which, when Allworthy re- monstrated, he said, " Sir, I will conceal nothing from you : I fear there is one consequence of my vices I shall never be able to retrieve. Oh, my dear uncle ! I have lost a treasure." "You need say no more," answered Allworthy; "I will be explicit with you; I know what you lament ; I have seen the young lady, and have discoursed with her concerning you. This I must insist on, as an earnest of your sincerity in all you have said, 234 HENRY FIELDING and of the steadfastness of your resolution, that you obey me in one instance. To abide entirely by the deter- mination of the young lady, whether it shall be in your favour or no. She hath already suffered enough from solicitations which I hate to think of; she shall owe no further constraint to my family : I know her father will be as ready to torment her now on your account as he hath formerly been on another's; but I am determined she shall suffer no more confinement, no more violence, no more uneasy hours." "Oh, my dear uncle!" an- swered Jones, "lay, I beseech you, some command on me, in which I shall have some merit in obedience. Believe me, sir, the only instance in which I could dis- obey you would be to give an uneasy moment to my Sophia. No, sir, if I am so miserable to have incurred her displeasure beyond all hope of forgiveness, that alone, with the dreadful reflection of causing her misery, will be sufficient to overpower me. To call Sophia mine is the greatest, and now the only additional blessing which Heaven can bestow; but it is a blessing which I must owe to her alone." " I will not flatter you, child," cries Allworthy; " I fear your case is desperate: I never saw stronger marks of an unalterable resolution in any person than appeared in her vehement declarations against receiving your addresses ; for which, perhaps, you can account better than myself." " Oh, sir! I can account too well," answered Jones; "I have sinned against her beyond all hope of pardon ; and, guilty as I am, my guilt unfortunately appears to her in ten times blacker than the real colours. Oh, my dear uncle ! I find my follies are irretrievable; and all your goodness \cannot save me from perdition." A servant now acquainted them that Mr. Western was below stairs; for his eagerness to see Jones could not wait till the afternoon. Upon which Jones, whose eyes were full of tears, begged his uncle to entertain Western a few minutes, till he a little recovered himself; to which the good man consented, and, having ordered Mr. Western to be shown into a parlour, went down to him. Mrs. Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone TOM JONES 33s (for she had not yet seen him since his release from prison) than she came eagerly into the room, and ad- vancing towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his new-found uncle and his happy reconciliation ; adding, " I wish I could give you joy on another account, my dear child; but anything so inexorable I never saw." Jones, with some appearance of surprise, asked her what she meant. "Why, then," says she, "I have been with your young lady, and have exjjlained all matters to her, as they were told me by my son Night- ingale. She can have no longer any doubt about the letter ; of that I am certain ; for I told her my son Nightingale was ready to take his oath, if she pleased, that it was all his own invention, and the letter of his inditing. I told her the very reason of sending the letter ought to recommend you to her the more, as it was all upon her account, and a plain proof that you was re- solved to quit all your profligacy for the future; that you had never been guilty of a single instance of in- fidelity to her since your seeing her in town : I am afraid I went too far there ; but Heaven forgive me ! I hope your future behaviour will be my justification. I am sure I have said all I can ; but all to no purpose. She remains inflexible. She says, she had forgiven many faults on account of youth ; but expressed such detestation of the character of a libertine, that she absolutely silenced me. I often attempted to excuse you ; but the justness of her accusation flew in my face. Upon my honour, she is a lovely woman, and one of the sweetest and most sensible creatures I ever saw. I could have almost kissed her for one expression she made use of. It was a sentiment worthy of Seneca, or of a bishop. ' I once fancied, madam,' said she, ' I had discovered great goodness of heart in Mr. Jones ; and for that I own I had a sincere esteem; but an entire profligacy of manners will corrupt the best heart in the world ; and all which a good-natured libertine can expect is, that we should mix some grains of pity with our contempt and abhorrence.' She is an angelic creature, that is the truth on't." "Oh, Mrs. Miller!" answered 236 HENRY FIELDING Jones, " can I bear to think I have lost such an angel? " "Lost! no," cries Mrs. Miller; "I hope you have not lost her yet. Resolve to leave such vicious courses, and you may yet have hopes ; nay, if she should remain in- exorable, there is another young lady, a sweet pretty young lady, and a swingeing fortune, who is absolutely dying for love of you. I heard of it this very morning, and I told it to Miss Western; nay, I went a little beyond the truth again ; for I told her you had refused her ; but indeed I knew you would refuse her. And here I must give you a little comfort ; when I mentioned the young lady's name, who is no other than the pretty Widow Hunt, I thought she turned pale; but when I said you had refused her, I will be sworn her face was all over scarlet in an instant ; and these were her very words : ' I will not deny but that I believe he has some affection for me.' " Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who could no longer be kept out of the room even by the authority of Allworthy himself; though this, as we have often seen, had a wonderful power over him. Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, " My old friend Tom, I am glad to see thee with all my heart! all past must be forgotten; I could not intend any affront to thee, because, as Allworthy here knows, nay, dost know it thyself, I took thee for another per- son ; and where a body means no harm, what signifies a hasty word or two? One christian must forget and forgive another." "I hope, sir," said Jones, "I shall never forget the many obligations I have had to you; but as for any offence towards me, I declare I am an utter stranger." "A 't," says Western, "then give me thy fist; a 't as hearty an honest cock as any in the kingdom. Come along with me; I'll carry thee to thy mistress this moment." Here Allworthy interposed; and the Squire being unable to prevail either with the uncle or nephew, was, after some litigation, obliged to con- sent to delay introducing Jones to Sophia till the after- noon ; at which time Allworthy, as well in compassion to Jones as in compliance with the eager desires of TOM JONES 237 Western, was prevailed upon to promise to attend at the tea-table. The conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; and with which, had it happened earlier in our history, we would have entertained our reader; but as we have now leisure only to attend to what is very material, it shall suffice to say that matters being en- tirely adjusted as to the afternoon visit Mr. Western again returned home. {Chapter XI) When Mr. Western was departed, Jones began to inform Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller that his liberty had been procured by two noble lords, who, together with two surgeons and a friend of Mr. Nightingale's, had attended the magistrate by whom he had been committed, and by whom, on the surgeons' oaths that the wounded person was out of all manner of danger from his wound, he was discharged. One only of these lords, he said, he had ever seen before, and that no more than once; but the other had greatly surprised him by asking his pardon for an offence he had been guilty of towards him, occasioned, he said, entirely by his ignorance who he was. Now the reality of the case, with which Jones was not acquainted till afterwards, was this : — The lieutenant whom Lord Fellamar had employed, according to the advice of Lady Bellaston, to press Jones as a vagabond into the sea-service, when he came to report to his lord- ship the event which we have before seen, spoke very favourably of the behaviour of Mr. Jones on all accounts, and strongly assured that lord that he must have mis- taken the person, for that Jones was certainly a gentle- man ; insomuch that his lordship, who was strictly a man of honour, and would by no means have been guilty of an action which the world in general would have con- demned, began to be much concerned for the advice which he had taken. Within a day or two after this Lord Fellamar happened 238 HENRY FIELDING to dine with the Irish peer, who, in a conversation upon the duel, acquainted his company with the character of Fitzpatrick ; to which, indeed, he did not do strict justice, especially in what related to his lady. He said she was the most innocent, the most injured woman alive, and that from compassion alone he had undertaken her cause. He then declared an intention of going the next morning to Fitzpatrick's lodgings, in order to prevail with him, if possible, to consent to a separation from his wife, who, the peer said, was in apprehensions for her life, if she should ever return to be under the power of her husband. Lord Fellamar agreed to go with him, that he might satisfy himself more concerning Jones and the circumstances of the duel ; for he was by no means easy concerning the part he had acted. The moment his lord- ship gave a hint of his readiness to assist in the delivery of the lady, it was eagerly embraced by the other noble- man, who depended much on the authority of Lord Fellamar, as he thought it would greatly contribute to awe Fitzpatrick into a compliance ; and perhaps he was in the right; for the poor Irishman no sooner saw these noble peers had undertaken the cause of his wife than he submitted, and articles of separation were soon drawn up and signed between the parties. Fitzpatrick had been so well satisfied by Mrs. Waters concerning the innocence of his wife with Jones at Upton, or perhaps, from some other reasons, was now become so indifferent to that matter that he spoke highly in favour of Jones to Lord Fellamar, took all the blame upon himself, and said the other had behaved very much like a gentleman and a man of honour ; and upon that lord's further inquiry concerning Mr. Jones, Fitzpatrick told him he was nephew to a gentleman of very great fashion and fortune, which was the account he had just received from Mrs. Waters after her interview with Dowling. Lord Fellamar now thought it behoved him to do everything in his power to make satisfaction to a gentle- man whom he had so grossly injured, and without any consideration of rivalship (for he had now given over all TOM JONES 239 thoughts of Sophia), determined to procure Mr. Jones's liberty, being satisfied, as well from Fitzpatrick as his surgeon, that the wound was not mortal. He therefore prevailed with the Irish peer to accompany him to the place where Jones was confined, to whom he behaved as we have already related. When AUworthy returned to his lodgings, he immedi- ately carried Jones into his room, and then acquainted him with the whole matter, as well what he had heard from Mrs. Waters as what he had discovered from Mr. Dowling. ":^Jones expressed great astonishment, and no less con- cern at this account, but without making any comment or observation upon it. And now a message was brought from Mr. Blifil, desiring to know if his uncle was at leisure that he might wait upon him. AUworthy started and turned pale, and then in a more passionate tone than I believe he had ever used before, bid the servant tell Blifil he knew him not. " Consider, dear sir," cries Jones, in a trembling voice. " I have considered," an- swered AUworthy, " and you yourself shall carry my mes- sage to the villain. No one can carry him the sentence of his own ruin so properly as the man whose ruin he hath so viUanously contrived." " Pardon me, dear sir," said Jones; " a moment's reflection will, I am sure, con- vince you of the contrary. What might perhaps be but justice from another tongue, would from mine be insult; and to whom?— my own brother and your nephew. Nor did he use me so barbarously — indeed, that would have been more inexcusable than anything he hath done. Fortune may tempt men of no very bad dispositions to injustice ; but insults proceed only from black and ran- corous minds, and have no temptations to excuse them. Let me beseech you, sir, to do nothing by him in the present height of your anger. Consider, my dear uncle, I was not myself condemned unheard." AUworthy stood silent a moment, and then, embracing Jones, he said, with tears gushing from his eyes, " Oh, my child ! to what goodness have I been so long blind! " Mrs. Miller entering the room at that moment, after 240 HENRY FIELDING a gentle rap which was not perceived, and seeing Jones in the arms of his uncle, the poor woman in an agony of joy fell upon her knees, and burst forth into the most ecstatic thanksgivings to Heaven for what had happened; then, running to Jones, she embraced him eagerly, cry- ing, " My dearest friend, I wish you joy a thousand and a thousand times of this blest day." And next Mr. All- worthy himself received the same congratulations. To which he answered, "Indeed, indeed, Mrs. Miller, I am beyond expression happy." Some few more raptures having passed on all sides, Mrs. Miller desired them both to walk down to dinner in the parlour, where she said there were a very happy set of people assembled — being indeed no other than Mr. Nightingale and his bride, and his cousin Harriet with her bridegroom. Allworthy excused himself from dining with the com- pany, saying he had ordered some little thing for him and his nephew in his own apartment ; for that they had much private business to discourse of, but would not re- sist promising the good woman that both he and Jones would make part of her society at supper. Mrs. Miller then asked what was to be done with Blifil? "for indeed," says she, " I cannot be easy while such a villain is in my house." — Allworthy answered, " He was as uneasy as herself on the same account." " Oh ! " cries she, " if that be the case, leave the matter to me, "I'll soon show him the outside of my doors, I warrant you. Here are two or three lusty fellows below stairs." "There will be no need of any violence," cries Allworthy ; "if you will carry him a message from me, he will, I am convinced, depart of his own accord." "Will I?" said Mrs. Miller; " I never did anything in my life with a better will." Here Jones interfered, and said, " He had considered the matter better, and would, if Mr. Allworthy pleased, be himself the messenger. I know," says he, " already enough of your pleasure, sir, and I beg leave to acquaint him with it by my own words. Let me beseech you, sir," added he, to reflect on the dreadful consequences of driving him to violent and sudden despair. How unfit, alas ! is this poor man TOM JONES 241 to die in his present situation." This suggestion had not the least effect on Mrs. Miller. She left the room, crying, "You are too good, Mr. Jones, infinitely too good to live in this world." But it made a deeper im- pression on Allworthy. " My good child," said he, "I am equally astonished at the goodness of your heart, and the quickness of your understanding. Heaven in- deed forbid that this wretch should be deprived of any means or time for repentance ! That would be a shock- ing consideration indeed. Go to him, therefore, and use your own discretion ; yet do not flatter him with any hopes of my forgiveness ; for I shall never forgive villany farther than my religion obliges me, and that extends not either to our bounty or our conversation." Jones went up to Blifil's room, whom he found in a situation which moved his pity, though it would have raised a less amiable passion in many beholders. He cast himself on his bed, where he lay abandoning him- self to despair, and drowned in tears ; not in such tears as flow from contrition, and wash away guilt from minds which have been seduced or surprised into it un- awares, against the bent of their natural dispositions, as will sometimes happen from human frailty, even to the good; no, these tears were such as the frighted thief sheds in his cart, and are indeed the effects of that con- cern which the most savage natures are seldom deficient in feeling for themselves. It would be unpleasing and tedious to paint this scene in full length. Let it suffice to say, that the behaviour of Jones was kind to excess. He omitted nothing which his invention could supply, to raise and comfort the drooping spirits of Blifil, before he communicated to him the resolution of his uncle that he must quit the house that evening. He offered to furnish him with any money he wanted, assured him of his hearty forgiveness of all he had done against him, that he would endeavour to live with him hereafter as a brother, and would leave nothing unattempted to effectuate a reconciliation with his uncle. Blifil was at first sullen and silent, balancing in his R 242 HENRY FIELDING mind whether he should yet deny all ; but, findingf at last the evidence too strong against him, he betook himself at last to confession. He then asked pardon of his brother in the most vehement manner, prostrated himself on the ground, and kissed his feet; in short he was now as remarkably mean as he had been before remarkably wicked. Jones could not so far check his disdain, but that it a little discovered itself in his countenance at this extreme servility. He raised his brother the moment he could from the ground, and advised him to bear his afflictions more like a man ; repeating, at the same time, his pro- mises, that he would do all in his power to lessen them ; for which Blifil, making many professions of his un- worthiness, poured forth a profusion of thanks; and then, he having declared he would immediately depart to another lodging, Jones returned to his uncle. Among other matters, Allworthy now acquainted Jones with the discovery which he made concerning the 500/. bank-notes. " I have," said he, "already con- sulted a lawyer, who tells me, to my great astonishment, that there is no punishment for a fraud of this kind. In- deed, when I consider the black ingratitude of this fellow toward you, I think a highwayman, compared to him, is an innocent person." " Good Heaven! " says Jones, " is it possible?— I am shocked beyond measure at this news. I thought there was not an honester fellow in the world. — The tempta- tion of such a sum was too great for him to withstand ; for smaller matters have come safe to me through his hand. Indeed, my dear uncle, you must suffer me to call it weakness rather than ingratitude ; for I am con- vinced the poor fellow loves me, and hath done me some kindnesses, which I can never forget; nay, I be- lieve he hath repented of this very act; for it is not above a day or two ag-o, when my affairs seemed in the most desperate situation, that he visited me in my con- finement, and offered me any money I wanted. Consider, sir, what a temptation to a man who hath tasted such bitter distress, it must be, to have a sum in his posses- TOM JONES 243 sion which must put him and his family beyond any future possibility of suffering the like." "Child," cries Allworthy, "you carry this forgiving temper too far. Such mistaken mercy is not only weak- ness, but borders on injustice, and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages vice. The dishonesty of this fellow I might, perhaps, have pardoned, but never his ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we suffer any temptation to atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and merciful as we ought to be; and so far I confess I have gone ; for I have often pitied the fate of a highwayman, when I have been on the grand jury; and have more than once appHed to the judge on the be- half of such as have had any mitigating circumstances in their case; but when dishonesty is attended with any blacker crime, such as cruelty, murder, ingratitude, or the like, compassion and forgiveness then become faults. I am convinced the fellow is a villain, and he shall be punished; at least as far as I can punish him." This was spoke with so stern a voice, that Jones did not think proper to make any reply ; besides, the hour appointed by Mr. Western now drew so near, that he had barely time left to dress himself. Here therefore ended the present dialogue, and Jones retired to another room, where Partridge attended, according to order, with his clothes. Partridge had scarce seen his master since the happy discovery. The poor fellow was unable either to contain or express his transports. He behaved like one frantic, and made almost as many mistakes while he was dress- ing Jones as I have seen made by Harlequin in dressing himself on the stage. His memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He recollected now many omens and presages of this happy event, some of which he had remarked at the time, but many more he now remembered ; nor did he omit the dreams he had dreamt the evening before his meeting with Jones; and concluded with saying, "I always told your honour something boded in my mind that you would one time or other have it in your power 244 HENRY FIELDING to make my fortune." Jones assured him that this boding should as certainly be verified with regard to him as all the other omens had been to himself; which did not a little add to all the raptures which the poor fellow had already conceived on account of his master. (Chapter XII) Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr. Western's. He was, indeed, one of the finest figures ever beheld, and his person alone would have charmed the greater part of womankind ; but we hope it hath already appeared in this history that Nature, when she formed him, did not totally rely, as she sometimes doth, on this merit only, to recommend her work. Sophia, who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best advantage, for which I leave my female readers to account, appeared so extremely beautiful, that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could not forbear whispering Western that he believed she was the finest creature in the world. To which Western answered, in a whisper, overheard by all present, " So much the better for Tom ; — for d — n me if he shan't ha the tousling her. " Sophia was all over scarlet at these words, while Tom's countenance was altogether as pale, and he was almost ready to sink from his chair. The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged Allworthy out of the room, telling him he had business of consequence to impart, and must speak to him that instant in private, before he forgot it. The lovers were now alone, and it will, I question not, appear strange to many readers, that those who had so ,much to say to one another when danger and difficulty attended their conversation, and who seemed so eager to rush into each other's arms when so many bars lay in their way, now that with safety they were at liberty to say or do whatever they pleased, should both remain for some time silent and motionless ; insomuch that a stranger of moderate sagacity might have well con- cluded they were mutually indifferent; but so it was TOM JONES 24s however strange it may seem ; both sat with their eyes cast downwards on the ground, and for some minutes continued in perfect silence. Mr. Jones during this interval attempted once or twice to speak, but was absolutely incapable, muttering only, or rather sighing out, some broken words ; when Sophia at length, partly out of pity to him, and partly to turn the discourse from the subject which slie knew well enough he was endeavouring to open, said — " Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this discovery." " And can you really, madam, think me so fortunate," said Jones, sighing, "while I have incurred your displeasure?" — "Nay, sir," says she, "as to that you best know whether you have de- served it." "Indeed, madam," answered he, "you yourself are as well apprised of all my demerits. Mrs. Miller hath acquainted you with the whole truth. Oh, my Sophia, am I never to hope for forgiveness? " — " I think, Mr. Jones," said she, " I may almost depend on your justice, and leave it to yourself to pass sentence on your own conduct." — "Alas! madam," answered he, "it is mercy, and not justice, which I implore at your hands. Justice I know must condemn me. — Yet not for the letter I sent to Lady Bellaston. Of that I most sol- emnly declare you have had a true account." He then insisted much on the security given him by Nightingale of a fair pretence for breaking off, if, contrary to their expectations, her ladyship should have accepted his offer; but confessed that he had been guilty of a great indiscretion to put such a letter as that into her power, "which," said he, " I have dearly paid for, in the effect it has upon you." " I do not, I cannot," says she, " be- lieve otherwise of that letter than you would have me. My conduct, I think, shows you clearly I do not believe there is much in that. And yet, Mr. Jones, have I not enough to resent? After what passed at Upton, so soon to engage in a new amour with another woman, while I fancied, and you pretended, your heart was bleeding for me? Indeed, you have acted strangely. Can I believe the passion you have professed to me to be sincere ? Or, 246 HENRY FIELDING if I can, what happiness can I assure myself of with a man capable of so much inconstancy? " "Oh, my Sophia," cries he, "do not doubt the sincerity of the purest passion that ever inflamed a human breast. Think, most adorable creature, of my unhappy situation, of my de- spair. Could I, my Sophia, have flattered myself with the most distant hopes of being ever permitted to throw myself at your feet in the manner I do now, it would not have been in the power of any other woman to have in- spired a thought which the severest chastity could have condemned. Inconstancy to you ! O Sophia ! if you can have goodness enough to pardon what is passed, do not let any cruel future apprehensions shut your mercy against me. No repentance was ever more sincere. Oh, let it reconcile me to my heaven in this dear bosom." "Sincere repentance, 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 pre- vent it. You must expect, however, that if I can be pre- vailed on by your repentance to pardon you, I will at least insist on the strongest proof of its sincerity." " Oh, name any proof in my power," answered Jones eagerly. "Time," replied she; "time alone, Mr. Jones, can con- vince me that you are a true penitent, and have resolved to abandon these vicious courses, which I should detest you for, if I imagined you capable of persevering in them." "Do not imagine it," cries Jones. "On my knees I entreat, I implore your confidence, a confidence which it shall be the business of my life to deserve." " Let it then," said she, " be the business of some part of your life to show me you deserve it. I think I have been explicit enough in assuring you that, when I see you merit my confidence, you will obtain it. After what is passed, sir, can you expect I should take you upon your word? " He replied, " Don't believe me upon my word ; I have a better security, a pledge for my constancy, which it is impossible to see and to doubt." " What is that? " said Sophia, a little surprised. " I will show you, my charm- TOM JONES 247 ing angel," cries Jones, seizing her hand and carrying her to the glass. " There, behold it there in that lovely figure, in that face, that shape, those eyes, that mind which shines through these eyes ; can the man who shall be in possession of these be inconstant? Impossible! my Sophia; they would fix a Dorimant, a Lord Rochester. You could not doubt it, if you could see yourself with any eyes but your own." Sophia blushed and half smiled; but, forcing again her brow into a frown — " If I am to judge," said she, " of the future by the past, my image will no more remain in your heart when I am out of your sight, than it will in this glass when I am out of the room." "By Heaven, by all that is sacred!" said Jones, "it never was out of my heart. The delicacy of your sex cannot conceive the grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of amour has to do with the heart." " I will never marry a man," replied Sophia, very gravely, "who shall not learn refinement enough to be as in- capable as I am myself of making such a distinction." " I will learn it," said Jones; " I have learnt it already. The first moment of hope that my Sophia might be my wife taught it me at once ; and all the rest of her sex from that moment became as little the objects of desire to my sense as of passion to my heart." "Well," said Sophia, "the proof of this must be from time. Your situation, Mr. Jones, is now altered, and I assure you I have great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now want no opportunity of being near me, and convincing me that your mind is altered too." "Oh, my angel," cries Jones, " how shall I thank thy goodness! And are you so good to own that you have a satisfaction in my prosperity? Believe me, believe me, madam, it is you alone have given a relish to that prosperity, since I owe to it the dear hope Oh, my Sophia, let it not be a distant one. — I will be all obedience to your commands. I will not dare to press anything further than you permit me. Yet let me entreat you to appoint a short trial. Oh, tell me when I may expect you will be convinced, of what is most solemnly true." " When I have gone voluntarily thus far, Mr. Jones," said she, "I expect not to be 248 HENRY FIELDING pressed. Nay, I will not " — "Oh, don't look unkindly thus, my Sophia," cries he. "I do not, I dare not press you. — Yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix the period. Oh, consider the impatience of love." " A twelvemonth, perhaps," said she. " Oh, my Sophia," cries he, "you have named an eternity." — " Perhaps, it may be something sooner," says she; " I will not be teased. If your passion for me be what I would have it, I think you may now be easy." — " Easy, Sophia, call not such an exulting happiness as mine by so cold a name. Oh, transporting thought! am I not assured that the blessed day will come, when I shall call you mine ; when fears shall be no more ; when I shall have that dear, that vast, that exquisite, ecstatic delight of making my Sophia happy?" "Indeed, sir," said she, "that day is in your own power." "Oh, my dear, my divine angel!" cried he, "these words have made me mad with joy. But I must, I will thank those dear lips which have so sweetly pronounced my bliss." He then caught her in his arms, and kissed her with an ardour he had never ventured before. At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst into the room, and, with his hunting ' voice and phrase, cried out, " To her, boy, to her, go to her. That's it, little honeys, Oh, that's it! Well! I what, is it all over? Hath she appointed the day, boy? What, shall it be to-morrow or next day? It shan't be put off a minute longer than next day, I am resolved." "Let me beseech you, sir," says Jones, "don't let me be the occasion — " — " Beseech mine a ," cries West- ern, " I thought thou hadst been a lad of higher mettle than to give way to a parcel of maidenish tricks. 1 tell thee 'tis all flimflam. Zoodikers ! she'd have the wedding to night with all her heart. Wouldst not, Sophy? Come, confess, and be an honest girl for once. What, art dumb? Why dost not speak? " " Why should I confess, sir," says Sophia, " since it seems you are so well acquainted with my thoughts ? " "That's a good girl," cried he, " and dost consent then? " " No, indeed, sir," says Sophia, " I have given no such consent." TOM JONES 249 "And wunt not ha un then to-morrow, nor next day? " says Western. "Indeed, sir," says she, "I have no such intention." " But I can tell thee," replied he, "why hast nut ; only because thou dost love to be disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father." "Pray, sir," said Jones, interfering " I tell thee thou art a puppy," cries he. "When I vorbid her, then it was all nothing but sighing and whining, and languishing and writing ; now I am vor thee, she is against thee. All the spirit of contrary, that's all. She is above being guided and governed by her father, that is the whole truth on't. It is only to disoblige and contradict me." " What would my papa have me do? " cries Sophia. " What would I ha thee do?" says he, "why gi' un thy hand this moment." "Well, sir," said Sophia, "I will obey you. — There is my hand, Mr. Jones." "Well, and will you consent to ha un to-morrow morning? " says West- ern. " I will be obedient to you, sir," cries she. "Why then to-morrow morning be the day," cries he. "Why then to-morrow morning shall be the day, papa, since you will have it so," says Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees, and kissed her hand in an agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance about the room, presently crying out — "Where the devil is All- worthy? He is without now, a talking with that d d lawyer Dowling, when he should be minding other matters." He then sallied out in quest of him, and very opportunely left the lovers to enjoy a few tender minutes alone. But he soon returned with Allworthy, saying, " If you won't believe me, you may ask her yourself. Hast nut gin thy consent, Sophy, to be married to-morrow?" "Such are your commands, sir," cries Sophia, "and I dare not be guilty of disobedience." " I hope, madam," cries Allworthy, "my nephew will merit so much good- ness, and will be always as sensible as myself of the great honour you have done my family. An alliance with so charming and so excellent a young lady would indeed be an honour to the greatest in England. " ' ' Yes, " cries Western, "but if I had suffered her to stand shill 2SO HENRY FIELDING I shall I, dilly dally, you might not have had that honour yet a while ; I was forced to use a little fatherly authority to bring her to." " I hope not, sir," cries AUworthy, " I hope there is not the least constraint." "Why, there," cries Western, "you may bid her unsay all again if you will. Dost repent heartily of thy promise, dost not, Sophy? " " Indeed, papa," cries she, " I do not repent, nor do I believe I ever shall, of any promise in favour of Mr. Jones." "Then, nephew," cries AUworthy, " I felici- tate you most heartily ; for I think you are the happiest of men." AMELIA SCOTT was inclined to put the plot of ' ' Amelia " nearly as high as that of "Tom Jones," and perhaps the chief ob- jection that can be brought against it is that it depends on a rather capricious and whimsical exercise of his power by the good genius of the piece, Dr. Harrison, and is somewhat lack- ing in reality, qila plot though not qua character. Captain Booth, the hero, is a sort of "Tom Jones married," but not "done for." He is exposed to temptations and privations, from both of which that lucky rascal, Tom, appears to be free, but after his marriage is blessed with a wife (the heroine Amelia) who, if not quite so high-spirited as Sophia, is even more amiable, and, except for her amiability, cannot be con- sidered by anyone as a fool, like her namesake, and, to some small extent, copy in " Vanity Fair." She has quarrelled with her family to marry Booth ; the pair and their children have been gradually reduced, by ill-luck and Booth's folly, to some- thing like destitution, and their only friend, the eccentric clergyman above named, is constantly estranged by the cap- tain's foolishness. We find this latter in gaol, moneyless, even coatless, and exposed to the temptations of an old flame of his. Miss Matthews, who is imprisoned on a charge of attempt- ing to murder, or at least dangerously wounding her seducer. It may be said generally that the story is provided by the spreading of this and other temptations for Booth, by his (until the last) invariably falling into them, by the laying of plots for Amelia (who is extremely lovely) and by her rescue through good luck, good friends, and, as Milton would say, not least the "sun-clad power" of her own virtue. In the course of these various adventures there is much admirable character- (Irawing : Colonel James — not exactly a bad fellow, but a typical eighteenth-century person of quality, wealth, influence, position, and no morals; his frivolous fine-lady wife; her brother. Colonel Bath, a sort of pipe-clay Don Quixote, but very much more quarrelsome than the Don; Dr. Harrison himself, who is in some ways, though by no means all, rather like Johnson ; the faithful Sergeant Atkinson and his wife (this last a chequered character, not perhaps popularly striking, but 251 252 HENRY FIELDING showing great knowledge of human nature) ; and many others. The prison scenes, where Fielding's early experience on the wrong side of the gate was increased and tempered by his later knowledge as a magistrate, are wonderfully vivid and as "realist " as "Jonathan Wild " itself. As for the character of Amelia it has enchanted all but extreme anti-sentimentalists. [It is impossible here to do better than to begin at the beginning, and to give a solid portion of the first Book. ] {Chapter 11) On the first of April, in the year , the watchmen of a certain parish (I know not particularly which) within the liberty of Westminster brought several persons whom they had apprehended the preceding night before Jona- than Thrasher, esq. one of the justices of the peace for that liberty. But here, reader, before we proceed to the trials of these offenders, we shall, after our usual manner, pre- mise some things which it may be necessary for thee to know. It hath been observed, I think, by many, as well as the celebrated writer of three letters, that no human in- stitution is capable of consummate perfection. An obser- vation which, perhaps, that writer at least gathered from discovering some defects in the polity even of this well- regulated nation. And, indeed, if there should be any such defect in a constitution which my Lord Coke long ago told us "the wisdom of all the wise men in the world, if they had all met together at one time, could not have equalled," which some of our wisest men who were met together long before said was too good to be altered in any particular, and which, nevertheless, hath been mending ever since, by a very great number of the said wise men : if, I say, this constitution should be im- perfect, we may be allowed, I think, to doubt whether AMELIA 253 any such faultless model can be found among the institu- tions of men. It will probably be objected, that the small imperfec- tions which I am about to produce do not lie in the laws themselves, but in the ill execution of them ; but, with submission, this appears to me to be no less an absurdity than to say of any machine that it is excellently made, though incapable of performing its functions. Good laws should execute themselves in a well-regulated state; at least, if the same legislature which provides the laws doth not provide for the execution of them, they act as Graham would do if he should form all the parts of a clock in the most exquisite manner, yet put them so to- gether that the clock could not go. In this case, surely, we might say that there was a small defect in the con- stitution of the clock. To say the truth, Graham would soon see the fault, and would easily remedy it. The fault, indeed, could be no other than that the parts were improperly disposed. Perhaps, reader, I have another illustration, which will set my intention in still a clearer light before you. Figure to yourself then a family, the master of which should dispose of the several economical offices in the following manner; viz. should put his butler on the coach-box, his steward behind his coach, his coachman in the butlery, and his footman in the stewardship, and in the same ridiculous manner should misemploy the talents of every other servant ; it is easy to see what a figure such a family must make in the world. As ridiculous as this may seem, I have often con- sidered some of the lower offices in our civil govern- ment to be disposed in this very manner. To begin, I think, as low as I well can, with the watchmen in our metropolis, who, being to guard our streets by night from thieves and robbers, an office which at least re- quires strength of body, are chosen out of those poor old decrepit people who are, from their want of bodily strength, rendered incapable of getting a livelihood by work. These men, armed only with a pole, which some of them are scarce able to lift, are to secure the persons 254 HENRY FIELDING and houses of his Majesty's subjects from the attacks of gangs of young, bold, stout, desperate, and well-armed villains. Quae non viribus istis Munera conveniunt. If the poor old fellows should run away from such enemies, no one I think can wonder, unless it be that they were able to make their escape. The higher we proceed among our public officers and magistrates, the less defects of this kind will, perhaps, be observable. Mr. Thrasher, however, the justice before whom the prisoners above mentioned were now brought, had some few imperfections in his magistratical capa- city. I own, I have been sometimes inclined to think that this office of a justice of peace requires some know- ledge of the law: for this simple reason; because, in every case which comes before him, he is to judge and act according to law. Again, as these laws are con- tained in a great variety of books, the statutes which re- late to the office of a justice of peace making of them- selves at least two large volumes in folio ; and that part of his jurisdiction which is founded on the common law being dispersed in above a hundred volumes, I cannot conceive how this knowledge should be acquired with- out reading ; and yet, certain it is, Mr. Thrasher never read one syllable of the matter. This, perhaps, was a defect ; but this was not all : for where mere ignorance is to decide a point between two litigants, it will always be an even chance whether it de- cides right or wrong : but sorry am I to say, right was often in a much worse situation than this, and wrong hath often had five hundred to one on his side before that magistrate ; who, if he was ignorant of the law of England, was yet well versed in the laws of nature. He perfectly well understood that fundamental principle so strongly laid down in the institutes of the learned Roche- foucault, by which the duty of self-love is so strongly enforced, and every man is taught to consider himself as the centre of gravity, and to attract all things thither. AMELIA 255 To speak the truth plainly, the justice was never indiffer- ent in a cause but when he could get nothing on either side. Such was the justice to whose tremendous bar Mr. Gotobed the constable, on the day above mentioned, brought several delinquents, who, as we have said, had been apprehended by the watch for divers outrages. The first who came upon his trial was as bloody a spectre as ever the imagination of a murderer or a tragic poet conceived. This poor wretch was charged with a battery by a much stouter man than himself; indeed the accused person bore about him some evidence that he had been in an aifray, his clothes being very bloody, but certain open sluices on his own head sufficiently showed whence all the scarlet stream had issued : whereas the accuser had not the least mark or appearance of any wound. The justice asked the defendant, What he meant by breaking the king's peace? To which he answered "Upon my shoul I do love the king very well, and I have not been after breaking anything of his that I do know ; but upon my shoul this man hath brake my head, and my head did break his stick ; that is all, gra." He then offered to produce several witnesses against this improbable accusation; but the justice pre- sently interrupted him, saying, "Sirrah, your tongue betrays your guilt. You are an Irishman, and that is always sufficient evidence with me." The second criminal was a poor woman, who was taken up by the watch as a street-walker. It was alleged against her that she was found walking the streets after twelve o'clock, and the watchman declared he believed her to be a common strumpet. She pleaded in her defence (as was really the truth) that she was a servant, and was sent by her mistress, who was a little shop- keeper and upon the point of delivery, to fetch a mid- wife ; which she offered to prove by several of the neigh- bours, if she was allowed to send for them. The justice asked her, why she had not done it before? to which she answered, she had no money, and could get no mes- senger. The justice then called her several scurrilous 2s6 HENRY FIELDING names, and, declaring she was guilty within the statute of street-walking, ordered her to Bridewell for a month. A genteel young man and woman were then set for- ward, and a very grave-looking person swore he caught them in a situation which we cannot as particularly describe here as he did before the magistrate; who, having received a wink from his clerk, declared with much warmth that the fact was incredible and impos- sible. He presently discharged the accused parties, and was going, without any evidence, to commit the accuser for perjury ; but this the clerk dissuaded him from, say- ing he doubted whether a justice of peace had any such power. The justice at first differed in opinion, and said, " He had seen a man stand in the pillory about perjury; nay, he had known a man in gaol for it too; and how came he there if he was not committed thither?" " Why, that is true, sir," answered the clerk; "and yet I have been told by a very great lawyer that a man cannot be committed for perjury before he is indicted; and the reason is, I believe, because it is not against the peace before the indictment makes it so." "Why, that may be," cries the justice, " and indeed perjury is but scandal- ous words, and I know a man cannot have a warrant for those, unless you put for rioting ^ them into the warrant." The witness was now about to be discharged, when the lady whom he had accused declared she would swear the peace against him, for that he had called her a whore severaltimes. "Oho! you willswearthepeace, madam, will ^ Opus est interprete. By the laws of England abusive words are not punishable by the magistrate; some commissioners of the peace, therefore, when one scold hath applied to them for a war- rant against another, from a too eager desire of doing justice, have construed a little harmless scolding into a riot, which is in ' law an outrageous breach of the peace committed by several per- sons, by three at the least, nor can a less number be convicted 8f it. Under this word rioting, or riotting (for I have seen it spelt both ways), many thousands of old women have been arrested and put to expense, sometimes in prison, for a little intemperate use of their tongues. This practice began to decrease in the year 1749. AMELIA 257 you?" cries the justice: " Give her the peace, presently ; and pray, Mr. Constable, secure the prisoner, now we have him, while a warrant is made to take him up." All which was immediately performed, and the poor witness, for want of sureties, was sent to prison. A young fellow, whose name was Booth, was now charged with beating a watchman in the execution of his office and breaking his lantern. This was deposed by two witnesses ; and the shattered remains of a broken lantern, which had been long preserved for the sake of its testimony, were produced to corroborate the evidence. The justice, perceiving the criminal to be but shabbily dressed, was going to commit him without asking any further questions. At length, however, at the earnest request of the accused, the worthy magistrate sub- mitted to hear his defence. The young man then alleged, as was in reality the case, "That as he was walking home to his lodging he saw two men in the street cruelly beating a third, upon which he had stopped and endeavoured to assist the person who was so un- equally attacked; that the watch came up during the affray, and took them all four into custody; that they were immediately carried to the round-house, where the two original assailants, who appeared to be men of fortune, found means to make up the matter, and were discharged by the constable ; a favour which he himself, having no money in his pocket, was unable to obtain. He utterly denied having assaulted any of the watch- men, and solemnly declared that he was offered his liberty at the price of half a crown." Though the bare word of an offender can never be taken against the oath of his accuser, yet the matter of this defence was so pertinent, and delivered with such an air of truth and sincerity, that, had the magistrate been endued with much sagacity, or had he been very moder- ately gifted with another quality very necessary to all who are to administer justice, he would have employed some labour in cross-examining the watchmen ; at least he would have given the defendant the time he desired to send for the other persons who were present at the 2s8 HENRY FIELDING affray; neither of which he did. In short, the magis- trate had too great an honour for Truth to suspect that she ever appeared in sordid apparel; nor did he ever sully his sublime notions of that virtue by uniting them with the mean ideas of poverty and distress. There remained now only one prisoner, and that was the poor man himself in whose defence the last-men- tioned culprit was engaged. His trial took but a very short time. A cause of battery and broken lantern was instituted against him, and proved in the same manner ; nor would the justice hear one word in defence; but though his patience was exhausted, his breath was not; for against this last wretch he poured forth a great many volleys of menaces and abuse. The delinquents were then all dispatched to prison under a guard of watchmen, and the justice and the constable adjourned to a neighbouring alehouse to take their morning repast. {Chapter III) Mr. Booth (for we shall not trouble you with the rest) was no sooner arrived in the prison than a number of persons gathered round him, all demanding garnish ; to which Mr. Booth not making a ready answer, as indeed he did not understand the word, some were going to lay hold of him, when a person of apparent dignity came up and insisted that no one should affront the gentleman. This person then, who was no less than the master or keeper of the prison, turning towards Mr. Booth, ac- quainted him that it was the custom of the place for every prisoner upon his first arrival there to give some- thing to the former prisoners to make them drink. This, he said, was what they called garnish; and concluded with advising his new customer to draw his purse upon the present occasion. Mr. Booth answered that he would very readily comply with this laudable custom, was it in his power ; but that in reality he had not a shilling in his pocket, and, what was worse, he had not a shilling in the world. — ' ' Oho ! if that be the case, " cries AMELIA 259 the keeper, "it is another matter, and I have nothing to say." Upon which he immediately departed, and left poor Booth to the mercy of his companions, who without loss of time applied themselves to uncasing, as they termed it, and with such dexterity, that his coat was not only stripped off, but out of sight in a minute. Mr. Booth was too weak to resist and too wise to complain of this usage. As soon, therefore, as he was at liberty, and declared free of the place, he summoned his philosophy, of which he had no inconsiderable share, to his assistance, and resolved to make himself as easy as possible under his present circumstances. Could his own thoughts indeed have suffered him a moment to forget where he was, the dispositions of the other prisoners might have induced him to believe that he had been in a happier place : for much the greater part of his fellow-sufferers, instead of wailing and re- pining at their condition, were laughing, singing, and diverting themselves with various kinds of sports and gambols. The first person who accosted him was called Blear- eyed Moll, a woman of no very comely appearance. Her eye (for she had but one), whence she derived her nickname, was such as that nickname bespoke; besides which, it had two remarkable qualities; for first, as it Nature had been careful to provide for her own defect, it constantly looked towards her blind side; and secondly, the ball consisted almost entirely of white, or rather yellow, with a little grey spot in the corner, so small that it was scarce discernible. Nose she had none; for Venus, envious perhaps at her former charms, had carried off the gristly part; and some earthly damsel, perhaps from the same envy, had levelled the bone with the rest of her face: indeed it was far beneath the bones of her cheeks, which rose proportionally higher than is usual. About half a dozen ebony teeth fortified that large and long canal which nature had cut from ear to ear, at the bottom of which was a chin preposterously short, nature having turned up the bottom, instead of suffering it to grow to its due length. 26o HENRY FIELDING Her body was well adapted to her face; she measured full as much round the middle as from head to foot; for, besides the extreme breadth of her back, her vast breasts had long since forsaken their native home, and had settled themselves a little below the girdle. I wish certain actresses on the stage, when they are to perform characters of no amiable cast, would study to dress themselves with the propriety with which Blear- eyed Moll was now arrayed. For the sake of our squeamish reader, we shall not descend to particulars; let it suffice to say, nothing more ragged or more dirty was ever emptied out of the round-house at St. Giles's. We have taken the more pains to describe this person, for two remarkable reasons ; the one is, that this un- lovely creature was taken in the fact with a very pretty young fellow; the other, which is more productive of moral lesson, is, that however wretched her fortune may appear to the reader, she was one of the merriest persons in the whole prison. Blear-eyed Moll then came up to Mr. Booth with a smile, or rather grin, on her countenance, and asked him for a dram of gin; and when Booth assured her that he had not a penny of money, she replied — " D — n your eyes, I thought by your look you had been a clever fellow, and upon the snaffling lay ^ at least ; but, d — n your body and eyes, I find you are some sneaking budge ^ rascal." She then launched forth a volley of dreadful oaths, interlarded with some language not proper to be repeated here, and was going to lay hold on poor Booth, when a tall prisoner, who had been very earnestly eyeing Booth for some time, came up, and, taking her by the shoulder, flung her off at some distance, cursing her for a b — h, and bidding her let the gentleman alone. The person was not himself of the most inviting aspect. He was long visaged, and pale, with a red beard of above a fortnight's growth. He was attired in ' A cant term for robbery on the highway. ° Another cant term for pilfering. AMELIA 261 a brownish-black coat, which would have showed more holes than it did, had not the linen, which appeared through it, been entirely of the same colour with the cloth. This gentleman, whose name was Robinson, addressed himself very civilly to Mr. Booth, and told him he was sorry to see one of his appearance in that place: " For as to your being without your coat, sir," says he, " I can easily account for that; and, indeed, dress is the least part which distinguishes a gentleman." At which words he cast a significant look on his own coat, as if he desired they should be applied to himself. He then pro- ceeded in the following manner : " I perceive, sir, you are but just arrived in this dismal place, which is, indeed, rendered more detestable by the wretches who inhabit it than by any other circum- stance ; but even these a wise man will soon bring him- self to bear with indifference ; for what is, is ; and what must be, must be. The knowledge of this, which, simple as it appears, is in truth the height of all philosophy, renders a wise man superior to every evil which can befall him. I hope, sir, no very dreadful accident is the cause of your coming hither; but, whatever it was, you may be assured it could not be otherwise; for all things happen by an inevitable fatality; and a man can no more resist the impulse of fate than a wheelbarrow can the force of its driver." Besides the obligation which Mr. Robinson had con- ferred on Mr. Booth in delivering him from the insults of Blear-eyed Moll, there was something in the manner of Robinson which, notwithstanding the meanness of his dress, seemed to distinguish him from the crowd of wretches who swarmed in those regions; and, above all, the sentiments which he had just declared very nearly coincided with those of Mr. Booth : this gentleman was what they call a freethinker ; that is to say, a deist, or, perhaps, an atheist; for, though he did not absolutely deny the existence of a God, yet he entirely denied His providence. A doctrine which, if it is not downright atheism, hath a direct tendency towards it; and, as Dr. 262 HENRY FIELDING Clarke observes, may soon be driven into it. And as to Mr. Booth, though he was in his heart an extreme well- wisher to religion (for he was an honest man), yet his notions of it were very slight and uncertain. To say truth, he was in the wavering condition so finely de- scribed by Claudian : Idbefacta cadehat Religio, causaeque viam non sponte seguehar AUeriiis; vacuo quae currere semina motu Affirmat; magnumque novas per inane Jiguras Fortuna, non arte, regi; quae numina sensu Ambiguo, vel nulla putat, vel nescia nostri. This way of thinking, or rather of doubting, he had contracted from the same reason which Claudian assigns, and which had induced Brutus in his latter days to doubt the existence of that virtue which he had all his life cultivated. In short, poor Booth imagined that a larger share of misfortunes had fallen to his lot than he had merited ; and this led him, who (though a good classical scholar) was not deeply learned in religious matters, into a disadvantageous opinion of Providence. A dan- gerous way of reasoning, in which our conclusions are not only too hasty, from an imperfect view of things, but we are likewise liable to much error from partiality to ourselves ; viewing our virtues and vices as through a perspective, in which we turn the glass always to our own advantage, so as to diminish the one, and as greatly to magnify the other. From the above reasons, it can be no wonder that Mr. Booth did not decline the acquaintance of this person, in a place which could not promise to aiford him any better. He answered him, therefore, with great courtesy, as indeed he was of a very good and gentle disposition, and, after expressing a civil surprise at meeting him there, declared himself to be of the same opinion with regard to the necessity of human actions ; adding, how- ever, that he did not believe men were under any blind impulse or direction of fate, but that every man acted merely from the force of that passion which was upper- most in his mind, and could do no otherwise. AMELIA 263 A discourse now ensued between the two gentlemen on the necessity arising- from the impulse of fate, and the necessity arising from the impulse of passion, which, as it will make a pretty pamphlet of itself, we shall reserve for some future opportunity. When this was ended they set forward to survey the gaol and the prisoners, with the several cases of whom Mr. Robinson, who had been some time under confinement, undertook to make Mr. Booth acquainted. {Chapter IV) The first persons whom they passed by were three men in fetters, who were enjoying themselves very merrily over a bottle of wine and a pipe of tobacco. These, Mr. Robinson informed his friend, were three street-robbers, and were all certain of being hanged the ensuing sessions. So inconsiderable an object, said he, is misery to light minds, when it is at any distance. A little farther they beheld a man prostrate on the ground, whose heavy groans and frantic actions plainly indicated the highest disorder of mind. This person was, it seems, committed for a small felony; and his wife, who then lay-in, upon hearing the news, had thrown herself from a window two pair of stairs high, by which means he had, in all probability, lost both her and his child. A very pretty girl then advanced towards them, whose beauty Mr. Booth could not help admiring the moment he saw her ; declaring, at the same time, he thought she had great innocence in her countenance. Robinson said she was committed thither as an idle and disorderly person, and a common street walker. As she passed by Mr. Booth, she damned his eyes, and discharged a volley of words, every one of which was too indecent to be repeated. They now beheld a little creature sitting by herself in a corner, and crying bitterly. This girl, Mr. Robinson said, was committed because her father-in-law, who was in the grenadier guards, had sworn that he was afraid of 264 HENRY FIELDING his life, or of some bodily harm which she would do him, and she could get no sureties for keeping the peace ; for which reason Justice Thrasher had committed her to prison. A great noise now arose, occasioned by the prisoners all flocking to see a fellow whipped for petty larceny, to which he was condemned by the court of quarter-sessions; but this soon ended in the disappointment of the spec- tators ; for the fellow, after being stripped, having ad- vanced another sixpence, was discharged untouched. This was immediately followed by another bustle; Blear-eyed Moll, and several of her companions, having got possession of a man who was committed for certain odious unmanlike practices, not fit to be named, were giving him various kinds of discipline, and would prob- ably have put an end to him, had he not been rescued out of their hands by authority. When this bustle was a little allayed, Mr. Booth took notice of a young woman in rags sitting on the ground, and supporting the head of an old man in her lap, who appeared to be giving up the ghost. These, Mr. Robinson informed him, were father and daughter; that the latter was committed for stealing a loaf, in order to support the former, and the former for receiving it, knowing it to be stolen. A well-dressed man then walked surlily by them, whom Mr. Robinson reported to have been committed on an indictment found against him for a most horrid perjury ; "but," says he, "we expect him to be bailed to-day." "Good Heaven!" cries Booth, "can such villains find bail, and is no person charitable enough to bail that poor father and daughter? " " Oh! sir," answered Robinson, ' ' the offence of the daughter, being felony, is held not to be bailable in law; whereas perjury is a misdemeanour only ; and therefore persons who are even indicted for it are, nevertheless, capable of being bailed. Nay, of all per- juries, that of which this man is indicted is the worst; for it was with an intentionof taking away the life of an innocent person by form of law. As to perjuries in civil matters, they are not so very criminal." "They are not," said AMELIA 265 Booth ; "and yet even these are a most flagitious ofi^ence, and worthy the highest punishment." "Surely they ought to be distinguished," answered Robinson, " from the others : for what is taking away a little property from a man, compared to taking away his life and his reputa- tion, and ruining his family into the bargain? — I hope there can be no comparison in the crimes, and I think there ought to be none in the punishment. However, at present, the punishment of all perjury is only pillory and transportation for seven years ; and, as it is a traversable and bailable offence, methods are often found to escape any punishment at all."^ Booth expressed great astonishment at this, when his attention was suddenly diverted by the most miserable object that he had yet seen. This was a wretch almost naked, and who bore in his countenance, joined to an appearance of honesty, the marks of poverty, hunger, and disease. He had, moreover, a wooden leg, and two or three scars on his forehead. "The case of this poor man, is, indeed, unhappy enough," said Robinson. " He hath served his country, lost his limb, and received several wounds at the siege of Gibraltar. When he was discharged from the hospital abroad he came over to get into that of Chelsea, but could not immediately, as none of his officers were then in England. In the mean time, he was one day apprehended and committed hither on suspicion of stealing three herrings from a fishmonger. He was tried several months ago for this offence, and acquitted; indeed, his innocence manifestly appeared at the trial; but he was brought back again for his fees, and here he hath lain ever since." Booth expressed great horror at this account, and declared, if he had only so much money in his pocket, he would pay his fees for him ; but added that he was not possessed of a single farthing in the world. Robinson hesitated a moment, and then said, with a '■ By removing the indictment by certiorari into the King's Bench, the trial is so long postponed, and the costs are so highly in- creased, that prosecutors are often tired out, and some incapaci- tated from pursuing. Verbum sapienti. 266 HENRY FIELDING smile, " I am going to make you, sir, a very odd pro- posal after your last declaration; but what say you to a game at cards? it will serve to pass a tedious hour, and may divert your thoughts from more unpleasant speculations." I do not imagine Booth would have agreed to this ; for, though some love of gaming had been formerly amongst his faults, yet he was not so egregiously ad- dicted to that vice as to be tempted by the shabby plight of Robinson, who had, if I may so express myself, no charms for a gamester. If he had, however, any such inclinations, he had no opportunity to follow them, for, before he could make any answer to Robinson's proposal, a strapping wench came up to Booth, and, taking hold of his arm, asked him to walk aside with her; saying, " What a pox, are you such a fresh cull that you do not know this fellow? why, he is a gambler, and committed for cheating at play. There is not such a pickpocket in the whole quad."' A scene of altercation now ensued between Robinson and the lady, which ended in a bout at fisticuffs, in which the lady was greatly superior to the philosopher. While the two combatants were engaged, a grave- looking man, rather better dressed than the majority of the company, came up to Mr. Booth, and, taking him aside, said, " I am sorry, sir, to see a gentleman, as you appear to be, in such intimacy with that rascal, who makes no scruple of disowning all revealed religion. As for crimes, they are human errors, and signify but little; nay, perhaps the worse a man is by nature, the more room there is for grace. The Spirit is active, and loves best to inhabit those minds where it rnay meet with the most work. Whatever your crime be, therefore, I would not have you despair, but rather rejoice at it; for per- haps it may be the means of your being called." He ran on for a considerable time with this cant, without wait- ing for an answer, and ended in declaring himself a methodist. ' A cant word for a prison. AMELIA 267 Just as the methodist had finished his discourse, a beautiful young woman was ushered into the gaol. She was genteel and well dressed, and did not in the least resemble those females whom Mr. Booth had hitherto seen. The constable had no sooner delivered her at the gate than she asked with a commanding voice for the keeper; and, when he arrived, she said to him, "Well, sir, whither am I to be conducted? I hope I am not to take up my lodging with these creatures." The keeper an- swered, with a kind of surly respect, " Madam, we have rooms for those that can afford to pay for them." At these words she pulled a handsome purse from her pocket, in which many guineas chinked, saying, with an air of indignation, "That she was not come thither on account of poverty." The keeper no sooner viewed the purse than his features became all softened in an instant; and, with all the courtesy of which he was master, he desired the lady to walk with him, assuring her that she should have the best apartment in his house. Mr. Booth was now left alone ; for the methodist had forsaken him, having, as the phrase of the sect is, searched him to the bottom. In fact, he had thoroughly examined every one of Mr. Booth's pockets ; from which he had conveyed away a pen-knife and an iron snuff-box, these being all the movables which were to be found. Booth was standing near the gate of the prison when the young lady above mentioned was introduced into the yard. He viewed her features very attentively, and was persuaded that he knew her. She was indeed so remark- ably handsome, that it was hardly possible for any who had ever seen her to forget her. He inquired of one of the under-keepers if the name of the prisoner lately arrived was not Matthews ; to which he was answered that her name was not Matthews but Vincent, and that she was committed for murder. The latter part of this information made Mr. Booth suspect his memory more than the former; for it was very possible that she might have changed her name; but he hardly thought she could so far have changed her nature as to be guilty of a crime so very incongruous 268 HENRY FIELDING with her former gentle manners: for Miss Matthews had both the birth and education of a gentlewoman. He con- cluded, therefore, that he was certainly mistaken, and rested satisfied without any further inquiry. [Chapter V) The remainder of the day Mr. Booth spent in melancholy contemplation on his present condition. He was desti- tute of the common necessaries of life, and consequently unable to subsist where he was ; nor was there a single person in town to whom he could, with any reasonable hope, apply for his delivery. Grief for some time banished the thoughts of food from his mind ; but in the morning nature began to grow uneasy for want of her usual nourishment : for he had not ate a morsel during the last forty hours. A penny loaf, which is it seems the ordinary allowance to the prisoners in Bridewell, was now de- livered him ; and while he was eating this a man brought him a little packet sealed up, informing him that it came by a messenger, who said it required no answer. Mr. Booth now opened his packet, and, after unfold- ing several pieces of blank paper successively, at last discovered a guinea, wrapped with great care in the inner- most paper. He was vastly surprised at this sight, as he had few if any friends from whom he could expect such a favour, slight as it was; and not one of his friends, as he was apprised, knew of his confinement. As there was no direction to the packet, nor a word of writing contained in it, he began to suspect that it was delivered to the wrong person ; and, being one of the most untainted honesty, he found out the man who gave it to him, and again examined him concerning the person who brought it, and the message delivered with it. The man assured Booth that he had made no mistake ; say- ing, " If your name is Booth, sir, I am positive you are the gentleman to whom the parcel I gave you belongs." The most scrupulous honesty would, perhaps, in such a situation have been well enough satisfied in finding no owner for the guinea ; especially when proclamation had AMELIA 269 been made in the prison that Mr. Booth had received a packet without any direction, to which, if any person had any claim, and would discover the contents, he was ready to deliver it to such claimant. No such claimant being found (I mean none who knew the contents ; for many swore that they expected just such a packet, and believed it to be their property), Mr. Booth very calmly resolved to apply the money to his own use. The first thing after redemption of the coat, which Mr. Booth, hungry as he was, thought of, was to supply himself with snuff, which he had long, to his great sorrow, been without. On this occasion he presently missed that iron box which the methodist had so dex- terously conveyed out of his pocket, as we mentioned in the last chapter. He no sooner missed this box than he immediately suspected that the gambler was the person who had stolen it; nay, so well was he assured of this man's guilt, that it may, perhaps, be improper to say he barely suspected it. Though Mr. Booth was, as we have hinted, a man of very sweet disposition, yet was he rather over- warm. Having, therefore, no doubt concerning the per- son of the thief, he eagerly sought him out, and very bluntly charged him with the fact. The gambler, whom I think we should now call the philosopher, received this charge without the least visible emotion either of mind or muscle. After a short pause of a few moments, he answered, with great solemnity, as follows: " Young man, I am entirely unconcerned at your groundless suspicion. He that censures a stranger, as I am to you, without any cause, makes a worse com- pliment to himself than to the stranger. You know yourself, friend ; you know not me. It is true, indeed, you heard me accused of being a cheat and a game- ster; but who is my accuser? Look at my apparel, friend; do thieves and gamesters wear such clothes as these? play is my folly, not my vice; it is my impulse, and I have been a martyr to it. Would a gamester have asked another to play when he could have lost eighteen- pence and won nothing? however, if you are not satis- 270 HENRY FIELDING fied, you may search my pockets ; the outside of all but one will serve your turn, and in that one there is the eighteen-pence I told you of." He then turned up his clothes ; and his pockets entirely resembled the pitchers of the Belides. Booth was a little staggered at this defence. He said the real value of the iron box was too inconsiderable to mention ; but that he had a capricious value for it, for the sake of the person who gave it him ; ' ' for, though it is not," said he, "worth sixpence, I would willingly give a crown to any one who would bring it me again." Robinson answered, "If that be the case, you have nothing more to do but to signify your intention in the prison, and I am well convinced you will not be long without regaining the possession of your snuff-box." This advice was immediately followed, and with suc- cess, the methodist presently producing the box, which, he said, he had found, and should have returned it be- fore, had he known the person to whom it belonged; adding, with uplifted eyes, that the Spirit would not suffer him knowingly to detain the goods of another, however inconsiderable the value was. "Why so, friend? " said Robinson. " Have I not heard you often say, the wickeder any man was the better, provided he was what you call a believer?" "You mistake me," cries Cooper (for that was the name of the methodist) : ' ' no man can be wicked after he is possessed by the Spirit. There is a wide difference between the days of sin and the days of grace. I have been a sinner myself." " I believe thee," cries Robinson, with a sneer. " I care not," answered the other, "what an atheist believes. I suppose you would insinuate that I stole the snuff-box ; but I value not your malice ; the Lord knows my inno- cence." He then walked off with the reward ; and Booth, turning to Robinson, very earnestly asked pardon for his groundless suspicion ; which the other, without any hesitation, accorded him, saying, "You never accused me, sir; you suspected some gambler, with whose char- acter I have no concern. I should be angry with a friend or acquaintance who should give a hasty credit to any AMELIA 271 allegation against me; but I have no reason to be oifended with you for believing what the woman, and the rascal who is just gone, and who is committed here for a pickpocket, which you did not perhaps know, told you to my disadvantage. And if you thought me to be a gambler you had just reason to suspect any ill of me ; for I myself am confined here by the perjury of one of those villains, who, having cheated me of my money at play, and hearing that I intended to apply to a magistrate against him, himself began the attack, and obtained a war- rant against meof Justice Thrasher, who, without hearing one speech in my defence, committed me to this place." Booth testified great compassion at this account ; and, he having invited Robinson to dinner, they spent that day together. In the afternoon Booth indulged his friend with a game at cards ; at first for halfpence and afterwards for shillings, when fortune so favoured Robinson that he did not leave the other a single shilling in his pocket. A surprising run of luck in a gamester is often mis- taken for somewhat else by persons who are not over- zealous believers in the divinity of fortune. I have known a stranger at Bath, who hath happened fortunately (I might almost say unfortunately) to have four by honours in his hand almost every time he dealt for a whole even- ing, shunned universally by the whole company the next day. And certain it is, that Mr. Booth, though of a temper very little inclined to suspicion, began to waver in his opinion whether the character given by Mr. Robin- son of himself, or that which the others gave him, was the truer. In the morning hunger paid him a second visit, and found him in the same situation as before. After some deliberation, therefore, he resolved to ask Robinson to lend him a shilling or two of that money which was lately his own. And this experiment, he thought, would confirm him either in a good or evil opinion of that gentleman. To this demand Robinson ans\yered, with great alac- rity, that he should very gladly have complied, had not fortune played one of her jade tricks with him: "for since my winning of you," said he, " I have been stripped 272 HENRY FIELDING not only of your money but my own." He was going to harangue farther; but Booth, with great indignation, turned from him. This poor gentleman had very httle time to reflect on his own misery, or the rascality, as it appeared to him, of the other, when the same person who had the day before delivered him the guinea from the unknown hand, again accosted him, and told him a lady in the house (so he expressed himself) desired the favour of his company. Mr. Booth immediately obeyed the message, and was conducted into a room in the prison, where he was pre- sently convinced that Mrs. Vincent was no other than his old acquaintance Miss Matthews. {Chapter VI) Eight or nine years had passed since any interview be- tween Mr. Booth and Miss Matthews; and their meeting now in so extraordinary a place affected both of them with an equal surprise. After some immaterial ceremonies, the lady acquainted Mr. Booth that, having heard there was a person in the prison who knew her by the name of Matthews, she had great curiosity to inquire who he was, whereupon he had been shown to her from the window of the house ; that she immediately recollected him, and, being informed of his distressful situation, for which she expressed great concern, she had sent him that guinea which he had received the day before ; and then proceeded to excuse herself for not having desired to see him at that time, when she was under the greatest disorder and hurry of spirits. Booth made many handsome acknowledgments of her favour; and added that he very little wondered at the disorder of her spirits, concluding that he was heartily concerned at seeing her there; "but I hope, madam," said he — Here he hesitated; upon which, bursting into an agony of tears, she cried out, ' ' O captain ! captain ! many extraordinary things have passed since last I saw AMELIA 273 you. O gracious Heaven! did I ever expect that this would be the next place of our meeting? " She then flung herself into her chair, where she gave a loose to her passion, whilst he, in the most affectionate and tender manner, endeavoured to soothe and comfort her; but passion itself did probably more for its own relief than all his friendly consolations. Having vented this in a large flood of tears, she became pretty well composed ; but Booth unhappily mentioning her father, she again relapsed into an agony, and cried out, " Why? why will you repeat the name of that dear man? I have disgraced him, Mr. Booth, I am unworthy the name of his daughter." — Here passion again stopped her words, and discharged itself in tears. After this second vent of sorrow or shame, or, if the reader pleases, of rage, she once more recovered from her agonies. To say the truth, these are, I believe, as critical discharges of nature as any ot those which are so called by the physicians, and do more eifectually re- lieve the mind than any remedies with which the whole materia medica of philosophy can supply it. When Mrs. Vincent had recovered her faculties, she perceived Booth standing silent, with a mixture of con- cern and astonishment in his countenance ; then address- ing herself to him with an air of most bewitching soft- ness, of which she was a perfect mistress, she said, " I do not wonder at your amazement, Captain Booth, nor indeed at the concern which you so plainly discover for me ; for I well know the goodness of your nature : but Oh, Mr. Booth ! believe me, when you know what hath happened since our last meeting, your concern will be raised, however your astonishment may cease. O sir! you are a stranger to the cause of my sorrows." " I hope I am, madam," answered he; "for I cannot believe what I have heard in the prison — surely murder " — at which words she started from her chair, repeating, " Murder! Oh, it is music in my ears! — You have heard then the cause of my commitment, my glory, my delight, my reparation ! Yes, my old friend, this is the hand, this is the arm that drove the penknife to his heart. Unkind T 274 HENRY FIELDING fortune, that not one drop of his blood reached my hand. — Indeed, sir, I would never have washed it from it. — But, though I have not the happiness to see it on my hand, I have the glorious satisfaction of remembering I saw it run in rivers on the floor ; I saw it forsake his cheeks ; I saw him fall a martyr to my revenge. And is the killing a villain to be called murder? perhaps the law calls it so. — Let it call it what it will, or punish me as it pleases. — Punish me! — no, no— that is not in the power of man — not of that monster man, Mr. Booth. I am undone, am revenged, and have now no more busi- ness for life; let them take it from me when they will." Our poor gentleman turned pale with horror at this speech, and the ejaculation of " Good Heavens! what do I hear? " burst spontaneously from his lips; nor can we wonder at this, though he was the bravest of men ; for her voice, her looks, her gestures, were properly adapted to the sentiments she expressed. Such indeed was her image, that neither could Shakspeare describe, nor Hogarth paint, nor Clive act a fury in higher per- fection. "What do you hear?" reiterated she. "You hear the resentment of the most injured of women. You have heard, you say, of the murder; but do you know the cause, Mr. Booth? Have you since your return to England visited that country where we formerly knew one another? tell me, do you know my wretched story? tell me that, my friend." Booth hesitated for an answer ; indeed, he had heard some imperfect stories, not much to her advantage. She waited not till he had formed a speech; but cried, ' ' Whatever you may have heard, you cannot be ac- quainted with all the strange accidents which have occasioned your seeing me in a place which at our last parting was so unlikely that I should ever have been found in ; nor can you know the cause of all that I have uttered, and which, I am convinced, you never expected to have heard from my mouth. If these circumstances raise your curiosity, I will satisfy it." He answered, that curiosity was too mean a word to AMELIA 275 express his ardent desire of knowing her story. Upon which, with very little previous ceremony, she began to relate what is written in the following chapter. But before we put an end to this it may be necessary to whisper a word or two to the critics, who have, per- haps, begun to express no less astonishment than Mr. Booth, that a lady in whom we had remarked a most extraordinary power of displaying softness should, the very next moment after the words were out of our mouth, express sentiments becoming the lips of a Delilah, Jezebel, Medea, Serairamis, Parysatis, Tanaquil, Livilla, Messalina, Agrippina, Brunichilde, Elfrida, Lady Mac- beth, Joan of Naples, Christina of Sweden, Katharine Hays, Sarah Malcolm, Con. Philips,' or any other heroine of the tender sex, which history, sacred or profane, ancient or modern, false or true, hath recorded. We desire such critics to remember that it is the same English climate in which, on the lovely loth of June, under a serene sky, the amorous Jacobite, kissing the odoriferous zephyr's breath, gathers a nosegay of white roses to deck the whiter breast of Celia; and in which, on the nth of June, the very next day, the boisterous Boreas, roused by the hollow thunder, rushes horrible through the air, and, driving the wet tempest before him, levels the hope of the husbandman with the earth, dreadful remembrance of the consequences of the revo- lution. Again, let it be remembered that it is the selfsame Celia, all tender, soft, and delicate, who with a voice, the sweetness of which the Sirens might envy, warbles the harmonious song in praise of the young adventurer ; and again, the next day, or, perhaps the next hour, with fiery eyes, wrinkled brows, and foaming lips, roars forth treason and nonsense in a political argument with some fair one of a different principle. ' Though last not least. 276 HENRY FIELDING II [Miss Matthews (who, by the way, has not killed or even very seriously wounded her victim) tells her story at very great length and Booth reciprocates with his. He dwells largely on the beauty and virtues of Amelia and on his love for her : but unfortunately shows that he himself is capable of divided affection. The stay of the pair in the gaol terminates as follows : Miss Matthews receives a letter which she hands to Booth.] {From Book IV— Chapter II) " Dearest Madam, — Those only who truly know what love is, can have any conception of the horrors I felt at hearing of your confinement at my arrival in town, which was this morning. I im- mediately sent my lawyer to inquire into the particulars, who brought me the agreeable news that the man, whose heart's blood ought not to be valued at the rate of a single hair of yours, is entirely out of all danger, and that you might be admitted to bail. I presently ordered him to go with two of my tradesmen, who are to be bound in any sum for your appearance, if he should be mean enough to prosecute you. Though you may expect my attorney with you soon, I would not delay sending this, as I hope the news will be agreeable to you. My chariot will attend at the same time to carry you wherever you please. You may easily guess what a violence I have done to myself in not waiting on you in person j but I, who know your delicacy, feared it might offend, and that you might think me ungenerous enough to hope from your dis- tresses that happiness which I am resolved to owe to your free gift alone, when your good nature shall induce you to bestow on me what no man living can merit, I beg you will pardon all the con- tents of this hasty letter, and do me the honour of believing me, dearest madam, your most passionate admirer, and most obedient humble servant, " Damon." Booth thought he had somewhere before seen the same hand, but in his present hurry of spirits could not recollect whose it was, nor did the lady give him any time for reflection; for he had scarce read the letter when she produced a little bit of paper and cried out, " Here, sir, here are the contents which he fears will offend me. " She then put a bank-bill of a . hundred pounds into Mr. Booth's hands, and asked him with a smile if he did not think she had reason to be offended with so much insolence? Before Booth could return any answer the governor AMELIA 277 arrived, and introduced Mr. Rogers the attorney, who acquainted the lady that he had brought her discharge from her confinement, and that a chariot waited at the door to attend her wherever she pleased. She received the discharge from Mr. Rogers, and said she was very much obliged to the gentleman who employed him, but that she would not make use of the chariot, as she had no notion of leaving that wretched place in a triumphant manner ; in which resolution when the attorney found her obstinate he withdrew, as did the governor, with many bows and as many ladyships. They were no sooner gone than Booth asked the lady why she would refuse the chariot of a gentleman who had behaved with such excessive respect? She looked earnestly upon him, and cried, "How unkind is that question ! do you imagine I would go and leave you in such a situation? thou knowest but little of Calista. Why, do you think I would accept this hundred pounds from a man I dislike unless it was to be serviceable to the man I love? I insist on your taking it as your own and using whatever you want of it." Booth protested in the solemnest manner that he would not touch a shilling of it, saying, he had already received too many obligations at her hands, and more than ever he should be able, he feared, to repay. " How unkind," answered she, "is every word you say, why will you mention obligations? love never confers any. It doth everything for its own sake. I am not therefore obliged to the man whose passion makes him generous ; for I feel how inconsiderable the whole world would ap- pear to me if I could throw it after my heart." Much more of this kind passed, she still pressing the bank-note upon him, and he as absolutely refusing, till Booth left the lady to dress herself, and went to walk in the area of the prison. Miss Matthews now applied to the governor to know by what means she might procure the captain his liberty. The governor answered, "As he cannot get bail, it will be a difficult matter ; and money to be sure there must be ; for people no doubt expect to touch on these occa- 278 HENRY FIELDING sions. When prisoners have not wherewithal as the law requires to entitle themselves to justice, why they must be beholden to other people to give them their liberty ; and people will not, to be sure, suffer others to be be- holden to them for nothing-, whereof there is good reason ; for how should we all live if it was not for these things?" "Well, well," said she, "and how much will it cost? " " How much? " answered he, — " How much? — why, let me see." — Here he hesitated some time, and then answered "That for five guineas he would under- take to procure the captain his discharge." That being the sum which he computed to remain in the lady's pocket; for, as to the gentleman's, he had long been acquainted with the emptiness of it. Miss Matthews, to whom money was as dirt (indeed she may be thought not to have known the value of it), delivered him the bank-bill, and bid him get it changed; "for if the whole," says she, "will procure him his liberty, he shall have it this evening." "The whole, madam!" answered the governor, as soon as he had recovered his breath, for it almost for- sook him at the sight of the black word hundred — "No, no ; there might be people indeed — but I am not one of those. A hundred ! no, nor nothing like it. — As for my- self, as I said, I will be content with five guineas, and I am sure that's little enough. What other people will expect I cannot exactly say. To be sure his worship's clerk will expect to touch pretty handsomely ; as for his worship himself, he never touches anything, that is, not to speak of; but then the constable will expect some- thing, and the watchmen must have something, and the lawyers on both sides, they must have their fees for fin- ishing." — "Well," said she, "I leave all to you. If it costs me twenty pounds I will have him discharged this afternoon. — But you must give his discharge into my hands without letting the captain know anything of the matter." The governor promised to obey her commands in every particular; nay, he was so very industrious, that, though dinner was just then coming upon the table, at AMELIA 279 her earnest request he set out immediately on the pur- pose, and went, as he said, in pursuit of the lawyer. All the other company assembled at table as usual, where poor Booth was the only person out of spirits. This was imputed by all present to a wrong- cause ; nay. Miss Matthews herself either could not or would not suspect that there was anything deeper than the despair of being speedily discharged that lay heavy on his mind. However, the mirth of the rest, and a pretty liberal quantity of punch, which he swallowed after dinner (for Miss Matthews had ordered a very large bowl at her own expense to entertain the good company at her farewell), so far exhilarated his spirits, that when the young lady and he retired to their tea he had all the marks of gaiety in his countenance, and his eyes sparkled with good humour. The gentleman and lady had spent about two hours in tea and conversation, when the governor returned, and privately delivered to the lady the discharge for her friend, and the sum of eighty-two pounds five shillings ; the rest having been, he said, disbursed in the business, of which he was ready at any time to render an exact account. Miss Matthews, being again alone with Mr. Booth, she put the discharge into his hands, desiring him to ask her no questions; and adding, "I think, sir, we have neither of us now anything more to do at this place." She then summoned the governor, and ordered a bill of that day's expense, for long scores were not usual there, and at the same time ordered a hackney-coach, without having yet determined whither she would go, but fully determined she was, wherever she went, to take Mr. Booth with her. The governor was now approaching with a long roll of paper, when a faint voice was heard to cry out hastily, "Where is he? " — and presently a female spectre, all pale and breathless, rushed into the room, and fell into Mr. Booth's arms, where she immediately fainted away. Booth made a shift to support his lovely burden; though he was himself in a condition very little different 28o HENRY FIELDING from hers. Miss Matthews, likewise, who presently re- collected the face of Amelia, was struck motionless with the surprise; nay, the governor himself, though not easily moved at sights of horror, stood aghast, and neither offered to speak nor stir. Happily for Amelia, the governess of the mansions had, out of curiosity, followed her into the room, and was the only useful person present on this occasion : she im- mediately called for water, and ran to the lady's assist- ance, fell to loosening her stays, and performed all the offices proper at such a season ; which had so good an effect, that Amelia soon recovered the disorder which the violent agitation of her spirits had caused, and found herself alive and awake in her husband's arms. Some tender caresses and a soft whisper or two passed privately between Booth and his lady ; nor was it without great difficulty that poor Amelia put some re- straint on her fondness in a place so improper for a tender interview. She now cast her eyes round the room, and, fixing them on Miss Matthews, who stood like a statue, she soon recollected her, and, addressing her by her name, said, " Sure, madam, I cannot be mis- taken in those features ; though meeting you here might almost make me suspect my memory." Miss Matthews's face was now all covered with scarlet. The reader may easily believe she was on no account pleased with Amelia's presence; indeed, she expected from her some of those insults of which virtuous women are generally so liberal to a frail sister: but she was mistaken ; Amelia was not one Who thought the nation ne'er would thrive, Till all the whores were burnt alive. Her virtue could support itself with its own intrinsic worth, without borrowing any assistance from the vices of other women; and she considered their natural in- firmities as the objects of pity, not of contempt or abhorrence. When Amelia therefore perceived the visible confusion in Miss Matthews she presently called to remembrance AMELIA 281 some stories which she had imperfectly heard ; for, as she was not naturally attentive to scandal, and had kept very little company since her return to England, she was far from being a mistress of the lady's whole history. However, she had heard enough to impute her confusion to the right cause ; she advanced to her, and told her, she was extremely sorry to meet her in such a place, but hoped that no very great misfortune was the occasion of it. Miss Matthews began, by degrees, to recover her spirits. She answered, with a reserved air, " I am much obliged to you, madam, for your concern; we are all liable to misfortunes in this world. Indeed, I know not why I should be much ashamed of being in any place where I am in such good company." Here Booth interposed. He had before acquainted Amelia in a whisper that his confinement was at an end. "The unfortunate accident, my dear," said he, "which brought this young lady to this melancholy place is entirely determined ; and she is now as absolutely at her liberty as myself." Amelia, imputing the extreme coldness and reserve of the lady to the cause already mentioned, advanced still more and more in proportion as she drew back ; till the governor, who had withdrawn some time, returned, and acquainted Miss Matthews that her coach was at the door; upon which the company soon separated. Amelia and Booth went together in Amelia's coach, and poor Miss Matthews was obliged to retire alone, after having satisfied the demands of the governor, which in one day only had amounted to a pretty considerable sum ; for he, with great dexterity, proportioned the bills to the abilities of his guests. Ill [Fielding now shows (at length rather too great to be transferred here in bulk, and difficult to winnow out in short extracts) his extra- ordinary command of human nature in drawing the conflicting feelings of Booth, the invincible affection (proof even against jeal- ousy, and, in fact, forbidding all access to it) of Amelia : the mixed 282 HENRY FIELDING conduct of Colonel James, whose real generosity and friendship to Booth are quickened by feelings of somethingmore or lessthan friend- ship for Booth's wife ; and the actual jealousy of Miss Matthews, which puts Booth in a perpetual state at once of temptation and torment. He is half relieved, but the situation is further complicated, by the discovery that the Colonel is his rival with Miss Matthews herself. Fresh characters of importance now appear in the story.] [Chapter VII) The next evening Booth and Amelia went to walk in the park with their children. They were now on the verge of the parade, and Booth was describing to his wife the several buildings round it, when, on a sudden, Amelia, missing her little boy, cried out, " Where 's little Billy?" Upon which, Booth, casting his eyes over the grass, saw a foot-soldier shaking the boy at a little distance. At this sight, without making any answer to his wife, he leaped over the rails, and, running directly up to the fellow, who had a firelock with a bayonet fixed in his hand, he seized him by the collar and tripped up his heels, and, at the same time, wrested his arms from him. A sergeant upon duty, seeing the affray at some distance, ran presently up, and, being told what had happened, gave the sentinel a hearty curse, and told him he de- served to be hanged. A by-stander gave this infor- mation; for Booth was returned with his little boy to meet Amelia, who staggered towards him as fast as she could, all pale and breathless, and scarce able to support her tottering limbs. The sergeant now came up to Booth, to make an apology for the behaviour of the soldier, when, of a sudden, he turned almost as pale as Amelia herself. He stood silent whilst Booth was employed in comforting and recovering his wife ; and then, address- ing himself to him, said, " Bless me ! Lieutenant, could I imagine it had been your honour; and was it my little master that the rascal used so? — I am glad I did not know it, for I should certainly have run my halbert into him." Booth presently recognized his old faithful servant Atkinson, and gave him a hearty greeting, saying he AMELIA 383 was very glad to see him in his present situation. "Whatever I am," answered the sergeant, "I shall always think I owe it to your honour." Then, taking the little boy by the hand he cried, "What a vast fine young gentleman master is grown ! " and, cursing the soldier's inhumanity, swore heartily he would make him pay for it. As Amelia was much disordered with her fright, she did not recollect her foster-brother till he was introduced to her by Booth ; but she no sooner knew him than she bestowed a most obliging smile on him; and, calling him by the name of honest Joe, said she was heartily glad to see him in England. "See, my dear," cries Booth, "what preferment your old friend is come to. You would scarce know him, I believe, in his present state of finery." "I am very well pleased to see it," answered Amelia, ' ' and I wish him joy of being made an officer with all my heart." In fact, from what Mr. Booth said, joined to the sergeant's laced coat, she believed that he had obtained a commission. So weak and absurd is human vanity, that this mistake of Amelia's possibly put poor Atkinson out of countenance, for he looked at this instant more silly than he had ever done in his life ; and, making her a most respectful bow, mut- tered something about obligations, in a scarce articulate or intelligible manner. The sergeant had, indeed, among many other qualities, that modesty which a Latin author honours by the name of ingenuous : nature had given him this, notwithstand- ing the meanness of his birth ; and six years' conversa- tion in the army had not taken it away. To say the truth, he was a noble fellow ; and Amelia, by supposing he had a commission in the guards, had been guilty of no affront to that honourable body. Booth had a real affection for Atkinson, though, in fact, he knew not half his merit. He acquainted him with his lodgings, where he earnestly desired to see him. Amelia, who was far from being recovered from the terrors into which the seeing her husband engaged with 284 HENRY FIELDING the soldier had thrown her, desired to go home : nor was she well able to walk without some assistance. While she supported herself, therefore, on her husband's arm, she told Atkinson she should be obliged to him if he would take care of the children. He readily accepted the office; but, upon offering his hand to miss, she re- fused, and burst into tears. Upon which the tender mother resigned Booth to her children, and put herself under the sergeant's protection ; who conducted her safe home, though she often declared she feared she should drop down by the way ; the fear of which so affected the sergeant (for, besides the honour which he himself had for the lady, he knew how tenderly his friend loved her) that he was unable to speak; and,- had not his nerves been so strongly braced that nothing could shake them, he had enough in his mind to have set him a trembling equally with the lady. When they arrived at the lodgings the mistress of the house opened the door, who, seeing AmeHa's condition, threw open the parlour and begged her to walk in, upon which she immediately flung herself into a chair, and all present thought she would have fainted away. However, she escaped that misery, and, having drank a glass of water with a little white wine mixed in it, she began in a little time to regain her complexion, and at length assured Booth that she was perfectly recovered, but declared she had never undergone so much, and earnestly begged him never to be so rash for the future. She then called her little boy and gently chid him, saying, "You must never do so more, Billy; you see what mischief you might have brought upon your father, and what you have made me suffer." "La! mamma," said the child, ' ' what harm did I do ? I did not know that people might not walk in the green fields in London. I am sure if I did a fault, the man punished me enough for it, for he pinched me almost through my slender arm." He then bared his little arm, which was greatly discoloured by the injury it had received. Booth uttered a most dread- ful execration at this sight, and the sergeant, who was now present, did the like. AMELIA 285 Atkinson now returned to his guard and went directly to the officer to acquaint him with the soldier's in- humanity, but he, who was about fifteen years of age, gave the sergeant a great curse and said the soldier had done very well, for that idle boys ought to be corrected. This, however, did not satisfy poor Atkinson, who, the next day, as soon as the guard was relieved, beat the fellow most unmercifully, and told him he would remem- ber him as long as he stayed in the regiment. Thus ended this trifling adventure, which some readers will, perhaps, be pleased with seeing related at full length. None, I think, can fail drawing one observation from it, namely, how capable the most insignificant acci- dent is of disturbing human happiness, and of producing the most unexpected and dreadful events. A reflection which may serve to many moral and religious uses. This accident produced the first acquaintance between the mistress of the house and her lodgers ; for hitherto they had scarce exchanged a word together. But the great concern which the good woman had shown on Amelia's account at this time, was not likely to pass un- observed or unthanked either by the husband or wife. Amelia, therefore, as soon as she was able to go up stairs, invited Mrs. Ellison (for that was her name) to her apart- ment, and desired the favour of her to stay to supper. She readily complied, and they passed a very agreeable evening together, in which the two women seemed to have conceived a most extraordinary Uking to each other. Though beauty in general doth not greatly recom- mend one woman to another, as it is too apt to create envy, yet, in cases where this passion doth not interfere, a fine woman is often a pleasing object even to some of her own sex, especially when her beauty is attended with a certain air of affability, as was that of Amelia in the highest degree. She was, indeed, a most charming woman ; and I know not whether the little scar on her nose did not rather add to than diminish her beauty. Mrs. Ellison, therefore, was as much charmed with the loveliness of her fair lodger as with all her other 286 HENRY FIELDING engaging qualities. She was, indeed, so taken with Amelia's beauty, that she could not refrain from crying out in a kind of transport of admiration, " Upon my word, Captain Booth, you are the happiest man in the world! Your lady is so extremely handsome that one cannot look at her without pleasure." This good woman herself had none of these attractive charms to the eye. Her person was short and im- moderately fat; her features were none of the most regular; and her complexion (if indeed she ever had a good one) had considerably suffered by time. Her good humour and complaisance, however, were highly pleasing to Amelia. Nay, why should we conceal the secret satisfaction which that lady felt from the com- pliments paid to her person? since such of my readers as like her best will not be sorry to find that she was a woman. {Chapter VII P^ A FORTNIGHT had now passed since Booth had seen or heard from the colonel, which did not a little surprise him, as they had parted so good friends, and as he had so cordially undertaken his cause concerning the memo- rial on which all his hopes depended. The uneasiness which this gave him farther increased on finding that his friend refused to see him ; for he had paid the colonel a visit at nine in the morning, and was told he was not stirring ; and at his return back an hour afterwards the servant said his master was gone out, of which Booth was certain of the falsehood; for he had, during that whole hour, walked backwards and forwards within sight of the colonel's door, and must have seen him if he had gone out within that time. The good colonel, however, did not long suffer his friend to continue in the deplorable state of anxiety ; for, the very next morning. Booth received his memorial enclosed in a letter, acquainting him that Mr. James had mentioned his affair to the person he proposed, but that the great man had so many engagements on his AMELIA 287 hands that it was impossible for him to make any further promises at this time. The cold and distant style of this letter, and, indeed, the whole behaviour of James, so different from what it had been formerly, had something so mysterious in it, that it greatly puzzled and perplexed poor Booth ; and it was so long before he was able to solve it, that the reader's curiosity will, perhaps, be obliged to us for not leaving him so long in the dark as to this matter. The true reason, then, of the colonel's conduct was this : his unbounded generosity, together with the unbounded extravagance and consequently the great necessity of Miss Matthews, had at length overcome the cruelty of that lady, with whom he likewise had luckily no rival. Above all, the desire of being revenged on Booth, with whom she was, to the highest degree, enraged, had, perhaps, contributed not a little to his success ; for she had no sooner condescended to a familiarity with her new lover, and discovered that Captain James, of whom she had heard so much from Booth, was no other than the identical colonel, than she employed every art of which she was mistress to make an utter breach of friendship between these two. For this purpose she did not scruple to insinuate that the colonel was not at all obliged to the character given of him by his friend, and to the account of this latter she placed most of the cruelty which she had shown to the former. Had the colonel made a proper use of his reason, and fairly examined the probability of the fact, he could scarce have been imposed upon to believe a matter so inconsistent with all he knew of Booth, and in which that gentleman must have sinned against all the laws of honour without any visible temptation. But, in solemn fact, the colonel was so intoxicated with his love, that it was in the power of his mistress to have persuaded him of anything; besides, he had an interest in giving her credit, for he was not a little pleased with finding a reason for hating the man whom he could not help hating without any reason, at least, without any which he durst fairly assign even to himself. Henceforth, therefore, he 288 HENRY FIELDING abandoned all friendship for Booth, and was more in- clined to put him out of the world than to endeavour any longer at supporting him in it. Booth communicated this letter to his wife, who en- deavoured, as usual, to the utmost of her power, to con- sole him under one of the greatest afflictions which, I think, can befall a man, namely, the unkindness of a friend ; but he had luckily at the same time the greatest blessing in his possession, the kindness of a faithful and beloved wife. A blessing, however, which, though it compensates most of the evils of life, rather serves to aggravate the misfortune of distressed circumstances, from the consideration of the share which she is to bear in them. This afternoon Amelia received a second visit from Mrs. Ellison, who acquainted her that she had a present of a ticket for the oratorio, which would carry two per- sons into the gallery ; and therefore begged the favour of her company thither. Amelia, with many thanks-, acknowledged the civility of Mrs. Ellison, but declined accepting her offer; upon which Booth very strenuously insisted on her going, and said to her, ' ' My dear, if you knew the satisfaction I have in any of your pleasures, I am convinced you would not refuse the favour Mrs. Ellison is so kind to offer you; for, as you are a lover of music, you, who have never been at an oratorio, cannot conceive how you will be delighted." " I well know your goodness, my dear," answered Amelia, "but I cannot think of leaving my children without some person more proper to take care of them than this poor girl." Mrs. Ellison removed this objection by offering her own servant, a very discreet matron, to attend them ; but notwithstanding this, and all she could say, with the assistance of Booth, and of the children themselves, Amelia still persisted in her refusal ; and the mistress of the house, who knew how far good breeding allows persons to be pressing on these occasions, took her leave. She was no sooner departed than Amelia, looking tenderly on her husband, said, " How can you, my dear AMELIA 289 creature, think that music hath any charms for me at this time? or, indeed, do you believe that I am capable of any sensation worthy the name of pleasure when neither you nor my children are present or bear any part of it?" An officer of the regiment to which Booth had formerly belonged, hearing from Atkinson where he lodged, now came to pay him a visit. He told him that several of their old acquaintance were to meet the next Wednesday at a tavern, and very strongly pressed him to be one of the company. Booth was, in truth, what is called a hearty fellow, and loved now and then to take a cheerful glass with his friends ; but he excused himself at this time. His friend declared he would take no denial, and he growing very importunate, Amelia at length seconded him. Upon this Booth answered, " Well, my dear, since you desire me, I will comply, but on one condition, that you go at the same time to the oratorio. " Amelia thought this request reasonable enough, and gave her consent; of which Mrs. Ellison presently received the news, and with great satisfaction. It may perhaps be asked why Booth could go to the tavern, and not to the oratorio with his wife? In truth, then, the tavern was within hallowed ground, that is to say, in the verge of the court; for, of five officers that were to meet there, three, besides Booth, were confined to that air which hath been always found extremely wholesome to a broken military constitution. And here, if the good reader will pardon the pun, he will scarce be off'ended at the observation; since, how is it possible that, without running in debt, any persons should main- tain the dress and appearance of a gentleman whose income is not half so good as that of a porter? It is true that this allowance, small as it is, is a great expense to the public ; but, if several more unnecessary charges were spared, the public might, perhaps, bear a little increase of this without much feeling it. They would not, I am sure, have equal reason to complain at con- tributing to the maintenance of a set of brave fellows who, at the hazard of their health, their limbs, and their u ago HENRY FIELDING lives, have maintained the safety and honour of their country, as when they find themselves taxed to the sup- port of a set of drones, who have not the least merit or claim to their favour, and who, without contributing in any manner to the good of the hive, live luxuriously on the labours of the industrious bee. (Chapter IX) Nothing happened between the Monday and the Wednes- day worthy a place in this history. Upon the evening of the latter the two ladies went to the oratorio, and were there time enough to get a first row in the gallery. Indeed, there was only one person in the house when they came; for Amelia's inclinations, when she gave a loose to them, were pretty eager for this diversion, she being a great lover of music, and particularly of Mr. Handel's compositions. Mrs. Ellison was, I suppose, a great lover likewise of music, for she was the more impatient of the two ; which was rather the more extra- ordinary, as these entertainments were not such novel- ties to her as they were to poor Amelia. Though our ladies arrived full two hours before they saw the back of Mr. Handel, yet this time of expectation did not hang extremely heavy on their hands ; for, be- sides their own chat, they had the company of the gen- tleman whom they found at their first arrival in the gallery, and who, though plainly, or rather roughly dressed, very luckily for the women, happened to be not only well bred, but a person of very lively con- versation. The gentleman, on his part, seemed highly charmed with Amelia, and in fact was so; for, though he restrained himself entirely within the rules of good breeding, yet was he in the highest degree officious to catch at every opportunity of showing his respect, and doing her little services. He procured her a book and wax-candle, and held the candle for her himself during the whole entertainment. At the end of the oratorio he declared he would not leave the ladies till he had seen them safe into their AMELIA 291 chairs or coach; and at the same time very earnestly entreated that he might have the honour of waiting on them. Upon which Mrs. Ellison, who was a very good- humoured woman, answered, "Aye, sure, sir, if you please ; you have been very obliging to us ; and a dish of tea shall be at your service at any time ; " and then told him where she lived. The ladies were no sooner seated in the hackney-coach than Mrs. Ellison burst into a loud laughter, and cried, " I'll be hanged, madam, if you have not made a con- quest to-night ; and, what is very pleasant, I believe the poor gentleman takes you for a single lady." "Nay," answered Amelia very gravely, ' ' I protest I began to think at last he was rather too particular, though he did not venture at a word that I could be offended at ; but, if you fancy any such thing, I am sorry you invited him to drink tea." "Why so?" replied Mrs. Ellison. "Are you angry with a man for Hking you? if you are, you will be angry with almost every man that sees you. If I was a man myself, I declare I should be in the number of your admirers. Poor gentleman, I pity him heartily; he little knows that you have not a heart to dispose of. For my own part, I should not be surprised at seeing a serious proposal of marriage : for I am con- vinced he is a man of fortune, not only by the politeness of his address, but by the fineness of his linen, and that valuable diamond ring on his finger. But you will see more of him when he comes to tea." "Indeed I shall not," answered Amelia, "though I believe you only rally me ; I hope you have a better opinion of me than to think I would go willingly into the company of a man who had an improper liking for me." Mrs. Ellison, who was one of the gayest women in the world, repeated the words, " improper liking," with a laugh; and cried, " My dear Mrs. Booth, believe me, you are too hand- some and too good-humoured for a prude. How can you affect being offended at what I am convinced is the greatest pleasure of womankind, and chiefly, I believe, of us virtuous women? for, I assure you, notwithstand- ing my gaiety, I am as virtuous as any prude in Europe." 292 HENRY FIELDING " Far be it from me, madam," said Amelia, "to suspect the contrary of abundance of women who indulge them- selves in much greater freedoms than I should take, or have any pleasure in taking; for I solemnly protest, if I know my own heart, the liking of all men, but of one, is a matter quite indifferent to me, or rather would be highly disagreeable." This discourse brought them home, where Amelia, finding her children asleep, and her husband not re- turned, invited her companion to partake of her homely fare, and down they sat to supper together. The clock struck twelve; and, no news being arrived of Booth, Mrs. Ellison began to express some astonishment at his stay, whence she launched into a general reflection on husbands, and soon passed to some particular invectives on her own. "Ah, my dear madam," says she, "I know the present state of your mind, by what I have myself often felt formerly. I am no stranger to the melancholy tone of a midnight clock. It was my misfortune to drag on a heavy chain above fifteen years with a sottish yoke- fellow. But how can I wonder at my fate, since I see even your superior charms cannot confine a husband from the bewitching pleasures of a bottle?" "Indeed, madam," says Amelia, " I have no reason to complain; Mr. Booth is one of the soberest of men ; but now and then to spend a late hour with his friend is, I think, highly excusable." " Oh, no doubt! " cries Mrs. Ellison, " if he can excuse himself; but if I was a man — " Here Booth came in and interrupted the discourse. Amelia's eyes flashed with joy the moment he appeared ; and he discovered no less pleasure in seeing her. His spirits were indeed a little elevated with wine, so as to heighten his good humour, without in the least disordering his understanding, and made him such delightful company, that, though it was past one in the morning, neither his wife nor Mrs. Ellison thought of their beds during a whole hour. Early the next morning the sergeant came to Mr. Booth's lodgings, and with a melancholy countenance acquainted him that he had been the night before at an AMELIA 293 alehouse, where he heard one Mr. Murphy, an attorney, declare that he would get a warrant backed against one Captain Booth at the next board of green-cloth. ' ' I hope, sir," said he, "your honour will pardon me, but, by what he said, I was afraid he meant your honour ; and therefore I thought it my duty to tell you; for I knew the same thing happen to a gentleman here the other day." Booth gave Mr. Atkinson many thanks for his informa- tion. "I doubt not," said he, "but I am the person meant ; for it would be foolish in me to deny that I am liable to apprehensions of that sort." "I hope, sir," said the sergeant, "your honour will soon have reason to fear no man living; but in the mean time, if any accident should happen, my bail is at your service as far as it will go; and I am a housekeeper, and can swear myself worth one hundred pound." Which hearty and friendly declaration received all those acknowledg- ments from Booth which it really deserved. The poor gentleman was greatly alarmed at this news ; but he was altogether as much surprised at Murphy's being the attorney employed against him, as all his debts, except only to Captain James, arose in the country, where he did not know that Mr. Murphy had any ac- quaintance. However, he made no doubt that he was the person intended, and resolved to remain a close prisoner in his own lodgings, till he saw the event of a proposal which had been made him the evening before at the tavern where an honest gentleman, who had a post under the government, and who was one of the company, had promised to serve him with the secretary at war, telling him that he made no doubt of procuring him whole pay in a regiment abroad, which in his pre- sent circumstances was very highly worth his acceptance ; when, indeed, that and a gaol seemed to be the only alternatives that offered themselves to his choice. Mr. Booth and his lady spent that afternoon with Mrs. Ellison — an incident which we should scarce have mentioned, had it not been that Amelia gave, on this occasion, an instance of that prudence which should 294 HENRY FIELDING never be off its guard in married women of delicacy; for, before she would consent to drink tea with Mrs. Ellison, she made conditions that the gentleman who had met them at the oratorio should not be let in. Indeed, this circumspection proved unnecessary in the present instance, for no such visitor ever came; a cir- cumstance which gave great content to Amelia ; for that lady had been a little uneasy at the raillery of Mrs. Ellison, and had upon reflection magnified every little compliment made her, and every little civility shown her by the unknown gentleman, far beyond the truth. These imaginations now all subsided again; and she imputed all that Mrs. Ellison had said either to raillery or mistake. A young lady made a fourth with them at whist, and likewise stayed the whole evening. Her name was Bennet. She was about the age of five-and-twenty ; but sickness had given her an older look, and had a good deal diminished her beauty; of which, young as she was, she plainly appeared to have only the remains in her present possession. She was in one particular the very reverse of Mrs. Ellison, being altogether as remark- ably grave as the other was gay. This gravity was not, however, attended with any sourness of temper ; on the contrary, she had much sweetness in her countenance, and was perfectly well bred. In short, Amelia imputed her grave deportment to her ill health, and began to entertain a compassion for her, which in good minds, that is to say, in minds capable of compassion, is cer- tain to introduce some little degree of love or friend- ship. Amelia was in short so pleased with the conversation of this lady, that, though a woman of no impertinent curiosity, she could not help taking the first opportunity of inquiring who she was. Mrs. Ellison said that she was an unhappy lady, who had married a young clergy- man for love, who, dying of a consumption, had left her a widow in very indifferent circumstances. This account made Amelia still pity her more, and consequently added to the liking which she had already conceived for her. AMELIA 295 Amelia, therefore, desired Mrs. Ellison to bring her acquainted with Mrs. Bennet, and said she would go any day with her to make that lady a visit. "There need be no ceremony," cried Mrs. Ellison; "she is a woman of no form ; and, as I saw plainly she was ex- tremely pleased with Mrs. Booth, I am convinced I can bring her to drink tea with you any afternoon you please." The two next days Booth continued at home highly to the satisfaction of his Amelia, who really knew no happiness out of his company, nor scarce any misery in it. She had, indeed, at all times so much of his company when in his power, that she had no occasion to assign any particular reason for his staying with her, and con- sequently it could give her no cause of suspicion. The Saturday, one of her children was a little disordered with a feverish complaint which confined her to her room, and prevented her drinking tea in the afternoon with her husband in Mrs. Ellison's apartment, where a noble lord, a cousin of Mrs. Ellison, happened to be present ; for, though that lady was reduced in her circumstances and obliged to let out part of her house in lodgings, she was born of a good family and had some considerable relations. His lordship was not himself in any office of state, but his fortune gave him great authority with those who were. Mrs. Ellison, therefore, very bluntly took an opportunity of recommending Booth to his consideration. She took the first hint from my lord's calling the gentle- man captain; to which she answered, " Aye, I wish your lordship would make him so. It would be but an act of justice, and I know it is in your power to do much greater things. " She then mentioned Booth's services, and the wounds he had received at the siege, of which she had heard a faithful account from Amelia. Booth blushed, and was as silent as a young virgin at the hearing her own praises. His lordship answered, ' ' Cousin Ellison, you know you may command my interest ; nay, I shall have a pleasure in serving one of Mr. Booth's character: for my part, I think merit in all capacities 296 HENRY FIELDING ought to be encouraged, but I know the ministry are greatly pestered with solicitations at this time. How- ever, Mr. Booth may be assured I will take the first opportunity; and, in the meantime, I shall be glad of seeing him any morning he pleases." For all these declarations Booth was not wanting in acknowledg- ments to the generous peer any more than he was in secret gratitude to the lady who had shown so friendly and uncommon a zeal in his favour. The reader, when he knows the character of this nobleman, may, perhaps, conclude that his seeing Booth alone was a lucky circumstance, for he was so passionate an admirer of women, that he could scarce have escaped the attraction of Amelia's beauty. And few men, as I have observed, have such disinterested generosity as to serve a husband the better because they are in love with his wife, unless she will condescend to pay a price beyond the reach of a virtuous woman. {Book V— Chapter I) Booth's affairs were put on a better aspect than they had ever worn before, and he was willing to make use of the opportunity of one day in seven to taste the fresh air. At nine in the morning he went to pay a visit to his old friend Colonel James, resolving, if possible, to have a full explanation of that behaviour which appeared to him so mysterious ; but the colonel was as inaccessible as the best defended fortress ; and it was as impossible for Booth to pass beyond his entry as the Spaniards found it to take Gibraltar. He received the usual answers ; first, that the colonel was not stirring, and an hour after that he was gone out. All that he got by ask- ing further questions was only to receive still ruder answers, by which, if he had been very sagacious, he might have been satisfied how little worth his while it was to desire to go in ; for the porter at a great man's door is a kind of thermometer, by which you may dis- cover the warmth or coldness of his master's friendship. Nay, in the highest stations of all, as the great man AMELIA 297 himself hath his different kinds of salutation, from an hearty embrace with a kiss, and "My dear Lord" or " Dear Sir Charles, " down to ' ' Well Mr. , what would you have me do? " so the porterto some bows with respect, to others with a smile, to some he bows more, to others less low, to others not at all. Some he just lets in, and others he just shuts out. And in all this they so well correspond, that one would be inclined to think that the great man and his porter had compared their lists to- gether, and, like two actors concerned to act different parts in the same scene, had rehearsed their parts privately together before they ventured to perform in public. Though Booth did not, perhaps, see the whole matter in this just light, for that in reality it is, yet he was dis- cerning enough to conclude, from the behaviour of the servant, especially when he considered that of the master likewise, that he had entirely lost the friendship of James; and this conviction gave him a concern that not only the flattering prospect of his lordship's favour was not able to compensate, but which even obliterated, and made him for a while forget the situation in which he had left his Amelia: and he wandered about almost two hours, scarce knowing where he went, till at last he dropped into a coffee-house near St. James's, where he sat himself down. He had scarce drank his dish of coffee before he heard a young officer of the guards cry to another, " Od, d — n me. Jack, here he comes — here 's old honour and dignity, faith." Upon which he saw a chair open, and out issued a most erect and stately figure indeed, with a vast peri- wig on his head and a vast hat under his arm. This august personage, having entered the room, walked directly up to the upper end, where having paid his respects to all present of any note, to each according to seniority, he at last cast his eyes on Booth, and very civilly, though somewhat coldly, asked him how he did. Booth, who had long recognized the features of his old acquaintance Major Bath, returned the compliment with a very low bow ; but did not venture to make the first advance to familiarity, as he was truly possessed of 298 HENRY FIELDING that quality which the Greeks considered in the highest light of honour, and which we term modesty; though indeed, neither ours nor the Latin language hath any word adequate to the idea of the original. The colonel, after having discharged himself of two or three articles of news, and made his comments upon them, when the next chair to him became vacant, called upon Booth to fill it. He then asked him several ques- tions relating to his affairs ; and, when he heard he was out of the army, advised him earnestly to use all means to get in again, saying that he was a pretty lad, and they must not lose him. Booth told him in a whisper that he had a great deal to say to him on that subject if they were in a more pri- vate place ; upon this the colonel proposed a walk in the Park, which the other readily accepted. During their walk Booth opened his heart, and, among other matters, acquainted Colonel Bath that he feared he had lost the friendship of Colonel James ; " though I am not," said he, " conscious of having done the least thing to deserve it." Bath answered, " You are certainly mistaken, Mr. Booth. I have indeed scarce seen my brother since my coming to town; for I have been here but two days; however, I am convinced he is a man of too nice honour to do anything inconsistent with the true dignity of a gentleman." Booth answered, " He was far from accus- ing him of anything dishonourable." — " D — n me," said Bath, "if there is a man alive can or dare accuse him: if you have the least reason to take anything ill, why don't you go to him? you are a gentleman, and his rank doth not protect him from giving you satisfaction." "The affair is not of any such kind," says Booth; " I have great obligations to the colonel, and have more reason to lament than complain; and, if I could but see him, I am convinced I should have no cause for either ; but I cannot get within his house ; it was. but an hour ago a servant of his turned me rudely from the door." "Did a servant of my brother use you rudely?" said the colonel, with the utmost gravity. " I do not know. AMELIA 299 sir, in what light you see such things ; but, to me, the aflPront of a servant is the affront of the master; and if he doth not immediately punish it, by all the dignity of a man, I would see the master's nose between my fingers. " Booth offered to explain, but to no purpose ; the colonel was got into his stilts ; and it was impossible to take him down, nay, it was as much as Booth could possibly do to part with him without an actual quarrel; nor would he, perhaps, have been able to have accomplished it, had not the colonel by accident turned at last to take Booth's side of the question ; and before they separated he swore many oaths that James should give him proper satisfaction. Such was the end of this present interview, so little to the content of Booth, that he was heartily concerned he had ever mentioned a syllable of the matter to his honourable friend. IV [The reader will readily understand the wicked nobleman's de- sign, in which Booth's fellow officer and Mrs. Ellison are suborned to assist. Mrs. Bennet, however, has her own very sufficient reasons for distrusting him, and these are increased by her form- ing a great affection for Amelia and by her marriage with Sergeant Atkinson, who has a very high character in the army and merely wants money to purchase a commission. Two " character " scenes may now be given. With regard to the first, it should be said that Mrs. James has already called on Amelia, but with extraordinary coldness of manner.] {From Chapter IV) Nothing, as I remember, happened in this interval of time, more worthy notice than the following card which Amelia received from her old acquaintance Mrs. James: — ■ "Mrs. James sends her compliments to Mrs. Booth, and desires to know how she does ; for, as she hath not had the favour of seeing her at her own house, or of meeting her in any public place, in so long time, fears it may be owing to ill-health." Amelia had long given over all thoughts of her friend, and doubted not but that she was as entirely given over 300 HENRY FIELDING by her ; she was very much surprised at this message, and under some doubt whether it was not meant as an insult, especially from the mention of public places, which she thought so inconsistent with her present cir- cumstances, of which she supposed Mrs. James was well apprised. However, at the entreaty of her husband, who languished for nothing more than to be again re- conciled to his friend James, Amelia undertook to pay the lady a visit, and to examine into the mystery of this conduct, which appeared to her so unaccountable. Mrs. James received her with a degree of civility that amazed Amelia no less than her coldness had done before. She resolved to come to an eclaircissement, and, having sat out some company that came in, when they were alone together Amelia, after some silence and many offers to speak, at last said, " My dear Jenny (if you will now suifer me to call you by so familiar a name), have you entirely forgot a certain young lady who had the pleasure of being your intimate acquaint- ance at Montpelier?" "Whom do you mean, dear madam?" cries Mrs. James with great concern. "I mean myself," answered Amelia. "You surprise me, madam," replied Mrs. James: " How can you ask me that question?" "Nay, my dear, I do not intend to offend you," cries Amelia, "but I am really desirous to solve to myself the reason of that coldness which you showed me when you did me the favour of a visit. Can you think, my dear, I was not disappointed, when I expected to meet an intimate friend, to receive a cold formal visitant? I desire you to examine your own heart and answer me honestly if you do not think I had some little reason to be dissatisfied with your behaviour?" " Indeed, Mrs. Booth," answered the other lady, " you surprise me very much ; if there was anything displeasing to you in my behaviour I am extremely concerned at it. I did not know I had been defective in any of the rules of civility, but if I was, madam, I ask your pardon." " Is civility then, my dear," replied Amelia, "a synonym- ous term with friendship? Could I have expected, when I parted the last time with Miss Jenny Bath, to have AMELIA 301 met her the next time in the shape of a fine lady, com- plaining of the hardship of climbing up two pair of stairs to visit me, and then approaching me with the distant air of a new or slight acquaintance? Do you think, my dear Mrs. James, if the tables had been turned, if my fortune had been as high in the world as yours, and you in my distress and abject condition, that I would not have climbed as high as the Monument to visit you?" "Sure, madam," cried Mrs. James, "I mistake you, or you have greatly mistaken me. Can you complain of my not visiting you, who have owed me a visit almost these three weeks? Nay, did I not even then send you a card, which sure was doing more than all the friendship and good-breeding in the world re- quired ; but, indeed, as I had met you in no public place, I really thought you was ill." — " How can you mention public places to me," said Amelia, "when you can hardly be a stranger to my present situation? Did you not know, madam, that I was ruined?" "No, indeed, madam, did I not," replied Mrs. James; "I am sure I should have been highly concerned if I had." "Why, sure, my dear," cries Amelia, "you could not imagine that we were in affluent circumstances, when you found us in such a place, and in such a condition." "Nay, my dear," answered Mrs. James, " since you are pleased to mention it first yourself, I own I was a little surprised to see you in no better lodgings ; but I concluded you had your own reasons for liking them ; and, for my own part, I have laid it down as a positive rule never to inquire into the private affairs of any one, especially of my friends. I am not of the humour of some ladies, who confine the circle of their acquaintance to one part of the town, and would not be known to visit in the city for the world. For my part, I never dropped an ac- quaintance with any one while it was reputable to keep it up ; and I can solemnly declare I have not a friend in the world for whom I have a greater esteem than I have for Mrs. Booth." At this instant the arrival of a new visitant put an end to the discourse; and Amelia soon after took her 302 HENRY FIELDING leave without the least anger, but with some little unavoidable contempt for a lady, in whose opinion, as we have hinted before, outward form and ceremony constituted the whole essence of friendship ; who valued all her acquaintance alike, as each individual served equally to fill up a place in her visiting roll; and who, in reality, had not the least concern for the good qualities or well-being of any of them. (Chapter V) At the end of three days Mrs. Ellison's friend had so far purchased Mr. Booth's liberty that he could walk again abroad within the verge without any danger of having a warrant backed against him by the board before he had notice. As for the ill-looked persons that had given the alarm, it was now discovered that another unhappy gentleman, and not Booth, was the object of their pursuit. Mr. Booth, now being delivered from his fears, went, as he had formerly done, to take his morning walk in the Park. Here he met Colonel Bath in company with some other officers, and very civilly paid his respects to him. But, instead of returning the salute, the colonel looked him full in the face with a very stern countenance ; and, if he could be said to take any notice of him, it was in such a manner as to inform him he would take no notice of him. Booth was not more hurt than surprised at this be- haviour, and resolved to know the reason of it. He therefore watched an opportunity till the colonel was alone, and then walked boldly up to him, and desired to know if he had given him any offence? The colonel answered hastily, " Sir, I am above being offended with you, nor do I think it consistent with my dignity to make you any answer." Booth replied, "I don't know, sir, that I have done anything to deserve this treat- ment." " Look'ee, sir," cries the colonel, " If I had not formerly had some respect for you, I should not think you worth my resentment. However, as you are a gen- tleman born, and an officer, and as I have had an esteem AMELIA 303 for you, I will give you some marks of it by putting it in your power to do yourself justice. I will tell you, therefore, sir, that you have acted like a scoundrel." " If we were not in the Park," answered Booth warmly, " I would thank you very properly for that compliment." "O sir," cries the colonel, "we can be soon in a con- venient place." Upon which Booth answered, he would attend him wherever he pleased. The colonel then bid him come along, and strutted forward directly up Con- stitution-Hill to Hyde-Park, Booth following him at first, and afterwards walking before him, till they came to that place which may be properly called the field of blood, being that part, a little to the left of the ring, which heroes have chosen for the scene of their exit out of this world. Booth reached the ring some time before the colonel ; for he mended not his pace any more than a Spaniard. To say truth, I believe it was not in his power ; for he had so long accustomed himself to one and the same strut, that as a horse, used always to trotting, can scarce be forced into a gallop, so could no passion force the colonel to alter his pace. At length, however, both parties arrived at the lists, where the colonel very deliberately took off his wig and coat, and laid them on the grass, and then, drawing his sword, advanced to Booth, who had likewise his drawn weapon in his hand, but had made no other preparation for the combat. The combatants now engaged with great fury, and after two or three passes. Booth ran the colonel through the body and threw him on the ground, at the same time possessing himself of the colonel's sword. As soon as the colonel was become master of his speech, he called out to Booth in a very kind voice, and said, "You have done my business, and satisfied me that you are a man of honour, and that my brother James must have been mistaken ; for I am convinced that no man who will draw his sword in so gallant a manner is capable of being a rascal. D— n me, give me a buss, my dear boy ; I ask your pardon for that in- 304 HENRY FIELDING famous appellation I dishonoured your dignity with; but, d — n me, if it was not purely out of love, and to give you an opportunity of doing yourself justice, which I own you have done like a man of honour. What may be the consequence I know not, but I hope, at least, I shall live to reconcile you with my brother." Booth showed great concern, and even horror in his countenance. " Why, my dear colonel," said he, "would you force me to this? for Heaven's sake tell me what I have ever done to offend you." " Me! " cried the colonel. " Indeed, my dear child, you never did anything to offend me. — Nay, I have acted the part of a friend to you in the whole affair. I maintained your cause with my brother as long as decency would permit ; I could not flatly contradict him, though, indeed, I scarce believed him. But what could I do? If I had not fought with you, I must have been obliged to have fought with him : however, I hope what is done will be sufficient, and that matters may be dis- commodated without your being put to the necessity of fighting any more on this occasion." "Never regard me," cried Booth eagerly: "for Heaven's sake, think of your own preservation. Let me put you into a chair, and get you a surgeon." " Thou art a noble lad," cries the colonel, who was now got on his legs, " and I am glad the business is so well over ; for, though your sword went quite through, it slanted so that I apprehend there is little danger of life: however, I think there is enough done to put an honourable end to the affair, especially as you was so hasty to disarm me. I bleed a little, but I can walk to the house by the water ; and, if you will send me a chair thither, I shall be obliged to you." As the colonel refused any assistance (indeed he was very able to walk without it, though with somewhat less dignity than usual). Booth set forward to Grosvenor- Gate, in order to procure the chair, and soon after returned with one to his friend ; whom having conveyed into it, he attended himself on foot into Bond-Street, where then lived a very eminent surgeon. AMELIA 305 The surgeon having probed the wound, turned to- wards Booth, who was apparently the guilty person, and said, with a smile, ' ' Upon my word, sir, you have per- formed the business with great dexterity." " Sir," cries the colonel to the surgeon, " I would not have you imagine I am afraid to die. I think I know more what belongs to the dignity of a man; and, I believe, I have shown it at the head of a line of battle. Do not impute my concern to that fear, when I ask you whether there is oris not any danger? " " Really, colonel," answered the surgeon, who well knew the complexion of the gentleman then under his hands, " it would appear like presumption to say that a man who hath been just run through the body is in no manner of danger. But this I think I may assure you, that I yet perceive no very bad symptoms, and, unless something worse should appear, or a fever be the con- sequence, I hope you may live to be again, with all your dignity, at the head of a line of battle." "I am glad to hear that is your opinion," quoth the colonel, "for I am not desirous of dying, though I am not afraid of it. But, if anything worse than you appre- hend should happen, I desire you will be a witness of my declaration that this young gentleman is entirely innocent. I forced him to do what he did. My dear Booth, I am pleased matters are as they are. You are the first man that ever gained an advantage over me ; but it was very lucky for you that you disarmed me, and I doubt not but you have the equanimity to think so. If the business, therefore, hath ended without doing any- thing to the purpose, it was Fortune's pleasure, and neither of our faults. " Booth heartily embraced the colonel, and assured him of the great satisfaction he had received from the sur- geon's opinion ; and soon after the two combatants took their leave of each other. The colonel, after he was dressed, went in a chair to his lodgings, and Booth walked on foot to his ; where he luckily arrived without meeting any of Mr. Murphy's gang ; a danger which never once occurred to his imagination till he was out of it. X 3o6 HENRY FIELDING The affair he had been about had indeed so entirely occupied his mind, that it had obliterated every other idea; among the rest, it caused him so absolutely to forget the time of the day, that, though he had exceeded the time of dining above two hours, he had not the least suspicion of being at home later than usual. [Meanwhile both the "noble peer" and Colonel James continue their designs on Amelia, and some presents which the former has given to the children are the occasion of a fresh " tiff" on the part of that capricious Providence, Dr. Harrison. The plots mature, and though it is found impossible to lure Booth away from his wife on foreign service, Harrison's impatience makes him arrest the Captain who owes him money, and who, he thinks, has been squandering it. But a long "story of Mrs. Bennet" puts Amelia on her guard, both against the peer and against Mrs. Ellison, though without knowing it she goes from the frying-pan to the fire by accepting assistance from Colonel James. Another of the " off" scenes which are such a feature of the book may be given. Booth, it must be remembered, is still in gaol. ] {Book VIII— Chapter V) Having left Amelia in as comfortable a situation as could possibly be expected, her immediate distresses relieved, and her heart filled with great hopes from the friendship of the colonel, we will now return to Booth, who, when the attorney and sergeant had left him, re- ceived a visit from that great author of whom honour- able mention is made in our second chapter. Booth, as the reader may be pleased to remember, was a pretty good master of the classics ; for his father, though he designed his son for the army, did not think it necessary to breed him up a blockhead. He did not, perhaps, imagine that a competent share of Latin and Greek would make his son either a pedant or a coward. He considered likewise, probably, that the life of a soldier is in general a life of idleness ; and might think that the spare hours of an officer in country quarters would be as well employed with a book as in sauntering about the streets, loitering in a coffee-house, sotting in a tavern, AMELIA 307 or in laying schemes to debauch and ruin a set of harm- less ignorant country girls. As Booth was therefore what might well be called, in this age at least, a man of learning, he began to dis- course with our author on subjects of literature. ' ' I think, sir," says he, "that Dr. Swift hath been generally allowed, by the critics in this kingdom, to be the greatest master of humour that ever wrote. Indeed, I allow him to have possessed most admirable talents of this kind ; and, if Rabelais was his master, I think he proves the truth of the common Greek proverb— that the scholar is often superior to the master. As to Cervantes, I do not think we can make any just comparison; for, though Mr. Pope compliments him with sometimes taking Cer- vantes' serious air — " " I remember the passage," cries the author ; " O thou, whatever title please thine ear, Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver ; Whether you take Cervantes' serious air, Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy chair — " " You are right, sir," said Booth; " but though I should agree that the doctor hath sometimes condescended to imitate Rabelais, I do not remember to have seen in his works the least attempt in the manner of Cervantes. But there is one in his own way, and whom I am convinced he studied above all others — you guess, I believe, I am going to name Lucian. This author, I say, I am con- vinced, he followed; but I think he followed him at a distance ; as, to say the truth, every other writer of this kind hath done in my opinion ; for none, I think, hath yet equalled him. I agree, indeed, entirely with Mr. Moyle, in his Discourse on the Age of the Philopatris, when he gives him the epithet of ' the incomparable Lucian ; ' and incomparable, I believe, he will remain as long as the language in which he wrote shall endure. What an inimitable piece of humour is his Cock! " "I remember it very well," cries the author; "his story of a Cock and a Bull is excellent." Booth stared at this, and asked the author what he meant by the Bull ? ' ' Nay, " 3o8 HENRY FIELDING answered he, " I don't know very well, upon my soul. It is a long time since I read him. I learnt him all over at school ; I have not read him much since. And pray, sir," said he, "how do you like his Pharsalia? don't you think Mr. Rowe's translation a very fine one?" Booth replied, "I believe we are talking of different authors. The Pharsalia, which Mr. Rowe translated, was written by Lucan ; but I have been speaking of Lucian, a Greek writer, and, in my opinion, the greatest in the humorous way that ever the world produced. " "Aye!" cries the author, ' ' he was indeed so, a very excellent writer in- deed ! I fancy a translation of him would sell very well ! " " I do not know, indeed," cries Booth. " A good trans- lation of him would be a valuable book. I have seen a wretched one published by Mr. Dryden, but translated by others, who in many places have misunderstood Lucian's meaning, and have nowhere preserved the spirit of the original." " That is great pity," says the author. "Pray, sir, is he well translated into French?" Booth answered, he could not tell ; but that he doubted it very much, having never seen a good version into that lan- guage out of the Greek. "To confess the truth, I be- lieve," said he, "the French translators have generally consulted the Latin only; which, in some of the few Greek writers I have read, is intolerably bad. And as the English translators, for the most part, pursue the French, we may easily guess what spirit those copies of bad copies must preserve of the original." " Egad, you are a shrewd guesser," cries the author. ' ' I am glad the booksellers have not your sagacity. But how should it be otherwise, considering the price they pay by the sheet? The Greek, you will allow, is a hard language ; and there are few gentlemen that write who can read it without a good lexicon. Now, sir, if we were to afford time to find out the true meaning of words, a gentleman would not get bread and cheese by his work. If one was to be paid, indeed, as Mr. Pope was for his Homer — Pray, sir, don't you think that the best transla- tion in the world? " "Indeed, sir," cries Booth, "I think, though it is AMELIA 309 certainly a noble paraphrase, and of itself a fine poem, yet in some places it is no translation at all. In the very beginning, for instance, he hath not rendered the true force of the author. Homer invokes his muse in the five first lines of the Iliad; and, at the end of the fifth, he gives his reason : Aibg S' fTcXtttro jSovXri, 'For all these things,' says he, 'were brought about by the decree of Jupiter;' and, therefore, he supposes their true sources are known only to the deities. Now, the translation takes no more notice of the Se than if no such word had been there." "Very possibly," answered the author; "it is a long time since I read the original. Perhaps, then, he followed the French translations. I observe, indeed, he talks much in the notes of Madame Dacier and Monsieur Eustathius." Booth had now received conviction enough of his friend's knowledge of the Greek language; without attempting, therefore, to set him right, he made a sud- den transition to the Latin. "Pray, sir," said he, "as you have mentioned Rowe's translation of the Pharsalia, do you remember how he hath rendered that passage in the character of Cato? — ■ Venerisgve huic tnaximus usxis Progenies; urbi pater est, urbique maritxts. For I apprehend that passage is generally misunder- stood." "I really do not remember," answered the author. " Pray, sir, what do you take to be the meaning? " "I apprehend, sir," replied Booth; "that by these words, Urbi pater est, urbique maritus, Cato is repre- sented as the father and husband to the city of Rome." "Very true, sir," cries the author; "very fine, in- deed. — Not only the father of his country, but the hus- band too ; very noble, truly ! " "Pardon me, sir," cries Booth; "I do not conceive that to have been Lucan's meaning. If you please to 3IO HENRY FIELDING observe the context ; Lucan, having commended the tem- perance of Cato in the instances of diet and clothes, pro- ceeds to venereal pleasures ; of which, says the poet, his principal use was procreation : then he adds, UrM pater est, urbique maritus; that he became a father and a hus- band for the sake only of the city." "Upon my word that's true," cries the author; "I did not think of it. It is much finer than the other. — Urbis pater est — what is the other? — aye — Urbis maritus. — It is certainly as you say, sir." Booth was by this pretty well satisfied of the author's profound learning ; however, he was willing to try him a little further. He asked him, therefore, what was his opinion of Lucan in general, and in what class of writers he ranked him? The author stared a little at this question ; and, after some hesitation, answered, "Certainly, sir, I think he is a fine writer and a very great poet." " I am very much of the same opinion," cries Booth; ' ' but where do you class him — next to what poet do you place him? " "Let me see," cries the author; "where do I class him? next to whom do I place him? — Aye! — why — why, pray, where do you yourself place him? " " Why, surely," cries Booth, " if he is not to be placed in the first rank with Homer, and Virgil, and Milton, I think clearly he is at the head of the second, before either Statius or Silius Italicus — though I allow to each of these their merits; but, perhaps, an epic poem was beyond the genius of either. I own, I have often thought, if Statius had ventured no farther than Ovid or Claudian, he would have succeeded better; for his Sylvae are, in my opinion, much better than his Thebais." " I believe I was of the same opinion formerly," said the author. "And for what reason have you altered it?" cries Booth. " I have not altered it," answered the author; "but, to tell you the truth, I have not any opinion at all about these matters at present. I do not trouble my head much AMELIA 311 with poetry; for there is no encouragement to such studies in this age. It is true, indeed, I have now and then wrote a poem or two for the magazines, but I never intend to write any more ; for a gentleman is not paid for his time. A sheet is a sheet with the booksellers; and, whether it be in prose or verse, they make no differ- ence ; though certainly there is as much difference to a gentleman in the work, as there is to a tailor between making a plain and a laced suit. Rhymes are difficult things ; they are stubborn things, sir. I have been some- times longer in tagging a couplet than I have been in writing a speech on the side of the opposition which hath been read with great applause all over the kingdom." "I am glad you are pleased to confirm that," cries Booth; "for I protest it was an entire secret to me till this day. I was so perfectly ignorant, that I thought the speeches published in the magazines were really made by the members themselves." " Some of them, and I believe I may, without vanity, say the best," cries the author, " are all the production of my own pen; but I believe I shall leave it off soon, unless a sheet of speech will fetch more than it does at present. In truth, the romance-writing is the only branch of our business now that is worth following. Goods of that sort have had so much success lately in the market, that a bookseller scarce cares what he bids for them. And it is certainly the easiest work in the world ; you may write it almost as fast as you can set pen to paper ; and if you interlard it with a little scandal, a little abuse on some living characters of note, you cannot fail of success." " Upon my word, sir," cries Booth, " you have greatly instructed me. I could not have imagined there had been so much regularity in the trade of writing as you are pleased to mention ; by what I can perceive, the pen and ink is likely to become the staple commodity of the kingdom." "Alas! sir," answered the author, "it is overstocked. The market is overstocked. There is no encouragement 312 HENRY FIELDING to merit, no patrons. I have been these five years solicit- ing a subscription for my new translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, with notes explanatory, historical, and critical ; and I have scarce collected five hundred names yet." The mention of this translation a little surprised Booth ; not only as the author had just declared his intentions to forsake the tuneful muses ; but, for some other reasons which he had collected from his conversation with our author, he little expected to hear of a proposal to trans- late any of the Latin poets. He proceeded, therefore, to catechize him a little farther ; and by his answers was fully satisfied that he had the very same acquaintance with Ovid that he had appeared to have with Lucan. The author then pulled out a bundle of papers con- taining proposals for his subscription, and receipts; and, addressing himself to Booth, said, "Though the place in which we meet, sir, is an improper place to solicit favours of this kind, yet, perhaps, it may be in your power to serve me if you will charge your pockets with some of these." Booth was just offering at an excuse, when the bailiff introduced Colonel James and the sergeant. The unexpected visit of a beloved friend to a man in affliction, especially in Mr. Booth's situation, is a com- fort which can scarce be equalled ; not barely from the hopes of relief or redress by his assistance, but as it is an evidence of sincere friendship which scarce admits of any doubt or suspicion. Such an instance doth indeed make a man amends for all ordinary troubles and dis- tresses; and we ought to think ourselves gainers by having had such an opportunity of discovering that we are possessed of one of the most valuable of all human possessions. Booth was so transported at the sight of the colonel that he dropped the proposals which the author had put into his hand, and burst forth into the highest profes- sions of gratitude to his friend ; who behaved very pro- perly on his side, and said everything which became the mouth of a friend on the occasion. AMELIA 313 It is true, indeed, he seemed not moved equally either with Booth or the sergeant, both whose eyes watered at the scene. In truth, the colonel, though a very generous man, had not the least grain of tenderness in his dis- position. His mind was formed of those firm materials of which nature formerly hammered out the Stoic, and upon which the sorrows of no man living could make an impression. A man of this temper, who doth not much value danger, will fight for the person he calls his friend, and the man that hath but little value for his money will give it him ; but such friendship is never to be absolutely depended on; for, whenever the favourite passion inter- poses with it, it is sure to subside and vanish into air. Whereas the man whose tender disposition really feels the miseries of another will endeavour to relieve them for his own sake; and, in such a mind, friendship will often get the superiority over every other passion. But, from whatever motive it sprung, the colonel's behaviour to Booth seemed truly amiable; and so it appeared to the author, who took the first occasion to applaud it in a very florid oration; which the reader, when he recollects that he was a speech-maker by pro- fession, will not be surprised at; nor, perhaps, will be much more surprised that he soon after took an occa- sion of clapping a proposal into the colonel's hands, holding at the same time a receipt very visible in his own. The colonel received both, and gave the author a guinea in exchange, which was double the sum men- tioned in the receipt ; for which the author made a low bow, and very politely took his leave, saying, "I sup- pose, gentlemen, you may have some private business together ; I heartily wish a speedy end to your confine- ment, and I congratulate you on the possessing so great, so noble, and so generous a friend." 314 HENRY FIELDING VI [The bailiff, quarrelling with Booth, is about to convey him to Newgate in default of bail and in presence of more writs, but Dr. Harrison himself steps in and releases him, his reasons being given thus :] {Book IX— Chapter I) Before we proceed farther with our history it may be proper to look back a little, in order to account for the late conduct of Dr. Harrison; which, however incon- sistent it may have hitherto appeared, when examined to the bottom will be found, I apprehend, to be truly congruous with all the rules of the most perfect pru- dence, as well as with the most consummate goodness. We have already partly seen in what light Booth had been represented to the doctor abroad. Indeed, the accounts which were sent of the captain, as well by the curate as by a gentleman of the neighbourhood, were much grosser and more to his disadvantage than the doctor was pleased to set them forth in his letter to the person accused. What sense he had of Booth's conduct was, however, manifest by that letter. Nevertheless, he resolved to suspend his final judgment till his return; and, though he censured him, would not absolutely con- demn him without ocular demonstration. The doctor, on his return to his parish, found all the accusations which had been transmitted to him confirmed by many witnesses, of which the curate's wife, who had been formerly a friend to Amelia, and still preserved the outward appearance of friendship, was the strongest. She introduced all with — " I am sorry to say it, and it is friendship which bids me speak ; and it is for their good it should be told you." After which beginnings she never concluded a single speech without some horrid slander and bitter invective. Besides the malicious turn which was given to these affairs in the country, which were owing a good deal to misfortune, and some little perhaps to imprudence, the AMELIA 315 whole neighbourhood rung with several gross and scandalous lies, which were merely the inventions of his enemies, and of which the scene was laid in London since his absence. Poisoned with all this malice, the doctor came to town ; and, learning where Booth lodged, went to make him a visit. Indeed, it was the doctor, and no other, who had been at his lodgings that evening when Booth and Amelia were walking in the Park, and concerning which the reader may be pleased to remember so many strange and odd conjectures. Here the doctor saw the little gold watch and all those fine trinkets with which the noble lord had pre- sented the children, and which, from the answers given him by the poor ignorant, innocent girl, he could have no doubt had been purchased within a few days by Amelia. This account tallied so well with the ideas he had imbibed of Booth's extravagance in the country, that he firmly believed both the husband and wife to be the vainest, silliest, and most unjust people alive. It was, indeed, almost incredible that two rational beings should be guilty of such absurdity ; but, monstrous and absurd as it was, ocular demonstration appeared to be the evi- dence against them. The doctor departed from their lodgings enraged at this supposed discovery, and, unhappily for Booth, was engaged to supper that very evening with the country gentleman of whom Booth had rented a farm. As the poor captain happened to be the subject of conversation, and occasioned their comparing notes, the account which the doctor gave of what he had seen that evening so incensed the gentleman, to whom Booth was likewise a debtor, that he vowed he would take a writ out against him the next morning, and have his body alive or dead ; and the doctor was at last persuaded to do the same. Mr. Murphy was thereupon immediately sent for ; and the doctor in his presence repeated again what he had seen at his lodgings as the foundation of his suing him, which the attorney, as we have before seen, had blabbed to Atkinson. 3i6 HENRY FIELDING But no sooner did the doctor hear that Booth was arrested than the wretched condition of his wife and family began to affect his mind. The children, who were to be utterly undone with their father, were en- tirely innocent; and as for Amelia herself, though he thought he had most convincing proofs of very blamable levity, yet his former friendship and affection to her were busy to invent every excuse till, by very heavily loading the husband, they lightened the suspicion against the wife. In this temper of mind he resolved to pay Amelia a second visit, and was on his way to Mrs. Ellison when the sergeant met him and made himself known to him. The doctor took his old servant into a coffee-house, where he received from him such an account of Booth and his family, that he desired the sergeant to show him presently to Amelia ; and this was the cordial which we mentioned at the end of the ninth chapter of the pre- ceding book. The doctor became soon satisfied concerning the trinkets which had given him so much uneasiness, and which had brought so much mischief on the head of poor Booth. Amelia likewise gave the doctor some satisfaction as to what he had heard of her husband's behaviour in the country; and assured him, upon her honour, that Booth could so well answer every com- plaint against his conduct, that she had no doubt but that a man of the doctor's justice and candour would en- tirely acquit him, and would consider him as an innocent unfortunate man, who was the object of a good man's compassion, not of his anger or resentment. This worthy clergyman, who was not desirous of finding proofs to condemn the captain or to justify his own vindictive proceedings, but, on the contrary, re- joiced heartily in every piece of evidence which tended to clear up the character of his friend, gave a ready ear to all which Amelia said. To this, indeed, he was induced by the love he always had for that lady, by the good opinion he entertained of her, as well as by pity for her present condition, than which nothing appeared more AMELIA 317 miserable; for he found her in the highest agonies of grief and despair, with her two little children crying over their wretched mother. These are, indeed, to a well-disposed mind, the most tragical sights that human nature can furnish, and afford a juster motive to grief and tears in the beholder than it would be to see all the heroes who have ever infested the earth hanged all together in a string. The doctor felt this sight as he ought. He immedi- ately endeavoured to comfort the afflicted; in which he so well succeeded, that he restored to Amelia sufficient spirits to give him the satisfaction we have mentioned : after which he declared he would go and release her husband, which he accordingly did in the manner we have above related. VII [The plot now takes a curious turn, for Booth, who is utterly unsuspicious, falls in with an offer of the Colonel's to pay his debts, and g'et him an appointment abroad on condition that he will leave his family behind him, and Dr. Harrison appears to take the same side, to the utter confusion and horror of Amelia, who has for some time suspected James's designs. She determines to tell the doctor all. (Chapter V) Amelia, being left alone, began to consider seriously of her condition ; she saw it would be very difficult to resist the importunities of her husband, backed by the authority of the doctor, especially as she well knew how unreason- able her declarations must appear to every one who was ignorant of her real motives to persevere in it. On the other hand, she was fully determined, whatever might be the consequence, to adhere firmly to her resolution of not accepting the colonel's invitation. When she had turned the matter every way in her mind, and vexed and tormented herself with much un- easy reflection upon it, a thought at last occurred to her 3i8 HENRY FIELDING which immediately brought her some comfort. This was, to make a confident of the doctor, and to impart to him the whole truth. This method, indeed, appeared to her now to be so advisable, that she wondered she had not hit upon it sooner ; but it is the nature of despair to blind us to all the means of safety, however easy and apparent they may be. Having- fixed her purpose in her mind, she wrote a short note to the doctor, in which she acquainted him that she had something of great moment to impart to him, which must be an entire secret from her husband, and begged that she might have an opportunity of com- municating it as soon as possible. Doctor Harrison received the letter that afternoon, and immediately complied with Amelia's request in visit- ing her. He found her drinking tea with her husband and Mrs. Atkinson, and sat down and joined the company. Soon after the removal of the tea-table Mrs. Atkinson left the room. The doctor then, turning to Booth, said, ' ' I hope, captain, you have a true sense of the obedience due to the church, though our clergy do not often exact it. However, it is proper to exercise our power some- times, in order to remind the laity of their duty. I must tell you, therefore, that I have some private business with your wife; and I expect your immediate absence." "Upon my word, doctor," answered Booth, "no Popish confessor, I firmly believe, ever pronounced his will and pleasure with more gravity and dignity; none therefore was ever more immediately obeyed than you shall be." Booth then quitted the room, and desired the doctor to recall him when his business with the lady was over. Doctor Harrison promised he would ; and then turning to Amelia he said, "Thus far, madam, I have obeyed your commands, and am now ready to receive the im- portant secret which you mention in your note." Amelia now informed her friend of all she knew, all she had seen and heard, and all that she suspected, of the colonel. The good man seemed greatly shocked at the relation, and remained in a silent astonishment. AMELIA 319 Upon which Amelia said, "Is villany so rare a thing-, sir, that it should so much surprise you? " " No child," cries he ; " but I am shocked at seeing it so artfully disguised under the appearance of so much virtue; and, to confess the truth, I believe my own vanity is a little hurt in having been so grossly imposed upon. Indeed, I had a very high regard for this man ; for, besides the great character given him by your husband, and the many facts I have heard so much redounding to his honour, he hath the fairest and most promising appear- ance I have ever yet beheld. A good face, they say, is a letter of recommendation. O Nature, Nature, why art thou so dishonest as ever to send men with these false recommendations into the world?" " Indeed, my dear sir, I begin to grow entirely sick of it," cries Amelia; "for sure all mankind almost are villains in their hearts." "Fie, child!" cries the doctor. "Do not make a conclusion so much to the dishonour of the great Creator. The nature of man is far from being in itself evil; it abounds with benevolence, charity, and pity, coveting praise and honour, and shunning shame and disgrace. Bad education, bad habits, and bad customs, debauch our nature, and drive it headlong as it were into vice. The governors of the world, and I am afraid the priest- hood, are answerable for the badness of it. Instead of discouraging wickedness to the utmost of their power, both are too apt to connive at it. In the great sin of adultery, for instance; hath the government provided any law to punish it? or doth the priest take any care to correct it? on the contrary, is the most notorious prac- tice of it any detriment to a man's fortune or to his reputation in the world? doth it exclude him from any preferment in the state, I had almost said in the church? is it any blot in his escutcheon? any bar to his honour? is he not to be found every day in the assemblies of women of the highest quality? in the closets of the greatest men, and even at the tables of bishops? What wonder then if the community in general treat this monstrous crime as matter of jest, and that men give 320 HENRY FIELDING way to the temptations of a violent appetite, when the indulgence of it is protected by law and countenanced by custom? I am convinced there are good stamina in the nature of this very man ; for he hath done acts of friendship and generosity to your husband before he could have any evil design on your chastity ; and in a christian society, which I no more esteem this nation to be than I do any part of Turkey, I doubt not but this very colonel would have made a worthy and valuable member." "Indeed, my dear sir," cries Amelia, "you are the wisest as well as best man in the world — " "Not a word of my wisdom," cries the doctor. "I have not a grain — I am not the least versed in the Chrematistic ' art, as an old friend of mine calls it. I know not how to get a shilling, nor how to keep it in my pocket if I had it." "But you understand human nature to the bottom," answered Amelia ; ' ' and your mind is the treasury of all ancient and modern learning." " You are a little flatterer," cries the doctor; " but I dislike you not for it. And, to show you I don't, I will return your flattery, and tell you you have acted with great prudence in concealing this affair from your hus- band ; but you have drawn me into a scrape ; for I have promised to dine with this fellow again to-morrow, and you have made it impossible for me to keep my word." "Nay, but, dear sir," cries Amelia, "for Heaven's sake take care ! If you show any kind of disrespect to the colonel, my husband may be led into some suspicion ^especially after our conference." " Fear nothing, child. I will give him no hint: and, that I may be certain of not doing it, I will stay away. You do not think, I hope, that I will join in a cheerful conversation with such a man ; that I will so far betray my character as to give any countenance to such flagitious proceedings. Besides, my promise was only conditional; and I do not know whether I could otherwise have kept ' The art of getting wealth is so called by Aristotle in his Politics. AMELIA 321 it ; for I expect an old friend every day, who comes to town twenty miles on foot to see me, whom I shall not part with on any account; for, as he is very poor, he may imagine I treat him with disrespect." "Well, sir," cries Amelia, "I must admire you and love you for your goodness." "Must you love me?" cries the doctor. "I could cure you now in a minute if I pleased." " Indeed, I defy you, sir," said Amelia. " If I could but persuade you," answered he, "that I thought you not handsome, away would vanish all ideas of goodness in an instant. Confess honestly, would they not?" " Perhaps I might blame the goodness of your eyes," replied Amelia; "and that is perhaps an honester con- fession than you expected. But do, pray, sir, be serious, and give me your advice what to do. Consider the diflficult game I have to play ; for I am sure, after what I have told you, you would not even suffer me to remain under the roof of this colonel." "No, indeed, would I not," said the doctor, "whilst I have a house of my own to entertain you." " But how to dissuade my husband," continued she, "without giving him any suspicion of the real cause, the consequences of his guessing at which I tremble to think upon." "I will consult my pillow upon it," said the doctor; "and in the morning you shall see me again. In the mean time be comforted, and compose the perturbations of your mind." " Well, sir," said she, " I put my whole trust in you." "I am sorry to hear it," cries the doctor. "Your innocence may give you a very confident trust in a much more powerful assistance. However, I will do all I can to serve you ; and now, if you please, we will call back your husband; for, upon my word, he hath shown a good catholic patience. And where is the honest sergeant and his wife? I am pleased with the behaviour of you both to that worthy fellow, in opposition to the custom of the world ; which, instead of being formed on the 322 HENRY FIELDING precepts of our religion to consider each other as brethren, teaches us to regard those who are a degree below us, either in rank or fortune, as a species of beings of an inferior order in the creation." The captain now returned into the room, as did the sergeant and Mrs. Atkinson; and the two couple, with the doctor, spent the evening together in great mirth and festivity ; for the doctor was one of the best com- panions in the world ; and a vein of cheerfulness, good humour, and pleasantry, ran through his conversation, with which it was impossible to resist being pleased. VIII [Booth is more incredulous when Sergeant Atkinson gives him similar information : and the story admits of divagation for a time.] {Frmn Chapter IX) The coaches being come to the water-side, they all alighted, and, getting into one boat, proceeded to Vaux- hall. The extreme beauty and elegance of this place is well known to almost every one of my readers ; and happy is it for me that it is so, since to give an adequate idea of it would exceed my power of description. To delineate the particular beauties of these gardens would, indeed, require as much pains, and as much paper too, as to rehearse all the good actions of their master, whose life proves the truth of an observation which I have read in some ethic writer, that a truly elegant taste is generally accompanied with an excellency of heart; or, in other words, that true virtue is, indeed, nothing else but true taste. Here our company diverted themselves with walking an hour or two before the music began. Of all the seven, Booth alone had ever been here before ; so that, to all the rest, the place, with its other charms, had that of novelty. When the music played, Amelia, who stood next to the doctor, said to him in a whisper, " I hope I am not guilty of profaneness ; but, in pursuance of that AMELIA 323 cheerful chain of thoughts with which you have inspired me this afternoon, I was just now lost in a reverie, and fancied myself in those blissful mansions which we hope to enjoy hereafter. The delicious sweetness of the place, the enchanting charms of the music, and the satisfaction which appears in every one's countenance, carried my soul almost to heaven in its ideas. I could not have, indeed, imagined there had been anything like this in this world." The doctor smiled, and said, "You see, dear madam, there may be pleasures of which you could conceive no idea till you actually enjoyed them." And now the little boy, who had long withstood the attractions of several cheesecakes that passed to and fro, could contain no longer, but asked his mother to give him one, saying, ' ' I am sure my sister would be glad of another, though she is ashamed to ask." The doctor, overhearing the child, proposed that they should all retire to some place where they might sit down and refresh themselves ; which they accordingly did. Amelia now missed her husband; but, as she had three men in her company, and one of them was the doctor, she con- cluded herself and her children to be safe, and doubted not but that Booth would soon find her out. They now sat down, and the doctor very gallantly desired Amelia to call for what she liked. Upon which the children were supplied with cakes, and some ham and chicken were provided for the rest of the company ; with which while they were regaling themselves with the highest satisfaction, two young fellows walking arm- in-arm, came up, and when they came opposite to Amelia they stood still, staring Amelia full in the face, and one of them cried aloud to the other, ' ' D — n me. My lord, if she is not an angel!" — My lord stood still, staring likewise at her, without speaking a word ; when two others of the same gang came up and one of them cried, "Come along. Jack, I have seen her before; but she is too well manned already. Three are enough for one woman, or the devil is in it! " " D — n me," says he that spoke first, and whom they 324 HENRY FIELDING called Jack, " I will have a brush at her if she belonged to the whole convocation." And so saying, he went up to the young clergyman, and cried, " Doctor, sit up a little, if you please, and don't take up more room in a bed than belongs to you." At which words he gave the young man a push, and seated himself down directly over against Amelia, and, leaning both his elbows on the table, he fixed his eyes on her in a manner with which modesty can neither look nor bear to be looked at. Amelia seemed greatly shocked at this treatment; upon which the doctor removed her within him, and then, facing the gentleman, asked him what he meant by this rude behaviour? — Upon which my lord stepped up and said, "Don't be impertinent, old gentleman. Do you think such fellows as you are to keep, d — n me, such fine wenches, d — n me, to yourselves, d — n me?" "No, no," cries Jack, "the old gentleman is more reasonable. Here 's the fellow that eats up the tithe pig. Don't you see how his mouth waters at her? Where 's your slabbering bib? " For, though the gentleman had rightly guessed he was a clergyman, yet he had not any of those insignia on with which, it would have been im- proper to have appeared there. "Such boys as you," cries the young clergyman, "ought to be well whipped at school, instead of being suffered to become nuisances in society. " " Boys, sir! " says Jack; " I believe I am as good a man as yourself, Mr. , and as good a scholar too. Bos fur sus quotque sacerdos. Tell me what 's next. D — n me, I'll hold you fifty pounds you don't tell me what's next." "You have him, Jack," cries my lord. "It is over with him, d — n me! he can't strike another blow." " If I had you in a proper place," cries the clergyman, "you should find I would strike a blow, and a pretty hard one too." "There," cries my lord, "there is the meekness of the clergyman — there spoke the wolf in sheep's clothing. D — n me, how big he looks ! You must be civil to him, faith! or else he will burst with pride." AMELIA 325 "Aye, aye, "cries Jack, " let the clergy alone for pride; there 's not a lord in the kingdom now hath half the pride of that fellow." "Pray, sir," cries the doctor, turning to the other, "are you a lord? " "Yes, Mr. ," cries he, "I have that honour, indeed." "And I suppose you have pride too," said the doctor. " I hope I have, sir," answered he, " at your service." " If such a one as you, sir," cries the doctor, "who are not only a scandal to the title you bear as a lord, but even as a man, can pretend to pride, why will you not allow it to a clergyman? I suppose, sir, by your dress, you are in the army; and, by the ribbon in your hat, you seem to be proud of that too. How much greater and more honourable is the service in which that gentle- man is enlisted than yours ! Why then should you object to the pride of the clergy, since the lowest of the function is in reality every way so much your superior? " " Tida Tidu Tidum," cries my lord. "However, gentlemen," cries the doctor, "if you have the least pretension to that name, I beg you will put an end to your frolic ; since you see it gives so much uneasiness to the lady. Nay, I entreat you for your own sakes, for here is one coming who will talk to you in a very different style from ours." " One coming! " cries my lord; " what care I who is coming? " " I suppose it is the devil," cries Jack; " for here are two of his livery servants already." "Let the devil come as soon as he will," cries my lord; "d — n me if I have not a kiss! " Amelia now fell a trembling; and her children, per- ceiving her fright, both hung on her, and began to cry ; when Booth and Captain Trent both came up. Booth, seeing his wife disordered, asked eagerly what was the matter? At the same time the lord and his com- panion, seeing Captain Trent, whom they well knew. 326 HENRY FIELDING said both together, ' ' What, doth this company belong to you? " When the doctor, with great presence of mind, as he was apprehensive of some fatal consequence if Booth should know what had passed, said, "So, Mr. Booth, I am glad you are returned ; your poor lady here began to be frighted out of her wits. But now you have him again," said he to Amelia, " I hope you will be easy." Amelia, frighted as she was, presently took the hint, and greatly chid her husband for leaving her. But the little boy was not so quick-sighted, and cried, " Indeed, papa, those naughty men there have frighted my mamma out of her wits." "How!" cries Booth, a little moved; "frightened! Hath any one frightened you, my dear? " " No, my love," answered she, " nothing. I know not what the child means. Everything is well now I see you safe." Trent had been all the while talking aside with the young sparks; and now, addressing himself to Booth, said, " Here hath been some little mistake; I believe my lord mistook Mrs. Booth for some other lady." "It is impossible," cries my lord, "to know every one. I am sure, if I had known the lady to be a woman of fashion, and an acquaintance of Captain Trent, I should have said nothing disagreeable to her ; but, if I have, I ask her pardon, and the company's." "I am in the dark," cries Booth. " Pray what is all this matter?" " Nothing of any consequence," cries the doctor, " nor worth your inquiring into. You hear it was a mistake of the person, and I really believe his lordship that all proceeded from his not knowing to whom the lady be- longed." " Come, come," says Trent, "there is nothing in the matter, I assure you. I will tell you the whole another time." "Very well; since you say so," cries Booth, " I am contented." So ended the affair, and the two sparks made their congee, and sneaked off. " Now they are gone," said the young gentleman, " I AMELIA 327 must say I never saw two worse-bred jackanapes, nor fellows that deserved to be kicked more. If I had had them in another place I would have taught them a little more respect to the church." " You took rather a better way," answered the doctor, "to teach them that respect." Booth now desired his friend Trent to sit down with them, and proposed to call for a fresh bottle of wine; but Amelia's spirits were too much disconcerted to give her any prospect of pleasure that evening. She therefore laid hold of the pretence of her children, for whom she said the hour was already too late; with which the doctor agreed. So they paid their reckoning and de- parted, leaving to the two rakes the triumph of having totally dissipated the mirth of this little innocent com- pany, who were before enjoying complete satisfaction. {Chapter X) The next morning, when the doctor and his two friends were at breakfast, the young clergyman, in whose mind the injurious treatment he had received the evening be- fore was very deeply impressed, renewed the conversa- tion on that subject. " It is a scandal," said he, "to the government, that they do not preserve more respect to the clergy, by punishing all rudeness to them with the utmost severity. It was very justly observed of you, sir," says he to the doctor, "that the lowest clergyman in England is in real dignity superior to the highest nobleman. What then can be so shocking as to see that gown, which ought to entitle us to the veneration of all we meet, treated with contempt and ridicule? Are we not, in fact, ambassadors from heaven to the world? and do they not, therefore, in denying us our due respect, deny it in reality to Him that sent us ! " "If that be the case," says the doctor, "it behoves them to look to themselves ; for He who sent us is able to exact most severe vengeance for the ill treatment of His ministers." 328 HENRY FIELDING " Very true, sir," cries the young one; "and I heartily hope He will; but those punishments are at too great a distance to infuse terror into wicked minds. The government ought to interfere with its immediate cen- sures. Fines and imprisonments and corporal punish- ments operate more forcibly on the human mind than all the fears of damnation." "Do you think so?" cries the doctor; "then I am afraid men are very little in earnest in those fears." "Most justly observed," says the old gentleman. " Indeed, I am afraid that is too much the case." " In that," said the son, " the government is to blame. Are not books of infidelity, treating our holy religion as a mere imposture, nay, sometimes as a mere jest, pub- lished daily, and spread abroad amongst the people with perfect impunity? " "You are certainly in the right," says the doctor; "there is a most blamable remissness with regard to these matters ; but the whole blame doth not lie there ; some little share of the fault is, I am afraid, to be im- puted to the clergy themselves." " Indeed, sir," cries the young one, " I did not expect that charge from a gentleman of your cloth. Do the clergy give any encouragement to such books? Do they not, on the contrary, cry loudly out against the suffering them? This is the invidious aspersion of the laity; and I did not expect to hear it confirmed by one of our own cloth." "Be not too impatient, young gentleman," said the doctor. " I do not absolutely confirm the charge of the laity; it is much too general and too severe; but even the laity themselves do not attack them in that part to which you have applied your defence. They are not sup- posed such fools as to attack that religion to which they owe their temporal welfare. They are not taxed with giving any other support to infidelity than what it draws from the ill examples of their lives ; I mean of the lives of some of them. Here too the laity carry their censures too far; for there are very few or none of the clergy whose lives, if compared with those of the laity, can be AMELIA 329 called profligate; but such, indeed, is the perfect purity of our religion, such is the innocence and virtue which it exacts to entitle us to its glorious rewards and to screen us from its dreadful punishments, that he must be a very good man indeed who lives up to it. Thus then these persons argue. This man is educated in a perfect knowledge of religion, is learned in its laws, and is by his profession obliged, in a manner, to have them always before his eyes. The rewards which it promises to the obedience of these laws are so great, and the punishments threatened on disobedience so dreadful, that it is impossible but all men must fearfully fly from the one, and as eagerly pursue the other. If, therefore, such a person lives in direct opposition to, and in a constant breach of, these laws, the inference is obvious. There is a pleasant story in Matthew Paris, which I will tell you as well as I can remember it. Two young gentlemen, I think they were priests, agreed together that whosoever died first should return and acquaint his friend with the secrets of the other world. One of them died soon after, and fulfilled his promise. The whole relation he gave is not very material; but, among other things, he pro- duced one of his hands, which Satan had inade use of to write upon, as the moderns do on a card, and had sent his compliments to the priests for the number of souls which the wicked examples of their lives daily sent to hell. This story is the more remarkable as it was written by a priest, and a great favourer of his order." , "Excellent!" cried the old gentleman; "what a memory you have ! " "But, sir," cries the young one, "a clergyman is a man as well as another; and, if such perfect purity be expected — " " I do not expect it," cries the doctor; " and I hope it will not be expected of us. The Scripture Itself gives us this hope, where the best of us are said to fall twenty times a day. But sure we may not allow the practice of any of those grosser crimes which contaminate the whole mind. We may expect an obedience to the ten commandments, and an abstinence from such notorious 330 HENRY FIELDING vices as, in the first place, Avarice, which, indeed, can hardly subsist without the breach of more command- ments than one. Indeed, it would be excessive candour to imagine that a man who so visibly sets his whole heart, not only on this world, but on one of the most worthless things in it (for so is money, without regard to its uses), should be, at the same time, laying up his treasure in heaven. Ambition is a second vice of this sort : we are told we cannot serve God and Mammon. I might have applied this to avarice ; but I chose rather to mention it here. When we see a man sneaking about in courts and levees, and doing the dirty work of great men, from the hopes of preferment, can we believe that a fellow whom we see to have so many hard taskmasters upon earth ever thinks of his Master which is in heaven? Must he not himself think, if ever he reflects at all, that so glorious a master will disdain and disown a servant who is the dutiful tool of a court-favourite, and em- ployed either as the pimp of his pleasure, or sometimes, perhaps, made a dirty channel to assist in the convey- ance of that corruption which is clogging up and de- stroying the very vitals of his country? " The last vice which I shall mention is Pride. There is not in the universe a more ridiculous nor a more con- temptible animal than a proud clergyman ; a turkey-cock or a jackdaw are objects of veneration when compared with him. I don't mean, by Pride, that noble dignity of mind to which goodness can only administer an ade- quate object, which delights in the testimony of its own conscience, and could not, without the highest agonies, bear its condemnation. By Pride I mean that saucy passion which exults in every little eventual pre-eminence over other men : such are the ordinary gifts of nature, and the paltry presents of fortune, wit, knowledge, birth, strength, beauty, riches, titles, and rank. That passion which is ever aspiring, like a silly child, to look over the heads of all about them ; which, while it ser- vilely adheres to the great, flies from the poor, as if afraid of contamination ; devouring greedily every mur- mur of applause and every look of admiration ; pleased AMELIA 331 and elated with all kind of respect; and hurt and in- flamed with the contempt of the lowest and most de- spicable of fools, even with such as treated you last night disrespectfully at Vauxhall. Can such a mind as this be fixed on thing's above? Can such a man reflect that he hath the ineffable honour to be employed in the immediate service of his great Creator? Or can he please himself with the heart-warming hope that his ways are acceptable in the sight of that glorious, that incomprehensible Being? " " Hear, child, hear," cries the old gentleman; " hear, and improve your understanding. Indeed, my good friend, no one retires from you without carrying away some good instructions with him. Learn of the doctor, Tom, and you will be the better man as long as you live." " Undoubtedly, sir," answered Tom, " the doctor hath spoken a great deal of excellent truth; and, without a compliment to him, I was always a great admirer of his sermons, particularly of their oratory. But, Nee tamen hoe tribuens dederim qiwque caetera. I cannot agree that a clergyman is obliged to put up with an affront any more than another man, and more especially when it is paid to the order." "I am very sorry, young gentleman," cries the doc- tor, " that you should be ever liable to be affronted as a clergyman; and I do assure you, if I had known your disposition formerly, the order should never have been affronted through you." The old gentleman now began to check his son for his opposition to the doctor, when a servant delivered the latter a note from Amelia, which he read immediately to himself, and it contained the following words : " My DEAR Sir, — Something- hath happened since I saw you which gives me great uneasiness, and I beg the favour of seeing you as soon as possible to advise with you upon it. I am your most obliged and dutiful daughter, "Amelia Booth." 332 HENRY FIELDING The doctor's answer was, that he would wait on the lady directly ; and then, turning to his friend, he asked him if he would not take a walk in the Park before dinner. "I must go," says he, "to the lady who was with us last night ; for I am afraid, by her letter, some bad accident hath happened to her. Come, young gen- tleman, I spoke a little too hastily to you just now ; but I ask your pardon. Some allowance must be made to the warmth of your blood. I hope we shall, in time, both think alike." The old gentleman made his friend another com- pliment; and the young one declared he hoped he should always think, and act too, with the dignity be- coming his cloth. After which the doctor took his leave for a while, and went to Amelia's lodgings. As soon as he was gone the old gentleman fell very severely on his son. "Tom," says he, "how can you be such a fool to undo, by your perverseness, all that I have been doing? Why will you not learn to study man- kind with the attention which I have employed to that purpose? Do you think, if I had affronted this obstinate old fellow as you do, I should ever have engaged his friendship? " "I cannot help it, sir," said Tom: "I have not studied six years at the university to give up my senti- ments to every one. It is true, indeed, he put together a set of sounding words; but, in the main, I never heard any one talk more foolishly." " What of that? " cries the father; " I never told you he was a wise man, nor did I ever think him so. If he had any understanding, he would have been a bishop long ago, to my certain knowledge. But, indeed, he hath been always a fool in private life ; for I question whether he is worth lool. in the world more than his annual income. He hath given away above half his for- tune to the Lord knows who. I believe I have had above 200/. of him, first and last ; and would you lose such a milch-cow as this for want of a few compliments? Indeed, Tom, thou art as great a simpleton as him- self. How do you expect to rise in the church if you AMELIA 333 cannot temporize and give in to the opinions of your superiors? " " I don't know, sir," cries Tom, "what you mean by my superiors. In one sense, I own, a doctor of divinity is superior to a bachelor of arts, and so far I am ready to allow his superiority; but I understand Greek and Hebrew as well as he, and will maintain my opinion against him, or any other in the schools." "Tom," cries the old gentleman, "till thou gettest the better of thy conceit I shall never have any hopes of thee. If thou art wise, thou wilt think every man thy superior of whom thou canst get any thing; at least thou wilt persuade him that thou thinkest so, and that is sufficient. Tom, Tom, thou hast no policy in thee." "What have I been learning these seven years," an- swered he, "in the university? However, father, I can account for your opinion. It is the common failing of old men to attribute all wisdom to themselves. Nestor did it long ago : but, if you will inquire my character at college, I fancy you will not think I want to go to school again." The father and son then went to take their walk, during which the former repeated many good lessons of policy to his son, not greatly perhaps to his edification. In truth, if the old gentleman's fondness had not in a great measure blinded him to the imperfections of his son, he would have soon perceived th^t he was sowing all his instructions in a soil so choked with self-conceit that it was utterly impossible they should ever bear any fruit. IX [James tries the usual eighteenth century masquerade trick, but Mrs. Atkinson goes instead of Amelia, and no mischief happens. Most of the important characters of the story (including Miss Matthews) are, however, present, and, by one of the again usual masquerade imbroglios. Booth becomes possessed of a letter which informs him of James's designs. But before he can take any steps his own follies return ; he loses all the money he has, and, more in play with Trent (who is a rascal and suborned by the noble peer), is dunned by him, nearly falls again into Miss Matthews's snares (this time to Amelia's knowledge), but is arrested by Trent and 334 HENRY FIELDING once more lodged in gaol. Amelia, after visiting him, throws her- self on Dr. Harrison's mercy. He visits James "to put an end to that matter before he gave Booth his liberty."] (From Book XII— Chapter IV) The doctor found the two colonels, James and Bath, together. They both received him very civilly, for James was a very well-bred man, and Bath always showed a particular respect to the clergy, he being indeed a per- fect good Christian, except in the articles of fighting and swearing. Our divine sat some time without mentioning the sub- ject of his errand, in hopes that Bath would go away, but when he found no likelihood of that (for indeed Bath was of the two much the most pleased with his com- pany), he told James that he had something to say to him relating to Mr. Booth, which he believed he might speak before his brother. "Undoubtedly, sir," said James; "for there can be no secrets between us which my brother may not hear." " I come then to you, sir," said the doctor, "from the most unhappy woman in the world, to whose afflictions you have very greatly and very cruelly added by sending a challenge to her husband, which hath very luckily fallen into her hands ; for, had the man for whom you de- signed it received it, I am afraid you would not have seen me upon this occasion." " If I writ such a letter to Mr. Booth, sir," said James, " you may be assured I did not expect this visit in answer to it." " I do not think you did,'' cries the doctor; " but you have great reason to thank Heaven for ordering this matter contrary to your expectations. I know not what trifle may have drawn this challenge from you, but, after what I have some reason to know of you, sir, I must plainly tell you that, if you had added to your guilt already committed against this man that of having his blood upon your hands, your soul would have become as black as hell itself." " Give me leave to say," cries the colonel, " this is a AMELIA 335 language which I am not used to hear ; and if your cloth was not your protection you should not give it me with impunity. After what you know of me, sir! What do you presume to know of me to my disadvantage?" "You say my cloth is my protection, colonel," an- swered the doctor ; ' ' therefore pray lay aside your anger : I do not come with any design of affronting or offending you." " Very well," cries Bath; " that declaration is suffici- ent from a clergyman, let him say what he pleases." "Indeed, sir," says the doctor very mildly, " I con- sult equally the good of you both, and, in a spiritual sense, more especially yours ; for you know you have in- jured this poor man." "So far, on the contrary," cries James, "that I have been his greatest benefactor. I scorn to upbraid him, but you force me to it. Nor have I ever done him the least injury." " Perhaps not," said the doctor; " I will alter what I have said. But for this I apply to your honour — Have you not intended him an injury, the very intention of which cancels every obligation?" "How, sir?" answered the colonel; "what do you mean?" "My meaning," replied the doctor, "is almost too tender to mention. Come, colonel, examine your own heart, and then answer me, on your honour, if you have not intended to do him the highest wrong which one man can do another?" "I do not know what you mean by the question," answered the colonel. " D — n me, the question is very transparent," cries Bath. "From any other man it would be an affront with the strongest emphasis, but from one of the doctor's cloth it demands a categorical answer." "I am not a papist, sir," answered Colonel James, "nor am I obliged to confess to my priest. But if you have anything to say speak openly, for I do not under- stand your meaning. " " I have explained my meaning to you already," said 336 HENRY FIELDING the doctor, " in a letter I wrote to you on the subject — a subject which I am sorry I should have any occasion to write upon to a christian." " I do remember now," cries the colonel, "that I re- ceived a very impertinent letter, something like a ser- mon, against adultery ; but I did not expect to hear the author own it to my face." "That brave man then, sir," answered the doctor, ' ' stands before you who dares own he wrote that letter, and dares affirm too that it was writ on a just and strong foundation. But if the hardness of your heart could pre- vail on you to treat my good intention with contempt and scorn, what, pray, could induce you to show it, nay, to give it Mr. Booth? What motive could you have for that, unless you meant to insult him, and to provoke your rival to give you that opportunity of putting him out of the world which you have since wickedly sought by your challenge?" " I give him the letter!" said the colonel. "Yes, sir," answered the doctor, "he showed me the letter, and affirmed that you gave it him at the masquerade." "He is a lying rascal then!" said the colonel very passionately. " I scarce took the trouble of reading the letter, and lost it out of my pocket." Here Bath interfered, and explained this affair in the manner in which it happened, and with which the reader is already acquainted. He concluded by great eulogiums on the performance, and declared it was one of the most en- thusiastic (meaning, perhaps, ecclesiastic) letters that ever was written "And d — n me," says he, " if I do not respect the author with the utmost emphasis of thinking." The doctor now recollected what had passed with Booth, and perceived he had made a mistake of one colonel for another. This he presently acknowledged to Colonel James, and said that the mistake had been his, and not Booth's. Bath now collected all his gravity and dignity, as he called it, into his countenance, and, addressing himself to James, said, ' ' And was that letter writ to you, AMELIA 337 brother? — I hope you never deserved any suspicion of this kind." " Brother," cries James, " I am accountable to myself for my actions, and shall not render an account either to you or to that g-entleman. " "As to me, brother," answered Bath, "you say right; but I think this gentleman may call you to an account; nay, I think it is his duty so to do. And let me tell you, brother, there is One much greater than he to whom you must give an account. Mrs. Booth is really a fine woman, a lady of most imperious and majestic presence. I have heard you often say that you liked her; and, if you have quarrelled with her husband upon this account, by all the dignity of man I think you ought to ask his pardon." " Indeed, brother," cries James, " I can bear this no longer — you will make me angry presently." "Angry! brother James," cries Bath; "angry! — I love you, brother, and have obligations to you. I will say no more, but I hope you know I do not fear making any man angry." James answered he knew it well ; and then the doctor, apprehending that while he was stopping up one breach he should make another, presently interfered, and turned the discourse back to Booth. "You tell me, sir," said he to James, " that my gown is my protection ; let it then at least protect me where I have had no design in offending — where I have consulted your highest welfare, as in truth I did in writing this letter. And if you did not in the least deserve any such suspicion, still you have no cause for resentment. Caution against sin, even to the innocent, can never be unwholesome. But this I assure you, whatever anger you have to me, you can have none to poor Booth, who was entirely ignorant of my writing to you, and who, I am certain, never enter- tained the least suspicion of you; on the contrary, reveres you with the highest esteem, and love and grati- tude. Let me therefore reconcile all matters between you, and bring you together before he hath even heard of this challenge." 338 HENRY FIELDING " Brother," cries Bath, " I hope I shall not make you angry — I lie when I say so ; for I am indifferent to any man's anger. — Let me be an accessory to what the doctor hath said. I think I may be trusted with matters of this nature, and it is a little unkind that, if you in- tended to send a challenge, you did not make me the bearer. But, indeed, as to what appears to me, this matter may be very well made up; and, as Mr. Booth doth not know of the challenge, I don't see why he ever should, any more than your giving him the lie just now ; but that he shall never have from me, nor, I believe, from this gentleman ; for, indeed, if he should, it would be incumbent upon him to cut your throat." " Lookee, doctor," said James, " I do not deserve the unkind suspicion you just now threw out against me. I never thirsted after any man's blood; and, as for what hath passed since this discovery hath happened, I may, perhaps, not think it worth my while to trouble myself any more about it." The doctor was not contented with perhaps, he in- sisted on a firm promise, to be bound with the colonel's honour. This at length he obtained, and then departed well satisfied. In fact, the colonel was ashamed to avow the real cause of the quarrel to this good man, or, indeed, to his brother Bath, who would not only have condemned him equally with the doctor, but would possibly have quar- relled with him on his sister's account, whom, as the reader must have observed, he loved above all things; and, in plain truth, though the colonel was a brave man, and dared to fight, yet he was altogether as will- ing to let it alone; and this made him now and then give a little way to the wrongheadedness of Colonel Bath, who, wit:h all the other principles of honour and human- ity, made no more of cutting the throat of a man upon any of his punctilios than a butcher doth of killing sheep. AMELIA 339 [The story now concludes rapidly secundum artem. A rascally attorney named Murphy has been behind the scenes against Booth from early days, having been employed by Miss Harris, Amelia's sister, and the possessor of the fortune that ought to have been hers. Robinson, the person mentioned in the early part of the story, having been dangerously wounded, sends for Dr. Harrison and confesses that he has been concerned with Murphy in forging the will which disinherited Amelia — the real document having given her the whole property. Murphy, who has actually been concerned in the last conspiracy against Booth, is, despite some legal quibbles (which Fielding never loses an opportunity of satiriz- ing), laid by the heels. Booth is informed of the facts, and the pen- ultimate chapter (the ultimate is always with Fielding a. decent postscript as to future fates) opens the Realms of Bliss. ] They then separated. Amelia and Booth, having been set down at their lodgings, retired into each other's arms ; nor did Booth that evening, by the doctor's ad- vice, mention one word of the grand affair to his wife. {Chapter VIII) In the morning early Amelia received the following letter from Mrs. Atkinson: " The surgeon of the regiment, to which the captain my husband lately belonged, and who came this evening to see the captain, had almost frightened me out of my wits by a strange story of your husband being committed to prison by a justice of peace for forgery. For Heaven's sake send me the truth. If my husband can be of any service, weak as he is, he will be carried in a chair to serve a brother officer for whom he hath a regard, which I need not mention. Or if the sum of twenty pound will be of any service to you, I will wait upon you with it the moment I can get my clothes on, the morning you receive this; for it is too late to send to-night. The captain begs his hearty service and respects, and believe me, dear madam, your ever affectionate friend, and humble servant, "F. Atkinson." When Amelia read this letter to Booth they were both equally surprised, she at the commitment for forgery, and he at seeing such a letter from Mrs. Atkinson ; for he was a strangeryet to the reconciliation that had happened. 340 HENRY FIELDING Booth's doubts were first satisfied by Amelia, from which he received great pleasure; for he really had a very great affection and fondness for Mr. Atkinson, who, indeed, so well deserved it. " Well, my dear," said he to Amelia, smiling, " shall we accept this generous offer? " " O fie! no certainly," answered she. "Why not? " cries Booth; " it is but a trifle; and yet it will be of great service to us." "But consider, my dear," said she, "how ill these poor people can spare it." "They can spare it for a little while," said Booth, " and we shall soon pay it them again." "When, my dear?" said Amelia. "Do, my dear Will, consider our wretched circumstances. I beg you let us go into the country immediately, and live upon bread and water till Fortune pleases to smile upon us." " I am convinced that day is not far off," said Booth. ' ' However, give me leave to send an answer to Mrs. Atkinson, that we shall be glad of her company imme- diately to breakfast." " You know I never contradict you," said she, "but I assure you it is contrary to my inclinations to take this money." "Well, suffer me," cries he, "to act this once con- trary to your inclinations." He then writ a short note to Mrs. Atkinson, and dispatched it away immediately; which when he had done, Amelia said, " I shall be glad of Mrs. Atkinson's company to breakfast ; but yet I wish you would oblige me in refusing this money. Take five guineas only. That is indeed such a sum as, if we never should pay it, would sit light on my mind. The last persons in the world from whom I would receive favours of that sort are the poor and generous." "You can receive favours only from the generous," cries Booth; "and, to be plain with you, there are very few who are generous that are not poor." " What think you," said she, " of Dr. Harrison? " " I do assure you," said Booth, "he is far from being rich. The doctor hath an income of little more than six hundred pound a year, and I am convinced he gives AMELIA 341 away four of it. Indeed, he is one of the best economists in the world ; but yet I am positive he never was at any time possessed of five hundred pound, since he hath been a man. Consider, dear Emily, the late obligations we have to this gentleman; it would be unreasonable to expect more, at least at present ; my half-pay is mort- gaged for a year to come. How then shall we live? " " By our labour," answered she; " I am able to labour, and I am sure I am not ashamed of it." " And you do really think you can support such a life? " " I am sure I could be happy in it," answered Amelia. " And why not I as well as a thousand others, who have not the happiness of such a husband to make life deli- cious? why should I complain of my hard fate while so many who are much poorer than I enjoy theirs? Am I of a superior rank of being to the wife of the honest labourer? am I not partaker of one common nature with her? " " My angel," cries Booth, " it delights me to hear you talk thus, and for a reason you little guess ; for I am assured that one who can so heroically endure adversity, will bear prosperity with equal greatness of soul ; for the mind that cannot be dejected by the former, is not likely to be transported with the latter." " If it had pleased Heaven," cried she, "to have tried me, I think, at least I hope, I should have preserved my humility." "Then, my dear," said he, " I will relate you a dream I had last night. You know you lately mentioned a dream of yours." " Do so," said she; " I am attentive." " I dreamt," said he, " this night, that we were in the most miserable situation imaginable ; indeed, in the situation we were yesterday morning, or rather worse ; that I was laid in a prison for debt, and that you wanted a morsel of bread to feed the mouths of your hungry children. At length (for nothing you know is quicker than the transition in dreams) Dr. Harrison methought came to me, with cheerfulness and joy in his counten- ance. The prison-doors immediately flew open, and Dr. 342 HENRY FIELDING Harrison introduced you, gaily though not richly dressed. That you gently chid me for staying so long. All on a sudden appeared a coach with four horses to it, in which was a maid-servant with our two children. We both im- mediately went into the coach, and, taking our leave of the doctor, set out towards your country house; for yours I dreamt it was. I only ask you now, if this was real, and the transition almost as sudden, could you sup- port it? " Amelia was going to answer, when Mrs. Atkinson came into the room, and after very little previous cere- mony, presented Booth with a bank-note, which he re- ceived of her, saying he would very soon repay it; a promise that a little offended Amelia, as she thought he had no chance of keeping it. The doctor presently arrived, and the company sat down to breakfast, during which Mrs. Atkinson enter- tained them with the history of the doctors that had at- tended her husband, by whose advice Atkinson was re- covered from everything but the weakness which his distemper had occasioned. When the tea-table was removed Booth told the doctor that he had acquainted his wife with a dream he had last night. " I dreamt, doctor," said he, "that she was restored to her estate." "Very well," said the doctor; "and if I am to be. the Oneiropolos, I believe the dream will come to pass. To say the truth, I have rather a better opinion of dreams than Horace had. Old Homer says they came from Jupiter ; and as to your dream, I have often had it in my waking thoughts, that some time or other that roguery (for so I was always convinced it was) would be brought to light; for the same Homer says, as you, madam (meaning Mrs. Atkinson), very well know, EtTTEjO yap re Kal avTiK 'OXvfiino^ ovk erfiXcffffCj', "Ek Tt Koi b-^t TiKA' avv re fieyaX<{> amnaav Siv afycriv Ke^aXyai, ymai^i re Kai TexeeaaLV.^ ■^ " If Jupiter doth not immediately execute his vengeance, he will however execute it at last ; and their transgressions shall fall heavily on their own heads, and on their wives and children." AMELIA 343 " I have no Greek ears, sir," said Mrs. Atkinson. " I believe I could understand it in the Delphin Homer." "I wish," cries he, "my dear child (to Amelia), you would read a little in the Delphin Aristotle, or else in some christian divine, to learn a doctrine which you will one day have a use for. I mean to bear the hardest of all human conflicts, and support with an even temper, and without any violent transports of mind, a sudden gust of prosperity." " Indeed, " cries Amelia, "I should almost think my husband and you, doctor, had some very good news to tell me, by your using, both of you, the same introduc- tion. As far as I know myself, I think I can answer I can support any degree of prosperity, and I think I yes- terday showed I could; for I do assure you it is not in the power of fortune to try me with such another transi- tion from grief to joy as I conceived from seeing my husband in prison and at liberty." "Well, you are a good girl," cries the doctor, "and after I have put on my spectacles I will try you." The doctor then took out a newspaper, and read as follows : "Yesterday one Murphy, an eminent attorney-at-law, was committed to Newgate for the forgery of a will under which an estate had been for many years detained from the right owner.' " Now in this paragraph there is something very re- markable, and that is — that it is true: but opus est ex- planatum. In the Delphin edition of this newspaper there is the following note upon the words ' right owner' : — ' The right owner of this estate is a young lady of the highest merit, whose maiden name was Harris, and who some time since was married to an idle fellow, one Lieutenant Booth. And the best historians assure us that letters from the elder sister of this lady, which manifestly prove the forgery and clear up the whole affair, are in the hands of an old person called Dr. Harrison.' " " And is this really true? " cries Amelia. "Yes, really and sincerely," cries the doctor. "The 344 HENRY FIELDING whole estate ; for your mother left it you all, and is as surely yours as if you was already in possession." " Gracious Heaven! " cries she, falling on her knees, " I thank you! " And then starting up, she ran to her husband, and, embracing him, cried, "My dear love, I wish you joy ; and I ought in gratitude to wish it you ; for you are the cause of mine. It is upon yours and my children's account that I principally rejoice." Mrs. Atkinson rose from her chair, and jumped about the room for joy, repeating, Turne, qiwd optanti div&m promiitere nemo Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultro.^ Amelia now threw herself into a chair, complained she was a little faint, and begged a glass of water. The doctor advised her to be blooded ; but she refused, say- ing she required a vent of another kind. She then de- sired her children to be brought to her whom she im- mediately caught in her arms, and, having profusely cried over them for several minutes, declared she was easy. After which she soon regained her usual temper and complexion. That day they dined together, and in the afternoon they all, except the doctor, visited Captain Atkinson; he re- paired to the bailiff's house to visit the sick man, whom he found very cheerful, the surgeon having assured him that he was in no danger. The doctor had a long spiritual discourse with Robin- son, who assured him that he sincerely repented of his past life, that he was resolved to lead his future days in a different manner, and to make what amends he could for his sins to society, by bringing one of the greatest rogues in it to justice. There was a circumstance which much pleased the doctor, and made him conclude that, however Robinson had been corrupted by his old master, he had naturally a good disposition. This was, that Robinson declared he was chiefly induced to the dis- ' " What none of all the Gods could grant thy vows, That, Turnus, this auspicious day bestows." AMELIA 345 covery by what had happened at the pawnbroker's, and by the miseries which he there perceived he had been in- strumental in bringing on Booth and his family. The next day Booth and his wife, at the doctor's in- stance, dined with Colonel James and his lady, where they were received with great civility, and all matters were accommodated, without Booth ever knowing a syl- lable of the challenge even to this day. The doctor insisted very strongly on having Miss Harris taken into custody, and said, if she was his sister, he would deliver her to justice. He added besides, that it was impossible to screen her and carry on the prosecu- tion, or, indeed, recover the estate. Amelia at last begged the delay of one day only, in which time she wrote a letter to her sister, informing her of the dis- covery, and the danger in which she stood, and begged her earnestly to make her escape, with many assurances that she would never suffer her to know any distress. This letter she sent away express, and it had the desired eifect; for Miss Harris, having received sufficient in- formation from the attorney to the same purpose, im- mediately set out for Poole, and from thence to France, carrying with her all her money, most of her clothes, and some few jewels. She had, indeed, packed up plate and jewels to the value of two thousand pound and up- wards. But Booth, to whom Amelia communicated the letter, prevented her by ordering the man that went with the express (who had been a sergeant of the foot-guards recommended to him by Atkinson) to suffer the lady to go whither she pleased, but not to take any thing with her except her clothes, which he was carefully to search. These orders were obeyed punctually, and with these she was obliged to comply. Two days after the bird was flown a warrant from the Lord Chief Justice arrived to take her up, the messenger of which returned with the news of her flight, highly to the satisfaction of Amelia, and consequently of Booth, and, indeed, not greatly to the grief of the doctor. About a week afterwards Booth and Amelia, with their children and Captain Atkinson and his lady, all set for- 346 HENRY FIELDING wards together for Amelia's house, where they arrived amidst the acclamations of all the neighbours and every public demonstration of joy. They found the house ready prepared to receive them by Atkinson's friend the old sergeant, and a good dinner prepared for them by Amelia's old nurse, who was ad- dressed with the utmost duty by her son and daughter, most affectionately caressed by Booth and his wife, and by Amelia's absolute command seated next to herself at the table. At which, perhaps, were assembled some of the best and happiest people then in the world. A VOYAGE TO LISBON THE circumstances of this remarkable autobiographic frag- ment have been recounted above, and its bibliographical peculiarities have been referred to. It is noteworthy, among other reasons, because, though it is beyond all doubt a trust- worthy record of fact. Fielding has treated it very much in the way of his novels, by working up the more manageable scenes in almost dramatic fashion, and by prefacing and interspersing discussions of various kinds, some bearing on his own life, some on questions of literature, and no view of his work by selection could be complete without at least the following passages : In the beginning of August, 1753, when I had taken the Duke of Portland's medicine, as it is called, near a year, the effects of which had been the carrying off the symptoms of a lingering imperfect gout, I was per- suaded by Mr. Ranby, the king's premier serjeant- surgeon, and the ablest advice, I believe, in all branches of the physical profession, to go immediately to Bath. I accordingly writ that very night to Mrs. Bowden, who, by the next post, informed me she had taken me a lodging for a month certain. Within a few days after this, whilst I was preparing for my journey, and when I was almost fatigued to death with several long examinations, relating to five different murders, all committed within the space of a week, by different gangs of street-robbers, I received a message from his grace the Duke of Newcastle, by Mr. Carrington, the king's messenger, to attend his grace the next morning, in Lincoln's-inn-fields, upon some business of importance ; but I excused myself from complying with the message, as, besides being lame, I was very ill with the great fatigues I had lately undergone, added to my distemper. 347 348 HENRY FIELDING His grace, however, sent Mr. Carrington, the very next morning, with another summons; with which, though in the utmost distress, I immediately complied ; but the Duke, happening, unfortunately for me, to be then particularly engaged, after I had waited some time, sent a gentleman to discourse with me on the best plan which could be invented for putting an immediate end to those murders and robberies which were every day committed in the streets; upon which I promised to transmit my opinion, in writing, to his grace, who, as the gentleman informed me, intended to lay it before the privy council. Though this visit cost me a severe cold, I, notwith- standing, set myself down to work; and in about four days sent the Duke as regular a plan as I could form, with all the reasons and arguments I could bring to sup- port it, drawn out in several sheets of paper ; and soon received a message from the Duke by Mr. Carrington, acquainting me that my plan was highly approved of, and that all the terms of it would be complied with. The principal and most material of those terms was the immediately depositing six hundred pounds in my hands ; at which small charge I undertook to demolish the then reigning gangs, and to put the civil policy into such order, that no such gangs should ever be able, for the future, to form themselves into bodies, or at least to remain any time formidable to the public. I had delayed my Bath journey for some time, con- trary to the repeated advice of my physical acquaintance, and to the ardent desire of my warmest friends, though my distemper was now turned to a deep jaundice; in which case the Bath waters are generally reputed to be almost infallible. But I had the most eager desire of demolishing this gang of villains and cut-throats, which I was sure of accomplishing the moment I was enabled to pay a fellow who had undertaken, for a small sum, to betray them into the hands of a set of thief-takers whom I had enlisted into the service, all men of known and approved fidelity and intrepidity. After some weeks the money was paid at the treasury. A VOYAGE TO LISBON 349 and within a few days after two hundred pounds of it had come to my hands the whole gang of cut-throats was entirely dispersed, seven of them were in actual custody, and the rest driven, some out of the town, and others out of the kingdom. Though my health was now reduced to the last ex- tremity, I continued to act with the utmost vigour against these villains ; in examining whom, and in taking the depositions against them, I have often spent whole days, nay, sometimes whole nights, especially when there was any difficulty in procuring sufficient evidence to convict them ; which is a very common case in street-robberies, even when the guilt of the party is sufficiently apparent to satisfy the most tender con- science. But courts of justice know nothing of a cause more than what is told them on oath by a witness ; and the most flagitious villain upon earth is tried in the same manner as a man of the best character who is accused of the same crime. Meanwhile, amidst all my fatigues and distresses, I had the satisfaction to find my endeavours had been attended with such success that this hellish society were almost utterly extirpated, and that, instead of reading of murders and street-robberies in the news almost every morning, there was, in the remaining part of the month of November, and in all December, not only no such thing as a murder, but not even a street-robbery com- mitted. Some such, indeed, were mentioned in the public papers ; but they were all found, on the strictest inquiry, to be false. In this entire freedom from street-robberies, during the dark months, no man will, I believe, scruple to acknowledge that the winter of 1753 stands unrivalled, during a course of many years ; and this may possibly appear the more extraordinary to those who recollect the outrages with which it began. Having thus fully accomplished my undertaking, I went into the country, in a very weak and deplor- able condition, with no fewer or less diseases than a jaundice, a dropsy, and an asthma, altogether uniting 350 HENRY FIELDING their forces in the destruction of a body so entirely emaciated that it had lost all its muscular flesh. Mine was now no longer what is called a Bath case ; nor, If it had been so, had I strength remaining suffi- cient to go thither, a ride of six miles only being attended with an intolerable fatigue. I now discharged my lodgings at Bath, which I had hitherto kept. I began, in earnest, to look on my case as desperate, and I had vanity enough to rank myself with those heroes who, of old times, became voluntary sacrifices to the good of the public. But, lest the reader should be too eager to catch at the word vanity, and should be unwilling to indulge me with so sublime a gratification, for I think he is not too apt to gratify me, I will take my key a pitch lower, and will frankly own that I had a stronger motive than the love of the public to push me on : I will therefore confess to him that my private affairs at the beginning of the winter had but a gloomy aspect ; for I had not plundered the public or the poor of those sums which men, who are always ready to plunder both as much as they can, have been pleased to suspect me of taking : on the con- trary, by composing, instead of inflaming, the quarrels of porters and beggars (which I blush when I say hath not been universally practised), and by refusing to take a shilling from a man who most undoubtedly would not have had another left, I had reduced an income of about five hundred pounds' a-year of the dirtiest money upon ' A predecessor of mine used to boast that he made one thou- sand pounds a-year in his office ; but how he did this (if indeed he did it) is to me a secret. His clerk, now mine, told me I had more business than he had ever known there ; I am sure I had as much as any man could do. The truth is, the fees are so very low, when any are due, and so much is done for nothing, that, if a single justice of peace had business enough to employ twenty clerks, neither he nor they would get much by their labour. The public will not, therefore, I hope, think I betray a secret when I inform them that I received from the government a yearly pension out of the public service-money j which, I believe, indeed, would have been larger, had my great patron been convinced of an error, which I have heard him utter more than once. That he could not indeed say that the acting as a principal justice of peace in West- A VOYAGE TO LISBON 351 earth to a little more than three hundred pounds ; a con- siderable proportion of which remained with my clerk ; and, indeed, if the whole had done so, as it ought, he would be but ill paid for sitting almost sixteen hours in the twenty-four in the most unwholesome, as well as nause- ous air in the universe, and which hath in his case cor- rupted a good constitution without contaminating his morals. But, not to trouble the reader with anecdotes, con- trary to my own rule laid down in my preface, I assure him I thought my family was very slenderly provided for; and that my health began to decline so fast that I had very little more of life left to accomplish what I had thought of too late. I rejoiced therefore greatly in seeing an opportunity, as I apprehended, of gaining such merit in the eye of the public, that, if my life were the sacrifice to it, my friends might think they did a popular act in putting my family at least beyond the reach of necessity, which I myself began to despair of doing. And though I disclaim all pretence to that Spartan or Roman patriotism which loved the public so well that it was always ready to become a voluntary sacrifice to the public good, I do solemnly declare I have that love for my family. After this confession therefore, that the public was not the principal deity to which my life was offered a sacrifice, and when it is farther considered what a poor sacrifice this was, being indeed no other than the giving up what I saw little likelihood of being able to hold much longer, and which, upon the terms I held it, minster was on all accounts very desirable, but that all the world knew it was a very lucrative office. Now to have shown him plainly that a man must be a rogue to make a very little this way, and that he could not make much by being- as great a rogiae as he could be, would have required more confidence than, I believe, he had in me, and more of his conversation than he chose to allow me J I therefore resigned the office and the farther execution of my plan to my brother, who had long been my assistant. And now, lest the case between me and the reader should be the same in both instances as it was between me and the great man, I will not add another word on the subject 3S2 HENRY FIELDING nothing but the weakness of human nature could repre- sent to me as worth holding at all; the world may, I believe, without envy, allow me all the praise to which I have any title. My aim, in fact, was not praise, which is the last gift they care to bestow ; at least, this was not my aim as an end, but rather as a means of purchasing some moderate provision for my family, which, though it should exceed my merit, must fall infinitely short of my service, if I succeeded in my attempt. To say the truth, the public never act more wisely than when they act most liberally in the distribution of their rewards ; and here the good they receive is often more to be considered than the motive from which they receive it. Example alone is the end of all public punish- ments and rewards. Laws never inflict disgrace In resentment, nor confer honour from gratitude. " For it is very hard, my lord," said a convicted felon at the bar to the late excellent Judge Burnet, "to hang a poor man for stealing a horse." " You are not to be hanged, sir," answered my ever-honoured and beloved friend, "for stealing a horse, but you are to be hanged that horses may not be stolen." In like manner it might have been said to the late Duke of Marlborough, when the parliament was so deservedly liberal to him, after the battle of Blenheim, ' ' You receive not these honours and bounties on account of a victory past, but that other victories may be obtained." I was now, in the opinion of all men, dying of a com- plication of disorders ; and, were I desirous of playing the advocate, I have an occasion fair enough; but I dis- dain such an attempt. I relate facts plainly and simply as they are; and let the world draw from them what conclusions they please, taking with them the following facts for their instruction : the one is, that the proclama- tion offering one hundred pounds for the apprehending felons for certain felonies committed in certain places, which I prevented from being revived, had formerly cost the government several thousand pounds within a single year. Secondly, that all such proclamations, instead of A VOYAGE TO LISBON 353 curing the evil, had actually increased it ; had multiplied the number of robberies ; had propagated the worst and wickedest of perjuries; had laid snares for youth and ignorance, which, by the temptation of these rewards had been sometimes drawn into guilt; and sometimes, which cannot be thought on without the highest horror, had destroyed them without it. Thirdly, that my plan had not put the government to more than three hundred pounds expense, and had produced none of the ill con- sequences above mentioned ; but, lastly, had actually suppressed the evil for a time, and had plainly pointed out the means of suppressing it for ever. This I would myself have undertaken, had my health permitted, at the annual expense of the above-mentioned sum. After having stood the terrible six weeks which suc- ceeded last Christmas, and put a lucky end, if they had known their own interests, to such numbers of aged and infirm valetudinarians, who might have gasped through two or three mild winters more, I returned to town in February, in a condition less despaired of by myself than by any of my friends. I now became the patient of Dr. Ward, who wished I had taken his advice earlier. [A long passage of medical and surgical details follows, from which only the following paragraph need be cited.] The month of May, which was now begun, it seemed reasonable to expect would introduce the spring, and drive off that winter which yet maintained its footing on the stage. I resolved therefore to visit a little house of mine in the country, which stands at Ealing, in the county of Middlesex, in the best air, I believe, in the whole kingdom, and far superior to that of Kensington Gravel-pits; for the gravel is here much wider and deeper, the place higher and more open towards the south, whilst it is guarded from the north wind by a ridge of hills, and from the smells and smoke of London by its distance ; which last is not the fate of Kensington, when the wind blows from any corner of the east. A A 354 HENRY FIELDING [The voyage is resolved upon.] Those of my physical friends on whose judgment I chiefly depended, seemed to think my only chance of life consisted in having the whole summer before me ; in which I might hope to gather sufficient strength to encounter the inclemencies of the ensuing winter. But this change began daily to lessen. I saw the summer mouldering away, or rather, indeed, the year passing away without intending to bring on any summer at all. In the whole month of May the sun scarce appeared three times. So that the early fruits came to the fullness of their growth, and to some appearance of ripeness, without acquiring any real maturity ; having wanted the heat of the sun to soften and meliorate their juices. I saw the dropsy gaining rather than losing ground ; the distance growing still shorter between the tappings. I saw the asthma likewise beginning again to become more troublesome. I saw the midsummer quarter draw- ing towards a close. So that I conceived, if the Michael- mas quarter should steal off' in the same manner, as it was, in my opinion, very much to be apprehended it would, I should be delivered up to the attacks of winter before I recruited my forces, so as to be anywise able to withstand them. I now began to recall an intention, which from the first dawnings of my recovery I had conceived, of re- moving to a warmer climate; and, finding this to be approved of by a very eminent physician, I resolved to put it into immediate execution. Aix in Provence was the place first thought on; but the difficulties of getting thither were insuperable. The journey by land, beside the expense of it, was infinitely too long and fatiguing ; and I could hear of no ship that was likely to set out from London, within any reasonable time, for Marseilles, or any other port in that part of the Mediterranean. Lisbon was presently fixed on in its room. The air here, as it was near four degrees to the south of Aix, must be more mild and warm, and the winter shorter and less piercing. A VOYAGE TO LISBON 355 It was not difficult to find a ship bound to a place with which we carry on so immense a trade. Accord- ingly, my brother soon informed me of the excellent accommodations for passengers which were to be found on board a ship that was obliged to sail for Lisbon in three days. I eagerly embraced the offer, notwithstanding the shortness of the time ; and, having given my brother full power to contract for our passage, I began to prepare my family for the voyage with the utmost expedition. But our great haste was needless; for the captain having twice put oflF his sailing, I at length invited him to dinner with me at Fordhook, a full week after the time on which he had declared, and that with many asseverations, he must and would weigh anchor. He dined with me according to his appointment ; and when all matters were settled between us left me with positive orders to be on board the Wednesday following, when he declared he would fall down the river to Graves- end, and would not stay a moment for the greatest man in the world. He advised me to go to Gravesend by land, and there wait the arrival of his ship, assigning many reasons for this, every one of which was, as I well remember, among those that had before determined me to go on board near the Tower. I "MINE EASE IN MINE INN" [After long detentions at Wappingf, Gravesend, and Deal, the ship at last reaches the Isle of Wight, where contrary winds cause another stay at Ryde. Fielding goes ashore, and puts up at a house which " seemed to bid the fairest for hospitality " of any in the town.] We brought with us our provisions from the ship, so that we wanted nothing but a fire to dress our dinner, and a room in which we might eat it. In neither of these had we any reason to apprehend a disappointment, our dinner consisting only of beans and bacon ; and the 356 HENRY FIELDING worst apartment in his Majesty's dominions, either at home or abroad, being fully sufficient to answer our present ideas of delicacy. Unluckily, however, we were disappointed in both; for when we arrived about four at our inn, exulting in the hopes of immediately seeing our beans smoking on the table, we had the mortification of seeing them on the table indeed, but without that circumstance which would have made the sight agreeable, being in the same state in which we had dispatched them from our ship. In excuse for this delay, though we had exceeded, almost purposely, the time appointed, and our provision had arrived three hours before, the mistress of the house acquainted us that it was not for want of time to dress them that they were not ready, but for fear of their being cold or over-done before we should come ; which she assured us was much worse than waiting a few minutes for our dinner; an observation so very just, that it is impossible to find any objection in it; but, indeed, it was not altogether so proper at this time, for we had given the most absolute orders to have them ready at four, and had been ourselves, not without much care and difficulty, most exactly punctual in keeping to the very minute of our appointment. But tradesmen, inn-keepers, and servants, never care to indulge us in matters contrary to our true interest, which they always know better than ourselves ; nor can any bribes corrupt them to go out of their way whilst they are consulting our good in our own despite. Our disappointment in the other particular, in defiance of our humility, as it was more extraordinary, was more provoking. In short, Mrs. Francis (for that was the name of the good woman of the house) no sooner re- ceived the news of our intended arrival than she con- sidered more the gentility than the humanity of her guests, and applied herself not to that which kindles, but to that which extinguishes fires, and, forgetting to put on her pot, fell to washing her house. As the messenger who had brought my venison was impatient to be dispatched, I ordered it to be brought A VOYAGE TO LISBON 357 and laid on the table in the room where I was seated; and the table not being large enough, one side, and that a very bloody one, was laid on the brick floor. I then ordered Mrs. Francis to be called in, in order to give her instructions concerning it; in particular, what I would have roasted and what baked; concluding that she would be highly pleased with the prospect of so much money being spent in her house as she might have now reason to expect, if the wind continued only a few days longer to blow from the same points whence it had blown for several weeks past. I soon saw good cause, I must confess, to despise my own sagacity. Mrs. Francis, having received her orders, without making any answer, snatched the side from the floor, which remained stained with blood, and, bidding a servant take up that on the table, left the room with no pleasant countenance, muttering to herself that ' ' had she known the litter which was to have been made, she would not have taken such pains to wash her house that morning. If this was gentility, much good may it do such gentlefolks ; for her part she had no notion of it." From these murmurs I received two hints. The one, that it was not from a mistake of our inclination that the good woman had starved us, but from wisely con- sulting her own dignity, or rather perhaps her vanity, to which our hunger was offered up as a sacrifice. The other, that I was now sitting in a damp room ; a circum- stance, though it had hitherto escaped my notice from the colour of the bricks, which was by no means to be neglected in a valetudinary state. My wife, who, besides discharging excellently well her own and all the tender offices becoming the female character; who, besides being a faithful friend, an ami- able companion, and a tender nurse, could likewise supply the wants of a decrepit husband, and occasionally perform his part, had, before this, discovered the im- moderate attention to neatness in Mrs. Francis, and provided against its ill consequences. She had found, though not under the same roof, a very snug apartment belonging to Mr. Francis, and which had escaped the 358 HENRY FIELDING mop by his wife's being satisfied it could not possibly be visited by g-entlefolks. This was a dry, warm, oaken floored barn, lined on both sides with wheaten straw, and opening at one end into a green field and a beautiful prospect. Here, without hesitation, she ordered the cloth to be laid, and came hastily to snatch me from worse perils by water than the common dangers of the sea. Mrs. Francis, who could not trust her own ears, or could not believe a footman in so extraordinary a pheno- menon, followed my wife, and asked her if she had indeed ordered the cloth to be laid in the barn? She answered in the affirmative; upon which Mrs. Francis declared she would not dispute her pleasure, but it was the first time she believed that quality had ever preferred a barn to a house. She showed at the same time the most pregnant marks of contempt, and again lamented the labour she had undergone, through her ignorance of the absurd taste of her guests. At length, we were seated in one of the most pleasant spots I believe in the kingdom, and were regaled with our beans and bacon, in which there was nothing deficient but the quantity. This defect was however so deplorable that we had consumed our whole dish before we had visibly lessened our hunger. We now waited with im- patience the arrival of our second course, which necessity, and not luxury, had dictated. This was a joint of mutton which Mrs. Francis had been ordered to provide; but, when, being tired with expectation, we ordered our servants to see for something else, we were informed that there was nothing else; on which Mrs. Francis, being summoned, declared there was no such thing as mutton to be had at Ryde. When I expressed some astonish- ment at their having no butcher in a village so situated, she answered they had a very good one, and one that killed all sorts of meat in season, beef two or three times a year, and mutton the whole year round; but that, it being then beans and pease time, he killed no meat, by reason he was not sure of selling it. This she had not thought worthy of communication, any more than that A VOYAGE TO LISBON 359 there lived a fisherman at next door, who was then pro- vided with plenty of soles, and whitings, and lobsters, far superior to those which adorn a city feast. This dis- covery being made by accident, we completed the best, the pleasantest, and the merriest meal, with more appetite, more real solid luxury, and more festivity, than was ever seen in an entertainment at White's. It may be wondered at, perhaps, that Mrs. Francis should be so negligent of providing for her guests, as she may seem to be thus inattentive to her own interest; but this was not the case ; for, having clapped a poll-tax on our heads at our arrival, and determined at what price to discharge our bodies from her house, the less she suffered any other to share in the levy the clearer it came into her own pocket ; and that it was better to get twelve pence in a shilling than ten pence, which latter would be the case if she afforded us fish at any rate. Thus we passed a most agreeable day owing to good appetites and good humour; two hearty feeders which will devour with satisfaction whatever food you place before them; whereas, without these, the elegance of St. James's, the chard, the P^rigord-pie, or the ortolan, the venison, the turtle, or the custard, may titillate the throat, but will never convey happiness to the heart or cheerfulness to the countenance. II [Mrs. Francis (or Humphrys, as she is called in the other ver- sion), proves as extortionate as she is inhospitable. At last they get on to Torbay, where Fielding rejoices in cider and John dory, and then to the Bay of Biscay, where he rejoices in something more exalted according to common ideas, and certainly then less commonly enjoyed.] But here, though our voyage was retarded, we were entertained with a scene, which as no one can behold without going to sea, so no one can form an idea of anything equal to it on shore. We were seated on the 36o HENRY FIELDING deck, women and all, in the serenest evening that can be imagined. Not a single cloud presented itself to our view, and the sun himself was the only object which engrossed our whole attention. He did indeed set with a majesty which is incapable of description, with which, while the horizon was yet blazing with glory, our eyes were called off to the opposite part to survey the moon, which was then at full, and which in rising presented us with the second object that this world hath offered to our vision. Compared to these the pageantry of theatres, or splendour of courts, are sights almost below the regard of children. [For neither the horrible discomfort which he was suffering-, nor his diseases, nor his certainty (which is quite clear) of approaching death, nor his anxiety for those to whom he was so tenderly at- tached, could conquer this "unyielding-spirited" man of genius; nor could they prevent him from making the best of every thing that was good and (if nothing better could be) at least the best of every thing that was bad.] CHISWICK PRESS : PRINTED BY CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. Cornell University Library PR 3452.S15 Fielding; 3 1924 013 182 203