favour. Urge not upon me the inference that made me hesitate." "I won't be interrupted, Clary - You have seen, in my behaviour to you on this occasion, a truly maternal tenderness; you have observed that I have undertaken the task with some reluctance, because the man is not everything; and because I know you carry your notions of perfection in a man too high "Dearest Madam, this one time excuse me! - Is there then any danger that I should be guilty of an imprudent thing for the man's sake you hint at?" "Again interrupted! - Am I to be questioned, and argued with? You know this won't do somewhere else. You know it won't. What reason then, ungenerous girl, can you have for arguing with me thus, but because you think from my indulgence to you, you may?" "What can I say? What can I do? What must that cause be that will not bear being argued upon?" 66 'Again! Clary Harlowe!" "Dearest Madam, forgive me: it was always my pride and my pleasure to obey you. But look upon that man see but the disagreeableness of his person "Now, Clary, do I see whose person you have in your eye! Now is Mr. Solmes, I see, but comparatively disagreeable; disagreeable only as another man has a much more specious person." "But, Madam, are not his manners equally so? - Is not his person the true representative of his mind? That other man is not, shall not be, anything to me, release me but from this one man, whom my heart, unbidden, resists." "Condition thus with your father. Will he bear, do you think, to be thus dialogued with? Have I not conjured you, as you value my peace What is it that I do not give up? This very task, because I apprehended you would not be easily persuaded, is a task indeed upon me. And will you give up nothing? Have you not refused as many as have been offered to you? If you would not have us guess for whom, comply; for comply you must, or be looked upon as in a state of defiance with your whole family." And saying this, she arose, and went from me. But at the chamber-door stopped; and turned back: "I will not say below in what disposition I leave you. Consider of everything. The matter is resolved upon. As you value your father's blessing and mine, and the satisfaction of all the family, resolve to comply. I will leave you for a few moments. I will come up to you again. See that I find you as I wish to find you; and since your heart is free, let your duty govern it." In about half an hour, my mother returned. She found me in tears. She took my hand: "It is my part evermore," said she, "to be of the acknowledging side. I believe I have needlessly exposed myself to your opposition, by the method I have taken with you. I first began as if I expected a denial, and by my indulgence brought it upon myself." "Do not, my dearest mamma! do not say so!" "Were the occasion for this debate," proceeded she, "to have risen from myself; were it in my power to dispense with your compliance; you too well know what you can do with me. Would anybody, my dear Miss Howe, wish to marry, who sees a wife of such a temper, and blessed with such an understanding as my mother is noted for, not only deprived of all power, but obliged to be even active in bringing to bear points of high importance, which she thinks ought not to be insisted upon? "When I came to you a second time," proceeded she, "knowing that your opposition would avail you nothing, I refused to hear your reasons: and in this I was wrong too, because a young creature who loves to reason, and used to love to be convinced by reason, ought to have all her objections heard: I now therefore, this third time, see you; and am come resolved to hear all you have to say: and let me, my dear, by my patience, engage your gratitude; your generosity, I will call it, because it is to you I speak, who used to have a mind wholly generous. Let me, if your heart be really free, let me see what it will induce you to do to oblige me: and so as you permit your usual discretion to govern you, I will hear all you have to say; but with this intimation, that say what you will, it will be of no avail elsewhere." "What a dreadful saying is that! But could I engage your pity, Madam, it would be somewhat." "You have as much of my pity as of my love. But what is person, Clary, with one of your prudence, and your heart disengaged?" "Should the eye be disgusted, when the heart is to be engaged? - O Madam, who can think of marrying when the heart is shocked at the first appearance, and where the disgust must "Nobody denies him these qualities." "Can he be an honest man who offers terms that will rob all his own relations of their just expectations? Can his mind be good —" "You, Clary Harlowe, for whose sake he offers so much, are the last person that should make this observation." "Give me leave to say, Madam, that a person preferring happiness to fortune, as I do; that want not even what I have, and can give up the use of that, as an instance of duty —" "No more, no more of your merits! - You know you will be a gainer by that cheerful instance of your duty; not a loser. You know you have but cast your bread upon the waters · so no more of that! For it is not understood as a merit by everybody, I assure you; though I think it a high one; and so did your father and uncles at the time "At the time, Madam! - How unworthily do my brother and sister, who are afraid that the favour I was so lately in "I hear nothing against your brother and sister. What family feuds have I in prospect, at a time when I hoped to have most comfort from you all!" "God bless my brother and sister in all their worthy views! You shall have no family feuds if I can prevent them. You yourself, Madam, shall tell me what I shall bear from them, and I will bear it: but let my actions, not their misrepresentations (as I am sure by the disgraceful prohibitions I have met with has been the case), speak for me." Just then up came my father, with a sternness in his looks that made me tremble. He took two or three turns about my chamber, though pained by his gout; and then said to my mother, who was silent as soon as she saw him "My dear, you are long absent. - Dinner is near ready. What you had to say lay in a very little compass. Surely you have nothing to do but to declare your will, and my will but perhaps you may be talking of the preparations- let us have you soon down-your daughter in your hand, if worthy of the name." And down he went, casting his eye upon me with a look so stern, that I was unable to say one word to him, or even for a few minutes to my mother. Was not this very intimidating, my dear? My mother, seeing my concern, seemed to pity me. She called me her good child, and kissed me; and told me that my father should not know I had made such opposition. "He has kindly furnished us with an excuse for being so long together," said she. - "Come, my dear dinner will be table presupon ently shall we go down?" And took my hand. This made me start: "What, Madam, go down to let it be supposed we were talking of preparations! -Oh, my beloved mamma, command me not down upon such a supposition." "You see, child, that to stay longer together, will be owning that you are debating about an absolute duty; and that will not be borne. Did not your father himself some days ago tell you he would be obeyed? I will a third time leave you. I must say something by way of excuse for you: and that you desire not to go down to dinner that your modesty on the occasion " "O Madam! say not my modesty on such an occasion: for that will be to give hope "And design you not to give hope? - Perverse girl!" Rising and flinging from me; "take more time for consideration! - Since it is necessary, take more time — and when I see you next, let me know what blame I have to cast upon myself, or to bear from your father, for my indulgence to you." She made, however, a little stop at the chamber-door; and seemed to expect that I would have besought her to make the gentlest construction for me; for, hesitating, she was pleased to say, "I suppose you would not have me make a report "O Madam!" interrupted I, "whose favour can I hope for, if I lose my mamma's?" To have desired a favourable report, you know, my dear, would have been qualifying upon a point that I was too much determined upon, to give room for any of my friends to think I have the least hesitation about it. And so my mother went down stairs. I will deposit thus far; and as I know you will not think me too minute in the relation of particulars so very interesting to one you honour with your love, proceed in the same way. As matters stand, I don't care to have papers so freely written about me. Pray let Robert call every day, if you can spare him, whether I have anything ready or not. I should be glad you would not send him empty handed. What a generosity will it be in you, to write as frequently from friendship as I am forced to do from misfortune! The letters being taken away will be an assurance that you have them. As I shall write and deposit as I have opportunity, the formality of super and sub-scription will be excused. For I need not say how much I am Your sincere and ever affectionate HENRY FIELDING (1707-1754) TOM JONES BOOK I CHAP. I. THE INTRODUCTION TO THE WORK, OR BILL OF FARE TO THE FEAST 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 commend 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 customers by any such disappointment, it has been usual with the honest and wellmeaning host to provide a bill of fare, which all persons may peruse at their first entrance into the house; and, having thence acquainted themselves with the entertainment which they may expect, 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 volume. 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, besides 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 subject. 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, consists in the cookery of the author; for, as Mr. Pope tells us, ́ True wit is nature to advantage dress'd; What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed. The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part, and some of his limbs gibbetted, as it were, in the vilest stall in town. Where then lies the difference between the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garnishing, 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 entertainment 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 supposed 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 ragout 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 mentioned 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. BOOK II CHAP. I. SHOWING WHAT KIND OF HISTORY Though we have properly enough entitled this our work a history, and not a life; nor an apology for a life, as is more in fashion; yet we intend in it rather to pursue the method of those writers who profess to disclose the revolutions of countries, than to imitate the painful and voluminous historian, who, to preserve the regularity of his series, thinks himself obliged to fill up as much paper with the details of months and years in which nothing remarkable happened, as he employs upon those notable eras when the greatest scenes have been transacted on the human stage. Such histories as these do in reality very much resemble a newspaper, which consists of just the same number of words, whether there be any news in it or not. They may likewise be compared to a stage coach, which performs constantly the same course empty as well as full: the writer indeed seems to think himself obliged to keep even pace with Time, whose amanuensis he is; and like his master, travels as slowly through centuries of monkish dulness, when the world seems to have been asleep, as through that bright and busy age so nobly distinguished by the excellent Latin poet: Ad confligendum venientibus undique Poenis, of which we wish we could give our reader a more adequate translation than that by Mr. Creech: When dreadful Carthage frighted Rome with arms, And all the world was shook with fierce alarms; Whilst undecided yet which part should fall, Which nation rise the glorious lord of all. Now it is our purpose, in the ensuing pages, to pursue a contrary method: when any extraordinary scene presents itself, as we trust will often be the case, we shall spare no pains nor paper to open it at large to our reader; but if whole years should pass without producing any thing worthy his notice, we shall not be afraid of a chasm in our history, but shall hasten on to matters of consequence, and leave such periods of time totally unobserved. These are indeed to be considered as blanks in the grand lottery of Time: we therefore, who are the registers of that lottery, shall imitate those sagacious persons who deal in that which is drawn at Guildhall, and who never trouble the public with the many blanks they dispose of; but when a great prize happens to be drawn, the newspapers are presently filled with it, and the world is sure to be informed at whose office it was sold indeed commonly two or three different offices lay claim to the honour of having disposed of it; by which I suppose the adventurers are given to understand that certain brokers are in the secrets of Fortune, and indeed of her cabinet council. My reader then is not to be surprised, if in the course of this work he shall find some chapters very short and others altogether as long; some that contain only the time of a single day and others that comprise years; in a word, if my history sometimes seems to stand still, and sometimes to fly: for all which I shall not look on myself as accountable to any court of critical jurisdiction whatever; for as I am in reality the founder of a new province of writing, so I am at liberty to make what laws I please therein; and these laws my readers, whom I consider as my subjects, are bound to believe in and to obey; with which, that they may readily and cheerfully comply, I do hereby assure them that I shall principally regard their ease and advantage in all such institutions; for I do not, like a jure divino tyrant, imagine that they are my slaves or my commodity. I am indeed set over them for their own good only, and was created for their use and not they for mine; nor do I doubt, while I make their interest the great rule of my writings, they will unanimously concur in supporting my dignity, and in rendering me all the honour I shall deserve or desire. BOOK V CHAP. I. OF THE SERIOUS IN WRITING, AND FOR WHAT PURPOSE IT IS INTRODUCED Peradventure there may be no parts in this prodigious work which will give the reader less pleasure in the perusing, than those which have given the author the greatest pain in composing. Among these probably may be reckoned those initial essays which we have prefixed to the historical matter contained in every book; and which we have determined to be essentially necessary to this kind of writing, of which we have set ourselves at the head. For this our determination we do not hold ourselves strictly bound to assign any reason; it being abundantly sufficient that we have laid it down as a rule necessary to be observed in all prosai-comi-epic writing. Who ever demanded the reasons of that nice unity of time or place which is now established to be so essential to dramatic poetry? What critic has ever been asked, why a play may not contain two days as well as one? or why the audience, provided they travel like electors, without any expense, may not be wafted fifty miles as well as five? Has any commentator well accounted for the limitation which an ancient critic has set to the drama, which he will have contain neither more nor less than five acts? or has any one living attempted to explain what the modern judges of our theatres mean by that word Low; by which they have happily succeeded in banishing all humour from the stage, and have made the theatre as dull as a drawing-room? Upon all these occasions the world seems to have embraced a maxim of our law, viz., cuicunque in arte sua perito credendum est: for it seems perhaps difficult to conceive that any one should have had enough of impudence to lay down dogmatical rules in any art or science without the least foundation: in such cases, therefore, we are apt to conclude there are sound and good reasons at the bottom, though we are unfortunately not able to see so far. Now in reality the world have paid too great a compliment to critics, and have imagined them men of much greater profundity than they really are: from this complaisance the critics have been emboldened to assume a dictatorial power, and have so far succeeded that they have now become the masters, and have the assurance to give laws to those authors from whose predecessors they originally received them. The critic, rightly considered, is no more than the clerk, whose office it is to transcribe the rules and laws laid down by those great judges, whose vast strength of genius has placed them in the light of legislators in the several sciences over which they presided: this office was all which the critics of old aspired to; nor did they ever dare to advance a sentence, without supporting it by the authority of the judge from whence it was borrowed. But in process of time, and in ages of ignorance, the clerk began to invade the power and assume the dignity of his master; the laws of writing were no longer founded on the practice of the author, but on the dictates of the critic: the clerk became the legislator, and those very peremptorily gave laws whose business it was at first only to transcribe them. Hence arose an obvious and perhaps an unavoidable error; for these critics, being men of shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere form for substance: they acted as a judge would who should adhere to the lifeless letter of law, and reject the spirit. Little circumstances, which were perhaps accidental in a great author, were by these critics considered to constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as essentials to be observed by all his successors; to these encroachments, time and ignorance, the two great supporters of imposture, gave authority; and thus many rules for good writing have been established, which have not the least foundation in truth or nature; and which commonly serve for no other purpose than to curb and restrain genius in the same manner as it would have restrained the dancing master, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it down as an essential rule that every man must dance in chains. To avoid, there |
