siderably 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 Trulliber 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, 'She believed here 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 expected a dealer that very afternoon;' and added, 'they were all pure and fat, and upwards of twenty score apiece.'

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 stye.' Upon which, he laid violent hands on Adams, and dragged him into the hogs'stye, which was indeed but two steps from his parlourwindow. 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-stye, insisting on it that he should handle them before he would talk one word with him.

Adams, whose natural complaisance was beyond any artificial, was obliged to comply before he was suffered to explain himself; and, laying hold of 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 stye, said to Adams, with some contempt, '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 complaisance 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 mistake; 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 only fasten up the stye, 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 like a fool as she was, or she would commit more blunders; and then directed Adams to the pump. While Adams was thus employed, Trulliber, 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 per

ceive me to be a clergyman.'—' Ay, ay,' 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 misfortune 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 behind 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 accepted the invitation, and the two parsons sat down together; 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 woman bore patiently. Indeed, she was so absolute 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 infallibility. To say the truth, the parson had exercised her more ways than one; and the pious woman had been so well edified by her husband's sermons, that she had resolved to receive the good things of this world together with the bad. 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. 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.'

Whilst

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, towards my own cure: we stopped at a house of hospitality in the parish, where they directed me to you, as having the cure.'-'Though I am but a curate,' says Trulliber, I believe I am as warm as the vicar himself, or perhaps the rector of the next parish too: I believe I 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 able to pay our reckoning, being seven shillings. I therefore 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.'

or

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 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 admiration, 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 supposition of waiting. In short,-suppose what you will, you never can nor will suppose anything equal to the astonishment 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 casting them on the ground, then lifting them to heaven. At last he burst forth in the following accents :

'Sir, I believe I know where to lay my little treasure up as well as another: I thank G-, 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 man may 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 of a Christian.' At these words the water ran from Adams's eyes; and, catching Trulliber by the hand in a rapture, '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 tithingman was here,' cries Trulliber: 'I would have thee punished as a vagabond for thy impudence. Fourteen 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 running about the country in such a manner.'—' I forgive your suspicions,' says Adams: but suppose 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?'

I am

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 vagabonds.'-' 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 nonsense,' 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 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,' answered 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, indeed, 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, departed without further ceremony.

(From Joseph Andrews, Book ii. Chap. 14.)

Wild proceeds to the Highest Consummation of Human Greatness.

At length the morning came, which Fortune at his birth had resolutely ordained for the consummation of our hero's GREATNESS: he had, himself, indeed, modestly declined the public honours she intended him, and had taken a quantity of laudanum, in order to retire quietly off the stage; but we have already observed in the course of our wonderful history, that to struggle against this lady's decrees is vain and impotent: and whether she hath determined you shall be hanged or be a prime minister, it is, in either case, lost labour to resist. Laudanum, therefore, being unable to stop the breath of our hero, which the fruit of hemp-seed, and not the spirit of poppy-seed, was to overcome, he was, at the usual hour, attended by the proper gentleman appointed for that purpose, and acquainted that the cart was ready. On this occasion he exerted that greatness of courage, which hath been so much celebrated in other heroes; and knowing it was impossible to resist, he gravely declared, he would attend them. He then descended to that room where the fetters of great men are knocked

off, in a most solemn and ceremonious manner. Then shaking hands with his friends (to-wit, those who were conducting him to the tree), and drinking their healths in a bumper of brandy, he ascended the cart, where he was no sooner seated, than he received the acclamations of the multitude, who were highly ravished with his GREATNESS.

The cart now moved slowly on, being preceded by a troop of horse-guards bearing javelins in their hands, through streets lined with crowds, all admiring the great behaviour of our hero, who rode on sometimes sighing, sometimes swearing, sometimes singing or whistling, as his humour varied.

When he came to the tree of glory, he was welcomed with an universal shout of the people, who were there assembled in prodigious numbers, to behold a sight much more rare in populous cities than one would reasonably imagine it should be, viz. the proper catastrophe of a great man.

But though envy was, through fear, obliged to join the general voice in applause on this occasion, there were not wanting some who maligned this completion of glory, which was now about to be fulfilled to our hero, and endeavoured to prevent it by knocking him on the head as he stood under the tree, while the ordinary was performing his last office. They therefore began to batter the cart with stones, brick-bats, dirt, and all manner of mischievous weapons, some of which erroneously playing on the robes of the ecclesiastic, made him so expeditious in his repetition, that, with wonderful alacrity, he had ended almost in an instant, and conveyed himself into a place of safety in a hackney coach, where he waited the conclusion with the temper of mind described in these verses:

Suave mari magno, turbantibus æquora ventis,
E terra alterius magnum spectare laborem.

We must not, however, omit one circumstance, as it serves to show the most admirable conservation of character in our hero to his last moment, which was, that whilst the ordinary was busy in his ejaculations, Wild, in the midst of the shower of stones, &c., which played upon him, applied his hands to the parson's pocket, and emptied it of his bottle-screw, which he carried out of the world in his hand.

The ordinary being now descended from the cart, Wild had just opportunity to cast his eyes around the crowd, and to give them a hearty curse, when immediately the horses moved on, and with universal applause our hero swung out of this world.

Thus fell Jonathan Wild the GREAT, by a death as glorious as his life had been, and which was so truly agreeable to it, that the latter must have been deplorably maimed and imperfect without the former; a death which hath been alone wanting to complete the characters of several ancient and modern heroes, whose histories would then have been read with much greater pleasure by the wisest in all ages. Indeed, we could almost wish, that whenever Fortune seems wantonly to deviate from her purpose, and leaves her work imperfect in this particular, the historian would indulge himself in the licence of poetry and romance, and even do a violence to truth, to oblige his reader with a page, which must be the most delightful in all his history, and which could never fail of producing an instructive moral.

Narrow minds may possibly have some reason to be

ashamed of going this way out of the world, if their consciences can fly in their faces, and assure them they have not merited such an honour; but he must be a fool who is ashamed of being hanged, who is not weak enough to be ashamed of having deserved it.

(From Jonathan Wild, Book iv. Chap. 14.)

Of the Serious in Writing, and the Initial Essays in Tom Jones.'

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 pains 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 hath been ever 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? Hath any commentator well accounted for the limitation which an ancient critic hath set to the drama, which he will have contain neither more nor less than five acts? Or hath anyone 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 anyone 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 are 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 hath 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 nrst, 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, therefore, all imputation of laying down a rule for posterity, founded only on the authority of ipse dixit, for which, to say the truth, we have not the profoundest veneration: we shall here waive the privi lege above contended for, and proceed to lay before the reader, the reasons which have induced us to intersperse these several digressive essays in the course of this work.

And here we shall of necessity be led to open a new vein of knowledge, which, if it hath been discovered, hath not, to our remembrance, been wrought on by any ancient or modern writer. This vein is no other than that of contrast, which runs through all the works of the creation, and may, probably, have a large share in constituting in us the idea of all beauty, as well natural as artificial; for what demonstrates the beauty and excellence of anything but its reverse? Thus the beauty of day and that of summer, is set off by the horrors of night and winter. And I believe, if it was possible for a man to have seen only the two former, he would have a very imperfect idea of their beauty.

But to avoid too serious an air. Can it be doubted, but that the finest woman in the world would lose all benefit of her charms in the eye of a man who had never seen one of another cast? The ladies themselves seem so sensible of this, that they are all industrious to procure foils, nay, they will become foils to themselves; for I have observed (at Bath particularly) that they endeavour to appear as ugly as possible in the morning, in order to set off that beauty which they intend to show you in the evening.

Most artists have this secret in practice, though some, perhaps, have not much studied the theory. The jeweller knows that the finest brilliant requires a foil, and the painter, by the contrast of his figures, often acquires great applause.

A great genius among us will illustrate this matter fully. I cannot, indeed, range him under any general head of common artists, as he hath a title to be placed among those

'Inventas, qui vitam excoluere per artes.'
'Who by invented arts have life improv'd.'

I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment called the English pantomime.

This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious exhibited a certain number of

heathen gods and heroes, who were certainly the worst and dullest company into which an audience was ever introduced; and (which was a secret known to few) were actually intended so to be, in order to contrast the comic part of the entertainment, and to display the tricks of harlequin to the better advantage.

This was, perhaps, no very civil use of such personages; but the contrivance was, nevertheless, ingenious enough, and had its effect. And this will now plainly appear, if instead of serious and comic, we supply the words duller and dullest; for the comic was certainly duller than anything before shown on the stage, and could only be set off by that superlative degree of dulness, which composed the serious. So intolerably serious, indeed, were these gods and heroes, that harlequin (though the English gentleman of that name is not at all related to the French family, for he is of a much more serious disposition) was always welcome on the stage, as he relieved the audience from worse company.

Judicious writers have always practised this art of contrast, with great success. I have been surprised that Horace should cavil at this art in Homer; but indeed he contradicts himself in the very next line.

'Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus, Verum operi longo fas est obripere somnum.' 'I grieve if e'er great Homer chance to sleep, Yet slumbers on long works have right to creep. For we are not here to understand, as, perhaps, some have, that an author actually falls asleep while he is writing. It is true that readers are too apt to be so over. taken; but if the work was as long as any of Oldmixon, the author himself is too well entertained to be subject to the least drowsiness. He is, as Mr Pope observes,

'Sleepless himself, to give his readers sleep.'

To say the truth, these soporific parts are so many scenes of serious artfully interwoven, in order to contrast and set off the rest; and this is the true meaning of a late facetious writer, who told the public, that whenever he was dull, they might be assured there was a design in it.

In this light then, or rather in this darkness, I would have the reader to consider these initial essays. And after this warning, if he shall be of opinion that he can find enough of serious in other parts of this history, he may pass over these, in which we profess to be labouriously dull, and begin the following books at the second chapter. (From Tom Jones, Book v. Chap. 1.) Partridge on Courage.

At length Jones, being weary of soliloquy, addressed himself to his companion, and blamed him for his taci turnity; for which the poor man very honestly accounted, from his fear of giving offence. And now, this fear being pretty well removed by the most absolute promises of indemnity, Partridge again took the bridle from his tongue; which perhaps rejoiced no less at regaining its liberty, than a young colt, when the bridle is slipt from his neck, and he is turned loose into the pastures.

As Partridge was inhibited from that topic which would have first suggested itself, he fell upon that which was next uppermost in his mind, namely, the Man of the Hill. Certainly, sir,' says he, 'that could never be a man, who dresses himself, and lives after such a strange manner, and so unlike other folks. Besides, his diet, as the old woman told me, is chiefly upon herbs, which is a fitter food for a horse than a Christian: nay,

landlord at Upton says, that the neighbours thereabouts have very fearful notions about him. It runs strangely in my head, that it must have been some spirit, who perhaps might be sent to forewarn us; and who knows but all that matter which he told us, of his going to fight, and of his being taken prisoner, and of the great danger he was in of being hanged, might be intended as a warning to us, considering what we are going about: besides, I dreamt of nothing all last night, but of fighting and methought the blood ran out of my nose as liquor out of a tap. Indeed, sir, infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem.'

:

'Thy story, Partridge,' answered Jones, 'is almost as ill applied as thy Latin. Nothing can be more likely to happen than death to men who go into battle. Perhaps we shall both fall in it,—and what then?' 'What then!' replied Partridge: Why then there is an end of us, is there not? when I am gone, all is over with me. What matters the cause to me, or who gets the victory, if I am killed? I shall never enjoy any advantage from it. What are all the ringing of bells, and bonfires, to one that is six foot under ground? there will be an end of poor Partridge.' 'And an end of poor Partridge,' cries Jones, 'there must be one time or other. If you love Latin, I will repeat you some fine lines out of Horace, which would inspire courage into a coward.

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Mors et fugacem persequitur virum
Nec parcit imbellis juventæ
Poplitibus, timidoque tergo."

'I wish you would construe them,' cries Partridge; 'for Horace is a hard author, and I cannot understand as you repeat them.'

'Ay, sure,

'I will repeat you a bad imitation or rather paraphrase of my own,' said Jones: 'for I am but an indifferent poet. "Who would not die in his dear country's cause! Since, if base fear his dastard step withdraws, From death he cannot fly.-One common grave Receives, at last, the coward and the brave."' 'That's very certain,' cries Partridge. Mors omnibus communis: but there is a great difference between dying in one's bed a great many years hence, like a good Christian, with all our friends crying about us, and being shot to-day or to-morrow, like a mad dog; or perhaps hacked in twenty pieces with a sword, and that too before we have repented of all our sins. O Lord, have mercy upon us! to be sure the soldiers are a wicked kind of people. I never loved to have any thing to do with them. I could hardly bring myself ever to look upon them as Christians. There is nothing but cursing and swearing among them. I wish your honour would repent: I heartily wish you would repent, before it is too late, and not think of going among them. -Evil communication corrupts good manners. That is my principal reason. For, as for that matter, I am no more afraid than another man, not I; as to matter of that, I know all human flesh must die, but yet a man may live many years for all that. Why, I am a middle aged man now, and yet I may live a great number of years. I have read of several who have lived to be above a hundred, and some a great deal above a hundred. Not that I hope, I mean that I promise myself, to live to any such age as that neither.-But, if it be only to eighty or ninety, Heaven be praised, that is a great way off yet;

and I am not afraid of dying then, no more than another man: but surely to attempt death before a man's time is come, seems to be downright wickedness and presumption. Besides, if it was to do any good indeed; but let the cause be what it will, what mighty matter of good can two people do? and for my part, I understand nothing of it. I never fired off a gun above ten times in my life; and then it was not charged with bullets. And for the sword, I never learned to fence, and know nothing of the matter. And then there are those cannons, which certainly it must be thought the highest presumption to go in the way of, and nobody but a madman-I ask pardon; upon my soul I meant no harm; I beg I may not throw your honour into another passion.'

'Be under no apprehension, Partridge,' cries Jones; 'I am now so well convinced of thy cowardice, that thou couldst not provoke me on any account.' 'Your honour,' answered he, 'may call me a coward, or any thing else you please. If loving to sleep in a whole skin makes a man a coward, non immunes ab illis malis sumus. I never read in my grammar, that a man can't be a good man without fighting. Vir bonus est quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat. Not a word of fighting; and I am sure the scripture is so much against it, that a man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian, while he sheds Christian blood.'

(From Tom Jones, Book xii. Chap. 3.) Opening of "The Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon.' Wednesday, June 26, 1754.-On this day, the most melancholy sun I had ever beheld arose, and found me awake at my house at Fordhook. By the light of this sun I was, in my own opinion, last to behold and take leave of some of those creatures on whom I doted with a mother-like fondness, guided by nature and passion, and uncured and unhardened by all the doctrine of that philosophical school where I had learned to bear pains and to despise death.

In this situation, as I could not conquer nature, I sub. mitted entirely to her, and she made as great fool of me as she had ever done of any woman whatsoever : under pretence of giving me leave to enjoy, she drew me into suffer the company of my little ones, during eight hours; and I doubt whether in that time I did not undergo more than in all my distemper.

At twelve precisely my coach was at the door, which was no sooner told me, than I kissed my children round, and went into it with some little resolution. My wife, who behaved more like a heroine and philosopher, though at the same time the tenderest mother in the world, and my eldest daughter, followed me; some friends went with us, and others here took their leave; and I heard my behaviour applauded, with many murmurs and praises to which I well knew I had no title; as all other such philosophers may, if they have any modesty, confess on the like occasions.

The connection of the Denbighs and the Hapsburgs is discussed by Mr J. H. Round at pp. 216-49 of his Studies in Peerage and Family History (1901); and his conclusions have been adopted by Burke. It has been suggested (Thomson's Richardson, 1900, p. 38) that the Apology for the Life of Mrs Shamela Andrews (1741) should be added to the works of Fielding. Richardson believed Fielding to be the author (Corr. 1804, iv. 286); and there is some internal evidence-notably, the fact that, both in Shamela and Joseph Andrews, the 'Mr B.' of Pamela is converted into 'Mr Booby-which supports this belief. But hitherto the book has not been claimed for Fielding by Fielding's biographers.