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what which was thought of too little importance to be attended tɔ. And as to the matter that we are now upon, it is absolutely neces sary to be considered. For if people will not maintain a due government over themselves, in regarding proper times and seasons for silence, but will be talking, they certainly, whether they design it or not at first, will go on to scandal and evil-speaking, and divulging secrets. If it were needful to say anything further to persuade men to learn this lesson of silence, one might put them in mind, how insignificant they render themselves by this excessive talkativeness, insomuch that if they do chance to say anything which deserves to be attended to and regarded, it is lost in the variety and abundance which they utter of another sort.

The occasions of silence, then, are obvious, and, one would think, should be easily distinguished by everybody: namely, when a man has nothing to say; or nothing but what is better unsaid; better, either in regard to particular persons he is present with, or from its being an interruption to conversation itself, or to conversation of a more agreeable kind, or better, lastly, with regard to himself. I will end this with two reflections of the Wise Man, one of which in the strongest manner exposes the ridiculous part of this licentiousness of the tongue; and the other, the great danger and viciousness of it. "When he that is a fool walketh by the wayside, his wisdom faileth him, and he saith to every one that he is a fool." The other is, "In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin."

X. HENRY FIELDING.

FIELDING was born in 1707 at Sharpham Park in Somersetshire. He was educated at Eton, and being destined for the law, was sent over to study under the Dutch jurists at Leyden; but the embarrassments of his father, who, though a man of rank, was continually involved in debt, brought his studies to an abrupt termination. Returning to England, he plunged headlong into the usual dissipation of the age, endeavouring at the same time to procure a maintenance by literary pursuits. He published numerous dramatic works, poems, and political pamphlets, which are now forgotten, and which did not possess much merit; for Fielding was, according to Swift, a great master in the "Art of Sinking in Poetry." His reputation, however, was at once established by the publication in 1742 of his famous novel, Joseph Andrews," and it was enhanced by the subsequent issue of "Tom Jones" and "Amelia." His profligate and dissolute_life rendered it impossible that he should rise in his profession as a lawyer; but as his pen had been of some service to the government, he was appointed one of the justices of Middlesex, and he discharged the duties of the office with zeal and integrity. His constitution, ruined by dissipation, soon gave way under the drudgery of his new office, and he died in 1754 at Lisbon, whither he had gone, in order, if possible, to

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THE DISASTERS WHICH BEFELL JONES.

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repair his health in a milder climate. Fielding is generally allowed to be the first of our novelists; he possessed in a high degree every talent of a novel writer: humour, variety, knowledge of the world, intimate acquaintance with character in every station in society, with corresponding ability in delineating it, and a happy skill in the construction of his plots. Nothing prevents his works being as popular at the present day as they were originally but the frequent occurrence of scenes of the grossest licentiousness, a feature which they owe probably to Fielding's own dissipated character, and in which they unfortunately present only too faithful a picture of the morals of the times of George II., which were worse even than those of the Restoration.

1. THE DISASTERS WHICH BEFELL JONES ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR COVENTRY, WITH THE SAGE REMARKS OF PARTRIDGE.—(“ TOM JONES.")

No road can be plainer than that from the place where they now were to Coventry; and though neither Jones, nor Partridge, nor the guide had ever travelled it before, it would have been almost impossible to have missed their way, had it not been for the two reasons mentioned in the conclusion of the last chapter (viz., rain and darkness). These two circumstances, however, happening both unfortunately to intervene, our travellers deviated into a much less frequented track; and after riding full six miles, instead of arriving at the stately spires of Coventry, they found themselves still in a very dirty lane, where they saw no symptoms of approaching the suburbs of a large city. Jones now declared that they must certainly have lost their way; but this the guide insisted upon was impossible; a word which, in common conversation, is often used to signify not only improbable, but often what is really very likely, and sometimes what hath certainly happened: an hyperbolical violence like that which is so frequently offered to the words infinite and eternal; by the former of which it is usual to express a distance of half a yard, and by the latter a duration of five minutes. And thus it is as usual to assert the impossibility of losing what is already actually lost. This was, in fact, the case at present; for, notwithstanding all the confident assertions of the lad to the contrary, it is certain they were no more in the right road to Coventry, than the fraudulent, griping, cruel, canting miser is in the right road to heaven.

It is not, perhaps, easy for the reader, who hath never been in those circumstances, to imagine the horror with which darkness, rain, and wind fill persons who have lost their way in the night; and who, consequently, have not the pleasant prospect of warm fires, dry clothes, and other refreshments, to support their minds in struggling with the inclemency of the weather. A very imperfect idea of this horror will, however, serve sufficiently to account for the conceits which now filled the head of Partridge, and which we shall presently be obliged to open.

Jones grew more and more positive that they were out of their road; and the boy himself at last acknowledged he believed they were not in the right road to Coventry, though he affirmed, at the same time, it was impossible they should have missed the way. But Partridge was of a different opinion. He said, "when they first set out he imagined some mischief or other would happen. Did not you observe, sir," said he to Jones, "that old woman who stood at the door just as you was taking horse? I wish you had given her a small matter, with all my heart; for she said then you might repent it; and at that very instant it began to rain, and the wind hath continued rising ever since. Whatever some people may think, I am very certain it is in the power of witches to raise the wind whenever they please. I have seen it happen very often in my time; and, if ever I saw a witch in all my life, that old woman was certainly one. I thought so to myself at that very time; and if I had had any halfpence in my pocket, I would have given her some; for to be sure it is always good to be charitable to those sort of people, for fear what may happen; and many a person hath lost his cattle by saving a halfpenny."

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Jones, though he was horridly vexed at the delay which this mistake was likely to occasion in his journey, could not help smiling at the superstition of his friend, whom an accident now greatly confirmed in his opinion. This was a tumble from his horse; by which, however, he received no other injury than what the dirt conferred on his clothes.

Partridge had no sooner recovered his legs than he appealed to his fall as conclusive evidence of all he had asserted; but Jones, finding he was unhurt, answered with a smile: "This witch of yours, Partridge, is a most ungrateful jade, and doth not, I find, distinguish her friends from others in her resentment. If the old lady had been angry with me for neglecting her, I don't see why she should tumble you from your horse, after all the respect you have expressed for her."

"It is ill jesting," cries Partridge, "with people who have power to do these things; for they are often very malicious. I remember a farrier who provoked one of them, and within three months from that very day one of his best cows was drowned. Nor was she satisfied with that; for a little time afterwards he lost a barrel of his best drink; for the old witch pulled out the spigot, and let it run all over the cellar, the very first evening he had tapped it to make merry with some of his neighbours. In short, nothing ever thrived with him afterwards; for she worried the poor man so that he took to drinking; and in a year or two his stock was seized, and he and his family are now come to the parish."

The guide, and perhaps his horse too, were both so attentive to this discourse, that, either through want of care, or by the malice of the witch, they were now both sprawling in the dirt.

Partridge entirely imputed this fall, as he had done his own, to the same cause; he told Mr Jones "it would certainly be his turn

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next, and earnestly entreated him to return back, and find out the old woman and pacify her. We shall very soon," added he, "reach the inn; for though we have seemed to go forward, I am very certain we are in the identical place in which we were an hour ago; and I dare swear, if it was daylight, we might now see the inn we set out from."

Instead of returning any answer to this sage advice, Jones was entirely attentive to what had happened to the boy, who received no other hurt than what had before fallen Partridge, and which his clothes very easily bore, as they had been for many years inured to the like. He soon regained his side-saddle, and by the hearty curses and blows which he bestowed on his horse, quickly satisfied Mr Jones that no harm was done.

2. ADVENTURE OF JONES WITH A HIGHWAYMAN.

They were got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the dusk of the evening, when a genteel-looking man, but upon a very shabby horse, rode up to Jones, and asked him whether he was going to London? To which Jones answered in the affirmative. The gentleman replied, "I should be obliged to you, sir, if you will accept of my company, for it is very late, and I am a stranger to the road." Jones readily complied with the request; and on they travelled together, holding that sort of discourse which is usual on such occasions.

Of this, indeed, robbery was the principal topic, upon which subject the stranger expressed great apprehensions; but Jones declared he had very little to lose, and consequently as little to fear. Here Partridge could not forbear putting in his word: "Your honour," said he," may think it a little, but I am sure, if I had a hundredpound bank-note in my pocket, as you have, I should be very sorry to lose it; but, for my own part, I never was less afraid in my life, for we are four of us, and if we all stand by one another, the best man in England can't rob us. Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but one of us, and a man can die but once-that's my comfort, a man can die but once."

Besides the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valour which hath raised a certain nation among the moderns to a high pitch of glory, there was another reason for the extraordinary courage which Partridge now discovered; for he had at present as much of that quality as was in the power of liquor to bestow.

Our company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, when the stranger turned short upon Jones, and, pulling out a pistol, demanded that little bank-note which Partridge had mentioned.

Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected demand; however, he presently recollected himself, and told the highwayman all the money he had in his pocket was at his service; and so saying, he pulled out upwards of three guineas and offered to deliver it, but the other answered with an oath "that would not do."

Jones answered coolly, he was very sorry for it, and returned the money into his pocket.

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The highwayman then threatened, if he did not deliver the banknote that moment, he must shoot him, holding his pistol at the same time very near to his breast. Jones instantly caught hold of the fellow's hand, which trembled so that he could scarce hold the pistol in it, and turned the muzzle from him. A struggle then ensued, in which the former wrested the pistol from the hand of his antagonist, and both came from their horses on the ground together, the highwayman upon his back, and the victorious Jones upon him. The poor fellow now began to implore mercy of the conqueror; for, to say the truth, he was in strength by no means a match for Jones. Indeed, sir," says he, "I could have no intention to shoot you, for you will find the pistol was not loaded. This is the first robbery I ever attempted, and I have been driven by distress to this." At this instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards' distance, lay another person on the ground, roaring for mercy in a much louder voice than the highwayman. This was no other than Partridge himself, who, endeavouring to make his escape from the engagement, had been thrown from his horse, and lay flat on his face, not daring to look up, and expecting every minute to be shot. In this posture he lay, till the guide, who was no otherwise concerned than for his horses, having secured the stumbling beast, came up to him, and told him his master had got the better of the highwayman.

Partridge leaped up at the news, and ran back to the place where Jones stood with his sword drawn in his hand to guard the poor fellow, which Partridge no sooner saw than he cried out, "Kill the villain, sir, run him through the body, kill him this instant !"

Luckily, however, for the poor wretch, he had fallen into more merciful hands; for Jones having examined the pistol, and found it to be really unloaded, began to believe all the man had told him before Partridge came up, namely, that he was a novice in the trade, and that he had been driven to it by the distress he mentioned, the greatest indeed imaginable, that of five hungry children, and a wife lying ill, in the utmost want and misery. The truth of all which the highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered to convince Mr Jones of it, if he would take the trouble to go to his house, which was not above two miles off, saying, "that he desired no favour, but upon condition of proving all he had alleged."

Jones at first pretended that he would take the fellow at his word, and go with him, declaring that his fate should depend entirely on the truth of his story. Upon this the poor fellow immediately expressed so much alacrity, that Jones was perfectly satisfied with his veracity, and began now to entertain sentiments of compassion for him. He returned the fellow his empty pistol, advised him to think of honester means of relieving his distress, and gave him a couple of guineas for the immediate support of his wife and his family; adding, "he wished he had more for his sake, for the hundred pound that had been mentioned was not his own."

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