The ghost.

Preference of Partridge for the king.

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? "O 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. Ay, ay: go along with you! Ay, to be sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such fool-hardiness?—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 which succeeded each other in Hamlet succeeding likewise in him.

The scene is too long to make further extracts; and moreover has been so often quoted as to be pretty generally known, even now.

Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of which Jones asked him, "Which of the players he 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 of 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 called 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."

Things are now drawing to an end, but gradually,

in London.

after the fashion of all the old books. Squire Western Squire Western came to town and discovered his daughter.

Tom, after

a duel with a gentleman which was near to proving fatal to his adversary, no other than Mr. Fitz Patrick, who encountered Tom coming away from his wife, whom, however, Tom had been innocently visiting on account of his Sophia, was discovered in prison and forgiven by the squire, Mr. Allworthy, and everybody. For Mr. Allworthy was also in town to press the suit of Mr. Blifil upon Sophia, but about this time it was proved beyond peradventure that Blifil was a wretch and full of every villainy; moreover, it came now to light that Tom Jones, the foundling, was the son of no other than Mr. Allworthy's sister, and therefore his elder nephew, having been born before her marriage with Blifil's father. Blifil was now turned out of doors and our hero reinstated.

Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr. Western's. He was, indeed, one of the finest figures ever Approaching the end. beheld, and his person alone would have charmed the greater part of womankind; but we hope it hath appeared already 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 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 to Western that he believed she was the finest creature in the world.

The happy
marriage of
Tom and
Sophia.

Simile of the stage coach.

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.

All ends well, with the happy marriage of Tom and Sophia. The affairs of everybody of the slightest importance are wound up with careful detail.

To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and woman than this fond couple, so neither can any be imagined more happy. They preserve the purest and tenderest affection for each other, an affection daily increased and confirmed by mutual endearments and mutual esteem. Nor is their conduct toward their relations and friends less amiable than toward one another. And such is their condescension, their indulgence, and their beneficence to those below them, that there is not a neighbor, a tenant, or a servant whọ doth not most gratefully bless the day when Mr. Jones was married to his Sophia.

I reserve for the end, although Fielding introduces it at the beginning of the last book, this

Farewell to the reader.

We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey. As we have, therefore, traveled together through so many pages, let us behave to one another like fellow-travelers in a stage coach, who have passed several days in the company of each other; and who, notwithstanding any bickerings or little animosities which may have occurred on the road, generally make all up at last, and mount, for the last time, into their vehicle with cheerfulness and good-humor; since after this one stage it may possibly happen to us, as it commonly happens to them, never to meet more.

As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the good company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well known that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid aside; whatever characters any of the passengers have for the jest-sake personated on the road are now thrown off, and the conversation is usually plain and serious.

In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of

matter.

this work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here lay it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I Variety of shall be obliged to cram into this book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous observations which I have elsewhere made, and which may sometimes, perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was beginning to steal upon thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only; and, indeed, when thou hast perused the many great events which this book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages contained in it scarce sufficient to tell the story.

And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no other) of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in anything I have offended, it was really without any intention. Some things. perhaps, here said may have hit thee or thy friends; but I do most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them. I question not but thou hast been told, among other stories of me, that thou wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever told thee so did me an injury. No man detests and despises scurrility more than myself; nor hath any man more reason; for none hath ever been treated with more; and what is a very severe fate, I have had some of the abusive writings of those very men fathered upon me, who, in other of their works, have abused me themselves with the utmost virulence.

All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for however short the period may be of my own performances, they will most probably outlive their own infirm author and the weakly productions of his abusive contemporaries.

BIBLIOGRAPHY.

Henry Fielding (Men of Letters Series).
Complete Works of Henry Fielding.

Hearty wellwishing.

BOOK VI.

GOLDSMITH.

Birth and parentage.

Goldsmith's arrival in London.

CHAPTER XVI.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH is another figure of the time among the most delightful; he was born in Ireland (which perhaps accounts for it) of Protestant parents. His father was a clergyman, his mother was the daughter of one. In Goldsmith's Dr. Primrose we may recognize the father; of his first school-teacher, Thomas. Byrne, this may answer as the picture :

A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learnt to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face :
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault :
The village all declared how much he knew ;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;
Land he could measure, terms and tides presage;
And even the story ran that he could gauge.

Every biography of Goldsmith is interesting, but we must postpone his acquaintance to his arrival in London. He was twenty-seven years and three months old when he first set his foot in London streets, and he was to be a Londoner and nothing else all the rest of his life.