Tom Jones

by Henry Fielding

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, Omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumult Horrida contremuere sub altis ætheris auris; In dubioque fuit sub utrorum regna cadendum Omnibus humanis esset, terraque marique. Of which we wish we could give our readers 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.