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"Think not, mistaken Oliver, that because I have never declared my knowledge of the base malignity of your heart (which I would gladly have hid even from myself) that I have not perceived your vain efforts of conquering my mind and rendering me miserable."

— Fielding, Sarah (1710-1768) and Jane Collier (bap. 1715, d. 1755)

Author

Fielding, Sarah (1710-1768) and Jane Collier (bap. 1715, d. 1755)

Work Title

The Cry: A New Dramatic Fable

Place of Publication

London

Publisher

Printed for R. and J. Dodsley in Pall Mall

Date

1754

Metaphor

"Think not, mistaken Oliver, that because I have never declared my knowledge of the base malignity of your heart (which I would gladly have hid even from myself) that I have not perceived your vain efforts of conquering my mind and rendering me miserable."

Metaphor in Context

"My dearest Cordelia, (proceeded he) altho' she had a load of grief on her mind, sufficient to have sunk a less steady breast, by her gentle soothing and kind mitigations of my crimes brought me at last to some small degree of composure. Besides, I could not bear to be such an additional weight to her sorrow. I therefore at once determined to follow my Portia's example, and to seek a refuge in total retirement from the world. Fool that I was, to imagine that solitude would give to a guilty mind, which could not fly from its own thoughts, the calm tranquillity which innocence enjoys when escaped from the persecutions of others! In pursuance of this resolution I settled all my affairs. I intended to leave with my Cordelia means sufficient for an easy maintenance for life for herself and whole family, and to take for myself only enough to provide the plainest necessaries, so as not to be troubled in my retreat with the daily thoughts of supporting my wretched life as long as I was doom'd to endure it. Every thing was now thoroughly settled for my setting out, and I intended only to stop and pay the tribute of some heart-felt groans and tears of repentant sorrow at my Portia's grave, and then fly to the remotest part of the earth, when a strange cloudiness overspread the countenance of Oliver, and his lowring eyes seemed to threaten some impetuous storm. During the excess of my sorrow from the time I first feared I had lost the only treasure of my soul, my brother had seemed to enjoy a pleasure unusual to him; but my thoughts were too busily employed to bestow on him much observation: but from the time that my spirits seemed a little calm'd, or at least that I had exerted strength of mind enough to hide my sorrows, in compassion to my Cordelia, more within my own breast, this storm in the bosom of Oliver seemed to have been gathering, and now seeing me fixt in my purpose of flying for ever from the sight of him and all mankind, he began to wrangle and dispute with me on some mere trifles, which he would impose upon my unwilling ears, and with continual galling and fretting me, sometimes also barbarously touching the part which was but too tender, he forced from me this reproof: Oh Oliver! I am sorry that I cannot say with pleasure, Oh my brother! why will you delight to wound a heart already mangled with deep-felt sorrow? yet am I not fallen so low, but I can with pity look down on a wretch who hath wasted his whole life in the mistaken pursuit of seeking happiness from the misery of others: whose deep-laid plots have ever redounded on his own head, and whose malicious inventions have fixed no torments in any bosom but his own. Think not, mistaken Oliver, that because I have never declared my knowledge of the base malignity of your heart (which I would gladly have hid even from myself) that I have not perceived your vain efforts of conquering my mind and rendering me miserable. I have seen all your wiles and artifices; I have escaped them all; nor ever could have been reduced to the wretched state in which you now behold me, but from the folly of my own inventions. In this thought I feel a contrite pleasure arising from the very punishment I now undergo. --I should have proceeded farther, but Oliver suddenly interrupted me with a fury darting like lightning from his eyes: Vain wretch, (said he) if from that thought arises any satisfaction, soon will I wrest it from thy grasp, by shewing thee that thou hast been no other than the deluded dupe of my machinations throughout the whole course of thy fancy'd sagacious life. He then with an insulting sneer (hoping as he declared that it would fill my soul with fresh torments) laid open from the beginning all the deep-wrought contrivances of his life."
(III.v.4, pp. 268-72)