sisted on, is the skill with which the secret of Jones's parentage is kept. Without retorting, as we certainly might, that the secret itself excites no interest at all, after the first chapters, we will merely point out the extreme clumsiness of its disclosure. How could the reader form any guess as to Tom's father, when the very existence of that person is never even dimly alluded to, until the disclosure takes place? We soon make up our minds that Bridget Allworthy is the mother; but as no mention whatever is made of Mr Summer, until we hear that he was Tom's father, and as we are not even led to suspect that there was any one holding the place of that curate, the skill with which the secret is kept is surely not of a very admirable kind.

The question of construction being one which admits of definite argument, we have been induced to dwell on it. If the critics are found to be so hopelessly wrong on this point, there is more justification in our suspicion that they may be equally wrong on others less susceptible of demonstration.

We hear much of Fielding's profound knowledge of human nature, and his Shakespearean insight into character. Are these also exaggerated? Hazlitt says that Fielding's novels 66 are not most remarkable for sentiment, imagination, nor wit, nor even humour, but for profound knowledge of human nature. As a mere observer of human nature he was little inferior to Shakespeare, though without any of the genius and poetical qualities of his mind." To be candid, this sentence is almost startling to us, from the excess of its exaggeration. We find it impossible to ascribe a profound knowledge of human nature to one so utterly without seriousness, so ludicrously incompetent to portray any of the deeper emotional and intellectual forms of life. Knowledge of human nature is not to be attained through observation, but through sympathy. Where the sympathy is extensive and profound, the knowledge may be various and deep; where the sympathy is narrow, the knowledge will necessarily be superficial. No acuteness of the observing

faculties will enable a man to know aspects of human nature with which he does not sympathise to some extent. The artist is like Ulysses, who learns from what he has experienced : έμαθεν ἐφ ̓ ὧν έπαθε. He may depict what he can see and hear the sallow complexion and the snuffling drawl of a puritan ; but, to depict the puritan's feelings he must have the germ of religious enthusiasm. He may depict the pedantry, the oddities, and the abstractedness of the scholar, but he must have the scholar's love and enthusiasm before he can portray the scholar's character. He may describe the generous acts of a generous man, but he will fall into the mawkish unreality of a Mr Allworthy, if he attempt to portray moral purity and elevation, without himself possessing real elevation of mind; and we shall feel that the character is elevated because it is on stilts, not because its proportions are lofty. Fielding seems to have been a man of acute observation, of hearty kindliness, and generous impulse, but of a nature neither deep nor many-sided. He was immensely clever, without a spark of poetical genius. To admit that he had none of Shakespeare's genius and poetical quality, is to admit that there were vast blanks in his mind. He was superior to all his contemporaries within the range of his own tether; but that range was not wide. His knowledge is knowingness. He was familiar with country squires, innkeepers, sharpers, sluts, pettifoggers, waiting-women, and ignorant parsons; his familiarity with them has enabled him to paint them in vivid and enduring colours. This is not slight praise. Of the thousands who have attempted fiction, it can be said of only some halfdozen. But it is not the praise we bestow on Shakespeare or Scott. Even Fielding's most admired and most exquisite creation, Parson Adams, who has immortalised a very poor work, is painted entirely from the outside, and is an exquisite conception rather than an admirable portrait. The most complete character he has drawn is, in our opinion, Squire Western, who is painted to the life, who never loses his indivi

duality, and is indeed worthy a place in Shakespeare's gallery; where also we may place Blifil, the best villain ever drawn, although we only know him in his villany. The attempts at character in Thwackum, Square, Supple, and Partridge, rise no higher than caricatures. Partridge does not even retain the small individuality of a caricature-he is introduced as a sort of Sancho uttering proverbs, but soon drops them; and remains one of those comic persons whose drollery we are to take on trust: we are told he is comical, but we never laugh at what he says.

Hazlitt further remarks that "the extreme subtlety of observation on the springs of human conduct in ordinary characters is only equalled by the ingenuity of the contrivances in bringing those springs into play in such a manner as to lay open their smallest irregularity." Of Blifil this is truly said; but with regard to all the other characters, we think that there is not only a deficiency of subtlety, but that the contrivances are of the most stagey and inartistic kind. Fielding makes his characters disclose their motives and insincerities by those sudden changes of tone and manner which have from time immemorial been the refuge of weak writers profuse civility is suddenly changed into insolence, directly the poverty of the person so treated is discovered. This is not Nature's method; nor is it the method of good art. Characters do not betray themselves antithetically and transparently, but incidentally and involuntarily. Fielding had a keen eye, and a large experience of everyday life and everyday people; his appreciation of characteristics, and his great dramatic ventriloquism (admirable qualities) make you believe in his persons as actual existences; but you see and hear his persons, you do not know them. Often you do not believe in them. One cannot believe in Allworthy, in Mrs Miller, in the virtuous highwayman, or in Dr Blifil. This last-named person is a striking failure. The scheming scoundrel, having succeeded in his schemes to get his brother married to Bridget, is disgusted with that

brother's coldness. "The Doctor remonstrated with him privately concerning this behaviour, but could obtain no other satisfaction than the following plain declaration: "If you dislike anything in my brother's house, sir, you know you are at liberty to quit it.' This strange, cruel, and almost unaccountable ingratitude in the Captain absolutely broke the poor Doctor's heart. He went directly to London, where he died soon after of a broken hearta distemper which kills many more than is generally imagined.' Had this been written by a modern author, we know some critics who would have made not a little merry with the knowledge of human nature implied. Nor would they fail to remark that Mr Fitzpatrick, after pulling out a handful of guineas to bribe the chambermaid, is said, halfa-dozen pages further on, to have been so poor that he was forced to share his friend's bed, not being able to pay for one. There are many readers to whom such venial errors are of no moment. If the book amuses them, they are indifferent whether it be true or false, carefully or carelessly written. To these we have nothing to say. Our protest is against those who hold up Tom Jones as a work of art, and Fielding as a great painter of character. A painter of manners, and an amusing story-teller, is a valuable possession for any literature; and we do not remember any one whom we should place above Fielding as a painter of manners; but we must burn our pens, and abdicate the judgment-seat altogether, if we are to pronounce him a great artist, or a great painter of human nature.

"As a picture of manners," says one who has surely a right to be heard, but whose strange and somewhat wilful exaggerations of eulogy render his criticisms less acceptable than they would otherwise be, "the novel of Tom Jones is indeed exquisite-as a work of construction quite a wonder: the by-play of wisdom, the power of observation, the multiplied felicitous turn of thoughts, the varied character of the great comic epic, keep the reader in a per

petual admiration and curiosity;"* and a little further on a string of eulogistic apostrophes contains such sentences as these: "What a vast sympathy! what a cheerfulness, what a manly relish of life! what a love of humankind! what a poet is here!-watching, meditating, brooding, creating! what multitudes of truths has that man left behind him!" Thackeray is a master of grave irony, and it is not impossible that these eulogies may be, like his damnatory praise of Addison, a satire on the nonsense which is current about Fielding. It is difficult to suppose him serious in attributing poetical and philosophical genius to the author of Tom Jones; difficult to imagine what can be meant by the "truths" that writer has left. But, if he is serious, we must assume that he is speaking of Fielding from his youthful recollection; in which case, in all modesty, we beg him to take Tom Jones down from his shelves, and look into it for the evidence of poetry, sympathy, and insight.

The deadness to Nature which Fielding exhibits is rather characteristic of the eighteenth century, and must not be made a special reproach to him; but it is very significant of his intensely unpoetical mind, that when he has to describe natural phenomena, he takes refuge from his incompetence by treating the subject as matter for burlesque. This, you will say, was the comic turn he wished to give it. Perhaps so; the comedy is very dreary, yet we will accept the excuse. But, unhappily for his pretensions as a poet, he is not always burlesque; and when he intends to be poetical, this is the sort of maudlin he produces.

"It was now a pleasant evening in the latter end of June, when our hero was walking in a most delicious grove, where the gentle breezes fanning the leaves, together with the sweet trilling of a murmuring stream, and the melodious notes of nightingales, formed altogether the most enchanting harmony. In this scene, so sweetly accommodated to love, he meditated on his dear Sophia. While his wanton fancy roved unbounded over all her beauties, and his lively imagina

tion painted the charming maid in various ravishing forms, his warm heart melted with tenderness; and at length, throwing himself on the ground by the side of a gently murmuring brook, he broke forth into the following ejaculation:

"O Sophia, would Heaven give thee to

my arms, how blest would be my condi

tion ! Curst be that fortune which sets a distance between us! Was I but possessed of thee, one only suit of rags thy whole estate, is there a man on earth whom I would envy! How contemptible would the brightest Circassian beauty, dressed in all the jewels of the Indies, appear to my eyes! But why do I mention another woman? Could I think my eyes capable of looking at any other with tenderness, these hands should tear them from my head. No, my Sophia, if cruel shall dote on thee alone. The chastest fortune separates us for ever, my soul constancy will I ever preserve to thy image. Though I should never have possession of thy charming person, still shalt thou alone have possession of all my thoughts, my love, my soul. Oh! my fond heart is so wrapped up in that tender bosom, that the brightest beauties would for me have no charms. Sophia, What rapSophia alone shall be mine! it on every tree!'" tures are in that name! I will engrave

Now, we appeal to the reader's candour to say, if such a passage were quoted from a modern novel by some contemptuous critic, whether that novel would be " asked for at the libraries?" It is a sample of much of the serious writing to be found in Fielding; but, if it stood alone, it would be enough to give us the measure of his claims as a serious writer. We will not insult the reader by more citations. That one shall suffice.

Indeed, it is to the utter absence of anything like poetry or sentiment that we must ascribe the failure of Fielding to interest women and foreigners. It is not his coarseness alone which keeps Fielding out of the hands of women; certainly it is not that which keeps him out of the hands of foreigners; it is the clumsy incompetence with which he treats every serious scene. In France and Germany we find men ready enough to welcome Goldsmith, Sterne, Richardson-but they have never at any time

welcomed Fielding; which would be almost inconceivable if Fielding really had that Shakespearean knowledge and insight with which he is so liberally credited.

Of the humour in Tom Jones there will necessarily be different opinions. We do not ourselves esteem it of a high kind, but there is abundance of it. It seems to us much lower in quality than that of Uncle Toby or Walter Shandy, for instance-depending, as it mostly does, on physical rather than on mental incongruities, and dealing somewhat too profusely in what may be called practical joking. There is great vivacity, and a constant strain of irony; but there is little of that quiet humour which, without extorting a positive laugh, deliciously titillates the mind, and constantly recurs like a pleasant tune. The best touch we remember is where Mrs Western says to her niece, "I was never so handsome as you, Sophy; yet I had something of you formerly. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. Kingdoms and states, as Tully Cicero says, undergo alteration, and so must the human form." We should describe Tom Jones as abounding in liveliness, coarse fun, and irony,

but not in fine humour. There is much invention of comic situation, such as extorts the ready laughter of youth, and such as one may find in still greater abundance in Paul de Kock. The irony is sometimes very good, as where, after Mrs Partridge has unmercifully belaboured her husband, the parish rings with the report that the schoolmaster has killed his wife; and where Allworthy is described as having done so much good in the country that he had made every one in it his enemy; again, the talk of the parish respecting his behaviour in receiving the child and not punishing its mother; and where the same people are in arms about Tom's dismissal; "nay, the very persons who had before censured this good man for the kindness and tenderness shown to a bastard (his own, according to the general opinion), now cried out as loudly against turning his own child out of doors. One thing must not be omitted, that, in their censures on this occasion, none ever mentioned the sum contained in the

paper which Allworthy gave Jones, which was no less than five hundred pounds; but all agreed that he was sent away penniless, and some said naked, from his father's house." We will also give a specimen of this irony, which is amusing enough, though somewhat artificial. It is in the kitchen of the inn where the landlord,

"Who had been called out by the arrival of a horseman at the gate, now returned into the kitchen, and with an

affrighted countenance cried out, 'What do you think, gentlemen? The rebels have given the Duke the slip, and have almost got to London. It is certainly true, for a man on horseback told me just now.'

"I am glad of it with all my heart,' cries Partridge; then there will be no fighting in these parts.'

"I am glad,' cries the clerk, 'for a better reason; for I would always have right take place.'

666 Ay, but,' said the landlord, 'I have heard some people say this man hath no right.'

"I will prove the contrary in a moment,' cries the clerk, ' if my father dies seized of a right-do you mind me, seized of a right, I say-doth not that right descend to his son as well as another?'

"But how can he have any right to make us papishes?" says the landlord.

"Never fear that,' cries Partridge. 'As to matter of right, the gentleman there hath proved it clear as the sun; and as to the matter of religion, it's quite out of the case. The papists themselves don't expect any such thing. A popish priest, whom I know very well, and who is a very honest man, told me, upon his word and honour, they had no such design.'

tance,' said the landlady, told me the "And another priest of my acquainsame thing. But my husband is always so afraid of papishes. I know a great many papishes that are very honest sort of people, and spend their money very freely; and it's always a maxim with me that one man's money is as good as another's.'

"Very true, mistress,' said the puppet-showman. 'I don't care what religion comes, provided the Presbyterians are not uppermost; for they are enemies to puppet-shows.'

On the question of the morality of Tom Jones we will not dwell, because we suppose that there can really be very little difference of

opinion as to the insensibility of the author to the disgracefulness of Tom's relation to Lady Bellaston.

To sum up the points we have endeavoured to establish, it appears that, with many admirable merits, Tom Jones has not one surpassing excellence. Its construction we have proved to be essentially bad of its kind, and the kind very low; so far from there being any consummate art, such as delicate instinct or steady reflection would have suggested, there is only the vulgar artifice of the ordinary novelist, rendered more effective than usual by an unusual audacity and animation. Its character-painting is admirable of its kind, but the kind is not high. It admirably represents characteristics and idioms. It fails in portraying characters of any depth or variety, although successful in sharply defining and sustaining the types chosen, in spite of an occasional failure here and there. Its knowledge of human nature is by no means subtle or profound. Its humour is coarse, but abundant. Its irony and animal spirits keep the reader in a state of uninterrupted amusement.

Its merit as a picture of manners is unsurpassed. On these several points we may expect that various readers will raise various pleas. To some, the judgment we have given will seem as harsh as the judgment habitually given seems to us exaggerated. The humour will be estimated more highly, the characters will be thought more subtle and profound, the knowledge of life more searching, than we are able to admit. On such points it would be vain to expect that all men should agree; or that those who have felt and expressed a long-cherished preference should be willing to give it up. Without any such expectation, we simply suggest to all really independent critics, that, instead of echoing their own or other men's verdicts on Tom Jones, they should take the volumes from their shelves, and try to read them with the impartiality they would show to Balzac. The only point which admits of something like demonstration is that on which the critics have hitherto been most nearly unanimous-namely, the construction of Tom Jones; and on this point we believe it may be said that we have proved them to be wrong.

THE attack on the day following was rather harassing to the defenders of Rivelsby, than such as to cause them any imminent present alarm. The enemy's archers, posted under cover of the ditch banks which crossed the abbey meadows in every direction, kept up a discharge which, though not very fatal in its effects, reduced the little garrison to keep as much as possible within shelter. The greatest difficulty which Foliot experienced in carrying out the superior's orders for the defence, was to prevent the Brabanters from returning it. The attacking party were too well protected for this to be done with any great effect; and since it was important above all things to economise both lives and ammunition in case they should have to sus

tain a siege of many days, it was only when some party, more daring than the rest, attempted to form a lodgment for themselves nearer the abbey walls that the legate's impatient mercenaries were allowed to ply their trade in return, which they did with such fatal good-will that their enemies were soon fain to content themselves at a safer distance. Sir Godfrey himself showed boldly in the front, cheering and encouraging his men, and more than once a shaft from the walls had narrowly missed him; but he was soldier enough to recognise, however unwillingly, the fact that no assault could be made with any hope of success, until the arrival of de Lacy with his siege-engines; and had sent messenger after messenger, and even