is legitimate, whereas Richardson was giving a sort of sentimentalized stained-glass picture of it not as it was but, in his opinion, should be,—­is a specious one; it is well that in literature, faithful reflector of the ideals of the race, the beast should be allowed to die (as Mr. Howells, himself a staunch realist, has said), simply because it is slowly dying in life itself.  Fielding’s novels in unexpurgated form are not for household reading to-day:  the fact may not be a reflection upon him, but it is surely one to congratulate ourselves upon, since it testifies to social evolution.  However, for those whose experience of life is sufficiently broad and tolerant, these novels hold no harm:  there is a tonic quality to them.—­Even bowdlerization is not to be despised with such an author, when it makes him suitable for the hands of those who otherwise might receive injury from the contact.  The critic-sneer at such an idea forgets that good art comes out of sound morality as well as out of sound esthetics.  It is pleasant to hear a critic of such standing as Brunetiere in his “L’Art et Morale” speak with spiritual clarity upon this subject, so often turned aside with the shrug of impatient scorn.

The episodic character of the story was to be the manner of Fielding in all his fiction.  There are detached bits of narrative, stories within stories—­witness that dealing with the high comedy figures of Leonora and Bellamine—­and the novelist does not bother his head if only he can get his main characters in motion,—­on the road, in a tavern or kitchen brawl, astride a horse for a cross-country dash after the hounds.  Charles Dickens, whose models were of the eighteenth century, made similar use of the episode in his early work, as readers of “Pickwick” may see for themselves.

The first novel was received with acclaim and stirred up a pretty literary quarrel, for Richardson and his admiring clique would have been more than human had they not taken umbrage at so obvious a satire.  Recriminations were hot and many.

Mr. Andrew Lang should give us in a dialogue between dead authors, a meeting in Hades between the two; it would be worth any climatic risk to be present and hear what was said; Lady Mary, who may once more be put on the witness-stand, tells how, being in residence in Italy, and a box of light literature from England having arrived at ten o’clock of the night, she could not but open it and “falling upon Fielding’s works, was fool enough to sit up all night reading.  I think “Joseph Andrews” better than his Foundling”—­the reference being, of course, to “Tom Jones”; a judgment not jumping with that of posterity, which has declared the other to be his masterpiece; yet not an opinion to be despised, coming from one of the keenest intellects of the time.  Lady Mary, whose cousin Fielding was, had a clear eye alike for his literary merits and personal foibles and faults, but heartily liked him and acted as his literary mentor in his earlier days; his maiden play was dedicated to her and her interest in him was more than passing.