You remind me of this, and that Johnson was no prude, and that his age was tolerant.  You add that the literary taste of the Upper Mississippi Valley is much more pure than the waters of her majestic river, and that you only wish you knew who the two culprits were that bought books of Fielding’s.

Ah, madam, how shall I answer you?  Remember that if you have Johnson on your side, on mine I have Mrs. More herself, a character purer than “the consecrated snow that lies on Dian’s lap.”  Again, we cannot believe Johnson was fair to Fielding, who had made his friend, the author of “Pamela,” very uncomfortable by his jests.  Johnson owned that he read all “Amelia” at one sitting.  Could so worthy a man have been so absorbed by an unworthy book?

Once more, I am not recommending Fielding to boys and girls.  “Tom Jones” was one of the works that Lydia Languish hid under the sofa; even Miss Languish did not care to be caught with that humorous foundling.  “Fielding was the last of our writers who drew a man,” Mr. Thackeray said, “and he certainly did not study from a draped model.”

For these reasons, and because his language is often unpolished, and because his morality (that he is always preaching) is not for “those that eddy round and round,” I do not desire to see Fielding popular among Miss Alcott’s readers.  But no man who cares for books can neglect him, and many women are quite manly enough, have good sense and good taste enough, to benefit by “Amelia,” by much of “Tom Jones.”  I don’t say by “Joseph Andrews.”  No man ever respected your sex more than Henry Fielding.  What says his reformed rake, Mr. Wilson, in “Joseph Andrews”?

“To say the Truth, I do not perceive that Inferiority of Understanding which the Levity of Rakes, the Dulness of Men of Business, and the Austerity of the Learned would persuade us of in Women.  As for my Wife, I declare I have found none of my own Sex capable of making juster Observations on Life, or of delivering them more agreeably, nor do I believe any one possessed of a faithfuller or braver Friend.”

He has no other voice wherein to speak of a happy marriage.  Can you find among our genteel writers of this age, a figure more beautiful, tender, devoted, and in all good ways womanly than Sophia Western’s?  “Yes,” you will say; “but the man must have been a brute who could give her to Tom Jones, to ‘that fellow who sold himself,’ as Colonel Newcome said.”  “There you have me at an avail,” in the language of the old romancers.  There we touch the centre of Fielding’s morality, a subject ill to discuss, a morality not for everyday preaching.