of swine who surrounded them.  Pamela, Harriet Byron, Clarissa, Amelia, and Sophia Western were all equally delightful, and it was not the negative charm of the innocent and colourless woman, the amiable doll of the nineteenth century, but it was a beauty of nature depending upon an alert mind, clear and strong principles, true womanly feelings, and complete feminine charm.  In this respect our rival authors may claim a tie, for I could not give a preference to one set of these perfect creatures over another.  The plump little printer and the worn-out man-about-town had each a supreme woman in his mind.

But their men!  Alas, what a drop is there!  To say that we are all capable of doing what Tom Jones did—­as I have seen stated—­is the worst form of inverted cant, the cant which makes us out worse than we are.  It is a libel on mankind to say that a man who truly loves a woman is usually false to her, and, above all, a libel that he should be false in the vile fashion which aroused good Tom Newcome’s indignation.  Tom Jones was no more fit to touch the hem of Sophia’s dress than Captain Booth was to be the mate of Amelia.  Never once has Fielding drawn a gentleman, save perhaps Squire Alworthy.  A lusty, brawling, good-hearted, material creature was the best that he could fashion.  Where, in his heroes, is there one touch of distinction, of spirituality, of nobility?  Here I think that the plebeian printer has done very much better than the aristocrat.  Sir Charles Grandison is a very noble type—­spoiled a little by over-coddling on the part of his creator, perhaps, but a very high-souled and exquisite gentleman all the same.  Had he married Sophia or Amelia I should not have forbidden the banns.  Even the persevering Mr. B—–­ and the too amorous Lovelace were, in spite of their aberrations, men of gentle nature, and had possibilities of greatness and tenderness within them.  Yes, I cannot doubt that Richardson drew the higher type of man—­and that in Grandison he has done what has seldom or never been bettered.

Richardson was also the subtler and deeper writer, in my opinion.  He concerns himself with fine consistent character-drawing, and with a very searching analysis of the human heart, which is done so easily, and in such simple English, that the depth and truth of it only come upon reflection.  He condescends to none of those scuffles and buffetings and pantomime rallies which enliven, but cheapen, many of Fielding’s pages.  The latter has, it may be granted, a broader view of life.  He had personal acquaintance of circles far above, and also far below, any which the douce citizen, who was his rival, had ever been able or willing to explore.  His pictures of low London life, the prison scenes in “Amelia,” the thieves’ kitchens in “Jonathan Wild,” the sponging houses and the slums, are as vivid and as complete as those of his friend Hogarth—­the most British of artists, even as Fielding was the most British of writers.  But the greatest and