FIELDING'S FIRST NOVEL.

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In 1734, Fielding married a Miss Cradock, a woman of great personal charms, mental gifts, and moral worth, the original of his "Amelia." The happy couple,-and we may justly use the word "happy," for it was a marriage of affection, and to the last husband and wife were tenderly attached to each other, -the happy couple retired into Dorsetshire; Fielding full of good resolutions, and intent on the execution of some literary masterpieces, which should not be unworthy of his genius; his wife, doubtless, dreaming of playing the Lady Bountiful in a quiet country village. But Fielding's high animal spirits were uncontrollable. Gay companions quickly gathered round the young couple, and the peaceful household was transformed into an expensive squire-archal establishment. Late hours and heavy drinking, diversified by occasional intervals of hard reading, affected Fielding's health and dissipated his means. He returned to London, applied himself with his usual energy to a course of legal study, was called to the bar, and joined the Western Circuit (A.D. 1739-40).

But he was too old to commence a new career, and his constitution was so weakened by gout that he was unfitted for a regular attendance at the courts. Once more he had recourse to his pen. The popularity of Richardson's "Pamela" furnished him with a stimulus. He began "Joseph Andrews," at first simply as a parody; but after a while, becoming conscious of his powers, and gaining interest in his task, he developed it into an independent work of art, and produced the first great English "novel of humour." It appeared in 1742, and at once commanded a large and admiring public.

Richardson keenly felt the ridicule which its lively pages showered so freely on the pseudo-morality of his "Pamela." Indeed, it is doubtful if ever he forgave the author. Nothing, however, more vividly illustrates the squeamishness of English taste than the horror with which it is customary for decent society to speak of Fielding, and the respect in which the socalled "moral Richardson" is held. For our part, we would rather give "Joseph Andrews" to our daughters than "Pamela." Assuredly the former is better reading for young men. It is, at least, manly, unaffected, and straightforward, and forbears to gloss over vice with sham moralities, or to disguise indecent situations with copy-book reflections. We see life and society as they were-warm, vulgar, riotously jovial; but, nevertheless, with

56

HIS LATER WORKS AND DEATH.

a spirit of generosity, and a love of truth, and a fulness of energy, which one looks for vainly in the pages of "Pamela."

Fielding had now discovered the true direction of his genius. He fol lowed up "Joseph Andrews" with his "Journey from this World to the Next ;" the "History of Jonathan Wild," a social satire, which is almost terrible in its naked simplicity; "Tom Jones," for which he received £700; and "Amelia," published in 1751, which commanded £1000.

In the year preceding the publication of his last and greatest novel, Fielding was appointed one of the police magistrates of Westminster, an important and arduous, but not over-dignified post, which was rewarded with an income of between £300 and £400 per annum. He held it for four years, discharging its duties with equal vigour and ability. Having lost his "Amelia," he married a second time, choosing his first wife's faithful servant, who appears to have been a woman of no ordinary qualifications. But his constitution was thoroughly broken; dropsy, gout, and jaundice made havoc of his frame. The faculty could do nothing to alleviate his sufferings, and, as a last resource, he determined on seeking a warmer climate. For this purpose he left England on the 3d of June 1754 During the voyage to Portugal he began his posthumous work, "The Journal of a Voyage," which is replete with happy sketches of character and bits of bright description. He reached Lisbon in safety, but with death at his heart, and early in October this erring, fine-hearted, reckless man-this master-mind and great inventive genius-passed away, and was buried in the English Protestant grave-yard, near the Estrella church.

An able critic has spoken of Fielding as an imitator of Cervantes, and is to a certain extent justified in doing so by Fielding's own description of "Joseph Andrews" as "written in imitation of the manner of Cervantes, author of 'Don Quixote."" But seeing it is only the external characteristics of the great Spanish romancist that are imitated by our English writer, let us own at once that the latter is incapable of the deep pathos and exalted sentiment of Cervantes. On the other hand, his exuberance of humour and joyous animalism (if we may use the expression) are entirely his own. He is thoroughly English-English in his energy, his spirits, his manliness, his discursiveness; in the tone of his characters and the "colour" of his scenery. He has more of Le Sage in him than of Cervantes, but owes more, we venture to think, to the elder dramatists

FIELDING AS AN ARTIST.

57

than to either. His heroes, allowing for difference of costume and the influences of the time, always remind us of the gay, lively, rattling daredevils of Beaumont and Fletcher.

We are indebted to Fielding for a fine gallery of portraits: Parson Adams and Squire Western are our familiar friends. For Partridge, Allworthy, and Amelia we cherish the sympathy based upon old acquaintance; and it must be confessed that we have even a sneaking kindness for Tom Jones. These are not presented to us from a metaphysical point of view. We know no more of them than we do of our every-day companions and neighbours-that is, into their inner natures, their subtler emotions, their deeper passions, we do not obtain an insight-but they stand before us as flesh and blood realities, whose outward features and general character are perfectly familiar to us. No one painted what he saw more vividly or powerfully than Fielding; but it was only what he saw, and he did not see very deeply.

To this it may be added, that he possessed many of the qualities of a great artist. He constructed the plots of his novels with much skill, elaborated their various scenes and situations with an almost melodramatic effect, and evolved the final catastrophe with an art which the reader feels to be consummate. His satire is strong, but playful; his humour keen, subtle, bright, and never outrageous; his sentiment is generally just and sufficiently subdued; his reflections are those of a clever man of the world, who has seen much and observed much, but never cared to penetrate very profoundly into the arena either of life or human nature. "Life," he says, "everywhere furnishes an accurate observer with the ridiculous." In this sentence the reader has a clew to the understanding of Fielding's philosophy. He is the Democritus of English fiction. He laughs at the absurdities, and follies, and vices which he sees on every hand. He would fain get rid of them, but has no more powerful weapon than a shaft of light satire. Of what may be called the enthusiasm of morality he has no conception, and when Lady Booby entertains a shameful passion for Joseph Andrews, he is by no means very deeply shocked at the wickedness, but sees that its exposure is a matter for ridicule.

Such are his merits and defects. Set the latter against the former, and he still remains one of the greatest-one of the half-dozen greatest-of English novelists.

H

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THACKERAY UPON FIELDING.

In conclusion, we would say, with Thackeray, that to make a hero of Henry Fielding would be hopeless-as hopeless as for Fielding himself to make a hero of Tom Jones, or Captain Booth, or Joseph Andrews. But stained as we see him, and worn by care and dissipation, he shows himself a man endowed with many precious and splendid qualities. "He has an admirable love of truth," says Thackeray; "the keenest instinctive antipathy to hypocrisy, the happiest satirical gift of laughing it to scorn. His wit is wonderfully wise and delective; it flashes upon a rogue and lightens up a rascal like a policeman's lantern. He is one of the manliest and kindliest of human beings: in the midst of all his imperfections, he respects female innocence and infantine tenderness, as you would suppose such a great-hearted, courageous soul would respect and care for them. He would not be so brave, generous, truth-telling as he is, were he not infinitely merciful, pitiful, and tender. What a genius is his! what a vigour! what a bright-eyed intelligence and observation! What a wholesome hatred for meanness and knavery! What a cheerfulness! What a love of human kind! What multitudes of truths has that man left behind him! What generations he has taught to laugh wisely and fairly!"