Swift, and the wits of that famous clique, declared that
Harry Fielding surpassed them all.

He and Hogarth between them have given us a strange notion of the
society of those days. Walpole's letters, for all their cold elegance,
are not a whit more moral than those rude coarse pictures of the former
artists. Lord Chesterfield's model of a man is more polite, but not so
honest as Tom Jones, or as poor Will Booth, with his "chairman's
shoulders, and calves like a porter."

Let us, then, not accuse Fielding of immorality, but simply admit that
his age was more free-spoken than ours, and accuse it of the fault (such
as it is) rather than him. But there is a great deal of good, on the
other hand, which is to be found in the writings of this great man, of
virtue so wise and practical, that the man of the world cannot read it
and imitate it too much. He gives a strong real picture of human life,
and the virtues which he exhibits shine out by their contrasts with the
vices which he paints so faithfully, as they never could have done if
the latter had not been depicted as well as the former. He tries to give
you, as far as he knows it, the whole truth about human nature; the good
and the evil of his characters are both practical. Tom Jones's sins and
his faults are described with a curious accuracy, but then follows the
repentance which comes out of his very sins, and that surely is moral
and touching. Booth goes astray (we do verily believe that many persons
even in these days are not altogether pure), but how good his remorse
is! Are persons who profess to take the likeness of human nature to make
an accurate portrait? This is such a hard question, that, think what we
will, we shall not venture to say what we think. Perhaps it is better to
do as Hannibal's painter did, and draw only that side of the face which
has not the blind eye. Fielding attacked it in full. Let the reader,
according to his taste, select the artist who shall give a likeness of
him or only half a likeness.

We have looked through many of the pieces of Mr. Roscoe's handsome
volume. The dramatic works could not have been spared possibly, but the
reader will have no great pleasure, as we fancy, in looking at them more
than once. They are not remarkable for wit even, though they have plenty
of _spirits_--a great deal too much perhaps.

But he was an honest-hearted fellow, with affections as tender and
simple as ever dwelt in the bosom of any man; and if, i