t
character.

It is scarcely necessary to give any illustrations. Tom Jones is full of
them. There is the account, for example, of the gratitude of the elder
Blifil to his brother, for assisting him to obtain the fortune of Miss
Bridget Alworthy by marriage; and of the gratitude of the poor in his
neighbourhood to Alworthy himself, who had done so much good in the
country that he had made every one in it his enemy. There is the account
of the Latin dialogues between Partridge and his maid, of the assault made
on him during one of these by Mrs. Partridge, and the severe bruises he
patiently received on that occasion, after which the parish of Little
Baddington rung with the story, that the school-master had killed his
wife. There is the exquisite keeping in the character of Blifil, and the
want of it in that of Jones. There is the gradation in the lovers of Molly
Seagrim; the philosopher Square succeeding to Tom Jones, who again finds
that he himself had succeeded to the accomplished Will. Barnes, who had
the first possession of her person, and had still possession of her heart,
Jones being only the instrument of her vanity, as Square was of her
interest. Then there is the discreet honesty of Black George, the learning
of Thwackum and Square, and the profundity of Squire Western, who
considered it as a physical impossibility that his daughter should fall in
love with Tom Jones. We have also that gentleman's disputes with his
sister, and the inimitable appeal of that lady to her niece.--"I was never
so handsome as you, Sophy: yet I had something of you formerly. I was
called the cruel Parthenissa. Kingdoms and states, as Tully Cicero says,
undergo alteration, and so must the human form!" The adventure of the same
lady with the highwayman, who robbed her of her jewels while he
complimented her beauty, ought not to be passed over, nor that of Sophia
and her muff, nor the reserved coquetry of her cousin Fitzpatrick, nor the
description of Lady Bellaston, nor the modest overtures of the pretty
widow Hunt, nor the indiscreet babblings of Mrs. Honour. The moral of this
book has been objected to, without much reason; but a more serious
objection has been made to the want of refinement and elegance in two
principal characters. We never feel this objection, indeed, while we are
reading the book; but at other times we have something like a lurking
suspicion that Jones was but an awkward fellow, and Sophia a pretty
simpleton. I do n