rous, truth-telling as he is, were he not infinitely
merciful, pitiful, and tender. He will give any man his purse--he can't
help kindness and profusion. He may have low tastes, but not a mean mind;
he admires with all his heart good and virtuous men, stoops to no
flattery, bears no rancour, disdains all disloyal arts, does his public
duty uprightly, is fondly loved by his family, and dies at his work.(152)

If that theory be--and I have no doubt it is--the right and safe one, that
human nature is always pleased with the spectacle of innocence rescued by
fidelity, purity, and courage; I suppose that of the heroes of Fielding's
three novels, we should like honest Joseph Andrews the best, and Captain
Booth the second, and Tom Jones the third.(153)

Joseph Andrews, though he wears Lady Booby's cast-off livery, is, I think,
to the full as polite as Tom Jones in his fustian suit, or Captain Booth
in regimentals. He has, like those heroes, large calves, broad shoulders,
a high courage, and a handsome face. The accounts of Joseph's bravery and
good qualities; his voice, too musical to halloo to the dogs; his bravery
in riding races for the gentlemen of the county, and his constancy in
refusing bribes and temptation, have something affecting in their
_naivete_ and freshness, and prepossess one in favour of that handsome
young hero. The rustic bloom of Fanny, and the delightful simplicity of
Parson Adams are described with a friendliness which wins the reader of
their story; we part with them with more regret than from Booth and Jones.

Fielding, no doubt, began to write this novel in ridicule of _Pamela_, for
which work one can understand the hearty contempt and antipathy which such
an athletic and boisterous genius as Fielding's must have entertained. He
couldn't do otherwise than laugh at the puny Cockney bookseller, pouring
out endless volumes of sentimental twaddle, and hold him up to scorn as a
moll-coddle and a milksop. _His_ genius had been nursed on sack-posset,
and not on dishes of tea. _His_ muse had sung the loudest in tavern
choruses, had seen the daylight streaming in over thousands of emptied
bowls, and reeled home to chambers on the shoulders of the watchman.
Richardson's goddess was attended by old maids and dowagers, and fed on
muffins and bohea. "Milksop!" roars Harry Fielding, clattering at the
timid shop-shutters. "Wretch! Monster! Mohock!" shrieks the sentimental
author of _Pamela_;(154) and all the ladies