g in this fiction is remarkable for his keen observation
of every-day life and character, the average existence in town
and country of mankind high and low: he is a truthful reporter,
the verisimilitude of the picture is part of its attraction. It
is not too much to say that, pictorially, he is the first great
English realist of the Novel. For broad comedy presentation he
is unsurpassed: as well as for satiric gravity of comment and
illustration. It may be questioned, however, whether when he
strives to depict the deeper phases of human relations he is so
much at home or anything like so happy. There is no more
critical test of a novelist than his handling of the love
passion. Fielding essays in "Tom Jones" to show the love between
two very likable flesh-and-blood young folk: the many mishaps of
the twain being but an embroidery upon the accepted fact that
the course of true love never did run smooth. There is a certain
scene which gives us an interview between Jones and Sophia,
following on a stormy one between father and daughter, during
which the Squire has struck his child to the ground and left her
there with blood and tears streaming down her face. Her
disobedience in not accepting the addresses of the unspeakable
Blifil is the cause of the somewhat drastic parental treatment.
Jones has assured the Squire that he can make Sophia see the
error of her ways and has thus secured a moment with her. He
finds her just risen from the ground, in the sorry plight
already described. Then follows this dialogue:

'O, my Sophia, what means this dreadful sight?'

She looked softly at him for a moment before she spoke, and
then said:

'Mr. Jones, for Heaven's sake, how came you here? Leave me,
I beseech you, this moment.'

'Do not,' says he, 'impose so harsh a command upon me. My
heart bleeds faster than those lips. O Sophia, how easily
could I drain my veins to preserve one drop of that dear
blood.'

'I have too many obligations to you already,' answered she,
'for sure you meant them such.'

Here she looked at him tenderly almost a minute, and then
bursting into an agony, cried:

'Oh, Mr. Jones, why did you save my life? My death would
have been happier for us both.'

'Happy for us both!' cried he. 'Could racks or wheels kill
me so painfully as Sophia's--I cannot bear the dreadful
sound. Do I live but for her?'

Both his