ners, climates, councils, governments;

the knowledge of a Machiavelli, who has looked behind the screen of
political hypocrisies; the knowledge of which the essence is distilled
in Bacon's 'Essays;' or the knowledge of which Polonius seems to have
retained many shrewd scraps even when he had fallen into his dotage.
In reading 'Clarissa' or 'Eugenie Grandet' we are aware that the soul
of Richardson or Balzac has transmigrated into another shape; that the
author is projected into his character, and is really giving us one
phase of his own sentiments. In reading Fielding we are listening to
remarks made by a spectator instead of an actor; we are receiving the
pithy recollections of the man about town; the prodigal who has been
with scamps in gambling-houses, and drunk beer in pothouses and punch
with country squires; the keen observer who has judged all characters,
from Sir Robert Walpole down to Betsy Canning;[10] who has fought the
hard battle of life with unflagging spirit, though with many falls;
and who, in spite of serious stains, has preserved the goodness of his
heart and the soundness of his head. The experience is generally given
in the shape of typical anecdotes rather than in explicit maxims; but
it is not the less distinctly the concentrated essence of observation,
rather than the spontaneous play of a vivid imagination. Like Balzac,
Fielding has portrayed the 'Comedie Humaine;' but his imagination has
never overpowered the coolness of his judgment. He shows a superiority
to his successor in fidelity almost as marked as his inferiority in
vividness. And, therefore, it may be said in passing, it is refreshing
to read Fielding at a time when this element of masculine observation
is the one thing most clearly wanting in modern literature. Our novels
give us the emotions of young ladies, which, in their way, are very
good things; they reflect the sentimental view of life, and the
sensational view, and the commonplace view, and the high philosophical
view. One thing they do not tell us. What does the world look like to
a shrewd police-magistrate, with a keen eye in his head and a sound
heart in his bosom? It might be worth knowing. Perhaps (who can tell?)
it would still look rather like Fielding's world.

The peculiarity is indicated by Fielding's method. Scott, who, like
Fielding, generally describes from the outside, is content to keep
himself in the background. 'Here,' he says to his readers, 'are the
facts; m