apparent contradictions. As
little need we attempt to settle Fielding's philosophy, for it resembles
the snakes in Iceland. It seems to have been his opinion that philosophy
is, as a rule, a fine word for humbug. That was a common conviction of
his day; but his acceptance of it doubtless indicates the limits of his
power. In his pages we have the shrewdest observation of man in his
domestic relations; but we scarcely come into contact with man as he
appears in presence of the infinite, and therefore with the deepest
thoughts and loftiest imaginings of the great poets and philosophers.
Fielding remains inflexibly in the regions of common-sense and everyday
experience. But he has given an emphatic opinion of that part of the
world which was visible to him, and it is one worth knowing. In a
remarkable conversation, reported in Boswell, Burke and Johnson, two of
the greatest of Fielding's contemporaries, seem to have agreed that they
had found men less just and more generous than they could have imagined.
People begin by judging the world from themselves, and it is therefore
natural that two men of great intellectual power should have expected
from their fellows a more than average adherence to settled principles.
Thus Johnson and Burke discovered that reason, upon which justice
depends, has less influence than a young reasoner is apt to fancy. On
the other hand, they discovered that the blind instincts by which the
mass is necessarily guided are not so bad as they are represented by the
cynics. The Rochefoucauld or Mandeville who passes off his smart
sayings upon the public as serious, knows better than anybody that a man
must be a fool to take them literally. The wisdom which he affects is
very easily learnt, and is more often the product of the premature
sagacity dear to youth than of a ripened judgment. Good-hearted men, at
least, like Johnson and Burke, shake off cynicism whilst others are
acquiring it.

Fielding's verdict seems to differ at first sight. He undoubtedly lays
great stress upon the selfishness of mankind. He seldom admits of an
apparently generous action without showing its alloy of selfish motive,
and sometimes showing that it is a mere cloak for selfish motives. In a
characteristic passage of his 'Voyage to Lisbon' he applies his theory
to his own case. When the captain falls on his knees, he will not suffer
a brave man and an old man to remain for a moment in that posture, but
forgives him at once. He