you only wish you knew who the two culprits were that bought books of
Fielding's.

Ah, madam, how shall I answer you? Remember that if you have Johnson on
your side, on mine I have Mrs. More herself, a character purer than "the
consecrated snow that lies on Dian's lap." Again, we cannot believe
Johnson was fair to Fielding, who had made his friend, the author of
"Pamela," very uncomfortable by his jests. Johnson owned that he read
all "Amelia" at one sitting. Could so worthy a man have been so absorbed
by an unworthy book?

Once more, I am not recommending Fielding to boys and girls. "Tom Jones"
was one of the works that Lydia Languish hid under the sofa; even Miss
Languish did not care to be caught with that humorous foundling.
"Fielding was the last of our writers who drew a man," Mr. Thackeray
said, "and he certainly did not study from a draped model."

For these reasons, and because his language is often unpolished, and
because his morality (that he is always preaching) is not for "those that
eddy round and round," I do not desire to see Fielding popular among Miss
Alcott's readers. But no man who cares for books can neglect him, and
many women are quite manly enough, have good sense and good taste enough,
to benefit by "Amelia," by much of "Tom Jones." I don't say by "Joseph
Andrews." No man ever respected your sex more than Henry Fielding. What
says his reformed rake, Mr. Wilson, in "Joseph Andrews"?

"To say the Truth, I do not perceive that Inferiority of Understanding
which the Levity of Rakes, the Dulness of Men of Business, and the
Austerity of the Learned would persuade us of in Women. As for my Wife,
I declare I have found none of my own Sex capable of making juster