vish copying nor a
make-believe, but a vivid representation of eighteenth-century England
as Fielding saw it; it is a book which presents characters, and itself
has a character. Its atmosphere is quite unmistakable. It is not a
"slice" out of the eighteenth century--there can be no real "slice out
of life" excepting in life itself. It is Fielding's rendering of the
eighteenth century, in particular it is his assertion of the
_physicality_ (if I may use the term) of life, a direct assertion of
the boisterous physical vitality which, as Fielding presents it and as
Marlowe presented it, acquires value for the spirit and is acceptable
to the imagination. It is the original pagan assertion of life, which
finds its opposite in Euripides' conception of the ascetic Hippolytus;
an assertion which Propertius repeated in the language of mockery when
he speaks of a _lena_ as

"Docta vel Hippolytum Veneri mollire negantem."

Even Euripides himself was so infected with the pagan view that he
sees a sort of Nemesis pursuing the hero whom the slighted Aphrodite
reproaches with lack of reverence--religious reverence--for her power.
This primitive pagan view, crude, non-moral, but essentially sincere,
animates the story of Tom Jones and gives it a character which is
lacking in the popular "novel of incident."

_Tom Jones_ was and is a popular book. But I hope I am not wronging
the larger mass of mankind when I say that those (of the majority) who
like Fielding do not like him for his unique excellences; they would
be equally pleased if puppets instead of vital persons had passed
along the same course of exciting events; and that there are others
who would not read him even if he began writing to-day, because his
picture of life is too consistent with his imagination, and this very
tenacity would perturb and irritate the trivial. Nevertheless he would
have many readers among a large minority, just as Mr. Arnold Bennett
has to-day--readers who can appreciate a story which is direct, vivid,
and mainly external in treatment.

But the largest public is for writers like Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne or Mr.
William Le Queux. These more nearly represent the popular ideal in a
"novel of incident." For the former I have some respect. He shows
ingenuity in his concoction of improbable plots. In _Captain Kettle_
there is at least some attention to character--of a freakish kind--and
something of atmosphere which gives it a mock-romantic interest. It
ho