Unto her lover lead her forth with light,

With music and with singing, and with praying."
This is a stately stanza.

In his first volume Mr. Bridges offered a few rondeaux and triolets,
turning his back on all these things as soon as they became popular.

In spite of their popularity I have the audacity to like them still,
in their humble twittering way. Much more in his true vein were the

lines, "Clear and Gentle Stream," and all the other verses in which,
like a true Etonian, he celebrates the beautiful Thames:

"There is a hill beside the silver Thames,
Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine,

And brilliant under foot with thousand gems
Steeply the thickets to his floods decline.

Straight trees in every place
Their thick tops interlace,

And pendent branches trail their foliage fine
Upon his watery face.

* * *
A reedy island guards the sacred bower

And hides it from the meadow, where in peace
The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower,

Robbing the golden market of the bees.
And laden branches float

By banks of myosote;
And scented flag and golden fleur-de-lys

Delay the loitering boat."
I cannot say how often I have read that poem, and how delightfully

it carries the breath of our River through the London smoke. Nor
less welcome are the two poems on spring, the "Invitation to the

Country," and the "Reply." In these, besides their verbal beauty
and their charming pictures, is a manly philosophy of Life, which

animates Mr. Bridges's more important pieces--his "Prometheus the
Firebringer," and his "Nero," a tragedyremarkable for the

representation of Nero himself, the luxurious human tiger. From
"Prometheus" I make a short extract, to show the quality of Mr.

Bridges's blank verse:
"Nor is there any spirit on earth astir,

Nor 'neath the airy vault, nor yet beyond
In any dweller in far-reaching space

Nobler or dearer than the spirit of man:
That spirit which lives in each and will not die,

That wooeth beauty, and for all good things
Urgeth a voice, or still in passion sigheth,

And where he loveth, draweth the heart with him."
Mr. Bridges's latest book is his "Eros and Psyche" (Bell & Sons, who

publish the "Prometheus"). It is the old story very closely
followed, and beautifully retold, with a hundred memories of ancient

poets: Homer, Dante, Theocritus, as well as of Apuleius.
I have named Mr. Bridges here because his poems are probably all but

unknown to readers well acquainted with many other English writers
of late days. On them, especially on actual contemporaries or

juniors in age, it would be almost impertinent for me to speak to
you; but, even at that risk, I take the chance of directing you to

the poetry of Mr. Bridges. I owe so much pleasure to its delicate
air, that, if speech be impertinence, silence were ingratitude. {2}

FIELDING
To Mrs. Goodhart, in the Upper Mississippi Valley.

Dear Madam,--Many thanks for the New York newspaper you have kindly
sent me, with the statistics of book-buying in the Upper Mississippi

Valley. Those are interesting particulars which tell one so much
about the taste of a community.

So the Rev. E. P. Roe is your favourite novelist there; a thousand
of his books are sold for every two copies of the works of Henry

Fielding? This appears to me to speak but oddly for taste in the
Upper Mississippi Valley. On Mr. Roe's works I have no criticism to

pass, for I have not read them carefully.
But I do think your neighbours lose a great deal by neglecting Henry

Fielding. You will tell me he is coarse (which I cannot deny); you
will remind me of what Dr. Johnson said, rebuking Mrs. Hannah More.

"I never saw Johnson really angry with me but once," writes that
sainted maiden lady. "I alluded to some witty passage in 'Tom

Jones.'" He replied: "I am shocked to hear you quote from so
vicious a book. I am sorry to hear you have read it; a confession

which no modest lady should ever make."
You remind me of this, and that Johnson was no prude, and that his

age was tolerant. You add that the literary taste of the Upper
Mississippi Valley is much more pure than the waters of her majestic

river, and that 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 Observations on Life, or of delivering them
more agreeably, nor do I believe any one possessed of a faithfuller

or braver Friend."
He has no other voice wherein to speak of a happy marriage. Can you

find among our genteelwriters of this age, a figure more beautiful,
tender, devoted, and in all good ways womanly than Sophia Western's?

"Yes," you will say; "but the man must have been a brute who could
give her to Tom Jones, to 'that fellow who sold himself,' as Colonel

Newcome said." "There you have me at an avail," in the language of
the old romancers. There we touch the centre of Fielding's

morality, a subject ill to discuss, a morality not for everyday
preaching.

Fielding distinctly takes himself for a moralist. He preaches as
continually as Thackeray. And his moral is this: "Let a man be

kind, generous, charitable, tolerant, brave, honest--and we may
pardon him vices of young blood, and the stains of adventurous

living." Fielding has no mercy on a seducer. Lovelace would have
fared worse with him than with Richardson, who, I verily believe,

admired that infernal (excuse me) coward and villain. The case of
young Nightingale, in "Tom Jones," will show you what Fielding

thought of such gallants. Why, Tom himself preaches to Nightingale.
"Miss Nancy's Interest alone, and not yours, ought to be your sole

Consideration," cried Thomas, . . . "and the very best and truest
Honour, which is Goodness, requires it of you," that is, requires

that Nightingale shall marry Miss Nancy.
How Tom Jones combined these sentiments, which were perfectly

honest, with his own astonishing lack of retenue, and with Lady
Bellaston, is just the puzzle. We cannot very well argue about it.

I only ask you to let Jones in his right mind partly excuse Jones in
a number of very delicate situations. If you ask me whether Sophia