Missed me? It’s been a long, long semester (I’ll be writing more about it soon). Anyway, here’s one of the good things (I hope) that came out of it. It’s a story I wrote for my 18th Century British Literature course. I think it’s pretty good, as well as funny. It’s an attempt at writing in the style of one of my literary heroes, Henry Fielding, author of Joseph Andrews, Tom Jones, etc.

It’s a first draft, because I ran out of time before I could add in everything I wanted to, like aliens, and the greatest satirist of the 27th Century, Anthrax McGillicuddy, but deadlines are tough. Hopefully someday, I’ll get around to putting in everything I want.

It’s an attempt at combining Fielding’s 18th Century style with modern academic criticism (it was for a course, you know), but the primary point was entertainment. Anyway, enjoy!

The History of Samuel Richardson’s Afterlife Objections to Henry Fielding and the Character and Characters of his Novel Joseph Andrews;

AND

The Defense of Mr. Fielding, His Novel, and Its Characters;

AND

The Final Judgment of St. Francis de Sales in the Matter

BY

Lloyd Mullins

Chapter One

Of possibilities, both general and literary; of readers and the worlds of books; with a note on the difficulty in keeping a narrative on course, and literary judgment.

It may be considered surprising in some circles that the saying of that eminent philosopher Douglas Adams, “In an infinite universe, anything can happen,[1]” is true, and will no doubt be even more surprising within those circles that anything not only can, but more often than not, does indeed happen.  Even more surprising in those same circles (although it must be said that the more literary the circles one runs in the less surprising this will be) is that entire worlds, universes, dimensions, or what-have-you’s, are peopled entirely by and for the originally fictional characters, creatures, and environs of novels, both popular and literary.

While it will not be surprising to that group of people known to be of a literary bent, or more commonly known as readers, that those fictional characters that they love so well, be they human, animal, alien, historical, contemporary, futuristic, heroic, cowardly, or ordinary, occupy worlds complete and often overlapping, it may be surprising, and possibly even disappointing, to learn that those worlds are not entirely encompassed within those selfsame readers’ heads; that those characters, creatures, and creations also exist in worlds entirely independent of readers and the expectations, requirements, and emotional needs of those readers. However, if we posit that every book, or series of books, is a world complete unto itself, then it quickly becomes clear that they do exist independent of readers. Each book is simply an “undiscovered country[2]” to those who have not yet read it and, lest the reader think your humble narrator bends his literary allusion too far, what true reader ever does truly return from a much-loved book? Do they not always leave a piece of themselves in the world of that book, whether they be crossing swords with the minions of Richelieu, matching wits with Moriarty, Blofeld, or Elizabeth Bennett, trekking with Odysseus, or playing tricks and learning lessons with Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, and does not the leaving behind a part of ourselves in these literary worlds, far from diminishing the reader, rather increase them, at least in spirit? This is the magic of books. The magic of books however, is not the point, nor purpose, of this narrative. It also seems I have let the course of my discourse drift on a tangential current, and must, with sincerest apologies, return to the correct heading.

What will undoubtedly be surprising to even the most avid and philosophical of readers is that the actual world, or worlds, of books is not limited to either the readers’ heads, or the physical confines of the books themselves, but that they also exist on a temporal plane of their own as well, albeit a temporality encompassed in a strictly spiritual environment; to whit, the Afterlife, provided they are adjudged to be worthy of such existence. In these worlds, the characters are freed from the strictures of the limited imaginations of both readers and authors, and granted free will to live their lives according to their own lights, although influenced by their origins as lain down by their creators and, to a lesser extent, the readers who have loved them, much as children leaving their parental abodes, but subject to the genetic traits and philosophical and practical teachings of their parents. It is a situation highly desired by the inhabitants of all books, but granted to a very few for, just as species become extinct, so too do most books. Just as not all people are adjudged worthy of Heaven, not all books are found worthy of their own worlds; just as all people must face judgment day, all books must face judgment as well. This is the story of one such Judgment day.

Chapter Two

In which a crowd gathers and sides are taken; the proceedings begin; a note on verb tense; an unsolicited and surprising testimony; the prosecution begins

On this day (and since in the Afterlife, which is eternal and exists outside time and space there is neither method nor reason for numbering or tracking days, “this day” is used to delineate any given day), shortly after Tea (and it should also be mentioned here that judgment of books is reserved within cultures; while the proceedings are open to all, they are ordered according to the precepts of the author’s home culture), the literary Afterlife is abuzz with anticipation. Henry Fielding’s novel, The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adamsis to face judgment. Under ordinary circumstances these sorts of proceedings are met with very little fanfare, being largely considered a formality; if  a book is important enough to be remembered, much less continually read and/or loved two to three hundred years after publication, its passing judgment is virtually a given, and is generally treated like an inter-office birthday party; there are usually several sincere well-wishers and, inevitably, many who are only there for the cake.

Today however, there is an air of suspense; for there is an actual opposing counsel in the person of Samuel Johnson, long an avowed enemy of Fielding, and who has owned, perhaps not undeservedly, Fielding as his own Nemesis. Johnson stands at his appointed table arranging his papers, and practically salivating at the opportunity to visit doom upon Fielding’s beloved creations (for what pain is greater to a parent than the loss of his children). He is said to hold a number of other anti-Fielding literati in the wings as witnesses to the iniquitous nature of not only the book, but of the author, and even Andrews, Adams, and the other characters themselves. He nods, smiles, and gladhands his supporters, and sneers superciliously at his detractors, especially the tittering, catcalling, and hooting rowdier element slinging 18^th, 19^th, 20^th and 21^st century insults his way from the gallery, which is filled with the expected well-wishers, a small number of pro-Johnsonites and, as is inevitable at any gathering of this type, a large and boisterous mob of lookers-on who are only really there for the fun of it and hoping for at least a bit of good-natured violence in lieu of cake.

Fielding enters the courtroom with his wives Charlotte and Mary on his arms (and it must be said, neither of those ladies seemed particularly happy with him) as nonchalantly and confidently as if he too were really only there for the cake. Joseph and Fanny Andrews, and Parson Adams en famille, follow close on behind him looking somewhat less confident, with Lady Booby, Mrs. Slipslop, Mr. Booby and Pamela in train, alternating between indignance and nervousness in the fashion of those who consider themselves above judgment but are all too aware of what they’ve been up to and why, and finally Mr. Beau Didapper, Mr. and Mrs. Tow-wouse, Parson Trulliber, and the remainder of the company, many of whom are too deeply in their cups to fully recognize their peril.

Mr. Shakespeare, in his role of bailiff, strikes the floor thrice with his staff of office, calling for quiet. “My Lords and Ladies, Gentlefolk, and all others! Be silent and upstanding for His Honour, St. Francis de Sales!” The crowd lumbers to its feet, and the noise dulls somewhat as St. Francis enters and takes his seat, acknowledging Fielding and Richardson, both of whom bow, although it must be said that the latter bows much more deeply and elaborately, and holds it much longer than the former’s cursory obeisance. St. Francis nods to them both and rolls his eyes at the still-presented top of Richardson’s head; finally, he clears his throat pointedly, and Richardson straightens, somewhat puzzled by the titters and laughter from the gallery. St. Francis nods to Mr. Shakespeare and that luminary, unable to resist, strikes the floor again with his staff, strikes a dramatic pose, and exclaims, “Cry havoc, and let slip the literary dogs of war!” while the gallery erupts in cheers and laughter, for it is beyond the ability of any of that great literary mob to hear those words from the immortal Bard of Avon and remain quiet.

This time, the good saint’s eye-roll is for his bailiff, and he bangs his gavel. “Good people! Good people, please! A little less havoc if you please!” He bangs his gavel again, bailiff Shakespeare, grinning all the while, strikes his staff against the floor, and the crowd slowly relents. “Good people, let us remember ourselves, our stations, and our duty,” says the saint, “Pray conduct yourselves with at least a modicum of decorum.” “A maximum modicum or a middlin’ modicum, yer honor?” comes a voice from the gallery, accompanied by a minor modicum of laughter. “Gentlemen,” calls bailiff Shakespeare, “if you must interrupt, please have the courtesy to do so with at least a middling modicum of wit!” which generates considerably more merriment because when the bard makes a joke, however weak or uninspired, you laugh, don’t you?

St. Francis, clearly already bored, pounds his gavel once more and addresses the prosecution; “Mr. Richardson, is all this strictly necessary? Your antipathy for Mr. Fielding is well known, but the Afterlife is hardly the place . . . er, time? Plane, perhaps? . . . for carrying out personal vendettas – particularly in this essentially unprecedented fashion.”

Being completely outside – or perhaps entirely within? – time and space is a constant source of discomfort for writers in the afterlife, due to the human predilection for arranging things in chronological order, worrying about verb tense, and so on. Most writers have settled on simply using all three verb tenses, especially regarding things that happened on the temporal plane, since it is never really certain whether the events written from the Afterlife about actual life have occurred, are occurring, or will occur. Events occurring in the Afterlife are always referred to in the present tense.

“Hardly ‘unprecedented’, m’lord,” protests Richardson. “’Tis admittedly rare, but did not Mr. Fielding himself mount a simultaneous prosecution against Mr. Colley Cibber in both the Courts of Theatrics and Non-Fiction, based solely on personal distaste? I argue that I am instead mounting my prosecution based solely on literary, moral, and spiritual transgressions, completely unrelated to any personal feelings I may have regarding Mr. Fielding.” A chorus of disapprobation erupts from the gallery – primarily the traditional boos, and raspberries, along with a truly astonishing array of international and even intergalactic obscene gestures. “M’Lord, m’lord!” cries a plump, good-natured looking gentleman, beaming broadly, “May I be heard?” The crowd, delighted with how the proceedings have already left the rails, applauds in support.

St. Francis buries his face in his hands for a moment. “Very well, the court recognizes Mr. Cibber. Provided he provides succinct and relevant testimony. Very succinct!” The Poet Laureate and playwright bows. “Thank you M’Lord. Mr. Richardson speaks the truth, but truth only in the letter, and not the spirit. As we all know, there was very little love lost betwixt myself and my esteemed colleague Mr. Fielding during our brief tenure on the terrestrial plane . . .” “Succinctly, Mr. Cibber, succinctly, if you please!” calls the saint. “. . . Of course, M’Lord – my apologies. I merely wish to point out that while Mr. Richardson is indubitably correct that Mr. Fielding did indeed mount an opposition to both my play, The Careless Husband, and my celebrated memoir, An Apology for the Life of Mr. Colley Cibber, Comedian and Late Patenter of the Theatre-Royal, with an Historical View of the Stage during His Own Time, Written by . . .” “Succinct!” repeats the saint. “. . . Himself, apologies, m’lord, his opposition, rather than a mean-spirited attempt to further slander my good name (at this point, St. Francis leans back in his chair and covers his eyes with a hand) and cause irreparable damage to my creations, was actually all for show – a carefully organized, and even theatrical entertainment; possibly an homage of sorts – in the 20^th century fashion of the Mr. Dean Martin Roasts, an hilarious celebration, however backhanded, in which so many of my contemporaries took part, including such luminaries as Messrs. Fielding, Swift,  Pope,  Shakespeare, Marlowe, Wilde, Shaw, as well as Mses. Austen, Bronte, Bronte, Bronte, Burney, Behn, Haywood, and many others, including Mr. Richardson himself, in an exhibition of good-natured bonhomie, followed by cake and champagne provided by Mr. Fielding. There was no actual objection to my works posited, merely a great deal of fun poked, which not only delighted the gallery, but indeed, caused a resurgence in interest in my work here in the Afterlife. It was entirely different from the current proceedings, and I must say I am personally saddened by Mr. Richardson’s meanness of spirit.” Mr. Cibber sits, and all is quiet. St. Francis remains unmoving until bailiff Shakespeare gently prodds the good saint with his staff of office. “Mmh? Oh . . .” he rights himself, “Ahem . . . very well, thank you Mr. Cibber, your point is well taken.” Turning to Richardson, he continues, “If you are still determined on your course, you may now present your charges sir.”

“Thank you m’lord. M’lord, I shall show that the novel Joseph Andrews, along with its attendant characters, occasions, and environs, represent a travesty and an offense upon British letters as cannot possibly in good conscience be rewarded by being allowed to inhabit a terrestrial plane alongside those of Burney, Defoe, Austen, Dickens, and even my own humble creations. While it is tragic that a book must be judged on the merits, or lack thereof, of its creator, they are nevertheless the only grounds on which it can be judged. The faults are the author’s. The evidence is the book. Joseph Andrews, both as a book and a character, stand as witnesses and accusers of Mr. Fielding’s immorality . . .” “I do not!” Andrews cries. “. . . his loathing of women and authority, both terrestrial and spiritual, and his crimes against literature itself.”

“Mr. Fielding, have you any response or rebuttal to offer?” asks the saint. Fielding gently smiles and quietly says, “At this time, m’lord, I would like only to categorically deny all charges. I request to hold my own case until last, when I can respond to all of Mr. Richardson’s ridiculous charges summarily and categorically. I have, however, no objection to any of my friends or creations addressing any of the charges, singly or otherwise, on their own behalf, if it please m’lord.” “Very well,” says St Francis, clearly relieved that someone at least was capable of getting to the point. “Mr. Richardson, you may begin.”

Chapter Three

A bad beginning; the importance of knowing your sources; the problem of cherry-picking literary criticism – particularly in the presence of the critic; a comeuppance; a further note on verb tense; a disturbance and the hazard of writing poorly behaved characters

“M’lord, I call the reverend Isaac Watts!” This causes quite a stir amongst the assembly, for numerous reasons, not least among them that Reverend Watts is not known to have any opinion on non-religious literature, was a Non-Conformist, and had died only a few years after Joseph Andrews’ publication. Indeed, the good reverend himself seemed very confused about being called. “Reverend Watts,” begins the almost visibly gloating Richardson, “did you, do you, or will you not write, ‘Fielding cannot be considered as having made quite so direct a contribution as Richardson to the rise of the novel?[3]” The cleric blinks. “I don’t think so. At least I have no certain recollection of ever having written, writing, or planning to write such, or indeed of ever writing, having written, or planning to write a word about Mr. Fielding.” Richardson continues, somewhat nonplussed, “But don’t, won’t, or didn’t you, in your classic work on the genre, The Rise of the Novel, mention Mr. Defoe five-hundred-and-seven times, and myself a whopping five-hundred-and-sixty-two times, while only commenting on Fielding a mere three-hundred-and-fifty-three times, clearly illustrating the inferiority of his effect on what would be, is, or will be, the English Novel?” The tiny man of the cloth, clearly uncomfortable and blinking in a staccato fashion replies, “No, I feel quite strongly that I have never, don’t, and will never have anything to say about Mr. Fielding, Mr. Defoe, or yourself, and if I ever do, did, or will, I certainly won’t count them.” “M’lord,” cries Richardson, “permission to treat the witness as hostile!” “That seems excessive,” says the saint. “He seems perfectly cordial. I suggest that Mr. Richardson get on with it and rely less on legal training apparently gained by watching too much Law and Order on Aftervision.”

A thin, dapper gentleman rises from the gallery. “Excuse me? I might be able to help.” “How so?” asks the saint. “Well you see sir, I believe Mr. Richardson is referring to my book, The Rise of the Novel. My name is Ian Watt, which I believe may be the source of confusion.” A chorus of laughter, derisive noises, gestures, and remarks along the lines of “Well that explains a lot,” are aimed at Richardson from the gallery. The good saint fixes a gimlet eye on the prosecution. “Yes. That would explain much. I presume you have no further questions for the good Reverend?” Richardson, white as a sheet and clearly not used to thinking on his feet in front of such an august company, mops his brow. “Ah . . . erm . . . well, um . . . no, no, I don’t. I would however like to call Mr. Watt.” While it is undoubtedly true that no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy, Richardson’s blunder was such an excruciating example of a legal “own goal” as to shake the confidence of even a seasoned barrister and indeed the portly author-cum-neophyte-prosecutor is clearly taken aback by his own now-obvious error but, game to the end, attempts to square his rounded shoulders and soldiers on, addressing the correct witness. “Mr. Watt, did you, do you, or will you not write, ‘Fielding cannot be considered as having made quite so direct a contribution as Richardson to the rise of the novel?’” “I did, but . . .” “and was your mentioning of the authors’ names in the aforementioned proportion?” “I have no idea . . .”

Richardson is getting his second wind now. Beaming smugly, he presses his attack, “Would you believe that according to a digital analysis of your text in the 21^st Century, using Voyant tools, established, establishes, or will establish those exact numbers? Those numbers and that statement are later borne out in your own words, and I quote, ‘since it was Pamela that supplied the initial impetus for the writing of Joseph Andrews, Fielding cannot be considered as having made quite so direct a contribution as Richardson to the rise of the novel, and he is therefore given somewhat less extensive treatment here,[4]’ a statement that clearly places Mr. Fielding and his book on a much less important footing? ” “I suppose so,” answers the Stanford Professor Emeritus of English, “but I don’t . . .” “Thank you,” interrupts Richardson, “and did you not also write, in comparison of the works of Mr. Fielding and myself that, ‘the disparity between the two novelists and their works may therefore stand as a representative example of a fundamental parting of the ways in the history of English civilisation, a parting in which it is the urban Richardson who reflects the way that was to triumph[5],’ an obvious statement of the superiority of my work?” “Well, I don’t . . .” “Did you write those words or not, Mr. Watt?” “Well, yes, but . . .” “And did you not further write that, ‘Fielding’s argument here for ‘referring’ his novel to the epic genre is unimpressive: Joseph Andrews, no doubt, has five out of the six parts under which Aristotle considered epic; but then it is surely impossible to conceive of any narrative whatever which does not in some way contain ‘fable, action, characters, sentiments, and diction,[6]‘ clearly pointing out Fielding’s totally unwarranted self-aggrandizement?” “Well, yes, I did write that, but what I was trying to say . . .” “And did you or did you not also write that Mr. Fielding also departs from any claim to ‘realism’ by the totally unrealistic characterizations of his characters[7]?” “Oh tosh!” exclaims Thomas Gray, the acclaimed poet, from the gallery, “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Fielding’s representations of people, however exalted or lowly they may be are very good and perfectly natural – especially those of Parson Adams and Mrs. Slipslop![8]” “Truer words were never spoke, my friend,” agrees Rev. George Gregory, “I don’t know that any writer, not even the mighty Bard of Avon, has ever equaled Fielding in specific characterizations![9]”

“Again, yes,” says the obviously frustrated, and now slightly embarrassed academic, “but I was speaking there of two specific characters in Tom Jones . . .” The gallery erupts with “What’s new, Pussycat, whoa-oa-oa-oaoa!” to the surprise of Mr. Watt, the chagrin of Mr. Richardson, and the slightly embarrassed amusement of Mr. Fielding. Mr. Watt takes a moment to recover his train of thought, “. . . er, um, heh,heh, where was I . . . oh yes, not in Joseph Andrews, and to make a further point . . .” “Thank you sir, that will be all,” Says Richardson, suddenly anxious to get rid of this accidental surprise witness.

Mr. Watt, however, appeals to St Francis, “Sir, may I please attempt to clarify my position on this issue?” The good saint is clearly beginning to enjoy himself finally. In a jolly voice, he says, “I don’t see why not.” “But m’lord!” calls Richardson. “You opened this door,” cautions the saint, revealing not only a fondness for fair play, but for televisual courtroom dramas at least equal to that of Mr. Richardson.

“Sir, I would just like to say that most of that was written to illustrate merely that Mr. Fielding’s work was more reliant on classical forms of literature than that of Mr. Defoe or Mr. Richardson . . .” “Exactly! Thank you Mr. . . .” interrupts Richardson, clearly desperate to stop Watt. Mr. Watt presses on, “. . . however, I also went on at length to make clear that ultimately Mr. Fielding gave the genre something far more important than the mere narrative technique of Mr. Richardson . . .” “M’Lord, I object!” shouts Richardson, drenched in flopsweat, while the intrepid educator continues unabated, “. . . he brought a clear-eyed examination of the entire world, or at least the entirety of his world, including, thanks to his narratorial method, his own faults and foibles[10],” and with that, the learned man of letters took his seat, to the applause of not only the gallery, but the entire company of Joseph Andrews.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” said Parson Adams, “although, it wouldn’t have hurt to have read in a few of the classics in support.” “My but don’t that gentleman have a way with words?” added Mrs. Slipslop, “So articled, he is.” “Indeed, Slipslop, and a fine figure of a man, as well. I must have him for dinner – or perhaps breakfast?” mused Lady Booby to herself. Fortunately for his peace of mind, the learned Mr. Watt was seated in the gallery with the other academics, and too far away from Lady Booby to hear her tentative designs upon himself.

The attentive reader will no doubt have noticed that your humble narrator, somewhere in the passages above, abandoned use of the past/present/future verb tense when characters are speaking of actions taken on the temporal plane. I have done this, not only for expediency, but for my own sanity, as well as the readers’. For, just as a slice of cake, or a single biscuit, is sufficient to satisfy the curiosity of the taster as to the general texture, scent, and taste of the snack in question and leaves them wanting more, eating the cake entire, or the whole dish of biscuits quickly makes the taster sick, and the necessity of baking more makes the chef tired of the whole thing and wishing he’d never started. So it is with humour, however true-to-life (or Afterlife, as it were). What is initially amusing quickly sours and wears on both the reader and writer and may eventually spoil both’s appetite for the narrative itself. As the reader has noticed, at some point previously, I have begun simply using the past tense for all events taking place on the temporal plain. No doubt, the mere memory of the earlier tensorial gymnastics will serve as a reminder of how it is really done, perhaps lending a soupçon of mirth without overly complicating the reading. If the reader is wondering why, in the midst of the narrative, I have bothered with this explanatory tangent, it is because of an uproar in the gallery which completely derailed these somber proceedings; an event which is only just now drawing to a close. It seems that Captain Mirvan’s and Sir Clement Willoughby’s attention was drawn to Madame Duval when that lady made their presence known by saying rather too loudly to Monsieur Du Bois, “What the devil are they going on about? I don’t see what all the fuss is about, bunch of poncey Englishmen prattling on about nothing. Ma foi, you’d never see this sort of thing in a proper French Afterlife, I don’t mind saying.” Captain Mirvan, encouraged on by Sir Clement, and after his own inimitable fashion, responded volubly and with unnecessary violence, calling down damnation on all French writing and writers, arousing the martial ardour of Messrs. Hugo, Balzac, Voltaire, Flaubert, Dumas, Moliere, and others. This in turn roused a number of English authors, not so much in defense of the captain, as in simple British disapprobation of all things French. Peace was finally restored when Mssrs. Sartre, Gandhi, Russell, Sakharov, Leroux, Roberts interposed themselves between the factions and bailiff Shakespeare crowned some of the more belligerent skulls on both sides with his staff. An embarrassed Ms. Burney/Madame d’Arblay, clearly out of patience with both the captain, and Mme. Duval, plucked Mme. Duval’s head-dress from her head and while that lady was panicking over her appearance and bemoaning the destruction of her curls, the valiant authoress belabored the captain with her parasol, demanding “Behave yourself!” to the general delight of everyone, but the particular delight of Sir Clement, who received a few licks of his own and, somewhat surprisingly, Mrs. Mirvan who has clearly been spending quite a bit of the abundance (or absence) of time in the Afterlife rethinking some of her life choices – as if she had actually had any choice, her marital status having been imposed on her by her creator; which brings up an interesting point on the subject of free will which, fortunately for the reader, I will now pass over in favor of continuing the relevant narrative.

Chapter Four

The proceedings proceed, after a fashion

Mr. Richardson clears his throat. “M’lord, I now wish to move on to a second, and possibly even more grievous fault of Mr. Fielding’s, made clear in his book, Joseph Andrews; to whit, his misogyny – his clear loathing of the female of the species . . .” “Yes, we all know what ‘misogyny’ means,” declares the eyerolling saint. “. . . his reduction of the female to their grossest physical attributes, his . . . his, um . . .” he shuffles papers furiously, searching for something, “. . . he . . .” finally, he drops his papers, “well, he clearly harbours a deep-seeded hatred for women; most of his female characters are loathsome, none are any better than they should be, and the few females in his book with any claim to virtue, however spurious, are subject to the vilest of assaults, brought on by their own deep-seeded wantonness . . .” “’Seated’,” interrupts Shakespeare. “. . . excuse me?” asks Richardson. “The term should be ‘deep-seated’ not ‘deep-seeded’,” explains the Bard, “I just thought a man of letters like yourself would want to be correct in his language.” This naturally brings on another wave of giggles and titters, and brings a rush of blood to Richardson’s face, for what esteemed writer of the English language would want to be corrected in public, and especially a public filled with a mixture of the leading lights of English literature and the literary equivalent of 20^th Century football hooligans and yobbos, like Capt. Mirvan, whom, having recovered from his creator’s chastisement, issues both a raspberry and a two-fingered obscene salute toward Richardson. Mr. Dicken’s Sam Weller chimes in with a “’Tis true enough, a gen’l’m’n orter be familiar vith ‘is tools, as the butcher said arter cuttin’ off his thumb.”

“As I was saying,” Richardson continues, with a face red as an apple, “Fielding clearly is prejudiced against women and, as feminist literary criticism of the 20^th and 21^st century has shown us all, that is a . . . well, it’s a really, really bad thing. A case in point is his obsession with the female breast. Everything a reader needs to know about one of Fielding’s females can be ascertained by the description of their breasts, as the scholar Nina Prytula makes clear – by the by, Madame Prytula isn’t here, is she?[11]” Richardson is clearly relieved when there is no response, having apparently learned his lesson with Mr. Watt, and happy that, for the time being at least, he will not have to further alter his strategy. He continues, “For example, Fielding points out the bovinity of Mrs. Slipslop when he writes, “nor did she resemble a cow so much in her Breath, as in two brown Globes which she carried before her[12],” “He wrote WHAT?!” came an ear-piercing shriek from the lady in question, who had apparently never gotten around to actually reading the book. “Furthermore,” Richardson continues, “his females are all either grossly iniquitous and barbarously mannish, as in the cases of Lady Booby and Mrs. Slipslop, both of whom attempt to seduce Mr. Andrews – Lady Booby, not once but twice! – in the space of a mere twelve pages[13]!” “And who could blame us?” says Lady Booby breathily, “Just look at him!” “And not only were these two harpies . . .” “I object!” cries Lady Booby. “. . . behaving most scandalously, they are taking on a traditionally recognized masculine role by being the sexual aggressor!” “Well, he certainly wasn’t ever going to get ‘round to it, was he?” purrs Lady Booby coyly. “As Madame Prytula points out,” continues Richardson, “these actions are definitively Amazonian, in that “Amazons are figures of social and sexual inversion—women who render themselves unwomanly by defying the conventions of patriarchy,[14]” and what, may I ask you is the point of spending hundreds, if not thousands of years building up a perfectly good patriarchy if we are to allow a man, one of our own, to create women who openly defy it? This sexual inversion is increased when, instead of responding as any red-blooded man would, Mr. Andrews rather pleads his Virtue, showing himself to be inadequate and feminine both as a man and a servant! Even the supposedly female paragon of Virtue, Fanny, proves to be just as guilty of sexual inversion as the rest for, regardless of the fact that while she does find herself in the traditional role of rape victim saved from a fate worse than death by a man, namely Parson Adams, she would never have been in that situation if it weren’t for Fielding’s insistence on unnatural female characters! For if Fanny had behaved in a manner consistent with traditional literary femininity, she would have been safe at home. Instead, upon hearing of her beloved’s misfortunes, she abandons any claim to femininity when she strikes out on a quest – decidedly a man’s role – to save Mr. Andrews! We must face facts – she, or rather Fielding on her behalf, asked for it!”

“Mr. Richardson please,” protests Saint Francis, “surely you go too far sir!” “I – I go too far?” retorts Richardson, “’Tis Fielding’s gone too far! While I will admit that my own dear Pamela had to put up with an attempted rape or three, they were all in complete accordance with her role as a virtuous servant and young lady, not one of Fielding’s Amazonian buccaneers! Do not mistake me however, for I do not blame the characters themselves; they were simply written that way. All the blame lies with their creator. However, what might the damage be if these unnatural and malformed virtue-less viragos were turned loose in a real world, especially one filled with proper Ladies, gentlewomen, serving wenches, and even prostitutes, yes, prostitutes!, all fulfilling societal expectations, and behaving in the prescribed feminine fashion for females in their respective places. It would be catastrophic! Imagine if the delightful and innocent Evelina should follow their example and decide not to be ruled by traditional mores!” “Sir Clement certainly would’ve gotten a dainty knee in the wedding tackle at the very least, I imagine,” calls Mr. Bennett, while Mrs. Bennett blushes and hides her head in shame and Elizabeth nods in agreement. “Or what if,” Richardson continues, “Defoe’s Roxana were to suddenly stop worrying about the morality of her actions? Why, she might even decide to keep her children!” “Might work out better for them,” says Miss Amy, “certainly couldn’t work out any worse for them, and t’would save me and my mistress no end of trouble and grief.” “And what of the men in that world, m’lord, if robbed of the opportunity to repent their evil ways when finally inspired by the flawless virtue of a lady?” “Damme,” mutters Capt. Mirvan, “don’t he half go on?” before subsiding once more before a glare from Miss Burney. “M’Lord,” Richardson rants on, “only consider Fielding’s own version of an afterlife. It is one in which only the lowly, the criminal, and the undeserving are admitted to heaven, or Elysium as he styles it, and only those guilty of the most heinous crimes receive damnation in the pit. All others are simply returned to earth to ‘try again’, including clergy, statesmen, soldiers, virgins, and virtually all with any clear claim to morality[15]. Imagine creatures created by a man so bereft of morality, of religion that he could elucidate such an heretical view of heaven itself, turned out upon an unsuspecting world!”

An attractive woman dressed after the 20^th Century fashion rises from that section of the gallery where the academics have been sitting, listening, and of course, arguing amongst themselves. “Excuse me, but may I say something?” “No!” snaps Richardson shrilly, “No you may not!” but he is overruled by both Saint Francis and Shakespeare, who, paraphrasing himself, declares, “The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks.[16]” “Pray continue, good lady,” says the saint, “but first, may we know your name?” “I am Regina M. Janes, former Professor of English at the University of California, Berkely. I’m sorry to dispute an author of Mr. Richardson’s eminence, but I believe he is at the very least mistaken regarding Mr. Fielding’s views on the Afterlife at the very least, if not also on his views on morality.” “How so?” “Well sir, I believe I proved conclusively in my paper, “Henry Fielding Reinvents the Afterlife”, that Mr. Fielding actually continues the tradition of Non-Conformist writers Isaac Watts and Elizabeth Singer Rowe[17], and that many of Mr. Fielding’s views on religion, and especially the Afterlife came, within an hundred years or so of his death, to be widely accepted[18], and that none of his views, or at least very few, even approached heresy. In my own words, ‘he hybridizes classic conceptions and Christian anticipations. Christian orthodoxy is not violated—the context is classical—but its sense of possibility is stretched.[19] In short sir, many of the ideas that Fielding elucidates in “A Journey to the Next World”, especially the reunion with previously departed family members, particularly children became, if not part of Christian Orthodoxy, then at least Christian tradition,[20]” after which she takes her seat to the applause of the assembly.

‘M’Lord,” says Richardson, “I would now like . . .”

“Mr. Richardson,” interrupts the long-suffering saint, “I believe you have made your point, at least as well as it’s ever going to be made – Mr. Fielding and his creation are immoral, irreverent, irresponsible, and a hazard to all right-thinking literature – is that not correct?” “Well, yes, m’lord, however . . .” “Does the prosecution intend to bring forth any new information? Anything that might smack of actual fact, and not simply misused statements and opinions clearly used in support of a personal animosity toward Mr. Fielding?” “If m’lord will grant me but a moment,” says the flustered Richardson, again pawing furiously through his papers, “I believe . . .” “Enough, Mr. Richardson,” the saint says gently, “your attempts to prove your various points have done rather more damage to your argument than good, and engendered, I imagine, a fair amount of ill will toward yourself.” “Indeed,” declaims Mr. Coleridge, “I’ve always felt Richardson as full of hot air as a blacksmith’s bellows, and he’s certainly proved it today! Let’s hear from Fielding, it’ll be like a breath of fresh air![21]”

“Gentlemen, please,” says the saint, “all things in their time. Mr. Richardson, may I presume from your having collapsed into your chair that you are now at rest?” Richardson, a moistened kerchief over his face waves an enfeebled hand. “Very well, does anyone else wish to join Mr. Richardson’s position?”

“I would like to say something,” announces Mr. Johnson in a sonorous, authoritative voice. “Very well, you may proceed Mr. Johnson.” “I wish only to say in support of my vaunted colleague Mr. Richardson, that Mr. Fielding was, is, and will always be an immoral, intemperate, dissolute Blockhead, who would have been of more service to mankind had he been employed in a stable, rather than inflicting his half-witted musings on a gullible, credible public. Indeed, I knew enough of the man to not need to bother reading Joseph Andrews![22]” The great man scans the room to see if anyone will be impertinent enough to dispute him. When there is not, he sits, with a look of supreme self-satisfaction.

Chapter Five

One last surprise witnesses; Fielding’s defense; At last, a verdict

When no one else rises to speak against Mr. Fielding, Saint Francis opens the floor to “any who would speak on behalf of Mr. Fielding or Joseph Andrews?” An uncomfortable hush falls over the assemblage, as it is one thing to crack wise in the midst of a Richardsonian raving, but quite another to openly disagree with the immortal and revered Dr. Johnson.

Finally, Miss Austen rises to her feet. “Much has been said here today about Mr. Fielding’s faults, as exhibited by both himself and his characters. For myself, I prefer not to think of his faults, whatever they may be – for who among us would favourably endure such examination? I would rather keep my focus on what, in this particularity is important; that is his, and indeed Mr. Richardson’s contributions to English letters. Both had a profound effect upon my own humble talent, for I absorbed much from each, and that absorption found itself wrung out onto the pages of my own writing. I must own that I am appalled at the public disrespect undeservedly poured out upon one of my literary heroes[23], the good Mr. Richardson (at which Mr. Richardson revives somewhat, while the assembly shifts uncomfortably, for who would not at finding themselves unexpectedly either praised or excoriated by possibly the most-loved lady in all of literature?), while admitting my own embarrassment on his behalf regarding his unwarranted and unbecoming attack on Mr. Fielding (at which the revival and discomfort switch places), also one of my heroes whose style inspired my own, despite what some critics may say[24].”

“After all,” she continues as sweetly as if she hadn’t just essentially torn strips off everyone present, though to no less effect, “one only has to look at the opening paragraphs of my own Pride and Prejudice to see Mr. Fielding’s influence. My own admittedly less “noisy” narrator also makes very unmistakably open appearances on pages 231 and 364[25].” “Hear, hear,” calls Mr. Collins, which prompts Miss Austen’s lip to curl slightly. “My own satirical style borrows much from his example, and I daresay that not only my own works, but those of countless other brilliant humorists and satirists would be much less dazzling had we not had the sterling example of social satire set for us by him.”

After Miss Austen takes her seat, the room is quiet, for none are foolish enough to follow both Dr. Johnson and Miss Austen, no matter how much all writers and scholars love to argue about books.

Saint Francis clears his throat. “I feel it is time to hear from Mr. Fielding himself. If you please, sir?”

Mr. Fielding rises to his feet and takes in the whole assembly with a wide grin, “Thank you m’lord. I would first like to thank all those who have spoken on behalf of myself and my children – for what are an author’s characters but his children? Your kind words have been most gratifying. I also say that while I agree – at least in part – with virtually everything Mr. Richardson has said, particularly in regard to myself, for I am an imperfect man, and an imperfect creator. However, I feel it all to be essentially irrelevant in these circumstances. I also cheerfully own my indebtedness to that worthy gentleman, for it is obvious that my first two prose works were entirely dependent upon his own work. However, I will say in my own defense, and on behalf of my children, that while Mr. Richardson’s Pamela provided the impetus for my writing, I was not writing about his Pamela. I merely took his creation as a starting point to make my own observations regarding our society. I was not mocking Pamela’s virtue, but the use Mr. Richardson – and by extenuation, society – makes of it. It has long been my observation that in most, if not all, societies, the idea that virtue is its own reward receives much lip service, but no more. That hypocrisy, which invariably manifests itself by harnessing virtue to the wagon of self-gratification, is really my target in my novels, including Jonathan Wild and Tom Jones.” “What’s new, Pussycat, whoa-oa-oa-oaoa!” “Furthermore, I maintain that the main difference between Mr. Richardson’s Pamela and my own Shamela and Joseph Andrews is not characterization, but intent – as the illustrious scholar David W. Toise so aptly notes in his “A More Culpable Passion”: Pamela, Joseph Andrews, and the History of Desire,[26]” – Mr. Richardson tells his readers what to think, while I trust the reader to think for themselves, and that they will come to a proper conclusion, and that, I think is the point of all this literature; not to tell people what to think, but to make them think. It is my belief and sincerest hope that I and my children have done so, at least in some small part. I also hope that they have found no small entertainment in my children’s antics, for the world can always use a good laugh, if nothing else. Thank you.” Fielding bows and sits.

At last, Saint Francis, satisfied that everyone with anything to say on the matter had been heard, says, “My Lords and Ladies, Gentle Men and Women, and all others, it is the considered opinion of this court that the charges, however sincerely felt, are unworthy of serious consideration. They are dismissed with prejudice, and the characters, creatures, and environs of the novel The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams are to be admitted to the appropriate temporal plane as soon as it can be arranged. All reasonable effort shall be made to effect an adequate separation between the creations of Mssrs. Richardson and Fielding to avoid confusion, but since that is the problem, and much of the delight, with reality – that the unexpected so often happens – no extreme measures will be taken, and if it happens, then they can just lump it, like all of us had to do. Now . . . I was told there would be cake . . .” There was, indeed, cake.

---

[1] Douglas Adams, “Restaurant at the End of the Universe,” in The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, (New York: Ballantine, 2002).

[2] William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Act 3, Scene 1, 86. http://shakespeare.mit.edu/hamlet/full.html

[3] Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding. 238. http://www.ricorso.net/tx/Courses/LEM2014/Critics/Watt_Ian/Rise_Novel.pdf

[4] Ian Watt, 238.

[5] Ian Watt, 183.

[6] Ian Watt, 248.

[7] Ian Watt, 263.

[8] Thomas Gray. “Henry Fielding,” English Poetry 1579-1830: Spenser and the Tradition. http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/CommentRecord.php?action=GET&cmmtid=6028

[9] George Gregory. “Henry Fielding,” English Poetry 1579-1830: Spenser and the Tradition. http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/CommentRecord.php?action=GET&cmmtid=7996 

[10] Ian Watt, 287.

[11]Nina Prytula, “’Great Breasted and Fierce’: Fielding’s Amazonian Heroines.” Eighteenth-Century Studies, Volume 35, Number 2, Winter 2002, pp. 173-193. doi:10.1353/ecs.2002.0015. Apparently, Richardson is inaccurately alluding to the concluding paragraphs of Nina Prytula’s paper

[12] Henry Fielding, Joseph Andrews and Shamela. (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 27.

[13] Henry Fielding, Joseph Andrews and Shamela. 24-36.

[14] Nina Prytula, 175.

[15] Fielding, Henry. “A Journey from this World to the Next.” Chap.VII. Delphi Complete Works of Henry Fielding. Delphi Classics, Series 3, 2013. Nook.

[16] Shakespeare, William. The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark., Act III, Scene II, 219. http://shakespeare.mit.edu/hamlet/full.html

[17] Regina M. Jane. “Henry Fielding Reinvents the Afterlife.” Eighteenth-Century Fiction, Volume 23, Number 3, Spring 2011, pp. 497. doi:10.1353/ecf.2011.0001.

[18] Jane, 496

[19] Jane, 497.

[20] Jane, 499..

[21] Samuel Taylor Coleridge,  Specimens of the Table Talk of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 5 July 1834. Project Gutenberg. Kindle edition. 1 July 2005. http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8489. Coleridge something similar in 1834.

[22] Samuel Johnson, “Henry Fielding,” in English Poetry 1579-1830: Spenser and the Tradition. http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/CommentRecord.php?action=GET&cmmtid=2248. Johnson says much the same here.

[23] Lynn Shepherd, interview by Laurel Ann, “Jane Austen and the ‘father of the novel’ – Samuel Richardson.” Austenprose – A Jane Austen Blog. 10 August 2010. https://austenprose.com/2010/08/10/jane-austen-and-the-father-of-the-novel-samuel-richardson/

[24] D. A. Miller’s Jane Austen, or The Secret of Style, pp. 408-9, qtd. in Jill Campbell’s “Fielding’s Style.” ELH, Volume 72, Number 2, Summer 2005. Mr. Miller refers to the “noisy narrators” of Fielding and Thackeray. It is probable that this is what Miss Austen is referring to.  

[25] Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice. (New York: Penguin Classics, 2014).

[26] David W. Toise, “A More Culpable Passion”: Pamela, Joseph Andrews, and the History of Desire.” Clio. Summer 96, Vol. 25 Issue 4, p 410. https://web-b-ebscohost-com.proxy.lib.miamioh.edu/ehost/pdfviewer/pdfviewer?vid=3&sid=8e7b8b58-07a3-4624-9f37-fa62ec8169fb%40pdc-v-sessmgr02

Bibliography

Adams, Douglas. “Restaurant at the End of the Universe.” in The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, (New York: Ballantine, 2002).

Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice. New York: Penguin Classics, 2014.

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. Specimens of the Table Talk of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 5 July 1834. Project Gutenberg. Kindle edition. 1 July 2005. http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8489

Fielding, Henry. “A Journey from this World to the Next.” Chap.VII. Delphi Complete Works of Henry Fielding. Delphi Classics, Series 3, 2013. Nook.

Fielding, Henry. Joseph Andrews and Shamela. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Gray, Thomas. “Henry Fielding,” English Poetry 1579-1830: Spenser and the Tradition. http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/CommentRecord.php?action=GET&cmmtid=6028

Gregory, George. “Henry Fielding,” English Poetry 1579-1830: Spenser and the Tradition. http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/CommentRecord.php?action=GET&cmmtid=7996 

Jane, Regina M. “Henry Fielding Reinvents the Afterlife.” Eighteenth-Century Fiction, Volume 23, Number 3, Spring 2011, pp. 497. doi:10.1353/ecf.2011.0001.

Johnson, Samuel. “Henry Fielding,” English Poetry 1579-1830: Spenser and the Tradition. http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/CommentRecord.php?action=GET&cmmtid=2248

Miller, D. A. Jane Austen, or The Secret of Style, pp. 408-9, qtd in Jill Campbell’s “Fielding’s Style.” ELH, Volume 72, Number 2, Summer 2005, https://miamioh.instructure.com/courses/126579/files/folder/readings?preview=16580331

Prytula, Nina, “’Great Breasted and Fierce’: Fielding’s Amazonian Heroines.” Eighteenth-Century Studies, Volume 35, Number 2, Winter 2002, pp. 173-193. doi:10.1353/ecs.2002.0015.

Shakespeare, William, The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Act III, Scene I, 86, and Act III, Scene II. http://shakespeare.mit.edu/hamlet/full.html

Shepherd, Lynn, “Jane Austen and the ‘father of the novel’ – Samuel Richardson.” By Laurel Ann. Austenprose – A Jane Austen Blog. 10 August 2010. https://austenprose.com/2010/08/10/jane-austen-and-the-father-of-the-novel-samuel-richardson/

Toise, David W. “A More Culpable Passion”: Pamela, Joseph Andrews, and the History of Desire.” Clio. Summer 96, Vol. 25 Issue 4, p 410. https://web-b-ebscohost-com.proxy.lib.miamioh.edu/ehost/pdfviewer/pdfviewer?vid=3&sid=8e7b8b58-07a3-4624-9f37-fa62ec8169fb%40pdc-v-sessmgr02

Watt, Ian, The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding. 238. http://www.ricorso.net/tx/Courses/LEM2014/Critics/Watt_Ian/Rise_Novel.pdf