Then came “Tom Jones,” one of the greatest of English novels. Fielding’s purpose in this story, as he declared it, was “to recommend Goodness and Innocence.” In his hero he set out to show the truth about a man; not a snuffling saint for a church-window, but a real, hearty good fellow, according to Fielding’s notion. What may such a young fellow do, and what may he not do? May he drink? Of course. May he spend money freely? Fielding knew about that, having married a rich wife and run through her fortune. May he take money from his friends? Yes, even ask for it. May he take money from his mistresses? And here suddenly you see the gentleman-author start up in anger. He may not! Here is an iron-clad rule, which English gentlemen enforce without compromise. But then, may he cohabit with girls of classes below his own? Yes, says Fielding, certainly he may, and he will; let’s be honest, and not fool ourselves with shams. Thackeray, who was loud in admiration of “Tom Jones,” lamented that no novelist since then had dared to tell the truth about a man. In our day, for better or worse, the novelists have dared, and reticence as a literary virtue is dead. In conclusion, we note the fact that Fielding died at the age of forty-three, “of dropsy, jaundice, and asthma.” So it appears that you may take your choice; you may exercise self-restraint, and be accused of hypocrisy, and of spoiling your friends’ pleasure; or you may throw the reins upon the neck of desire, and go through life at a gallop--and have your body give out just when your brain is ready for its best work. CHAPTER XLIX THE GAUGER OF GENIUS We have read about an English gentleman-novelist who wasted his health and died at the age of forty-three; and we next have to hear the story of a Scotch plowman-poet who treated himself in the same way and died at the age of thirty-seven. Such men present a painful problem to their friends, and also to their critics--since in art circles it is not considered good form to set up moral standards. However, in this case Robert Burns has solved the problem for us; he lacked nothing in clearness of insight or plainness of speech concerning his own follies, and spoke of his “self-contempt bitterer to drink than blood.”