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THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE NOVEL: EXPLORING MORALITY 
by 
DAVIDE CAROZZA 
Peter Murphy, Advisor 
A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment 
of the requirements for the 
Degree ofBachelor ofArts with Honors 
in English 

WILLIAMS COLLEGE 

Williamstown, Massachusetts 

May 15,2009 Introduction 
The goal of this paper is to arrive at a categorical definition of the novel that is sufficiently broad to account for the distinct styles of the earliest English novels and sufficiently narrow to identify accurately their common characteristics. This definition will be derived from a single, continuous analytical framework that ties the modes of moralizing that predate the novel to the style of moralizing that early novels used, in tum. That is to say, this paper will develop a critical vocabulary that ties together all the works, creating a discursive, perhaps even narrative, thread between them. This approach, then, will require the examination of both formal characteristics of literature and historical considerations in the development of English prose. Morality seems to be the appropriate place to work thematically, because most British literature of the eighteenth-century is both obsessed with morality and incapable of fully managing that obsession. Ultimately, the determination of what the defining characteristics of a novel are should help capture the essence of this historical period. 
This examination of the development of morally instructive literature will begin with satire, specifically the 1717 edition ofAlexander Pope's "The Rape ofthe Lock." It will continue, then, to The Tatler and The Spectator, those distinctive and fascinating periodicals of Joseph Addison and Richard Steele. Though both of the particular examples chosen from the periodicals are written by Steele, the claims generated about their style and relationship to morality are intended to apply more generally to the work of the two authors. Finally, the paper will conclude with an examination of two of the earliest English novels, Samuel Richardson's Pamela: or Virtue Rewarded and Henry 
Carozza 2 Fielding's The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling. Richardson's work, published in 1740, will be referred to as Pamela. Fielding's work, published in 1749, will be referred to as Tom Jones. The paper will be divided into three chapters, the first of which will consider the pre-novel, the second of which will focus on Pamela, and the last of which will examine Tom Jones. The definition of the novel will be left to the very end of the last chapter, though hopefully at that point in the argument its explicit statement will merely be a formality. Finally, this paper will consider two seminal works on early English literature, Ian Watt's The Rise of the Novel and Michael McKeon's The Origins of the English Novel 1600-1740. 
Ian Watt's first chapter is entitled "Realism and the Novel Form." In it, he argues that early novels may be distinguished from their literary predecessors by their commitment to realism, a term he defines by establishing an analogy between the unique characteristics of the novel and the development of philosophical realism. Watt begins by asserting that "in the novel, more than in any other genre, general truths only exist post res" (Watt 12). He means this to be a unique characteristic of the novel; that is, to stand directly opposed to earlier literary conventions, which began with general truths and then developed a new fiction around them, instead of beginning with a new fiction and extrapolating truth. Watt attributes this distinction to the fact that "the novel arose in the modern period, a period whose general intellectual orientation was decisively separated from its classical and medieval heritage by its rejection-or at least its attempted rejection-of universals" (Watt 12). Instead of continuing the earlier tradition of interest in the universal, the novel adopted the "general temper of philosophical realism," which "has been critical, anti-traditional, and innovating; its method has been the study of particulars of experience by the individual investigator ... free from the body of past assumptions and traditional beliefs" (Watt 12). The result was a form "whose primary criterion was truth to individual experience-individual experience which is always unique and therefore new" (Watt 13). In other words, precisely what demarcates the novel is this "growing tendency for individual experience to replace collective tradition as the ultimate arbiter ofreality," a tendency bound up with the creation of new subjects (Watt 14). Here, then, Watt employs a definition of realism that has "originality," to use his 
language, at its core, leaving the novel "decisively separated" from preceding literary forms (Watt 14). 
Watt goes on to list explicitly the ways in which the novel breaks with literary tradition to pursue this new commitment to realism. Of particular interest in this chapter is the predominance in older forms of literature of character "types," with characters serving as either historical or literary allusions, or embodying and named by simple personality traits (Watt 18-19). Watt says, by way of distinguishing characters in the novel from those of earlier types of literature, that "the plot had to be acted out by particular people in particular circumstances, rather than, as had been common in the past, by general human types against a background primarily determined by the appropriate literary convention" (Watt 15). This description is broadly applicable both to Alexander Pope's "The Rape of the Lock," a satire, and The Tatler and The Spectator, the periodicals ofAddison and Steele. To the former applies mainly the claim about literary convention, namely "the strong classical preference for the general and universal [and] ... the distaste ... for particularity in literature and art"; to the latter, that about literary types (Watt 16). Indeed, the analysis of the works contained in this chapter will rely on much of what Watt has said about the novel in relation to older literary modes. With this acknowledgement in mind, however, the argument will also be offered that the novel and earlier literary forms cannot be "decisively separated," as Watt claims; instead, each of the modes considered here betrays some interest in realism, an interest stemming from the fact that each mode was fundamentally intended to be morally instructive. Put another way, Pope and Addison and Steele all seem to make concessions to some form of 
realism exactly because they wish to moralize in a way that would be precluded by an absolute aesthetic commitment to the universal. 
More explicitly, it seems helpful to question the broad claim that literature before the invention of the novel is uninterested in specificity of character. Both in Pope's satire and in Addison and Steele's periodicals, the use of the general and universal seems necessitated by the authors' respective styles, rather than their styles being determined by a distaste for the specific. For example, Watt points out that many early novels were "based in part on a contemporary incident;" so, too, is Pope's "The Rape of the Lock" (Watt 15). Satire was certainly the dominant mode of morally instructive literature at the time, and in that sense, Pope is clearly bound up in convention. However, there is a simple sense in which the satire betrays a realist concern. This is not meant here to be an isolated phenomenon, restricted to satire that deals with particular, worldly events. Instead, it will be thought of in this chapter as a result of the desire to be morally instructive, which places limitations on the subject satire can choose. In a similar way, the "types" created in The Tatler and The Spectator are analogous to the "types" Watt is interested in, but they are not equivalent to them, because they are not strictly allusive. They are, in fact, created by Addison and Steele as an attempt to begin the movement toward the type of realism that is later to be found in the novel. That is to say, Addison and Steele employ "types," but they employ them in a manner that is meant to allow them to approximate the way the world works. In the eleventh issue of The Spectator, the story ofInkle and Yarico, the reader encounters the "common place talker" (Steele 2476). In the twenty-fifth issue of The Tat/er, the reader encounters the "Man of Honour," though 
called so derisively, and the "Country Gentleman," plus the "common Sharper," the "Gentleman," and the "Fighting Gamester" (Steele I). In essence, Addison and Steele are dividing the world into small, self-contained units. These disjoint units collectively approximate the entire world, which is to say that they allow Addison and Steele to experiment in their fiction with how different classes of people interact. The idea that the world can be described faithfully in this way seems very much a realist conceit, even if it is a crude approximation compared to the one a novel might offer. So, to establish a continuous analytical framework for all the texts considered here, it is necessary to consider the relationship of these earlier forms of literature to the general category of 
realism. 
Satire, more than any other literary mode considered here, satisfies Watt's description of literature interested in universality. Satire moralizes by negation, in that it works by means of counterexample, or irony. It observes an existing ideological structure and then provides an instantiation of that structure which simultaneously undermines its generative ideology. To do so, the content of the instantiation chosen must seem indefensible by that ideological structure, while still analogous to other specific examples created by it. In other words, the ideology must be shown to be self­defeating, producing from its general form particular claims that seem unjustifiable. As a result, satire condemns all those who choose to defend the subject in question, or who remain oblivious to their commitment to the flawed particulars in addition to the general ideology. It is this inescapable quality, the sense that there exists no adequate 
justification for the position being mocked, that makes clear the interest of satire in the 
universal. 
The sense in which satire seems to efface meaning also contributes to this sense of universality. Satire presents claims that are humorously out of place, perhaps tempting the reader to reject its argument as a contrived example. Ultimately, however, it cannot be rejected in its specifics without also rejecting the structure from which it came, That is, the particular instantiation of the subject being satirized is incidental, insofar as that any analogous example, in terms of both philosophical underpinning and absurdity, would serve equally well. Therefore, the reader must either accept that the ideology in question generates absurd claims, or be willing to defend any claim that seems to be a natural extension of that set of beliefs. In that sense, satire effaces both levels of meaning possible in a literary work; its literal message is not to be trusted, nor is the ideological background of the subject. Satire is, then, incapable of making a constructive argument, instead simply classifying certain things as undesirable. This is perhaps the best example of how satire effaces meaning, since the only categories of interest it generates are "bad" and "not bad," not even "good"; a system that can only attribute one quality to things in the world is seemingly as far from realism as possible. 
Even so, satire is not completely divorced from realism. It is in its commitment to being morally instructive that satire betrays a realist concern. The inadequate structures that interest satire must be readily observed in the world; if they are not, it devolves into simple mockery, or fails to distinguish itself from a purely theoretical, and likely meaningless, intellectual exercise. Satire includes, in essence, a displaced sense of realism; it is not the particulars of the world that need to be depicted faithfully, but instead worldly ideologies. Particularly, satire derives its ability to be morally instructive by locating ideologies that are flawed and mocking them, while still portraying them accurately. Still, it is dependent on the reader to generate its moral argument. What satire fails to do is provide particular content to fill the void its destructive argument leaves. In fact, it is incapable of directly addressing the topic of morality at all, since including real, uncomplicated depictions of morality would break its satirical form. Thus, the only subject of satire which seeks to teach morality is, essentially, immorality. The burden of filling the void created in this way falls on the reader, who must abstract from the satire the set of characteristics that define an acceptable, alternative structure. This tension created by being morally instructive, but not explicitly about morality, is 
analogous to the tension between the universal and the realist in satire. Its form is 
general, but the example chosen to legitimize that form comes from a realist 
consideration, indeed, a consideration that seems to give back to satire some of the 
"originality" that Watt stripped away from universal forms. 
Alexander Pope's "The Rape of the Lock," the 1717 version used here, is an example of a morally instructive satire that manifests this tension. In the poem, a visiting Baron admires Belinda's two locks of hair and decides he must procure one for himself. The Baron is ultimately successful, and though the other characters of the poem, particularly Belinda, are superficially shocked by his behavior, the real interest of the satire lies in the stylized nature of the moment. Each character betrays some sense of the inevitability of the outcome, because each is playing a prescribed role in what is 
essentially a staged social drama. It is in this consideration that the satire's simultaneous 
Carozza 9 
interest in the universal and the particular is seen, The poem begins with Belinda asleep and being guarded by an army of Sylphs, one of whom monitors her dreams and whispers flattery to her as her rest wanes, The Sylph makes clear that it is Belinda's beauty that is her defining characteristic, and the one that the Sylphs intend to protect Indeed, the Sylphs were "once enclosed in woman's beauteous mold," and her caretaker warns Belinda not to think "when woman's transient breath is fled,! That all her vanities at once are dead:! Succeeding vanities she still regards,! And though she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards," foreshadowing the card game, presented as epic battle, that pits the Baron against Belinda and her Sylphs (Pope I A8, 51-54). The otherworldly characters of the poem, those that might reasonably be expected to be above simple human vanity, instead are its offspring, protectors and perpetuators. Adopting this mock-epic style already 
reveals Pope's commitment to a literary tradition, and his interest in effacing meaning will only become more evident In these 'vvays, then, his work fits Watt's conception of the use of the universal in these early forms. At the same time, it becomes clear that Pope effaces meaning in order to identify a particular quality of the world that he wishes to mock. 
The Baron fares little better than the Sylph in Pope's world, When he first sees the locks, "he wished, and to the prize aspired.! Resolved to win, he meditates the way,! By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;/ For when success a lover's toil attends,! Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends" (Pope 2.31-34), The first important feature of the language is the implication that the Baron's wish for the lock, already a hardly noble notion, is perhaps only part of a sexual desire that he feels justified in satisfying "by force to ravish or by fraud betray." The inclusion of "ravish," and the declaration that his success will be unquestioned, even should he resort to immoral measures, makes the Baron a poor hero for this mock-epic. Yet, as the reader might expect, Belinda will not nobly resist the Baron; doing so would break the satiric form. Indeed, it is Clarissa, who attends Belinda, who "drew with tempting grace/A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case;! So Ladies in Romance assist their Knight,! Present the spear, and arm him for the fight" (Pope 3.127-130). In this instance, Clarissa presents the weapon to the Baron, who hardly embodies chivalry associated with knighthood. Belinda feels not the least bit betrayed; after the Baron has been handed his weapon, Belinda, is warned of the his 
advances: "And thrice [the sprites] twitch'd the diamond in her ear;/ Thrice she look'd 
back, and thrice the foe drew near" (Pope 3.137-138). Despite these advances, Belinda 
does not shy away from the Baron, and when Ariel, the Sylph guarding her hair, probes 
her thoughts, he "view'd, in spite of all her art,! An earthly Lover lurking at her heart" 
(Pope 3.143-144). 
Belinda, as much as any of the characters in the poem, is playing a role in the drama, a role that she will not abandon at any point; at the moment her hair is cut, "then flash'd the living lightnings from her eyes,! And Screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.! Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast,! When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last" (Pope 3.155-158). Aside from the humorous point that the death ofa husband and the death of a lapdog are equally tragic, Pope has now made clear that, between the Baron, Clarissa and Belinda, the entirety of the disingenuous interaction between Baron and Belle has been compromised. This is both a universal concern and a 
Carozza 11 realist one; Pope certainly is mocking a very general form of social interaction, but then, he had to choose the particular characteristics of the story as he did to legitimize the satiric form. The reader cannot simply dismiss the importance of the events of the poem without considering whether, and to what extent, analogous situations arise that are an accepted part of social interaction. What is conspicuously missing from the poem is any indication of what should replace this mode of interaction. Negation is a powerful tool, but it is not one of replacement, and the moralizing about the assault is completed without any alternative structure in place. This fact suggests more than any other the tension that is evident in Pope's satire; his work is morally instructive, but not explicitly about morality, and thus is interested in both the universal and the particular. Understanding the extent to which each literary mode considered here is explicitly about morality, as opposed to being simply morally instructive, and its resulting effect on the reader is the basis for understanding all the works as part of a continuous, discursive process. For any work of literature, the reader serves as an extrinsic critical entity. It is the duty of the reader to judge the validity of the assertions made within the text. The work also includes an intrinsic critical entity, namely the set ofjudgments within the framework of the narrative that are designed to direct the response of the reader, that is, those elements of the story that acknowledge the efforts of the author to educate the reader. Understanding the relationship between these two distinct critical entities is central to discerning the purpose of the author. It is a relationship that is consciously being manipulated by authors interested in being instructive, and will now be considered, 
specifically, in the case of satirists. 
Carozza 12 
Satire relies upon an intrinsic critical entity that stands removed form the world that it describes. The narrative voice in satire needs to be privileged for the work to operate. In other words, the narrative voice is assumed to understand something that the characters of the satire do not. In fact, it IS often the case that the narrative voice of a work of satire seems quite literally more intelligent, or educated, than those being satirized. This is a natural construction for a work of satire, which moralizes by negation; the narrative voice cannot be implicated in the flawed ideology that is embodied by the world depicted by the work of fiction. Therefore, the relationship of the intrinsic critical entity to the world being depicted is one where the narrative voice observes the world from a privileged position, noting the inadequacies of the ideology and of the characters being observed. 
To function as a moral force, then, satire needs to remove the reader from the world it creates, and in tum from the actual world that the satire caricatures. The reader might be in need of instruction, having failed to realize the flaw in the ideologies being satirized, or may already be more closely aligned with the narrative voice, reveling in their enlightened position. In either instance, however, it is clear that the ultimate relationship between the reader and the narrative voice, between the extrinsic and the intrinsic critical entities of the text, is defined in part by a shared sense of superiority to the world being satirized. This does not fully settle the question of where the reader lies in relation to the narrator, however; it might still be that the narrator is more observant than the reader, who requires the narrative voice to point out things he or she can nevertheless recognize as true. In other words, the reader might lie in the space between the narrator and the world described, subordinate to the perception of the narrator but removed from the folly of the world. If there is any potentially unifying principle in satire to establish exactly where the reader stands in relation to the narrator, it might be the manner in which the self-aggrandizing nature of satire seems to imply a desire of the author to assert the preeminence of his own creation, with an accompanying skepticism of the ability of the reader to be quite as clever as the narrative voice itself. 
In particular, Clarissa's speech in canto five, which was not included in the original edition that Pope intended only to "soothe ruffled tempers," represents Pope's attempt to satisfy both of the critical entities of the poem (2513). Clarissa is as responsible as any other character for the Baron cutting Belinda's lock of hair. Surprisingly, then, Clarissa offers a rational account of what has transpired in her monologue. She begins by chastising women, presumably herself included, for their vanity, saying "how vain are all these glories, all our pains, / unless good sense preserve what beauty gains; / that men may say when we the front box grace, / 'Behold the first in virtue as in face!'" (Pope 5.1-18). Eventually, though, her tone changes, saying "but since, alas! Frail beauty must decay,! ... And she who scorns a man must die a maid;! What then remains but well our power to use,! And keep good humor still whate'er we lose?" (Pope 5.25, 28-30). Clarissa's speech is jarringly out of place in the satire. She breaks the facade of the characters' drama by acknowledging the vanity of the women. Notably, she spares the men; in fact, she seems to preemptively forgive the men of nearly anything when she tells the women to "keep good humor still whate'er we lose," a chilling moment considering she is speaking of a woman's virtue. The other characters of 
Carozza 14 the poem are upset by the speech, ignore it, or do not understand it, with Belinda's friend Thalestris even calling Clarissa "prude" (Pope 5.36). 
This isolated moment is an example of Pope adding a particular element to the intrinsic critical entity of the poem. The game is played between men and women, but the stakes may be radically different for each sex. To ensure that the reader, as the extrinsic critical entity, does not miss this point, Pope creates another layer in his satire. In the context of the stylized drama, men and women are equally culpable, but in a larger sense, Belinda always was the more vulnerable character. This type of tailoring by Pope to determine carefully the relationship of his morally instructive text to the reader can certainly be called a realist concern; that is, he once again must choose his particular example carefully to legitimize his universal fonn. Put another way, the reader once again finds Pope infusing the kind of "originality" that Watt reserved for the novel into his work. What necessitates this move on Pope's part, though, is the basic inability of satire to directly address issues of morality; even this move to realism cannot fill the void that his moralizing has created. 
Addison and Steele's The Tatler and The Spectator can be thought of, then, as an early literary response to this shortcoming of morally instructive satire. The moralizing technique ofAddison and Steele partially inverts the scheme employed by satire. The subject of morality is addressed directly by The Tatler and The Spectator when they seek to educate their readers. This reorientation of subject does not, however, alter the fundamental need for the reader to extrapolate the moral quality of the story. That is, the 
reorientation of subject is not accompanied by an ideological inversion about the 
Carozza 15 relationship between author and reader; instead, Addison and Steele defer to the reader in the same way satire does. These periodicals are the product of a time when traditional modes of defining social status and appropriate behavior were in the process of being replaced by more open, discursive principles. These new principles stressed rationality and the exchange of ideas in a way that emphasized the process of making judgments rather than explicit value judgments themselves. The Tatler and The Spectator sought to provide the space within which this dialogue about social responsibility took place. Therefore, Addison and Steele refrained from didactically presenting morals, leaving the familiar moral void that the reader ultimately needs to fill. One might think of this change as the change from morally instructive literature to literature explicitly about 
morality, which still falls short of inherently moral literature. Inherently moral literature, in other words, would instruct the reader not simply by appealing to his or her intellect, but by serving as an instantiation in its own right of its moral code. 
The story of Inkle and Yarico, which appeared in the eleventh issue of The Spectator in 1711, serves as an example of this style of literature explicitly about morality, but not inherently moral. The unnarned narrator of this issue is visiting Arietta, a distinguished woman known for her temperance. She is neither old nor young, boring nor crass, dissembling nor insulting, and has no "amorous or ambitious pursuits of her own;" she is able, therefore, to converse with anyone on any subject in a civil manner ("Spectator" 2476). For this, she is valued "by all persons of both sexes who have any pretence to wit or gallantry" ("Spectator" 2476). Already, the reader begins to see conceit of Steele; Arietta is valued because she is the perfect discursive partner, one who is not 
Carozza 16 easily lead to irrationality, nor likely to inspire it in others. On this occasion, a man 
lacking the sensibility ofArietta, "the common place talker," happens to be visiting her when the narrator arrives ("Spectator" 2476). As the narrator listens, the man tells the offensive story of the Ephesian Matron, a "grieving widow who allows a soldier to seduce her and steal her husband's body" ("Spectator" 2476). "The common place 
talker" tells the story, and tells it badly, to cast doubt on the constancy of a woman's love ("Spectator" 2476). He is so concerned with impressing Arietta, in confrontation to the silent narrator especially, that he fails to notice her anger. Of course, telling such a story is hardly likely to impress the sensible lady, but the reader has already been told Arietta typically lets her guests talk freely. It seems, then, that her anger is a result of the fact that the man's story is unjustified; presumably, if the man had had good reason to share such a story, Arietta would not have been offended. 
The reader can be confident of this because it is exactly this oversight, namely that the man's story was unjustified, that Arietta corrects in her response to the gentleman. Arietta's response comes in three parts. First, she shares the fable of the Lion and the Man, which relates how a "man walking with that noble animal showed him, in the ostentation of human superiority, a sign of a man killing a lion. Upon which the lion said very justly, 'We lions are none of us painters, else we could show a hundred men killed by lions, for one lion killed by a man'" (Steele 2476). Clearly, Arietta intends an analogy to the relationship between the sexes, which she completes by stating "you men are writers and can represent us women as unbecoming as you please in your works, while we are unable to return the injury" (Steele 2476). Second, she says that male authors have a 
Carozza 17 tendency to disparage all women if they feel slighted by one. Finally, she shares a story from an author with no proclivity to this kind of exaggeration. The story she shares is that of Inkle and Yarico, and it begins when Thomas Inkle travels from London to America, where his party is attacked by Native Americans. He escapes to a remote hillside, where he is discovered by Yarico, a wealthy Native American woman who is immediately smitten with him. She nurses him back to health and courts him simultaneously, offering him gifts and generally tending to his needs. They fall in love, and he promises her a better life in London. However, reflecting upon "how many days' interests of his money he had lost. .. [and being] careful what account he should be able to give his friends of his voyage ... the prudent and frugal young man sold Yarico to a Barbadian merchant" ("Spectator" 2478). Upon learning that she is with his child, he uses "that information to rise in his demands upon the purchaser" ("Spectator" 2478). As this three part response, but especially the story of Inkle and Yarico, makes clear, Arietta's objection to "the common place talker" is not merely that she thinks his story rude, but that she thinks his argument is illogical. She may generalize from the faults of one man the flaws of all men, just as he has generalized in his story; her generalization may even be more justified, since her author is known not to "embellish" his "narrations" ("Spectator" 2477). It is in pointing out the inconsistencies of his argument that all of the moral interest of the story is revealed. Arietta's response to "the common place talker" reveals that the nature of polite and proper discourse, the importance of the constancy oflove and the equality of the sexes are all moral issues pertinent to Steele here. Yet the story fails to be inherently 
Carozza 18 moral. Neither the narrator nor Arietta directly chastises the man who tells the offensive story. In a similar way, Inkle is never indicted for his actions by any of the characters. In 
both instances where the story might explicitly pass judgment, it chooses not to. This serves to emphasize the fact that the prim2TY concern of The Spectator is not arriving at particular value judgments, but rather shaping the process by which they are formed. Illustratively, the reaction of the narrator, upon hearing Arietta's story, is to cry. His explanation for being so moved is peculiar. He says "I was so touched with this story (which I think should be always a counterpart to the Ephesian Matron) that I left the room with tears in my eyes" ("Spectator" 2478). Perhaps the most telling detail of the story, the narrator, despite being so moved, does not compliment Arietta. He notes instead that "a woman ofArietta's good sense" would take his tears "for greater applause than any compliments I could make her" ("Spectator" 2478). If the reader expects to discover at this moment what quality in Arietta the narrator finds so admirable, it seems that her "good sense" has left him in tears. In other words, Arietta has demonstrated her admirable temperament by formulating precisely the correct response to "the common place talker," that is, by telling the story that "should always be a counterpart to the Ephesian Matron." Ultimately, this issue of The Spectator seems to suggest that Steele's primary concern is to present the reader with a model of reasoned discussion. 
It seems, then, that the story of Inkle and Yarico might be analogous to the trait that the narrator seems so moved by, namely the ability ofArietta to provide an alternative viewpoint, without revealing her personal judgments at all. Arietta does so, of course, in the manner of one who remains perfectly open to all possibilities, a truly 
Carozza 19 democratic moralist, and in that way a cousin of Steele. This is not to say that there is no emotion present in the story. Arietta's anger is real, and the tears of the narrator surely spring from a strong feeling of admiration. What is important, though, is that at no point 
is feeling privileged above rationality. The reader is not explicitly presented with a moral because the process of learning to make apt judgments is, for the purposes of the periodical, permanently suspended. So long as rationality is privileged above feeling, the discourse may continue. The tears of the narrator seems to support this characterization; one reading of this moment that Steele chose to have the story end in tears so that the reader might realize the manner in which feeling itself is being subjugated to reason. The narrator leaves without having said a word to Arietta, nor she to him, yet he leaves with newfound wisdom. At the moment that the story chooses not to didactically present a lesson, the only visible emotion is generated by reason, not judgment, aesthetic sensibility or the sense of suffering that the story might otherwise have conveyed. 
What has been implicit to this point, but will now be examined directly, is the idea that this new literary relationship to issues of morality reveals a realist concern, just as it did for satire. Specifically, the issue of dueling, examined in the twenty-fifth issue of The Tatler, is an obvious place to begin when looking for traces of realism. Dueling is the kind of issue well suited to revealing the inherent tension in the project ofAddison and Steele. The Tatler seeks to be a universally accepting space, prescriptive only insofar as it is necessary to begin the process of critical evaluation. This desire manifests itself clearly in Steele's discussion of dueling and its unwarranted place in modem interactions. At the same time, Steele cannot avoid a commitment to realism as he attempts to dissuade 
Carozza 20 his readers from dueling. The custom is a prototypical irrational convention that has become ingrained in society by Steele's time. It is no longer the subject of scrutiny in any meaningful sense. In fact, it exists in spite of reason. When compared to other similarly treated conventions Steele might address, it also has the added weight its extraordinary consequences provide. It seems to be an issue, then, likely to produce an incensed exposition from a progressive author. Instead, Steele does not choose to simply attack the custom. Doing so would undennine his efforts to avoid being strictly prescriptive in his writings. Similarly, he does not introduce the topic of his own accord and proceed to consider only the significance he assigns it. He provides an instantiation of exactly the type of dialogue he seeks on the most important issues of the time. At the same time, he must leave no doubt that dueling is a custom he simply cannot tolerate. Dueling is the kind of subject that pushes Steele to the brink or didactically instructing his reader, that is, to the brink of writing in an inherently moral fonn. 
Steele begins the twenty-fifth issue of The Tatler by saying that a letter from a female reader has turned his thoughts to the subject of dueling. This is reminiscent of the claim of the twelfth issue, in which Steele says "I hope I shall soon have little more to do in this Work, than to Publish what is sent to me from such as have Leisure and Capacity for giving Delight, and being pleased in an elegant Manner" ("Tatler 12" 1). While the subject that Steele addresses here is a far cry from the pleasantries he seems to reference in this introduction, the letter he received nevertheless serves as a metaphor for his goals. Though it may be a fairly transparent rhetorical device, rather than an actual letter, it serves notice that this publication does not intend to preach to it readers, even when the 
Carozza 21 author maintains opinions as strong as those offered on this subject. Rather, the publication will be responsive to the sentiments of others, to the larger critical discourse that it seeks to encourage. Steele goes on to say that he hopes that that he and his readers may examine dueling "till we have strip'd it of all its false Pretences to Credit and Reputation amongst Men" ("Tatler 25" 1). They very idea of stripping away any potential justifications for dueling indicates what Steele's project is. He wants to arrive at 
the essence of what dueling is, not to consider it as framed by certain social and cultural 
norms. Implicitly, the stripping away of these justifications will lead inevitably to the 
condemnation of dueling. This inevitability that Steele feels comes from his ultimately 
realist concern, namely his particular desire to discredit dueling. The somewhat 
contradictory impulses to both undercut existing customs that need revision and to foster 
a discursive community are a product of the tension between Steele's goal and his style; 
all of his writing is about close examination and decision making, not a simple, didactic 
message he forces upon his readers, even when Steele's intentions are clear. 
In this vein, Steele does not fail to address those men, including some that Steele seems very much to admire, who might protest against his characterization of dueling as irrational. Steele states that he will offend so many honorable men as to make his undertaking "a Work worthy an invulnerable Heroe in Romance, rather than a private Gentleman with a single Rapier" ("Tatler 25" 1). The humorous reference to a single sword, in contrast to the many swords wielded by duelists, seems to underscore how hopeless Steele's cause might seem. However, it is Steele's method of appealing to these men who might oppose him that allows him to continue. Steele is not concerned strictly 
Carozza 22 with honor and the existing moral code as they relate to dueling. Ifhe were, the only manner in which he could object to dueling would be by arguing that it was a dishonorable practice. Instead, Steele describes dueling as "a Custom which all Men wish exploded tho' no Man has Courage enough to resist it" ("Tatler 25" 1). This implies, of course, that Steele will value the rationally justified desires of men above any sense of duty or obligation commonly associated with dueling. This claim clearly values reason above tradition, in that it maintains that all men are conscious of the perverse nature of a custom that requires one to put his life at risk. At the same time, this claim is not entirely stripped of emotional response. Steele presents it as something of a challenge to his readers, with a more courageous man willing to trust his own judgments above those that have been imposed on him culturally. Steele is clearly seeking a balance between crafting his argument forcefully and limiting the degree of freedom in interpretation he will allow his readers. 
There is a difference, of course, between seeking not to insult readers of a certain sensibility and exhibiting a genuine belief that any explicit value judgment on the issue is of secondary importance to the process ofjudging itself. To this point in his discussion, Steele has worked mostly on the issue of condemning dueling, and does not seem willing to allow his readers to make their own choices, as we would expect given the rest of The Tatler. So, characteristically, Steele retreats somewhat from his sharp critique, employing humor in contrast to the previously serious tones of his thoughts. He next relates the story of a poor Country Gentlemen who is insulted by a Man of Honour in the city, only to find that the Man of Honour then feels obligated to offer the country fellow a duel as repayment for the insult. Told in such a way, the story seems preposterous, as it certainly did to the country fellow when he exclaimed that "Last Night [the Man of Honour] sent me away cursedly out of Humour, and this Morning he fancies it would be a Satisfaction to be run through the Body" ("Tatler 25" 1). Part of Steele's purpose here, of course, is simply to ridicule the notion that it is honorable to threaten to kill a man after having wronged him. Apart from this simple mockery, though, Steele is careful to demonstrate to his readers that he can discuss the issue dispassionately. This reserve, this ability to 
inject humor into his serious message, does nothing to diminish the sense of certainty that 
dueling is undesirable. On the contrary, if Steele is both committed to the process of 
logical discourse and convinced of the truth of his claim that dueling is an outdated social 
convention, he has nothing to fear. 
The culmination of this method comes at the very end of the section on dueling, where Steele translates, in a manner of speaking, into literal phrases a typical note challenging the receiver to a duel. It reads, in part, that "because you want both Breeding and Humanity, I desire you would come with a Pistol in your Hand, on Horseback, and endeavor to shoot me through the Head, to teach you more Manners" ("Tatler 25" 2). The letter operates on two distinct levels: one level highlights the irrational nature of dueling, while the other allows the reader a reprieve into the realm of humor, so that he need not exhaust himself with worry if he cannot bring himself to abandon the practice. Steele needs to create a space for the exchange of ideas within The Tatler, and he cannot afford to be either too disparaging or too disinterested if he wishes to succeed. In other words, he must carefully balance his commitment to a style that is universal with his 
Carozza 24 particular interest, which is certainly a realist concern. An interesting example of this attempt to strike a balance, and one that has already been discussed briefly, is Steele's usage of the literary "types" that Watt describes. These characters, such as the "Man of Honour," or the "Gentleman," serve to allow the reader to more easily judge, assimilate and synthesize the characteristics that Steele sees 
as relevant in social interactions. For example, Steele makes it clear that one of the worst consequences of dueling is that a true "Gentleman" might be insulted by a "common Sharper," feel inclined to protect his honor, and ultimately lose his life in the process 
("Tatler 25" 1). Steele does not, however, exalt the "Gentleman," nor demonize the "common Sharper." They serve simply as placeholders, to allow Steele to more easily demonstrate to the reader the various implications of the custom. These categories exist, in other words, because they describe the static relationship of the characters to the world around them. The characters serve as units that can be made to interact formulaically. The labels attached to them are both definitional and predictive, capturing all of the relevant qualities of the individuals in question. As has been discussed before, this usage of "types," while certainly steeped in the universal form, is nevertheless borne directly from a realist concern, namely Steele's concern with being able to adequately describe the world around him. That is, he has a realist concern in representing and condemning particular customs that he would see done away with, despite employing a rhetorical mode that is committed to universality. This discussion ends with this example because it serves as an interesting point of comparison to the story of Inkle and Yarico. In that story, the chief complication was presented in discerning the relationship of the details of the 
Carozza 25 story to the degree to which a moral was presented. What is more complicated here is the realist element; where the story of Inkle and Yarico was designed to be a self-contained, perhaps even contrived, example, Steele now addresses an issue that is taken very much from everyday life, and needs to be faithful to it. 
Addison and Steele, then, have established a style that can be thought of as the midpoint between satire and the development of the novel. Satire had at its disposal only one distinction, "bad" versus "not bad," which could be applied to one subject at a time. The Tatler and The Spectator employ a mode that can synthesize multiple subjects and create varied distinctions, such as logical or illogical or moral and immoral. Similarly, while Addison and Steele still require the reader to infer the particular behavior that comprises a moral life, the sense of distance between the reader and the narrative voice is gone; indeed, the periodicals seem to work to collapse that space, an important step in the development of the novel. That is, the periodicals work by engaging with the reader as an equal, eliminating the tension between the narrative voice and the reader. While the narrative voice of both satire and the periodicals is instructive, there is no need in the periodicals to put distance between the narrator and the world being described. It is this quality of requiring the reader to individually extract meaning from the text that establishes in both satire and the periodicals a sense of realist concerns; it is that same quality that prevents either from achieving the inherently moral position that the novel is capable of adopting. It will require the invention of the novel before a literary text can tell the reader explicitly what it means to live a moral life, while justifying this 
characterization through its own fiction. Indeed, it will require the invention of the novel 
Carozza 26 simply to find a literary text that believes fiction can approximate reality closely enough to make such a justification meaningful. 
Carozza 27 Chapter 2: A New Mode of Moralizing Developed in the Novel The invention of the novel represents a shift in the way authors believed their writing could influence the lives of readers. The novel is a testament to the idea that one self-contained guide to behaving morally, or one example of the process of living conscientiously, can induce the reader to adopt the values espoused by the novel. This belief stems from the understanding of novelists that the fictive world they produce can assimilate the characteristics of the real world faithfully enough that the reader can entrust his or her education to this fiction. The development of this belief is, in other words, a development of realism in literature. Before the novel, the process of education was either strictly local, as in the case of satire, or serialized, as in the case of The Tatler and The Spectator. That is, in the case of satire, the work of literature indirectly educated the reader about only one subject, and made no claims to a more general instruction. The periodicals ofAddison and Steele, on the other hand, assumed that the reader would routinely engage in a discursive educational process, even if only by continuing to read The Tatler and The Spectator. The periodicals were designed for mass consumption by the public; they were distributed in coffee houses, where they would be discussed by educated patrons and then left behind for subsequent customers. This literary style was suited to the task of generating discussion about issues of morality without explicitly delineating a moral structure. In either case, both early styles emphasized strongly the responsibility of the reader in making critical decisions about the meaning of the work. The novel, on the other hand, sought to make this meaning transparent. It needed, 
then, a way to replace the certainty the reader could generate by convincing him or 
Carozza 28 herself of something with the certainty of being convinced. This new challenge facing the novel resulted in a radically different literary style. This is not to say that the two novels considered in this paper, Pamela and Tom Jones, employ exactly the same style. 
Rather, Tom Jones, published in 1749, will be thought of as responding to Pamela, published in 1740, in much the same way that Pamela will be considered in relation to the works that preceded it. Richardson's novel, then, must first be described using the same critical language that was applied to "The Rape of the Lock" and The Tatler and The Spectator. Specifically, it seems right to begin with a discussion of how Pamela seeks to impart its moral, that is, what it is precisely that makes the novel inherently moral. 
Satire was previously defined as a literary style that moralized by negation. Pamela moralizes in exactly the opposite way, namely by affirmation. Where satire could not directly engage its subject, Richardson does. Richardson asserts the truth of the morality that is embodied by his characters, particularly Pamela. This process of moralizing by affirmation allows for generalization. Generalization is the tool that the novel has at its disposal to take a particular instance of what is moral and from it construct the entire ideological structure of morality. That is, a particular exemplar of morality, like Pamela, can indicate what it would mean for all the characters around her to be moral as well; her morality can be generalized. So, a novel that is interested in teaching moral behavior must explicitly discuss what is moral in a particular way, and then instruct others to behave in the same way. In other words, the novel is only made possible by proposing particular content, exactly opposed to satire. It is important to note that the novel can negate as well; it is not a binary opposite of satire. After all, a novel 
Carozza 29 may explicitly state what things are immoral, if it wishes. Similarly, the generalization of the affirmed morality need not always be explicit. What is important is that the novel has all of these modes at its disposal, and makes use of them all. It negates, affirms, implies and declares, all to clearly indicate to the reader that the set of values that constitute moral behavior in the novel are the same set of values that constitute moral behavior in the world. This is what is meant by a novel being inherently moral; its interest in morality is explicit, as is the fruit of that interest, a trait that clearly distinguishes is from earlier literary forms. 
To illustrate this point, it is helpful to consider two scenes from Pamela that depict both moral and immoral behavior, namely two scenes where Mr. B assaults Pamela. Pamela is Mr. B's servant, now that her mistress has passed away and left the estate in the hands of her son. There is no need to speculate as to whether a romantic or sexual relationship between them would be morally permissible, given their respective stations; Richardson tells the reader clearly and repeatedly, through the words of Pamela, that it would not. The question of interest, then, is how the novel relates this message, and in so doing, what it might say about morality more broadly. When Mr. B approaches Pamela in the summer house, she goes to leave and he protests, saying "No, don't go, Pamela; I have something to say to you; and you always fly me so, whenever I come near you, as if you was afraid of me" (Richardson 22). Pamela responds that "It does not become your poor Servant to stay in your Presence, Sir, without your Business requir'd it; and I hope I shall always know my Place" (Richardson 23). This exchange demonstrates the first important characteristic of affirmation; it is from a particular perspective, Pamela's, that 
Carozza 30 morality is defined. That is to say, when the reader considers that there is no relationship permissible between a servant and a master, he or she does so because Pamela has explicitly stated this, and because Pamela is explicitly the moral character of the novel. What immediately follows this exchange makes this perfectly clear. Mr. B, against the rules of morality, not only stays with Pamela, but forces himself upon her, kissing her. When she struggles and protests, he says "What a foolish Hussy you are [...] have I done you any Harm?" to which Pamela replies "the greatest Harm in the World: You have taught me to forget myself, and what belongs to me [...] demeaning yourself' (Richardson 23). So, Pamela's protestations were protecting not only her honor, which is an act of self-interest, but Mr. B's honor as well. There can be no question that behavior which protects the honor of all involved is moral, but equally telling, there can be no question that the behavior of Mr. B is immoral. Pamela affirms her own morality, and this affirmation of moral behavior, something not yet seen in the literary forms considered, allows for generalization. 
This ability to generalize from Pamela's morality leads exactly to the second characteristic of affirmation; if Pamela is the moral character, then from Pamela, individually, the entire structure of morality may be derived. It is clear that because the novel can explicitly label things as moral or immoral, one example of unblemished morality is adequate as a point of comparison to all other possible kinds of behavior. In Richardson's novel, the manner in which Pamela behaves is a complete description of what it means to be moral. Therefore, from Pamela alone, the entire ideological structure of morality may be generated. When Mr. B insults her, Pamela replies thusly: "I will be 
Carozza 31 so bold to say, I am honest, tho' poor; And if you was a Prince, I would not be otherwise" (Richardson 24). Pamela's simple statement tells the reader that morality, in Richardson's world, includes considerations of social status, pride, dignity and resolution, to put a tentative name to the qualities that lurk behind the words. This kind of implicit complexity is nothing if not a striking example of, and commitment to, realism, made possible by affirmation. Later, when Mr. B. threatens to assault her again, Pamela asks him if she might "justify myself with my Death, if! am used barbarously?" (Richardson 32). Mr. B is not swayed, and reaches into her bosom, but Pamela escapes him again. 
When Pamela relates these events to her parents, she writes that the next day she is "to appear before a very bad Judge" and is unsure what to do, but that they should not worry, but "be assured, my dear Parents, of the Honesty of your poor Child!" (Richardson 33). That is, Pamela has the power to chastise Mr. B for his immorality. Similarly, when Pamela needs to explain why it is that she will not be undone, she indicates precisely that it is because she is a moral person. Indeed, Pamela is free to invoke morality in any way she chooses, in other words to moralize by affirmation, at any point she deems fit. It is her right, and also her duty, as the moral character of the novel. The reader suspects, then, that if morality is to have any meaning in this world, it must protect the moral from the immoral, and Pamela will be blessed with everything she deserves. All these inferences on the part of the reader come from the affirmation of the content of morality, something that could not be replicated by the negations of immorality seen in satire. They both describe precisely what it means to be moral and show that morality functioning within the novel. 
Carozza 32 These considerations alone do not indicate the manner in which the novel may generalize from particular morality to a la::ger, general moral structure. Instead, they 
demonstrate only the manner in which the novel empowers the moral characters through affirmation. After all, if Pamela had met a terrible end, even her moral affirmations would ring hollow. It is difficult to distill moments that go from the particular to the abstract in a novel, where the emphasis is on the narrative structure. However, the novel 
may iteratively apply the process of affirmation to demonstrate this larger structure. That is, Pamela is not the only character to comment on her, Pamela's, virtue. Instead, her virtue is constantly referenced by other characters. This is done, of course, largely through Pamela's writing, so the reader might still be skeptical of the veracity of these claims. However, the reader need only look at the complete title of the novel, Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, to see where the novel ClcS a whole stands on the issue of Pamela's morality. At the end of Pamela, the title character lives in perfect morality, and thus perfect happiness, with many other characters of the novel, Mr. B included. This is another example of moralizing within the novel, and thus justifies the reference to the iterative process of affirmation. It affirms a particular structure of happiness, then states explicitly that the structure in question is made possible by morality. Just as the general discussion of satire and the novel suggested, the novel retains the power to negate, but adds to it the power to fill the voids that negation leaves. To do so, it takes particular examples of morality, from them generalizes a larger moral structure, and then justifies labeling them as moral by depicting the consequences of the proposed behavior. This coordination of the narrative structure of the novel and its emphasis on literally dictating 
Carozza 33 to the reader what morality means is a powerful combination lacking from other literary forms of the eighteenth century. 
Of course, a reader might be skeptical of the claims made above that Pamela serves as the moral paragon of the novel. Indeed, Watt suggests that for certain interpretations of Pamela, the realism of her character "is closely associated with the fact that ... Pamela is a hypocrite" (Watt 11). This is not Watt's interpretation, ultimately, but to carry out this possibility to its logical conclusion, it can be argued that a character flaw such as Pamela's hypocrisy would be the extension of a new desire for realism. Considering the older forms of literature, based on "types" and universals, a character could not have a mixed purpose; he or she was either good or bad, in a categorical way. Realism could be introduced, then, by presenting characters that broke this tradition, not only in the sense of being named individually and described in detail, but also in the way they embody sometimes contradictory characteristics. For example, many readers find the constant allusion of Pamela's letters to her humble morality infuriating. By justifying all her actions by this humility, Pamela seems freed to exploit the narrative as she desires without risk of condemnation. This is the source of the potential "hypocrisy" that Watt references; Pamela does, ultimately, marry a,man outside her social class, an outcome perhaps induced by her scheming. However, in response to this skepticism, I would propose that Pamela works equally well, in influencing the reader, if he or she loves or hates the title character. Whether or not Pamela's intentions are pure, her actions certainly are; functionally, the narrative operates in the same way whether Pamela is truly moral or simply hoping to become Mr. B's wife, rather than mistress. These actions, 
Carozza 34 furthermore, induce real, analogous changes in the characters around her, regardless of her motivations. Mr. B marries a woman beneath his social status, whom he might otherwise have had as a mistress; the other characters are similarly improved. That is, the sense of Pamela's "hypocrisy" does not seem central to the novel in the same way a different kind of character flaw, perhaps the fact that "Tom Jones a fornicator" clearly is (Watt 11). Not only does Pamela not need to be flawed for the narrative to operate as Richardson wants, but even if the reader imputes a flaw, the effect of the novel goes 
unchanged. Couple this interpretation with the fact that Richardson is careful never to give any explicit sense that Pamela is manipulative, and the idea of Pamela as a paragon seems plausible. 
It can be said, then, that Richardson collapses the space between the world described and the intrinsic critical entity of his text. The intrinsic critical entity of the novel is that entity which presents the value judgments of the novel to the reader, a role here fulfilled by Pamela's letters. Therefore, Richardson's intrinsic critical entity, the letters of his paragon, are both the novel itself and an object within the novel. This circularity means that there is no distance between the intrinsic critical entity and the fictive world; in satire, the narrator communicated the judgments of the fictive world, but also stood removed from it. Here, instead, the entity communicating the judgments of the novel is contained within the novel. As a result, there is no question where the reader stands in relationship to the fictive world or the intrinsic critical entity; since the intrinsic critical entity is part of the novel, then there is no space for the extrinsic critical entity to remove itself from the fictive world. The fictive world, the intrinsic critical entity and the 
Carozza 35 extrinsic critical entity must all exist within Richardson's work. The first two clearly do; in fact, both are defined by Pamela's letters. The reader, then, must have some representative structure within the framework of the novel. Sure enough, Mr. B serves 
this purpose. Mr. B's conversion is supposed to be mirrored by that of the reader, and fittingly, he undergoes his transformation after reading Pamela's letters, just as the reader is expected to. The reader, in other words, has instead been drawn into the novel. The 
entire apparatus of satire, with two distinct critical entities set apart from the fictive world, has collapsed on itself. 
The self-referential nature of the novel makes the scheme in one sense simpler, in another more complicated. This move is simplifying in the sense that it eliminates any ambiguity, like that remaining in satire, about the precise relationship between the intrinsic and extrinsic critical entities; here, they both surely exist within the novel, and can even be explicitly named as elements of the novel. On the other hand, the reader is, in a simple, literal sense, not part of the novel, which means that the conversion simply might not work. Despite the fact that the reader can point, as it were, to him or herself in the novel, namely to Mr. B., Richardson cannot fight the reality that despite his best efforts, the reader is not literally part of the story. Put another way, he cannot make the extrinsic critical force of the story actually intrinsic; the reader is free to fail to be converted, even if Mr. B's fate is entirely in Richardson's hands. This concerns him, it seems fair to say, and explains in many ways the seemingly bizarre concessions he makes at the end of the novel. After an entire narrative structure meant to convert the reader is executed, Richardson feels it necessary to invoke a narrative voice for the first time, in essence because the story may not have worked. 
In the event that the story did not work, there is finally, now, a narrative voice, the voice of the editor, to tell the reader explicitly that he or she should understand and appreciate the conversion that has taken place. Even more directly, there is a narrative voice to tell the reader that Pamela has changed the character of all those with whom she has come into contact, and indeed, by having read her letters, the reader has come into contact with almost as much as Mr. B has. In essence, after an entire novel that consisted of showing the reader the path to conversion and morality, Richardson feels obligated to also tell the reader about it. When he was showing the reader, Richardson was demonstrating confidence in the ability of his fictive world to become, for the reader, an extension of the real world, that is, to draw the reader into the novel. It is precisely the fact that the reader cannot be literally drawn into the novel, then, that forces a concession from Richardson. So, the narrative voice tells the reader that Pamela "enjoy'd, for many Years, the Reward for her Virtue, Piety and Charity," and that "she made her beloved Spouse happy in a numerous and hopeful Progeny. And he made her the nest and fondest of Husbands" (Richardson 499). It is not only the fate of Mr. B and Pamela that the narrator relates; Pamela's parents, Lady Davers and Miss Goodwin are all similarly treated, though not with the same level of interest. 
Still, the novel does not end here. To this point, the narrator has allayed only the fear that reader would be uncertain of Pamela's reward for her virtue, or whether Mr. B was truly converted, or even if the other characters of the novel recognized Pamela's goodness, which the narrator assures the reader they did. The fear still remains, though, 
Carozza 37 that despite these examples, the reader is unsure how to apply the moral structure of Pamela to his or her daily life. So, the narrator returns again, saying "having thus brought this little History to a happy Period, the Reader will indulge us in a few brief Observations, which naturally result from it; and which will serve as so many Applications, of its most material Incidents, to the Minds of the Youth of both Sexes" (Richardson 500). The narrator proceeds to tell the reader exactly what lesson may be extracted from each character of the novel, indeed, which character each type of reader might do best to study: 
Let the desponding Heart be comforted by the happy Issue which the Troubles 
and Trials of the Lovely PAMELA met with, when they see, in her Case, that 
no Danger no Distress, however inevitable or deep to their Apprehensions, 
can be out of the Power of Providence to obviate or relieve; and which, as in 
various Instances in her Story, can tum the most seemingly grievous Things to 
its own Glory, and the Reward of suffering Innocence. (Richardson 501) What is particularly about this example is the way in which the narrator here is explicitly calling upon, even teaching, the reader to generalize. The novel is a new literary form whose ability to produce the ends it seeks is dependent on this manner of generalization; Richardson is worried, then, that his readers will not have the habit, or perhaps the knack, to do so without his explicit guidance. 
It is not only in the fact that the novel moralizes by affirmation that it differs from earlier literary fonns. Instead, this chapter can return now to the claim of Watt that the novel is distinguished by its interest in specificity of character. While this claim was first 
Carozza 38 considered, and challenged, in relation to its insistence that early forms of literature were not interested in such specificity, it will now be thought of as a nonetheless useful description of the new literary mode of the novel. In particular, Pamela is distinct from "Rape of the Lock" and The Tatler and The Spectator because of its interest in the 
interiority of character, at least in the case of Pamela. This interiority is perhaps the most important way in which Richardson strives to be realist in his work, since no earlier literary form had any place for psychological depth within its structure. 
At the point in the novel where Pamela has her great change of heart in regards to her affections for Mr. B, he has repeatedly spied on her and attempted to force himself on her, has kidnapped her and has otherwise conspired against her in every manner possible and with all the people known to Pamela. All these actions Mr. B undoes by letting Pamela go, and by sending her a letter. The letter lets Pamela know that Mr. B had the intention, against even public censure, to make Pamela his wife. Now, to be sure, Pamela often invokes class considerations in explaining how Mr. B should not debase himself by showing interest in a humble servant, and that Pamela would have her change of heart after this admission also lends itself to a reading of the importance of social norms. That is, the reader might be skeptical that Pamela's change of heart follows a promise that she is to be not Mr. B's mistress, but his wife. However, throughout the novel, Pamela's desire to protect her virtue is an intensely personal and familial feeling. That is, Pamela's sense of virtue is decided by her heart, and upon learning this, Pamela has a reaction that underscores this fact clearly: 
For here is plainly his great Value for me confess'd, and his rigorous Behaviour 
Carozza 39 accounted for in such a Manner, as tortures me much. And all this wicked Gypsey 
Story is, as it seems, a Forgery upon us both, and has quite ruin'd me! For Oh! My dear Parents, forgive me! But I found to my Grief before, that my Heart was too partial in his Favour; but now, with so much Openness, so much Affection, 
nay, so much Honour too, (which was all I had before doubted, and kept me on the Reserve) I am quite overcome. This was a Happiness, however, I had no Reason to expect. But to be sure, I must own to you, that I shall never be able to think of any body in the World but him!-Presumption, you will say; and so it is: But Love is not a voluntier Thing: -Love did I say! -But come, I hope not!-At least it is not, I hope, gone so far, as to make me very uneasy; for I know not how it came, nor when it begun; but creep, creep, it has, like a Thief upon me; and before I knew what was the Matter, it look'd like Love. (Richardson 248) 
This moment is entirely concerned with interiority. The use of the first person alone distinguishes it from any of the literary modes that have previously been discussed. Far more important, though, is the fact that the only standard for judgment of Mr. B employed here is that dictated by Pamela's heart, which explains how quickly her perceptions are able to change. Pamela, in fact, undermines the very notion that her rhetoric of class consideration was anything more than a ploy, by a clever, manipulative and yet vulnerable girl, to protect her honor. She says that she was waiting only to know that his interest in her came from real admiration, the kind of admiration that might make him want her not as a mistress, but as a wife. This is important because Pamela admits that she, even before receiving his letter, harbored feelings for Mr. B. She was bound by 
Carozza 40 virtue, however, not to allow those feelings to influence her. Yet, Pamela's very idea of virtue, as a possession and her source of pride, comes directly from her family structure and her heart. Pamela's idea of virtue is an internal consideration, not couched in the terms of social considerations. Pamela, in effect, has people around her telling her that she should consider Mr. B's advances if for no other reason than that he might provide for her. Pamela is not swayed; if one is to believe that Pamela really is a paragon of virtue, then virtue has to be understood in an entirely new way. It is not a question of simply protecting her chastity, nor of carefully following social conventions. It is a question of doing what is right, with the concept of "right" defined personally. In other words, each person may choose for him or herself what is right; if they choose wisely, as Pamela does, this personal conception of what is right will correspond with behavior that protects the individual from the dangers of the world around him or her. In some sense, then, Pamela's reaction is the mirror opposite of that of found in earlier modes. In Pope's "The Rape of the Lock," the characters of the poem were content to play their prescribed roles in the social drama, even when, for the women, those roles might have actually endangered them. Pamela skirts the danger of accepting societal pressures as legitimate justification for important life decision exactly where Belinda, for example falls victim to it. There is, however, some sense in which Pamela, too, is compelled to her new relationship with her suitor by forces outside her control. Instead of those forces coming in the form of societal expectations and conventions, they come from a heart that cannot fully be explained. This is Pamela's first admission of love for Mr. B, and she devotes most of her writing to explain exactly the extent to which she 
cannot control these feelings. It is also the moment of culmination for Pamela as a virtuous girl. As long as her master did not share in her virtue, she disassociated her feelings for him from her willingness to submit. Indeed, she judged him harshly, willing to accept him only on her own terms. Now, on the other hand, it is made clear that Pamela is just as resolute in her love for him as previously she was in denying him. This type of virtue is ultimately celebrated, at the end of the novel, as we have seen. It also betrays a psychological depth that has, to this point, never been seen before in any 
character encountered in this paper. Only Clarissa comes close in her speech in canto 
five of Pope's poem, and her moment of reflection has hardly the same significance to the 
plot of the story that Pamela's does. At this point, it is made clear that Richardson 
believes that it is possible to write about morality by considering individual character, 
where, before, some preexisting and far more general structure had to be appealed to. 
Much of what has been said about Pamela in relation to satire applies as well to a comparison between the novel and the periodicals ofAddison and Steele. Still, it is a comparison worth making explicitly, if briefly. The literary form of Pamela stands in starkcontrastwiththemode ofAddisonandSteele. Thestory ofPamelaisanadaptation of a conversion narrative, particularly a religious one; as such, there is a time before the conversion in which the story is a tale of sin, then a time after it in which it is a tale of redemption. It includes, in other words, a moment of interruption that joins two otherwise disjoint pieces of the story. In fact, because of this characteristic of the conversion narrative, if the reader were to only read the part of the novel concerned with sin, he or she might very easily conclude that Richardson had written a pornographic or 
Carozza 42 hedonistic story. Thought ofin relation to the way in which the periodicals ofAddison and Steele were consumed, it seems clear that this mode represents an important change. The lack of a narrative voice is a crucial characteristic of this changed relationship to the reader. Where Addison and Steele, and later Fielding, in a much more explicit way, use a narrator to indicate to the reader where he might consider issues of morality, Pamela is told through the letters of Pamela herself. That is, as has been previously discussed, the reader is made a part of the story; he reads the letters, just as Mr. B does. Mr. B arrives at his moment of conversion, from near-rapist to perfect Christian, by reading those letters. The reader, then, is expected to undergo a similar conversion. The very idea of conversion is exactly what Addison and Steele were so skeptical of; conversion is only possible if explicit value judgments can be offered and made convincing in the work of 
literature, a task that The Tatler and The Spectator shied away from. 
Stylistically, this new goal of the novel results in a mode of story-telling distinct both from the earlier periodicals ofAddison and Steele, and the later writing ofFielding. Almost entirely gone is the serialized nature; the letters split the narrative up, of course, but they are dense enough in time and detail to give a nearly continuous story. At the very least, that seems to be Richardson's intention, as Watt argues: "[Richardson] was very careful to locate all his events of his narrative in an unprecedentedly detailed time­scheme" (Watt 24). What's more "Richardson's use of the letter form also induced in the reader a continual sense of actual participation in the action which was until then unparalleled in its completeness and intensity" (Watt 25). Certainly, within the story there is a sense of continuous story-telling. This is important to Richardson because he 
Carozza 43 wants to convert his readers with his paragon Pamela, not give them time to consider, discuss and assimilate only in part his ideas, ready to pick up his next piece of writing the next day. That mode, the mode ofAddison and Steele, is entirely abandoned, replaced by a mode in which the appropriate moral structure for the entire world may transmitted through one object, even more precisely from one character of the novel, Pamela. 
In this way, Richardson's work finally arrives at the sense of inherent moral value that Pope and Addison and Steele were all interested in, but unable to achieve. They were unable precisely because the novel form needed to be invented; it is striking that Richardson's literary form in many ways looks nothing like those preceding it, despite being motivated by and interested in all the same things. This is not to say that the novel moved permanently away from the literary modes preceding it; Tom Jones will reveal a concern in returning to some of those because of Fielding's discomfort with Richardson's style. Indeed, Pamela has here been thought of as Richardson's paragon, but Tom Jones would not work if Tom did not sin; in that, the two novels are distinct in nature. It is certainly understandable that a reader might feel that Pamela's apparent infallibility gives Richardson's novel a strange feel. After all, there is some sense in which a realist commitment seems opposed to an absolutely incorruptible character. For the purposes of this paper, that oddity of Richardson's novel has been explained as a deliberate attempt to break with literary tradition and establish and inherently moral work. This, in tum, will help explain Fielding's work as a response to Richardson that nevertheless wants to preserve the sense of being inherently moral. 
Chapter 3: An Exploration of the Limitations of the Novel Form 
Tom Jones was written by Fielding partly as a response to Pamela. The reader can feel the discomfOli of Fielding with Richardson's work both in its content and style. This discomfort is manifest in many ways by Fielding's return to some of the old literary conventions. The action that occurs around Tom is again much more serialized. He travels from one discrete encounter to the next, with explicit references to the lessons he has learned, or failed to learn. Similarly, Tom is hardly a paragon, sinning repeatedly, 
almost predictably, throughout the novel. Perhaps most crucially, a strong narrative voice exists throughout the novel to remind the reader that Tom is undergoing a gradual change; the emphasis of the novel is entirely on a rational process, not conversion. Here, then, we begin to see a real distinction between a novel designed to teach morality, like Fielding's, and a novel designed to impart morality, like Richardson's. Tom Jones, for example, does not run the same risk as Pamela of being misunderstood by the reader if the entire work is not considered. Indeed, the narrator is constantly there to remind the reader that experience in the world teaches, over time, proper behavior. Even at the end of the novel, Fielding reminds the reader of the importance of process; while Tom is largely redeemed, having gone from a naive sinner to a conscientious man, he relies upon the continued support of his friend Allworthy (822). The name Allworthy is nearly enough to make the point, and, in fact, is another reference to an old literary convention that Fielding finds it helpful to readopt; in addition, Fielding reminds the reader that throughout the rest of his life, Tom continues to discuss issues of morality with his good friend. 
Yet Tom Jones does not represent a simple return to the earlier mode. The sheer 
Carozza 45 length of the work, though a simple consideration, is certainly not to be overlooked. In essence, Fielding is committed to adopting in some part the new mode of prolonged story-telling examining a single subject that Richardson used. Tom Jones is not literally a longer version ofthe periodical style ofAddison and Steele, since one character and narrative voice carries out the entire narrative thread. In a related way, Fielding is acknowledging the fact that a mode has now been developed that is capable, it might be said, of directly changing the lives of the readers. While Tom may travel from lesson to lesson in much the same manner as moral subjects were presented as discrete units in the periodicals, it is important that Fielding references the accruement of these letters in a particular person. That is, Fielding has co-opted the conversion narrative for secular purposes. He has committed himself to one character in particular through whom the reader may understand what changes he or she must make in everyday life. He draws explicit moral judgments ofTom's actions, and the novel, despite its shared characteristics with the periodicals, is not designed purely to generate discussion in the same way. Despite being written as a response to Richardson, it seems that Tom Jones acknowledges the manner in which Pamela has changed the nature of story-telling. These common traits, then, can be seen as distinguishing the novel from early modes of literature deigned to provide moral instruction. 
Similarly, both novels can be thought of as generated by another instance of reorientation of subject. The genre fulfills the project ofAddison and Steele, in some sense, by inverting not only the subject of satire, but also the ideology. That is, Addison and Steele changed the subject of morally instructive literature from immorality to 
Carozza 46 morality. The novel changes also the manner of discourse of the subject; before, it was said satire moralized by negation. It is clear, now, that this characteristic stands in direct contrast to the manner in which the novel moralizes, namely through affirmation of what is good and defamation of what is not. Put another way, the shared understanding that detail is useful, even necessary, for the conceit of the novel, or for the purpose of its 
lesson, is a manifestation of their common commitment. The novel is committed to the idea of the changing relationship of its characters to the world. Specifically, their relative moral status cannot be captured by a simple label, like with literary "types." In place of it, the novel uses detail to illustrate the interaction between the moral force of the world and an individual's morality in a manner that is not otherwise implicit. All of these characteristics were discussed when considering Pamela; they are reintroduced here to establish an important distinction between Richardson's novel and Tom Jones. Fielding's style, which exudes a subtle, but palpable tendency to mock, subsumes that of satire; satire is not an element of Pamela. That is, Fielding's frustration with Richardson might be understood as frustration with Pamela's insistence on positioning itself as diametrically opposed to satire. Pamela is pure affirmation, while Fielding believes that simple assertion cannot possibly capture the moral complexity of the world. Thus, Fielding's style is ultimately a synthesis of those of Pope, Addison and Steele and Richardson. 
The opening of the very first chapter of Tom Jones reveals this more varied self­conception of Fielding as an author. He begins by saying that "an author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money" 
(Fielding 23). Already, Fielding has done an odd thing; he has addressed himself explicitly as the author. That is, Fielding's first matter of interest in Tom Jones is to undermine the realism of his own novel, calling attention to its status not only as fiction, but as a form of transaction. Richardson certainly would not have done this, nor would he have flaunted his learning by including, in the very first line of the novel, the word "eleemosynary." Fielding goes on to extend his analogy, telling the reader that just as a diner might expect a menu at a restaurant, he intends to provide an equivalent for his novel. He states that "as we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is capable of lending us either, we have condescended to take a hint from these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, but shall likewise give the reader particular bills to every course which is to be served up in this and ensuing volumes" (Fielding 23). The subtlety that Fielding employs here is remarkable. He does not actually intend for the reader to consider abandoning the novel at this point, and if the reader should, it is imaginable that Fielding would hardly bemoan the loss. In fact, despite being ostensibly about the author, the entire opening of the novel is actually directed at the reader. The mixture of the elevated language and the ridiculous notion that the reader will be well served by the "bill of fare" is comic; if a person goes to the restaurant and is given a menu, his or her decision is not whether to eat every item offered, in order. Similarly, Fielding can maintain that his goal in the novel is to serve the reader, and in some sense, he will, since he believes his instruction will ultimately benefit the reader. Nevertheless, he will also demand much of his reader in the way of understanding. In Fielding, it seems, complexity is a virtue, while for Richardson, it was 
not. Indeed, the last literary form considered here that held complexity as a virtue was satire, which put the narrator in a privileged position relative to the world and reader. Fielding will soon do the same. 
In the fourth chapter of the first book, Fielding joins this interest in complexity with his interest in mockery. The title of this chapter begins "The Reader's Neck brought into Danger by a Description" (Fielding 30). The very title stresses the heavy hand with which the narrator intends to shepherd the reader along throughout the novel. Indeed, on the promise of the title, the narrative delivers in an emphatic way. He warns, "reader, take care, I have undoubtedly led thee to the top of as high a hill as Mr Allworthy's, and how to get the down without breaking thy neck, I do not well know. However, let us e'en venture to slide down together" (Fielding 31). As the narrator of the story, indeed, as a narrative voice that has already been identified with the author of the novel, the claim that the narrator is uncertain of how to get the reader down in puzzling. In fact, it can hardly be taken seriously, especially since the nalTator addresses the reader directly, interrupting the cadence of the narrative. Evidently, the reader is able to descend the hill safely, as he or she soon finds him or herself in the company of Mr. Allworthy and Miss Bridget. When Mr. Allworthy tells Miss Bridget he has a present for her, "she thanked him, imagining, I suppose, it had been a gown, or some ornament for her person. Indeed, he very often made her such presents, and she in complacence to him, spent much time in adorning herself. I say in complacence to him, because she always exprest the greatest contempt for dress, and for ladies who made it their study" (Fielding 31). Now, the 
reader begins to see that the narrative voice cannot be blindly trusted. Firstly, the narrator 
should have no reason to merely suppose what she thought; the narrator has been identified with the author in the early part of the novel. Secondly, the reader might suspect that Miss Bridget here is being mocked, since it seems unlikely that she would so harshly criticize women spend their time doing exactly what she does. As the story goes on, in fact, it is revealed that Miss Bridget is an unattractive woman who envies women of greater physical beauty; she is not contemptuous of their vanity, which she shares, but rather is jealous of their looks. 
This is hardly the most biting moment of mockery by the novel; instead, it was chosen because of the light it might shed on the peculiar incident immediately preceding it, that question of what, exactly, is happening when the narrator claims not to be sure he can get the reader down the hill. It seems possible that Fielding is here mocking the style of Richardson, that is, that style that seeks to transport the character directly into the novel. Transporting the reader directly into the novel to teach him or her morality is no more efficacious, Fielding might be saying, than bringing the reader to the top of the hill was dangerous. Indeed, the very claim that it is possible is disingenuous, which explains why the narrator chooses that moment to abandon the close narrative control he has established; it seems that moments when the narrator pretends to suddenly be powerless are moments where the reader might do well to be skeptical of the narrator. 
Jumping far ahead in the novel, the reader encounters an excellent example of the 
subtle artistry and irony that Fielding is developing. In chapter eleven of book thirteen, 
entitled "In which the Reader will be suprized," Tom and Sophia meet by chance when 
each ends up in the company of Lady Bellaston. The narrator relates how "to paint the 
looks or thoughts of either of these lovers is beyond my power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed that I should be able to express them: and the misfortune is, that few of my readers have been enough in love, to feel by their own hearts what past at this time in theirs" (Fielding 601). The narrator, who we have previously seen demonstrate to the reader his (the narrator's) facility with language, instead chooses to portray himself as unequal to the task of describing their love. This is particularly ironic given the fact that Tom has not been faithful to Sophia, and is about to apologize for his past indiscretions. Indeed, Sophia reveals her own skepticism, asking Tom how he came to be in Lady Bellaston's drawing room. The exchange between Tom and Sophia is awkward, far more than passionate, yet this is the moment that the narrator's words fail him. He glibly adds the quip about his readers, who have never experienced a love as deep as the love ofTom and Sophia, which clearly needs still to mature, at least as far as Tom is concerned. It is also possible, of course, to read this moment more genuinely, but in either case, it is the particular artifice of the narrator that destabilizes moments like these in Tom Jones. 
All of this is to say that Fielding does not approve of the manner in which Richardson collapses the structure of the extrinsic critical entity, intrinsic critical entity and fictive world. Just as he partially reverts back to satire stylistically, Fielding reverts, in part, to that mode in defining that relationship of these entities. Fielding makes use of a strong nalTative voice that judges the world from afar. Unlike the nalTative voice in satire, however, Fielding's narrator is suppOlted by a structure that is generated by the world being described. That is, the nalTator is not strictly independent of the world he 
Carozza 51 describes, but rather is a natural extension of it. The narrator's enlightened position is the result of a deep understanding of the nature of that world, not an inherent sensibility that distinguishes him from it, and certainly not an inherent superiority to it, as in the case of satire. Put another way, the intrinsic critical entity for Fielding is naturally arising; it may be removed from the world it describes in some sense, but it can only exist where it does for the entire system to remain logically consistent. What supports that distance of the intrinsic critical entity is its previous education; it has acquired the necessary experience 
to judge the world as it exists now. Therefore, the process by which it was created is 
knowable and repeatable, justifying both the interest of Fielding's narrator in teaching as 
he does and the characterization of that narrator as naturally arising from the world. 
In that sense, Fielding's model is a hybrid of that of satire and Richardson's; the intrinsic critical entity is again removed from the world created by the novel, but needs to seem natural to it, an instantiation of the principles of that world even, as in Pamela. This new position is closely tied to other characterizations of Fielding's work, namely the sense of acknowledgment that Richardson has created a new mode that need be accounted for in a work, like Tom Jones, interested in being inherently moral. Put another way, for the novel, adopting the gap that exists in satire between the intrinsic critical entity and the world being described is problematic. Such a gap needs to be justified; for a negative mode of morality, the distance may be justified by the greater understanding of the narrative voice. For a novel, however, with its positive mode of moralizing, the distance needs to either be eliminated, like in Pamela, or made to seem natural to the world, as in Tom Jones. Fielding's commitment to the latter helps define 
Carozza 52 exactly what it is he objects to in Richardson's novel, namely that Richardson's solution hardly seems to arise naturally from the world. 
For Fielding, then, the relationship of extrinsic to intrinsic force is defined differently. The reader certainly may have started inside the created world, which is to say as a person in need of Fielding's work. Satire was not explicitly directed to those people; it might work just as well as the private joke of the enlightened few clever enough to understand it. The novels, on the other hand, are very much directed at people inhabiting that world, people who need an educational or corrective force in their lives. Where Richardson sought to convert them, Fielding seeks to provide them with the necessary life experience. By presenting to them the same structure that holds his narrator apart from the world, he allows the reader to reach the level of the narrator. That is, a careful reading of Tom Jones might create a perceptive reader, and a perceptive reader might understand exactly the world view that Fielding espouses. The ultimate goal of Fielding, it might be said, is guide the reader up exactly to level of the narrator. It does not harbor that general skepticism and smugness of satire, which resists the notion that the reader might equal the narrator. 
Again, there lies in this description a sense in which Tom Jones is both alike to and distinct from Pamela. Richardson's novel, :;l.S a conversion narrative, certainly would like to ultimately put the reader on par with the intrinsic critical entity of the work. It would do so, however, in an instant; it would convert the reader, just as Mr. B. is converted. Fielding would educate the reader, with an emphasis on that process of education, so that the reader might understand the mode of living conscientiously that 
Carozza 53 Fielding would like to see made universal. Projecting into the future, then, Fielding leaves open the possibility that the reader will continue his improvement. Indeed, the novel makes reference to the fact that Tom himself does, even after the narrative has concluded. 
One last point of interest, then, is the mocking tone often employed by Fielding. The sense of mocking is necessitated by the complexity and subtlety of Fielding's artifice. That is, just as satire was said to efface meaning through its style of moralizing, Fielding feels that Richardson effaces meaning through his. Fielding values the sense that his structure seems naturally arising from the world; part of his claim to this sense stems from the fact that his narrative style incorporates the kind of multiplicity that is actually experienced in the world. Therefore, Fielding values modes of expression that Richardson simply does not. Sarcasm, cleverness, mockery and wit all exist in the real world, and Fielding has little interest in creating a fictive world in which they are stripped away. To summarize, perhaps, nuance is extremely valuable to Fielding, as it is nuance that allows him to carefully instruct his readers. Richardson does not have nearly the same need for, and therefore interest in, nuance. None of the qualities employed by Fielding are necessarily relevant in a conversion narrative, the way they are necessarily relevant in a teaching one. Richardson, in short, has no need to mock, but Fielding cannot do without it. 
The manner in which Fielding ends his novel helps make these distinctions clear. Just as Richardson does, Fielding ends with the narrator extending the story into the future, relating what happens to each of the primary characters. What is noticeably Carozza 54 
different, however, is the fact that Fielding expresses only one of the two concerns that plagued Richardson at the end of his novel. That is, Fielding still wants to assure the reader that his novel has worked. So he says that: 
To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and woman, than this fond couple, so neither can any be imagined more happy. They preserve the purest and tenderest affection for each other, an affection daily encreased and confirmed by mutual endearments and mutual esteem. Nor is their conduct towards their relations and friends less amiable than towards one another. And such is their condescension, their indulgence, and their beneficence to those below them, that there is not a neighbour, a tenant, or a servant, who doth not most gratefully bless the day when Mr Jones was married to his Sophia. (Fielding 822) 
Just as in Richardson's ending, the happy couple is rewarded for their labors. Here, though, the labors have been entirely different; neither Tom nor Sophia is credited with having bettered the character of the other. In fact, the description above makes clear that their happiness is a product of a mutual effort. Nor does the fact they have found happiness imply that they have similarly changed the character of all around them; where Richardson described Pamela and Mr. B first, and then from there explained the effect they had on others, Fielding concludes with the above. It is true he also begins with something of a description of the two, but each character is considered individually at the end of the novel, not strictly in relation to Tom and Sophia. More telling, though, is the fact that Fielding completely omits the section that Richardson includes, wherein the narrator tells people of various "types" how they should relate to the novel. Fielding began the novel with something of an admonition that it would require a clever reader to stay with him; at the end, now, he has faith in the reader to make certain determinations on his or her own. 
The conclusion of this chapter will attempt to derive a more satisfactory description of the tension that is evident between Pamela and Tom Jones. Michael McKeon provides one such possible description in his discussion of "naive empiricism" and "extreme skepticism" in relation to "romance idealism" (McKeon 21). He begins by defining his terms thusly: "romance idealism" is the "dependence on received authorities and a priori traditions" in literature, while "naive empiricism" is "an empirical epistemology" that "challenge[s] and refute[s]" "romance idealism" (McKeon 21). Finally, "extreme skepticism" is the "countercritique that has been generated by [the] over-enthusiasm of' of "naive empiricism" (McKeon 21). What is important in the relation of these terms, McKeon says, is the emerging dialectic tension between "naive empiricism" and "extreme skepticism" (McKeon 48). As he states, "the naive empiricism of the claim to historicity purports to document the authentic truth; the extreme skepticism of the opposing party demystifies this claim as mere 'romance.' But this basic formulation of the pattern belies its dialectical fluidity, for what looks like an "extreme critique from one perspective reveals itself as a "naive claim" from another" (McKeon 48). McKeon's argument, then, is that this dialectical tension "is of fundamental impOliance to the origins of the English novel" (McKeon 48). In essence, his claim is that the tension that is felt between the two novels can be described as the product an 
inextricable link between them created by their respective desires to appeal to truth. A claim on the part of one to be written in a style that reflected truth simply underscores the fact that other considers this claim untrue. 
While the idea of a dialectical relationship between the texts is certainly illuminating, it is one that the chapter would prefer to resist. That is, for McKeon, the common commitment of the two novels does not extend beyond their desire to incorporate truth and their desire to do so in a manner that responds to the earlier style of "romance idealism." That is the source of the dialectical tension between them, the fact that '''naive empiricism' is no less opposed to the falsifications of 'romance' invention than is 'extreme skepticism'" (McKeon 49). Indeed, the two are "fundamentally skeptical and have much in common" (McKeon 49). This paper, however, has already established its commitment to an understanding in many respects different. First, the category of "romance idealism" is an empty one in this work. No literary mode examined here exclusively characterized by a "dependence on received authorities and a priori traditions." Secondly, and as a result ofthis point, there is a sense in which neither Richardson nor Fielding is entirely skeptical of these earlier modes. The result of this, then, is that Fielding is considered here more closely allied with these older modes than Richardson, and, in fact, it is presumed that the he would not deny it. Finally, it will be argued that Richardson and Fielding are not linked by a dialectical tension. Instead, Fielding is able to take exactly what he wants from Richardson, and from the earlier modes, and what is shared by the two novelists gives rise to a definition of the novel. 
So then, in thinking of Fielding's work as, at least in part, a response to 
Richardson, a more explicit description of what is being called the common commitment of the two novels is desirable. Each novelist is clearly interested in shaping the reader's experience so as to induce a change in his or her perception of what constitutes acceptable behavior. Similarly, each novelist feels that this goal can only be reached by producing a work of literature that reasonably approximates the real world. That is, the fictive world must be both analogous to the real world, and complex enough to be worth considering as something other than simple amusement. The novelists differ greatly, however, in their respective positions on what it means for the fictive world to be 
analogous to the real one, and how this complexity should be introduced. With that said, 
they nevertheless share a commitment to truth; each novel wants to depict something true 
about the world in a fictional form. 
What is particularly interesting, then, is the sense that Fielding has helped develop that there is some constant amount of truth that can be contained in the novel. That is, if an author or reader believes truth is captured by Richardson's style, then he or she must sacrifice many of the characteristics of Fielding's style; if he or she subscribes instead to Fielding's style, it is Richardson's that need be abandoned. Even though each author might argue that what the other does does not capture truth, particularly Fielding in regards to Richardson, each would be forced to admit, at the very least, that the other was interested in doing so. The desire to incorporate truth in the novel has an innate sense of its limits in this regard, it may be said. If there is only a constant amount of truth an author may imbue a novel with, and if the manner in which that truth is introduced 
precludes the inclusion of other manners of imbuing truth, then it seems helpful to think 
Carozza 58 of the possibilities for the novel on a spectrum. At the one end of the spectrum, established by Richardson, the reader finds the novel that is concerned primarily with incorporating a great quantity of realism, at the expense of holism. Similarly, a novel interested in including a higher degree of holism must work primarily in a metaphorical, and not particular, world; this world is more like the world of Fielding. So, there is one measurement of realism versus metaphor, and another of narrative fragmentation versus narrative holism. That is to say, a decreasing amount of realism leads to metaphor, and a decreasing quantity of holism leads to fragmentation. What the distinction between narrative holism and narrative fragmentation is designed to measure is the degree of freedom of the author in shaping the events of the novel while maintaining narrative continuity; even though Tom's story is more serialized, Fielding is not obligated to detail obsessively in the same manner as Richardson. Fielding's emphasis, in other words, is much more on the whole product than the individual elements; it is more discursive. Fielding, by virtue of having chosen to include this obsessive particularity, produces a story that at any given moment is far less about the whole. These two registers are inversely related; in increase on one scale necessitates a decrease on the other, to keep the amount of truth the novel contains constant. In the novel, then, truth is the sum of the amount of particularity and the degree of holism. Richardson chooses to reach the constant amount of truth the novel may contain by adding a large quantity of particularity to a small amount of holism. Fielding, on the other hand, chooses to add a large amount of holism to a relatively smaller amount of particularity. This analytic framework leads back to the sense that while Tom Jones in 
many ways inverts the structure of Pamela, it also acknowledges the suitability of the basic structure of the novel that Richardson establishes. This acknowledgment creates an odd tension in Fielding's work, one that even manifests itself in the shared concern of the authors that their novel would be misunderstood. 
This consideration gives rise, finally, to a definition of the novel that seems to have both the malleability and the specificity that such a definition would require. That is, it seems to be applicable to a variety of similar literary objects without capturing those that should not be called novels. This definition comes from examining exactly what it is that Richardson and Fielding still have in common after Fielding defines his own distinct style. It seems that a novel is a work of literature that aspires to induce in the reader a particular and lasting change in regards to how he or she perceives the moral structure of the world. This change in perception is accompanied by a change in behavior, which is justified for the reader by virtue of the fact that the novel approximates reality sufficiently well to make its inherent moral content transferable to the real world. This approximation of the characteristics of the real world may be achieved in many ways by the interplay of particularity of detail and the degree of holism included in the work of literature. What remains constant despite these variations is the amount of truth encapsulated by the novel. Fundamentally, different novelists acknowledge the same set of requirements for the novel form, requirements that grew out of the literary tradition of earlier, morally instructive forms. It is these common commitments that ensure that each novel has, in regards to its representation of truth, the same scope. 
Conclusion 
The development of the English novel as it is discussed here is sadly narrow in scope. Originally, this paper was going to consider also the genre of the Secret History, particularly Eliza Haywood's "Fantomina: or Love in a Maze." At another point, it was going to discuss Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. Jane Austen, too, had to be eliminated, unfortunately depriving this paper of some of the best examples of early, but mature, English novels. Ultimately, "The Rape of the Lock," The Tatler and The Spectator, Pamela and Tom Jones were chosen because they form what one might call a logically consistent chain from the pre-novel to a distinct novel form. What is ultimately the critical step in the development of the novel, according to this work, is the shift from morally instructive literature, to literature explicitly about morality, to, finally, inherently moral literature. This is a development that many readers likely understood intuitively; reading literature written right before the emergence of the English novel often leaves one wanting more, be it stronger convictions, fuller descriptions or simply more action. There is some sense in which these early works are incomplete, clearly interested in categories they are literally unable to adequately described. It required the invention of the novel, indeed, the creation of a new set of literary tools, to allow eighteenth-century authors to explore the subjects that were of interest to them. Though by modem standards the work of many of the earliest English novelists is so unpolished, reading Pamela for the first time, if the reader has had any exposure to earlier eighteenth-century British literature, is incredibly satisfying; it is exactly that event that inspired this thesis. If that is where the thesis began, then it ended with a simple, but satisfying definition of 
Carozza 61 the novel. The novel, very simply, is a manifestation of the belief that a single work of literature is enough to reveal to the reader of a set of truths that were previously unavailable to him or her. It is a provocative assertion about the power of the written word, and one that surely can be examined in far more detail. 
Acknowledgments 
I am truly indebted to my thesis advisor, Peter Murphy, who was my inspiration for this project at every stage. I first became interested in this material through his classes, and I chose to write my thesis in large part because I was excited about the prospect of working with him for an entire academic year. His encouragement, both when I first approached him with my topic and as I struggled to finish writing, provided me with much of the motivation I needed. I hope he learned from the experience some small fraction of the amount he taught me. 
I would next like to thank Theo Davis, the Honors Colloquium advisor, for her guidance in the fall. Her insight was invaluable, particularly for someone like me, whose working process tends to emphasize whatever I find most interesting at a given moment, even at the expense of the general coherence of my project. She was especially helpful and acute in demanding well-defined ideas and more tightly controlled prose in my work. Finally, I would like to thank my family. When it was nearly time to tum my thesis in, and I realized that I had let the work pile up at the end, I made a list of the reasons I had for pouring everything I could into those final days; not surprisingly, the list began with reasons why I wanted to make each member of my family proud. Though I tried to hide how worried I really was from them, without the strength that they provided I would never have made it. Thank you Mamma, Papa, Ale and Robi. 
Works Cited 
Fielding, Henry. The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling. London: Penguin Books, 1966. McKeon, Michael. The Origins of the English Novel 1600-1740. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987. Pope, Alexander. The Rape of the Lock. Ed. Cynthia Wall. Boston: Bedford Books, 1998. Richardson, Samuel. Pamela: or Virtue Rewarded. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Steele, Richard. "Inkle and Yarico." The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. Vol. C. New York: W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2006. 2476-2478. ---. The Tatler 25 (1709): 1-2. Watt, Ian. The Rise of the Novel. London: Chatto and Windus, 1957.