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IVES
OF THE
OVELISTS
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1-QUÆRIS PENINSULAM·AMŒNAM.
CIRCUMSPICE
THE GIFT OF
'rofessor
Austin Warren


Austin Wänen
11 September 1947
last day in Boston
for & sammen
a book long asnied
Bought at Trinity
Book Want
•
THE
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS
BY
SIR WALTER SCOTT
SCOTT
WITH NOTES
NEW-YORK
A. DENHAM & CO., 17 MURRAY STREET
1872
CONTENTS.
PAGE
SAMUEL RICHARDSON,
77
HENRY FIELDING,
774
TOBIAS SMOLLETT,
108
RICHARD CUMBERLAND,
174
OLIVER GOLDSMITH,
210
SAMUEL JOHNSON,
235
LAURENCE STERNE,
246
HORACE WALPOLE,
270
CLARA REEVE,
294
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE,
ALAIN RENÉ LE SAGE,
CHARLES JOHNSTONE,
ROBERT BAGE,
305
352
386
•
399
HENRY MACKENZIE,
420
PREFACE.
ONE day in the autumn of 1819, Sir Walter Scott, accom-
panied by Lockhart, rode over to visit his old friend John
Ballantyne, at Walton Hall, the new residence which the
latter was then building. They were warmly and joyfully
welcomed, and the time passed pleasantly away in the
cordial intercourse of the old friends.
"It was on this day," says Lockhart, "that, overflowing
with kindly zeal, Scott revived one of the long-forgotten
projects of their early connection in business, and offered
his services as editor of a Novelist's Library, to be printed
and published for the sole benefit of his host. The offer
was eagerly embraced, and when, two or three mornings
afterward, John returned Sir Walter's visit, he had put into
his hand the Ms. of that admirable Life of Fielding, which
was followed, at brief intervals, by others, of Smollett, etc."
The first volume of "Ballantyne's Novelist's Library" was
not, however, issued until February, 1821, and after the
publication of ten volumes, the series was discontinued.
Scott, with his usual modesty, speaks of the critical
opinions contained in these Lives as "such as have oc-
curred without much or profound study to one, too much
of whose time has been spent in that 'delightful lande of
faerie,'. the seducing mazes of fictitious narrative."
Sir Walter's friends and the public always had a higher
and more just opinion of the value of his writings than he
himself was wont to hold. Lockhart, in warm but not
too eulogistic terms, speaks of these "delightful and valu
vi
PREFACE.
able essays" as "the charming prefaces in which Scott com-
bines all the graces of his easy narrative, with a perpetual
stream of deep and gentle wisdom in commenting on the
tempers and fortunes of his best predecessors in novel
literature; and also with expositions of his own critical
views, which prove how profoundly he had investigated
the principles and practice of those masters before he struck
out a new path for himself."
An edition of these Lives was published at Paris, by
Galignani, shortly after the completion of the Novelist's
Library. Speaking of this edition, the Quarterly Review, for
September, 1826, says,
"These essays are among the most agreeable specimens
of biographical composition we are acquainted with. They
contain a large assemblage of manly and sagacious remarks
on human life and manners, and much ingenious criticism
besides; and, thus presented in a compact form, must be
considered as throwing a new and strong light upon a de-
partment of English literature, perhaps the most peculiar,
certainly the most popular, and yet we cannot help think-
ing, among the least studied of all that we possess."
The Lives were subsequently revised by the Author, and
published, with additional notes, in the collected edition of
his works.
While Scott's novels and his poetry will be the delight
of generations to come, as they have been in the past, and
will continue to overshadow his other productions, still
every thing that fell from his pen must command our atten-
tion, and we think that these pages contain by no means
the least valuable of his writings, embodying, as they do,
the genial yet acute judgment of the King of Romance
upon his literary ancestors.
New-York, August 19, 1872.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
RICHARDSON.
THE Life of this excellent man, and ingenious author,
has been written, with equal spirit and candor, by Mrs.
Barbauld, a name long dear to elegant literature, and is
prefixed to her publication of the Author's Correspon-
dence, published by Philips, in six volumes, in 1804.
The leading circumstances of these simple annals are
necessarily extracted from that performance, to which
the present Editor has no means of adding any thing of
consequence.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON was born in Derbyshire, in the
year 1689. His father, a joiner by profession, was one
of many sons, sprung from a family of middling note,
which had been so far reduced, that the children were
brought up to mechanical trades. His mother was also
decently descended, but an orphan, left such in infancy
by the death of both her parents, cut off within half an
hour of each other by the great pestilence in 1663. Her
name is not mentioned. Old Richardson was connected
by employment with the unhappy Duke of Monmouth,
after whose execution he retired to Shrewsbury, appre-
hensive, perhaps, of a fate similar to that of College, his
brother-in-trade, well known in those times by the title
8
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
1
of the Protestant Joiner, who was executed for high
treason in the reign of Charles II.
Having sustained severe losses in trade, the elder
Richardson was unable to give his son Samuel more
than a very ordinary education; and our author, who
was to rise so high in one department of literature, was
left unacquainted with any language excepting his own.
Under all these disadvantages, and perhaps in some de-
gree owing to their existence, young Richardson very
early followed, with a singular bias, the course which
was most likely to render his name immortal. We give
his own words, for they cannot be amended :—
"I recollect, that I was early noted for having inven-
tion. I was not fond of play, as other boys: my school-
fellows used to call me Serious and Gravity; and five
of them particularly delighted to single me out, either
for a walk, or at their fathers' houses, or at mine, to tell
them stories, as they phrased it. Some I told them,
from my reading, as true; others from my head, as
mere invention; of which they would be most fond, and
often were affected by them. One of them particularly,
I remember, was for putting me to write a history, as
he called it, on the model of Tommy Pots ;' I now for-
get what it was, only that it was of a servant-man pre-
ferred by a fine young lady (for his goodness) to a lord,
who was a libertine. All my stories carried with them,
I am bold to say, an useful moral.”
2
1
¹ Tommy Pots is the name of an old ballad published in Ritson's
Ancient Songs.
2 Life of Richardson, vol. i., p. 36, 37. [It is impossible to consider
without delight and admiration the contrast between Richardson's boy-
ish fictions and those of his biographer himself, as described in the
General Preface to the Waverley Novels. There Sir Walter Scott says,
“I must refer to a very early period of my life, were I to point out my
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
१
But young Richardson found a still more congenial
body of listeners among the female sex. An old lady,
indeed, seems to have resented an admonitory letter, in
which the future teacher of morals contrasted her pre-
tensions to religion with her habitual indulgence in
slander and backbiting; but with the young and senti-
mental his reception was more gracious. "As a bashful
and not forward boy," he says, "I was an early favorite
with all the young women of taste and reading in the
neighborhood. Half-a-dozen of them, when met to
work with their needles, used, when they got a book
they liked, and thought I should, to borrow me to read
to them; their mothers sometimes with them; and both
mothers and daughters used to be pleased with the ob-
servations they put me upon making. I was not more
than thirteen, when three of these young women, un-
known to each other, having an high opinion of my
taciturnity, revealed to me their love secrets, in order to
first achievements as a tale-teller, but I believe some of my old school-
fellows can still bear witness that I had a distinguished character for
that talent, at a time when the applause of my companions was my re-
compense for the disgraces and punishments which the future romance-
writer incurred for being idle himself, and keeping others idle, during
hours that should have been employed on our tasks. The chief enjoy-
ment of my holidays was to escape with a chosen friend, who had the
same taste with myself, and alternately to recite to each other such wild
adventures as we were able to devise. We told, each in turn, inter-
minable tales of knight-errantry, and battles, and enchantments, which
were continued from one day to another as opportunity offered, with-
out ever thinking of bringing them to a conclusion. As we observed a
strict secrecy on the subject of this intercourse, it acquired all the
character of a concealed pleasure, and we used to select, for the scenes
of our indulgence, long walks through the solitary and romantic en-
virons of Arthur's Seat, Salisbury Craigs, Braid Hills, and similar places
in the vicinity of Edinburgh; and the recollection of those holidays
still forms an casis in the pilgrimage which I have to look back
upon."]
10
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
induce me to give them copies to write after, or correct,
for answers to their lovers' letters; nor did any one of
them ever know that I was the secretary to the others.
I have been directed to chide, and even repulse, when
an offence was either taken or given, at the very time
when the heart of the chider or repulser was open be-
fore me, overflowing with esteem and affection; and
the fair repulser, dreading to be taken at her word, di-
recting this word, or that expression, to be softened or
changed. One, highly gratified with her lover's fervor,
and vows of everlasting love, has said, when I have
asked her direction, I cannot tell you what to write;
but (her heart on her lips) you cannot write too kindly.
All her fear was only, that she should incur slight for
her kindness.” ¹
His father had nourished some ambitious views of
dedicating young Richardson to the ministry, but, as
his circumstances denied him the means of giving him
the necessary education, Samuel was destined to that pro-
fession most nearly connected with literature, and was
bound apprentice to Mr. John Wilde, of Stationers'
Hall, in the year 1706. Industrious as well as intelli-
gent, regulated in his habits, and diverted by no head-
strong passion from the strictest course of duty, Rich-
ardson made rapid progress in his employment as a
printer.
(6
"I served," he says, a diligent seven years to it; to
a master who grudged every hour to me that tended not
to his profit, even of those times of leisure and diversion,
hich the refractoriness of my fellow-servants obliged
n to allow them, and were usually allowed by other
ters to their apprentices. I stole from the hours of
1 Life of Richardson, vol. i., p. 39, 40.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
11
rest and relaxation my reading times for improvement
of my mind; and, being engaged in a correspondence
with a gentleman, greatly my superior in degree, and of
ample fortune, who, had he lived, intended high things
for me, those were all the opportunities I had in my ap-
prenticeship to carry it on. But this little incident I
may mention; I took care that even my candle was of
my own purchasing, that I might not, in the most
trifling instance, make my master a sufferer, (and who
used to call me the pillar of his house,) and not to dis-
able myself by watching or sitting up, to perform my
duty to him in the day-time.

·
The correspondence between Richardson and the gen-
tleman who had so well selected an object of patronage,
was voluminous; but at the untimely death of his
friend, it was, by his particular desire, consigned to the
flames.
Several years more were spent in the obscure drudgery
of the printing-house ere Richardson took out his free-
dom, and set up as a master printer. His talents for
literature were soon discovered; and, in addition to his
proper business, he used to oblige the booksellers, by
furnishing them with prefaces, dedications, and such
like garnishing of the works submitted to his press.
He printed several of the popular periodical papers of
the day, and at length, through the interest of Mr.
Onslow, the Speaker, obtained the lucrative employment
of printing the Journals of the House of Commons, by
which he must have reaped considerable advantages, al-
though he occasionally had to complain of delay of pay-
ment on the part of government.
Punctual in his engagements, and careful in the
1 Life of Richardson, vol. i., p. 41, 42.
A
12
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
superintendence of his business-fortune, and respect,
its sure accompaniment, began to flow in upon Richard-
son. In 1754, he was chosen Master of the Stationers'
Company; and, in 1760, he purchased a moiety of the
patent of Printer to the King, which seems to have
added considerably to his revenue. He was now a man
in very easy circumstances; and, besides his premises in
Salisbury Court, he enjoyed the luxury of a villa, first
at North-End, near Hammersmith, afterwards at Par-
sons-Green.
Richardson was twice married; first to Allington
Wilde, his master's daughter, and after her death, in
1731, to the sister of James Leake, bookseller, who sur-
vived her distinguished husband. He has made a feel-
ing commemoration of the family misfortunes which he
sustained, in a letter to Lady Bradshaigh. "I told you,
madam, that I have been married twice; both times
happily: you will guess so, as to my first, when I tell
you that I cherish the memory of my lost wife to this
hour; and, as to the second, when I assure you that I
can do so without derogating from the merits of, or
being disallowed by, my present, who speaks of her, on
all occasions, as respectfully and affectionately as I do
myself.
(C
"By my first wife I had five sons and one daughter;
some of them living, to be delightful prattlers, with all
the appearances of sound health, lively in their features,
and promising as to their minds; and the death of one
of them, I doubt, accelerating, from grief, that of the
otherwise laudably afflicted mother. I have had, by my
present wife, five girls and one boy; I have buried of
these the promising boy, and one girl: four girls I have
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
13
living, all at present very good; their mother, a true
and instructing mother to them.
“Thus have I lost six sons (all my sons) and two
daughters, every one of which, to answer your question,
I parted with with the utmost regret. Other heavy de-
privations of friends, very near, and very dear, have I
also suffered. I am very susceptible, I will venture to
say, of impressions of this nature. A father, an honest,
worthy father, I lost by the accident of a broken thigh,
snapped by a sudden jerk, endeavoring to recover a slip
passing through his own yard. My father, whom I at-
tended in every stage of his last illness, I long mourned
for. Two brothers, very dear to me, I lost abroad. A
friend, more valuable than most brothers, was taken
from me.
No less than eleven affecting deaths in two
years! My nerves were so affected with these repeated
blows, that I have been forced, after trying the whole.
materia medica, and consulting many physicians, as the
only palliative, (not a remedy to be expected,) to go
into a regimen; and, for seven years past, have I for-
borne wine, and flesh, and fish; and, at this time, I and
all my family are in mourning for a good sister, with
whom neither I would have parted, could I have had my
choice. From these affecting dispensations, will you
not allow me, madam, to remind an unthinking world,
immersed in pleasures, what a life this is that they
are so fond of, and to arm them against the affecting
changes of it ?” ¹
1
But this amiable and excellent man was not deprived
of the most pleasing exercise of his affections, notwith-
standing the breaches which had been made among his
offspring. Four daughters survived to discharge those
¹ Life of Richardson, vol. i., p. 48, 49, 50.
14
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
duties which the affectionate temper of their father
rendered peculiarly precious to him. Mary was mar-
ried during her father's lifetime to Mr. Ditcher, a
respectable surgeon at Bath. Martha, who had been
his principal amanuensis, became, after his decease, the
wife of Edward Bridgen, Esq.; and Sarah married Mr.
Crowther, surgeon, in Boswell's Court. Anne, a woman
of a most amiable disposition, but whose weak health
had often alarmed the affections of her parents, sur-
vived, nevertheless, her sisters, as well as her parents.
A nephew of Richardson's paid him, in his declining
years, the duties of a son, and assisted him in the con-
ducting of his business; which concludes all it is neces-
sary to say concerning the descendants and connexions
of this distinguished author.
The private life of Richardson has nothing to detain
the biographer. We have mentioned the successive op-
portunities, which, cautiously yet ably improved, led
him to eminence in his highly respectable profession, by
that slow but secure progress, which has nothing in it
to arrest attention, or to gratify curiosity. He was un-
ceasingly industrious; led astray by no idle views of
speculation, and seduced by no temptations to prema-
ture expenditure. Industry brought independence, and,
finally, wealth in its train; and that well-won fortune
was husbanded with prudence, and expended with libe-
rality. A kind and generous master, he was eager to
encourage his servants to persevere in the same course
of patient labor by which he had himself attained for-
tune; and it is said to have been his common practice
to hide half-a-crown among the types, that it might re-
ward the diligence of the workman who should first be
in the office in the morning. His hospitality was of the
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
15
One
most liberal, as well as the most judicious kind.
of his correspondents describes him as sitting at his
door like an old patriarch, and inviting all who passed
by to enter, and be refreshed;-and this, says Mrs.
Barbauld, "whether they brought with them the means
of amusing their host, or only required his kind notice,
and that of his family." He was generous and benevo-
lent to distressed authors, a class of men with whom his
profession brought him into contact; and had occasion,
more than once, to succor Dr. Johnson during his days
of poverty,' and to assist his efforts to force himself into
public notice. The domestic revolutions of his life,
after mentioning the losses he had sustained in his
family, may be almost summed up in two great events.
He changed his villa, in which he indulged, like other
wealthy citizens, from North-End to Parsons-Green ;
and his printing establishment, from the one side of
Salisbury Court to the other; which last alteration, he
complains, did not meet Mrs. Richardson's approbation.
If we look yet closer into Richardson's private life,
(and who loves not to know the slightest particulars
concerning a man of his genius ?) we find so much to
praise, and so very little deserving censure, that we
almost think we are reading the description of one of
the amiable characters he has drawn in his own works.
A love of the human species; a desire to create happi-
ness and to witness it; a life undisturbed by passion,
and spent in doing good; pleasures which centred in
elegant conversation, in bountiful hospitality, in the ex-
1 [Johnson seems to have been, on one occasion at least, bailed out
of a spunging-house, by Richardson, and to have been in the habit of
applying to him for small loans of money, when his immediate employ-
ers were out of the way. See the first volume of Boswell.]
16
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
change of all the kindly intercourse of life,-marked
the worth and unsophisticated simplicity of the good
man's character. He loved children, and knew the rare
art of winning their attachment; for, partaking in that
respect the sagacity of the canine race, they are not to
be deceived by dissembled attention. A lady, who
shared the hospitality of Richardson, and gives an ex-
cellent account of the internal regulations of his virtu-
ous and orderly family, remembers creeping to his knee,
and hanging on his words, as well as the good-nature
with which he backed her petitions, to be permitted to
remain a little longer when she was summoned to bed,
and his becoming her guarantee, that she would not re-
quire the servant's assistance to put her to bed, and to
extinguish the candle. Trifling as these recollections.
may seem, they are pleasing proofs that the author of
Clarissa was, in private life, the mild good man which
we wish to suppose him.
The predominant failing of Richardson seems cer-
tainly to have been vanity; vanity naturally excited by
his great and unparalleled popularity at home and
abroad, and by the continual and concentred admiration
of the circle in which he lived. Such a weakness finds
root in the mind of every one who has obtained general
applause, but Richardson, the gentleness of whose mind
was almost feminine, was peculiarly susceptible of this
feminine weakness, and he fostered and indulged its
growth, which a man of firmer character would have
crushed and restrained. The cup of Circe converted
men into beasts; and that of praise, when deeply and
eagerly drained, seldom fails to make wise men in some
degree fools. There seems to have been a want of mas-
culine firmness in Richardson's habits of thinking,
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
17
which combined with his natural tenderness of heart in
inducing him to prefer the society of women; and
women, from the quickness of their feelings, as well as
their natural desire to please, are always the admirers,
or rather the idolaters, of genius, and generally its will-
ing flatterers. Richardson was in the daily habit of
seeing, conversing, and corresponding with many of the
fair sex; and the unvaried, and, it would seem, the in-
exhaustible theme, was his own writings. Hence, John-
son, whose lofty pride never suffered him to cherish the
meaner foible of vanity, has passed upon Richardson,
after a just tribute to his worth, the severe sentence re-
corded by Boswell :-"I only remember," says the bio-
grapher, "that Johnson expressed a high value for his
talents and virtues : But that his perpetual study was
to ward off petty inconveniences, and to procure petty
pleasures; that his love of continual superiority was
such, that he took care always to be surrounded by
women, who listened to him implicitly, and did not
venture to contradict his opinions; and that his desire
of distinction was so great, that he used to give large
vails to Speaker Onslow's servants, that they might
treat him with respect. An anecdote, which seems
to confirm Johnson's statement, is given by Boswell, on
authority of a lady who was present when the circum-
stance took place. A gentleman, who had lately been
at Paris, sought, while in a large company at Richard-
son's villa at North-End, to gratify the landlord, by
informing him that he had seen his Clarissa lying on the´
99 1
1 Life of Richardson, vol. i., p. 171, 172.—This character was given at
the house of a venerable Scottish Judge, now no more, who was so
great an admirer of Sir Charles Grandison, that he was said to have read
that work over once every year in the course of his life.
18
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
king's brother's table.' Richardson observing that a
part of the company were engaged in conversation
apart, affected not to hear what had been said, but took
advantage of the first general pause, to address the gen-.
tleman with-" Sir, I think you were saying something
about”—and then stopped, in a flutter of expectation ;
which his guest mortified, by replying, “A mere trifle,
sir, not worth repeating.""
The truth seems to be, that Richardson, by nature
shy, and of a nervous constitution, limited also by a
very narrow education, cared not to encounter in con-
versation with those rougher spirits of the age, where
criticism might have had too much severity in it. And
he seems to have been reserved even in the presence
of Johnson, though bound to him by obligation, and
although that mighty aristarch professed to have the
talent of "making him rear," and of calling forth his
powers. Nor does he appear to have associated much
3
1 ["Mr. Northcote relates, that Johnson introduced Sir Joshua Rey-
nolds and his sister to Richardson, but hinted to them, at the same time,
that, if they wished to see the latter in good humor, they must expa-
tiate on the excellences of 'Clarissa;' and Mrs. Piozzi tells us, that,
when talking of Richardson, he once said, 'You think I love flattery—
and so I do; but a little too much always disgusts me: that fellow
Richardson, on the contrary, could not be contented to sail quietly
down the stream of reputation, without longing to taste the froth from
every stroke of the oar.'"-CROKER'S Boswell, vol. i., p. 210.]
2 Johnson himself felt pride on finding his Dictionary in Lord Scars-
dale's dressing-room, and pointed it out to his friend, with the classical
quotation, Quæ terra nostri non plena laboris? Yet, under correction of
both these great authors, the more substantial fame is to find a popular
work, not in the closet of the great, who buy every book which bears a
name, but in the cabins of the poor, who must have made some sacrifice
to effect the purchase.
3 ["Richardson had little conversation except about his own works,
of which Sir Joshua Reynolds said he was always willing to talk, and
glad to have them introduced. Johnson, when he carried Mr. Langton
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
19
with any of the distinguished geniuses of the age, sav-
ing Dr. Young, with whom he corresponded late in life;
Aaron Hill, who patriotically endeavored to make him
a convert to wines of British manufacture; and Mr.
Edwards, author of the Canons of Criticism, though
both clever men, do not deserve to be mentioned as ex-
ceptions.
The society of Richardson was limited to a little cir-
cle of amiable and accomplished persons, who were con-
tented to allow a central position to the author of
Clarissa, and to revolve around him in inferior orbits.
The families of Highmore and Duncombe produced
more than one individual of this description; and be-
sides Mrs. Donellan, and the Miss Fieldings, whom
Richardson loved, notwithstanding the offences of their
brother, there was a Miss Mulso, Miss Westcombe, and
other ladies besides, full of veneration for the kind in-
structor, whom they were permitted to term their
adopted father. Mrs. Charlotte Lennox was also a re-
gular visitor at Parsons-Green, and scarce could remem-
ber a visit in which her host had not rehearsed at least
one, but probably two or three, voluminous letters, if
he found her in the humor of listening with attention.
While Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison were in
progress, Richardson used to read a part of his labors to
some of this chosen circle every morning, and receive, it
may readily be supposed, a liberal tribute of praise,
with a very moderate portion of criticism. Mrs. High-
more, who inherited a paternal taste for painting, has
to see him, professed that he could bring him out into conversation, and
used this allusive expression-'Sir, I can make him rear.' But he fail-
ed; for in that interview, Richardson said little else than that there lay
in the room a translation of his Clarissa into German."-CROKER'S Bos-
well, vol. v., p. 360.]
20
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
recorded one of those scenes in a small drawing, where
Richardson, in a morning-gown and cap, is introduced
reading the manuscript of Sir Charles Grandison to
such a little group.
This was all very amiable, though perhaps bordering
on an effeminate love of flattery and applause; but it
must be owned that our author disdained not flattery
from less pure hands than those of his ordinary compa-
nions. We will not dwell upon poor Lætitia Pilking-
ton, whose wants, rather than her extravagant praises,
may be supposed to have conciliated the kindness of
Richardson, notwithstanding the infamy of her charac-
ter ¹ but we are rather scandalized that the veteran
iniquity of old Cibber should not have excluded him
from the intimacy of the virtuous Richardson, and that
the grey profligate could render himself acceptable to
the author of Sir Charles Grandison by such effusions
of vulgar vivacity as the following, which we cannot
forbear inserting :-"I have just finished the sheets you
favored me with; but never found so strong a proof of
your sly ill-nature, as to have hung me up upon tenters
till I see you again. Z-ds! I have not patience, till I
know what's become of her.—Why, you! I don't know
what to call you!—Ah! ah! you may laugh if you
please: but how will you be able to look me in the face,
if the lady should ever be able to show hers again?
What piteous, d—d, disgraceful pickle have you plunged
her in? For God's sake send me the sequel; or—I don't
1 ["See Mrs: Pilkington's Memoirs, vol. ii., p. 238; and Nichols's
Literary Anecdotes, vol. iv., p. 583. It may be worth noting, that Læ-
titia describes herself as calling on Richardson in an undress, 'never
having formed any great idea of a printer by those she had seen in Ire-
land,' and being 'extremely surprised when she was directed to a house
of very grand outward appearance," "] -
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
21
know what to say!"-Yet another delectable quota-
tion from the letters of that merry old good-for-nothing,
which, as addressed by a rake of the theatre to the most
sentimental author of the age, and as referring to one of
his favorite and most perfect characters, is, in its way,
a matchless specimen of elegant vivacity." The deli-
cious meal I made of Miss Byron on Sunday last, has
given me appetite for another slice of her, off from the
spit, before she is served up to the public table; if
about five o'clock to-morrow afternoon will not be in-
convenient, Mrs. Brown and I will come and piddle
upon a bit more of her: but pray let your whole family,
with Mrs. Richardson at the head of them, come in for
their share.” 2
vor.
An appetite for praise, and an over-indulgence of that
appetite, not only teaches an author to be gratified with
the applause of the unworthy, and to prefer it to the
censure of the wise, but it leads to the less pardonable
error of begrudging others their due share of public fa-
Richardson was too good, too kind a man to let
literary envy settle deep in his bosom, yet an overween-
ing sense of his own importance seems to have prevent-
ed his doing entire justice to the claims of those who
might be termed his rivals. He appears to have been
rather too prone to believe ill of those authors, against
whose works exceptions, in point of delicacy, might
justly be taken. He has inserted in his Correspondence
an account of Swift's earlier life, highly injurious to the
character of that eminent writer, and which the indus-
try of Dr. Barrett has since shown to be a gross misre-
presentation. The same tone of feeling has made him
¹ Correspondence of Richardson, vol. ii., p. 172, 173.
2 Correspondence of Richardson, vol. ii., p. 176.
22
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
denounce, with the utmost severity, the indecorum of
Tristram Shandy, without that tribute of applause
which, in every view of the case, was so justly due to
the genius of the author, and which would have come
with particular propriety from Richardson, himself a
master of the pathetic style of composition. Richard-
son seems also to have joined Aaron Hill in the cuckoo-
song, that Pope had written himself out ;-and, finally,
the dislike which he manifests towards Fielding, though
it originated in a gratuitous insult on the part of the
latter, breaks out too often, and is too anxiously veiled
under an affectation of charity and candor, not to lead
us to suspect that the author of Tom Jones was at least
as obnoxious to Richardson through the success, as from
the alleged immorality, of his productions. It would
have been generous in the wealthier and happier of
these competitors for public fame, to have reflected,
that, while his own bark lay safe in harbor, or was waft-
ed on by the favoring gale of applause, his less fortu-
nate rival had to struggle with the current and the
storm. But as this disagreeable subject will be found
canvassed in Fielding's Life, we will not farther dwell
on it here. Of all pictures of literary life, that which
exhibits two men, of transcendent, though different ta-
lents, engaged in the depreciation of each other, is most
humbling to human nature, most unpleasing to a candid
and enlightened reader. Excepting against Fielding,
Richardson seems to have nourished no positive literary
feud. But it is to be regretted, that, in his Correspon-
dence, we find few traces that he either loved or ad-
mired contemporary genius.¹
¹ [Lord Byron, on finding some sheets of Pamela applied to "base
uses," at Ravenna, in 1821, thus writes:-"What would Richardson,
}
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
23
2
It may appear invidious to dwell thus long on a suffi-
ciently venial speck in a character so fair and amiable.
But it is no useless lesson to show, that a love of praise,
and a feeling of literary emulation, not to say vanity,
foibles pardonable in themselves, and rarely separated
from the poetical temperament, lead to consequences
detrimental to the deserved reputation of the most inge-
nious author, and the most worthy man, as a dead fly
will pollute the most precious unguent. Every author,
but especially those who cultivate the lighter kinds of
literature, should teach themselves the stern lesson, that
their art must fall under the frequent censure, Non est
tanti; and, for this reason, they should avoid, as they
would the circle of Alcina, that sort of society, who so
willingly form around every popular writer an atmo-
sphere of assentation and flattery, and represent his la-
bors as a matter of great consequence to the world, and
his popularity as a matter to be defended on all occa-
sions, and against all rivals.
Dismissing these considerations, we cannot omit to
state, that Richardson's correspondence with one of his
most intelligent and enthusiastic admirers, commenced,
and was for some time carried on, in a manner which
the vainest and luckiest of living authors, (i. e. while alive)—he who,
with Aaron Hill, used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall
of Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature) and of Pope (the most
beautiful of poets)—what would he have said, could he have traced his
pages from their place on the French princes' toilets (see Boswell) to
the grocer's counter and the gipsy-murderess's bacon!!! What would
he have said? What can any body say, save what Solomon said long be-
fore us? After all, it is but passing from one counter to another-from
the bookseller's to the other tradesman's-grocer or pastry-cook. For
my part, I have met with most poetry upon trunks; so that I am apt to
consider the trunk-maker as the sexton of authorship."-Life and Works,
vol. v., p. 55.]
24
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
might have formed a pleasing incident in one of the au-
thor's own romances. This was Lady Bradshaigh, the
wife of Sir Roger Bradshaigh, of Haigh, in Lancashire,
whose very considerable talent, and ardent taste for
literature, had to contend with the prejudices which in
those days seemed to have rendered it ridiculous for a
lady of rank and fashion, the wife of a country gentle-
man of estate and consideration, to enter into corre-
spondence with a professed author. To gratify the
strong propensity she felt to engage in literary inter-
course with an author of Richardson's distinction, Lady
Bradshaigh had recourse to the romantic expedient of
commencing the correspondence with him under an as-
sumed name. Thus, with all the precautions against
discovery which are sometimes resorted to for less hon-
est purposes, Richardson and his incognita maintained
a close exchange of letters, until they seem on both
sides to have grown desirous of becoming personally
known to each other; and the author was induced to
walk in the Park at a particular hour, and to send an
accurate description of his person, that his fair corre-
spondent might be able, herself unknown, to distinguish
him from the vulgar herd of passengers. The follow-
ing portrait exhibits all the graphical accuracy with
which the author was accustomed to detail the appea-
rance of his imaginary personages, and is at the same
time very valuable, as it describes the external appea-
rance of a man of genius, in whom great powers of ob-
serving life and manners were combined with bashful
and retired habits.
"I go through the Park," says Richardson, "once or
twice a-week to my little retirement; but I will, for a
week together, be in it every day three or four hours,
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
25
:
at your command, till you tell me you have seen a per-
son who answers to this description; namely, Short;
rather plump than emaciated, notwithstanding his com-
plaints; about five foot five inches; fair wig; lightish
cloth coat, all black besides; one hand generally in his
bosom, the other a cane in it, which he leans upon un-
der the skirts of his coat usually, that it may impercepti-
bly serve him as a support, when attacked by sudden
tremors or startings, and dizziness, which too frequent-
ly attack him, but, thank God, not so often as formerly;
looking directly fore-right, as passers-by would imagine,
but observing all that stirs on either hand of him with-
out moving his short neck; hardly ever turning back ;
of a light brown complexion; teeth not yet failing him;
smoothish-faced, and ruddy-cheeked at sometimes
looking to be about sixty-five, at other times much
younger; a regular even pace, stealing away ground,
rather than seeming to rid it: a grey eye, too often
over-clouded by mistiness from the head; by chance
lively; very lively it will be, if he have hope of seeing
a lady whom he loves and honors; his eye always on
the ladies; if they have very large hoops, he looks down
and supercilious, and as if he would be thought wise,
but perhaps the sillier for that as he approaches a
lady, his eye is never fixed first upon her face, but upon
her feet, and thence he raises it up, pretty quickly for a
dull eye; and one would think (if we thought him at
all worthy of observation) that from her air and (the
last beheld) her face, he sets her down in his mind as so
or so, and then passes on to the next object he meets;
only then looking back, if he greatly likes or dislikes, as
if he would see if the lady appear to be all of a piece, in
the one light or in the other. Are these marks distinct
:
26
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
enough, if you are resolved to keep all the advantages
you set out with? And from this odd, this grotesque
figure, think you, madam, that you have any thing to
apprehend? Any thing that will not rather promote
than check your mirth? I dare be bold to say (and al-
low it too) that you would rather see this figure thar
any other you ever saw, whenever you should find your
self graver than you wish to bé.” ¹
Lady Bradshaigh, like other ladies upon similar occa
sions, could not resist the opportunity of exercising &
little capricious tyranny. Richardson's walks in the
Park were for some time unnoticed. Both parties seem
to have indulged in a gentle coquetry, until both were
likely to lose temper, and the complaints on the gentle
man's side became a little keen and eager. At length,
Lady Bradshaigh dropped the mask, and continued af-
terwards to be in her own person the valued correspon-
dent of the author. It is but justice to say, that the
sense and spirit with which she supports her own views,
even when contrary to those of Richardson, render ḥer
letters the most agreeable in the collection, and consti-
tute a great difference betwixt her and some others of
the author's female correspondents, who are satisfied
with becoming the echoes of his sentiments and opin-
ions. Lady Bradshaigh had a sister, Lady. Echlin, who
also corresponded with Richardson; but although she
appears to have been an excellent woman, her letters
want both the vivacity and talent displayed in those of
Lady Bradshaigh. Yet Lady Echlin, too, had her mo-
ments of ambitious criticism. She even tried her hand
at reforming Lovelace, as Mrs. Barbauld informs us, by
the aid of a Dr. Christian; a consummation, as the
¹ Correspondence of Richardson, vol. iv., p. 290, 291, 292.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
27
reader will anticipate, much better meant than success-
fully executed.
Neither the admiration of the public, the applause of
admirers, nor the deserved affection of his friends and
family, could screen this amiable author from his share
in the lot of humanity. Besides his family misfortunes,
Richardson was afflicted with indifferent health, in the
painful shape of nervous disorders. Sedentary habits,
and close attention to business, had rendered a constitu-
tion delicate, which nature had never made strong; and
it will readily be believed, that the workings of an im-
agination, constantly laboring in the fields of fiction, in-
creased, rather than relieved, complaints, which affected
his nerves at an early period. If, as he somewhere says,
he made the distress of his characters his own, and wept
for Clarissa, and Clementina, as if they had not been
the creatures of his own fancy, the exhaustion of his
spirits must have exasperated his malady. His nerves
were latterly so much shaken, that he could not convey
a glass of wine to his mouth, unless it was put into a
large tumbler; and becoming unable to undergo the
fatigue of conversing with the principal superintendent
of his business, who chanced unluckily to be hard of
hearing, all communication between them was main-
tained by means of writing. He did not long survive
the space assigned by the Psalmist as the ordinary du-
ration of human life. On the 4th July, 1761, Samuel
Richardson died, aged seventy-two, and was buried, ac-
cording to his own directions, beside his first wife, in
the middle aisle of St. Bride's Church, followed by the
affectionate grief of those who were admitted to his so-
ciety, and the sorrow of all who mourned over talents
uniformly and conscientiously dedicated to the service
23
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
of virtue. The following epitaph was written by his
learned friend, Mrs. Carter, but is not, we believe, in-
scribed on his tomb.
"If ever warm benevolence was dear,
If ever wisdom gain'd esteem sincere,
Or genuine fancy deep attention won,
Approach with awe the dust-of Richardson.
What though his muse, through distant regions known,
Might scorn the tribute of this humble stone;
Yet pleasing to his gentle shade, must prove
The meanest pledge of Friendship, and of Love;
For oft will these, from venal throngs exiled,
And oft will innocence, of aspect mild,
And white-robed Charity, with streaming eyes,
Frequent the cloister where their patron lies.
This, reader, learn; and learn from one whose woe
Bids her wild verse in artless accents flow:
For, could she frame her numbers to commend
The husband, father, citizen, and friend;
How would her muse display, in equal strain,
The critic's judgment, and the writer's vein !—
Ah, no! expect not from the chisel'd stone
The praises, graven on our hearts alone.
There shall his fame a lasting shrine acquire;
And ever shall his moving page inspire
Pure truth, fixt honor, virtue's pleasing lore,
While taste and science crown this favor'd shore." 1
Richardson's character as a man, after all deductions
have been made for circumstances and for human frailty,
cannot be too highly estimated. It remains only to con-
sider him as an author, and, for this purpose, to review
his literary career, and the productions which it gave
rise to.
Ir was by mere accident that Richardson appears to
have struck out the line of composition so peculiarly
¹ Life of Richardson, vol. i., p. 212.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
29
adapted to his genius. He had at all times the pen of a
ready correspondent; and, from his early age, had, as
we have seen, been accustomed to lend it to others, and
to write, of course, under different characters from his
own. There can be no doubt, that, in the service of the
young women who employed him as their amanuensis
and confidant, this natural talent must have been con-
siderably improved; and as little that the exercise of
such a power was pleasing to the possessor. Chance at
length occasioned its being employed in the service of
the public. The account will be best given in the words
of his own letter to Aaron Hill, who, in common with
the public at large, had become pressingly anxious to
know if there was any foundation in fact for the history
of Pamela.
"I will now write to your question-Whether there
was any original groundwork of fact, for the general
foundation of Pamela's story.
"About twenty-five years ago, a gentleman, with
whom I was intimately acquainted, but who, alas! is
now no more! [probably the "correspondent of fortune
and rank,” mentioned p. 11,] met with such a story as
that of Pamela, in one of the summer tours which he
used to take for his pleasure, attended with one servant
only. At every inn he put up at, it was his way to en-
quire after curiosities in its neighborhood, either ancient.
or modern; and particularly he asked who was the
owner of a fine house, as it seemed to him, beautifully
situated, which he had passed by, (describing it,) within
a mile or two of the inn.
"It was a fine house, the landlord said. The owner
was Mr. B- a gentleman of a large estate in more
counties than one. That his and his lady's history en-
"
30
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
gaged the attention of everybody who came that way,
and put a stop to all other enquiries, though the house
and gardens were well worth seeing. The lady, he said,
was one of the greatest beauties in England; but the
qualities of her mind had no equal; beneficent, prudent,
and equally beloved and admired by high and low.
That she had been taken at twelve years of age, for the
sweetness of her manners and modesty, and for an un-
derstanding above her years, by Mr. B's mother, a
truly worthy lady, to wait on her person. Her parents,
ruined by suretiships, were remarkably honest and pious,
and had instilled into their daughter's mind the best
principles. When their misfortunes happened first, they
attempted a little school, in their village, where they
were much beloved; he teaching writing, and the first
rules of arithmetic, to boys; his wife plain needle-
work to girls, and to knit and spin; but that it answered
not and, when the lady took their child, the industri-
ous man earned his bread by day labor, and the lowest
kind of husbandry.
"That the girl, improving daily in beauty, modesty,
and genteel and good behavior, by the time she was
fifteen, engaged the attention of her lady's son, a young
gentleman of free principles, who, on her lady's death,
attempted, by all manner of temptations and devices,
to seduce her. That she had recourse to as many inno-
cent stratagems to escape the snares laid for her virtue ;
once, however, in despair, having been near drowning;
that at last, her noble resistance, watchfulness, and ex-
cellent qualities, subdued him, and he thought fit to
make her his wife. That she behaved herself with so
much dignity, sweetness, and humility, that she made
herself beloved of everybody, and even by his relations,
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
31
who at first despised her; and now had the blessings
both of rich and poor, and the love of her husband.
"The gentleman who told me this, added, that he had
the curiosity to stay in the neighborhood from Friday
to Sunday, that he might see this happy couple at
church, from which they never absented themselves
that, in short, he did see them; that her deportment
was all sweetness, ease, and dignity mingled; that he
never saw a lovelier woman: that her husband was as
fine a man, and seemed even proud of his choice; and
that she attracted the respects of the persons of rank
present, and had the blessings of the poor.-The relater
of the story told me all this with transport.
(6
This, sir, was the foundation of Pamela's story; but
little did I think to make a story of it for the press.
That was owing to this occasion.
"Mr. Rivington and Mr. Osborne, whose names are
on the titlepage, had long been urging me to give them
a little book (which, they said, they were often asked
after) of familiar letters on the useful concerns in com-
mon life; and, at last, I yielded to their importunity,
and began to recollect such subjects as I thought would
be useful in such a design, and formed several letters
accordingly. And, among the rest, I thought of giving
one or two as cautions to young folk circumstanced as
Pamela was. Little did I think, at first, of making one,
much less two volumes of it. But, when I began to re-
collect what had, so many years before, been told me by
my friend, I thought the story, if written in an easy and
natural manner, suitable to the simplicity of it, might
possibly introduce a new species of writing, that might
possibly turn young people into a course of reading dif-
ferent from the pomp and parade of romance-writing,
1
32
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
•
and, dismissing the improbable and marvellous, with
which novels generally abound, might tend to promote
the cause of religion and virtue. I therefore gave way
to enlargement; and so Pamela became as you see her.
But so little did I hope for the approbation of judges,
that I had not the courage to send the two volumes to
your ladies, until I found the books well received by
the public.
"While I was writing the two volumes, my worthy-
hearted wife, and the young lady who is with us, when
I had read them some part of the story, which I had
begun without their knowing it, used to come in to my
little closet every night, with-'Have you any more of
Pamela, Mr. R.? We are come to hear a little more of
Pamela,' &c. This encouraged me to prosecute it,
which I did so diligently, through all my other busi-
ness, that, by a memorandum on my copy, I began it
Nov. 10, 1739, and finished it Jan. 10, 1739-40. And I
have often, censurable as I might be thought for my
vanity for it, and lessening to the taste of my two fe-
male friends, had the story of Moliere's Old Woman in
my thoughts upon the occasion.
"If justly low were my thoughts of this little history,
you will wonder how it came by such an assuming and
very impudent preface. It was thus:-The approba-
tion of these two female friends, and of two more, who
were so kind as to give me prefaces for it, but which
were much too long and circumstantial, as I thought,
made me resolve myself on writing a preface; I there-
fore, spirited by the good opinion of these four, and
knowing that the judgments of nine parts in ten of
readers were but in hanging-sleeves, struck a bold stroke
in the preface you see, having the umbrage of the edi-
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
33
tor's character¹ to screen myself behind.—And thus, sir,
all is out."
Pamela, of which the reader has thus learned the
origin, appeared in 1740, and made a most powerful
sensation in the public. Hitherto, romances had been
written, generally speaking, in the old French taste,
containing the protracted amours of princes and prin-
cesses, told in language coldly extravagant, and meta-
physically absurd. In these wearisome performances,
there appeared not the most distant allusion to the ordi-
nary tone of feeling, the slightest attempt to paint man-
kind as it exists in the ordinary walks of life—all was
rant and bombast, stilt and buskin. It will be Richard-
son's eternal praise, did he merit no more, that he tore
1 Under the character of the Editor, he gave great commendations to
the letters, for which he was blamed by some of his friends. ["The
extreme delight which Richardson felt on a review of his own works,
the works themselves witness. Each is an evidence of what some will
deem a violent literary vanity. To Pamela is prefixed a letter from the
editor, (whom we know to be the author,) consisting of one of the most
minutely labored panegyrics of the work itself, that even the blindest
idolater of some ancient classic paid to the object of his phrenetic ima-
gination. In several places there, he contrives to repeat the striking
parts of the narrative, which display the fertility of his imagination to
great advantage. To the author's own edition of his Clarissa is ap-
pended an alphabetical arrangement of the sentiments dispersed through-
out the work; and such was the fondness that dictated this voluminous
arrangement, that such trivial aphorisms as 'habits are not easily
changed;' 'men are known by their companions,' &c., seem alike to
be the object of their author's admiration. This collection of senti-
ments, said indeed to have been sent him anonymously, is curious and
useful, and shows the value of the work, by the extensive grasps of
that mind, which could think so justly on such numerous topics. And
in his third and final labors, to each volume of Sir Charles Grandison
is not only prefixed a complete index, with as much exactness, as if it
were a history of England, but there is also appended a list of the
similes and allusions in the volume, some of which do not exceed thrce
or four, in nearly as many hundred pages.”—D'ISRAELI. ]
!
34
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
from his personages those painted vizards, which con-
cealed, under a clumsy and affected disguise, every
thing like the natural lineaments of the human counte-
nance, and placed them before us bare-faced, in all the
actual changes of feature and complexion, and all the
light and shade of human passion. It requires a reader
to be in some degree acquainted with the huge folios.
of inanity, over which our ancestors yawned themselves
to sleep, ere he can estimate the delight they must have
experienced from this unexpected return to truth and
nature.
The simplicity of Richardson's tale aided the effect of
surprise. An innocent young woman, whose virtue a
dissolute master assails by violence, as well as all the
milder means of seduction, conquers him at last, by per-
severing in the paths of rectitude; and is rewarded, by
being raised to the station of his wife, the lawful par-
ticipator in his rank and fortune. Such is the simple.
story by which the world was so much surprised and
affected.
The judicious criticism of Mrs. Barbauld has pointed
out, that the character of Pamela is far from attaining
a heroic cast of excellence. On the contrary, there is a
strain of cold-blooded prudence which runs through all
the latter part of the novel, to which we are obliged
almost to deny the name of virtue. She appears origi-
nally to have had no love for Mr. B——; no passion to
combat in her own bosom; no treachery to subdue in
the garrison while the enemy was before the walls.
Richardson voluntarily evaded giving this coloring to
his tale, because it was intended more for edification
than for effect; and because the example of a soubrette
falling desperately in love with a handsome young
1
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
35
master, might have been imitated by many in that rank
of life, who could not have defended themselves exactly
like Pamela against the object of so dangerous a pas-
sion. Besides, Richardson was upon principle unwilling
to exhibit his favored characters as greatly subject to
violent passion of any kind, and was much disposed to
dethrone Cupid, whom romance-writers had installed as
the literal sovereign of gods and men. Still, the charac-
ter of Pamela is somewhat sunk by the eager gratitude
with which she accepts the hand of a tyrannical and
cruel master, when he could not at a cheaper rate make
himself master of her person. There is a parade of
generosity on his side, and a humiliating degree of
creeping submission on hers, which the case by no
means calls for, and unless, like her namesake in Pope's
Satire, Pamela could console herself with the " gilt
chariot and the Flanders mares," we should have
thought her more likely to be happy as the humble
wife of poor Mr. Williams, of whose honest affection
she makes somewhat too politic a use in the course of
her trials, and whom she discards too coolly when better
prospects seem to open upon her.
It is, perhaps, invidious to enter too closely upon the
general tendency of a work of entertainment. But
when the admirers of Pamela challenged for that work
the merit of doing more good than twenty sermons,'
1 ["This publication, we are told, which made its first appearance in
1740, was received with a burst of applause. Dr. Sherlock recom-
mended it from the pulpit. Mr. Pope said it would do more good than
twenty volumes of sermons; and another literary oracle declared, that
if all other books were to be burnt, Pamela and the Bible should be pre-
served. Its success was not less brilliant in the world of fashion.
'Even at Ranelagh,' Mrs. Barbauld assures us, 'it was usual for the
ladies to hold up the volumes to one another, to show they had got the
36
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
we must demur to the motion. Its good effects must
of course have operation among young women in cir-
cumstances somewhat similar to those of the heroine;
and in that rank, it may be questioned, whether the ex-
ample is not as well calculated to encourage a spirit of
rash enterprise, as of virtuous resistance. If Pamela
became Esquire B's lady, it was only on account of
her virtuous resistance to his criminal attacks; but it
may occur to a humble maiden, (and the case we believe
is not hypothetical,) that to merit Pamela's reward, she
must go through Pamela's trials; and there can be no
great harm in affording some encouragement to the
assailant. We need not add how dangerous this expe-
riment must be for both parties.
But we have elsewhere intimated an opinion, that the
direct and obvious moral to be deduced from a fictitious
narrative, is of much less consequence to the public,
than the mode in which the story is treated in the
course of its details. If the author introduces scenes
which excite evil passions, if he familiarizes the mind of
the readers with impure ideas, or sophisticates their
understanding with false views of morality, it will be
an unavailing defence, that, in the end of his book, he
has represented virtue as triumphant. In the same
manner, although some objections may be made to the
deductions which the author desired and expected
should be drawn from the story of Pamela, yet the
pure and modest character of the English maiden is so
well maintained during the work; her sorrows and
book that every one was talking of.' And, what will appear still more
extraordinary, one gentleman declares, that he will give it to his son as
soon as he can read, that he may have an early impression of virtue.”.
Edinburgh Review, October, 1804.]
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
37
afflictions are borne with so much meekness; her little
intervals of hope or comparative tranquillity break in on
her troubles so much like the specks of blue sky through
a. cloudy atmosphere, that the whole recollection is
soothing, tranquillizing, and doubtless edifying. We
think little of Mr. B, his character, or his motives,
and are only delighted with the preferment of our
favorite, because it seems to give so much satisfaction
to herself. The pathetic passage, in which she describes
her ineffectual attempt to escape, may be selected,
among many, as an example of the beautiful propriety
and truth, with which the author was able to throw
himself into the character of his heroine, and to think
and reason, and express those thoughts and reasons,
exactly as she must have done had the fictitious incident
really befallen such a person.
The inferior persons are sketched with great truth,
and may be considered as a group of English portraits
of the period. In particular, the characters of the
father and mother, old Andrews and his wife, are, like
that of Pamela herself, in the very best style of draw-
ing and coloring; and the interview of the former with
his landlord, when he enquires after the fate of his
daughter, would have immortalized Richardson, had he
never wrote another line.
It may be here observed, that, had the author lived
in the present day, he would probably have thrown into
the character of the deeply-injured peasant a spirit of
manly indignation, which the occasion demanded. But
in Richardson's time, the bonds of subordination in so-
ciety were drawn very strictly, and he himself appears
to have had high and exaggerated ideas of the impor-
tance of wealth and rank, as well as of domestic autho-
38
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
rity of every kind. Mr. B― does not seem to have
incurred any severe censure among his neighbors for the
villanies which he practises upon Pamela; she herself
supposes them more than atoned for by his condescension
in wedding her, and consents to receive into favor even
the unwomanly and infamous Mrs. Jewkes, because the
old procuress had acted a part she should have been
hanged for, at the command, forsooth, of a generous.
master. There is want of taste in this humiliation; and
a touch of spirit upon the occasion would not have mis-
become even the all-forgiving Pamela.
Notwithstanding such defects, which, in fact, only
occur to us upon a critical perusal, the pleasing simpli-
city of a tale so true to nature commanded the general
and enthusiastic applause of the public. It was in vain
that the mischievous wit of Fielding found a source for
ridicule in that very simplicity of moral and of incident,
and gave the world Joseph Andrews, an avowed parody
upon the Pamela of Richardson. It chanced with that
very humorous performance as with the Shepherd's
Week of Gay, that readers lost sight altogether of the
satirical purpose with which it was written, and were
delighted with it on account of its own intrinsic merit.
We may be permitted to regret, therefore, the tone of
mind with which Fielding composed a work, in pro-
fessed ridicule of such genius as that of Richardson;
but how can we wish that undone, without which Par-
son Adams would not have existed?
The success of Pamela induced some wretched imita-
tor to carry on the story in a continuation, entitled
Pamela in High Life. This intrusion provoked Rich-
ardson to a similar attempt, in which he represents.
Pamela's husband as reclaimed from the prosecution of
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
39
a guilty intrigue by the patient sorrows of his virtuous
wife. The work met with the usual fate of continua-
tions, and has been always justly accounted an unnatu-
ral and unnecessary appendage to a tale sọ complete
within itself as the first part of Pamela.
Eight years after the appearance of Pamela, Richard-
son published Clarissa, the work on which his fame as
a classic of England will rest for ever. The tale, like
that of its predecessor, is very simple; but the scene is
laid in a higher rank of life, the characters are drawn
with a bolder pencil, and the whole accompaniments are
of a far loftier mood.
Clarissa, a character as nearly approaching to perfec-
tion as the pencil of the author could draw, is perse-
cuted by a tyrannical father and brother, an envious
sister, and the other members of a family, who devoted
every thing to its aggrandizement, in order to compel
her to marry a very disagreeable suitor. These in-
trigues and distresses she communicates, in a series of
letters, to her friend Miss Howe, a young lady of an
ardent, impetuous disposition, and an enthusiast in
friendship. After a series of sufferings, rising almost
beyond endurance, Clarissa is tempted to throw herself
upon the protection of her admirer Lovelace, a charac-
ter, in painting whom Richardson has exerted his utmost
skill, until he has attained the very difficult and critical
point, of rendering every reader pleased with his wit
and abilities, even while detesting the villany of his
conduct. Lovelace is represented as having devoted
his life and his talents to the subversion of female
virtue; and not even the charms of Clarissa, or the
generosity due to her unprotected situation, can recon-
Y
40
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
cile him to the idea of marriage. This species of per-
verted Quixotry is not much understood in the present
age, when a modern voluptuary seeks the gratification
of his passions where it is most easily obtained, and is
seldom at the trouble of assault, when there is any pro-
bability of the fortress being resolutely defended. But
in former days, when men, like Lord Baltimore, were
found, at the risk of life itself, capable of employing
the most violent means for the ruin of innocence, a
character approaching that of Lovelace was not perhaps
so unnatural. That he should have been so successful
in previous amours, is not very probable; and as Mrs.
Barbauld justly observes, he was more likely to have
been run through the body long before ever he saw Colo-
nel Morden. But some exaggeration must be allowed to
the author of a romance; and considering the part which
Lovelace had to perform, it was necessary that his cha-
racter should be highly colored. This perfidious lover,
actuated, it would seem, as much by the love of intrigue
and of enterprise, as by his desire to humble the Har-
lowe family, and lower the pride of this their beloved
daughter, whose attachment to him was not of the de-
voted character which he conceived was due to his
merits, forms a villanous scheme for the destruction of
her virtue. Without the least regard for the character
of a woman, whom he always seems to have intended
for his wife at some future period, he contrives to lodge
her with the keeper of a common brothel, and to place
around her the inmates of such a place. At length,
every effort to accomplish his guilty purpose having
failed, he administers opiates, and violates the person
of his victim while under their influence. But he ob-
tains nothing by his crime, save infamy and remorse.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
41
The lady dies of a broken heart, and he himself falls by
the sword of one of her kinsmen.
It cannot be denied, that this story is attended with
many improbabilities. Allowing for Lovelace's very
peculiar character, admitting that his selfishness, his
pride, and his love of intrigue, had hardened his heart.
to all consequences, surrounded it, as he himself says,
"with flint and callus," and induced him to prefer a
crooked and most foul path to one which was fair and
honorable, there is no excuse for his correspondent Bel-
ford, as a man and a gentleman, keeping his friend's in-
famous secret. Nay, we are apt to blame Clarissa her-
self, who, in her escape to Hampstead, did not place.
herself under the guardianship of a magistrate. We
will venture to say, that Justice Fielding would have
afforded her his most effectual protection; and that if
Tomlinson, the false Miss Montague, or any other of
Lovelace's agents, had ventured to appear in the office,
they would have been committed by his worship as old
acquaintances. In our own day too, though that was
not a feature of the writer's age, the whole story of the
elopement would have flown on the wings of the news-
papers, not to Hampstead and Highgate only, but to
Truro and Newcastle-upon-Tyne; and not a Mrs. Moore
or a Mrs. Rawlins in England but would have been too
particularly acquainted with "the mysterious affair of
Harlowe-Place," to be deceived by the representations
of Lovelace. But it is unfair to tax an author too
severely upon improbabilities, without conceding which
his story could have no existence; and we have the less
title to do so, because, in the history of real life, that
which is actually true bears often very little resemblance
to that which is probable. If every assault were skil-
42
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
fully parried, and every man played with ability, life
would become like a trial of skill with foils, or like a
game at chess, and strength and address would no
longer be defeated by time and chance, which, in the
words of Solomon, happen unto all men.
The conduct of the injured Clarissa through the sub-
sequent scenes, which are perhaps among the most af-
fecting and sublime in the English school of romance,
raises her, in her calamitous condition, so far above all
around her, that her character beams on the reader with
something like superhuman splendor. Our eyes weep,
our hearts ache; yet our feelings triumph with the
triumph of virtue, as it rises over all the odds which the
deepest misfortune, and even degradation, have thrown
into the scale. There is a noble pride amid the sorrow
with which we contemplate the distresses of such a
being as Clarissa, becoming more exalted over that per-
sonal dishonor, which, when it has once taken place,
under what circumstances soever, is generally under-
stood to infer degradation. It was reserved to Richard-
son to show there is a chastity of the soul, which can
beam out spotless and unsullied even after that of the
person has been violated; and the dignity of Clarissa,
under her disgrace and her misfortunes, reminds us of
the saying of the ancient poet, that a good man, strug-
gling with the tide of adversity, and surmounting it,
was a sight which the immortal gods might look down
upon with pleasure. This is a subject which Mrs. Bar-
bauld has dwelt upon with a suitable feeling of the dig-
nity of her sex. The more contracted and limited view
of Clarissa's merit, merely as resisting the efforts of a
practised seducer, although it was unquestionably in
Richardson's view, his biographer reasonably spurns as
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
43
degrading to womanhood. Clarissa, bred in a superior
rank in life, led astray by no strong passion, courted by
a lover, who had immediate marriage in his power,
must have been a subordinate person'indeed, if incapa-
ble of repelling his attempts at dishonoring her person
I cannot avoid transcribing the excellent reflections
which follow this reasoning :-"The real moral of Cla-
rissa is, that virtue is triumphant in every situation;
that in circumstances the most painful and degrading,
in a prison, in a brothel, in grief, in distraction, in
despair, it is still lovely, still commanding, still the
object of our veneration, of our fondest affections;
that, if it is seated on the ground, it can still say with.
Constance,
'Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.'
"The Novelist that has produced this effect, has per-
formed his office well, and it is immaterial what particu-
lar maxim is selected under the name of a moral while
such are the reader's feelings. If our feelings are in
favor of virtue, the novel is virtuous; if of vice, the
novel is vicious. The greatness of Clarissa is shown by
her separating herself from her lover, as soon as she per-
ceives his dishonorable views; in her choosing death
rather than a repetition of the outrage; in her rejection
of those overtures of marriage, which a common mind
might have accepted of, as a refuge against worldly dis-
honor; in her firm, indignant carriage, mixed with calm
patience and Christian resignation, and in the greatness
of mind with which she views and enjoys the approaches
of death, and her meek forgiveness of her unfeeling re-
lations." ¹
Life of Richardson, vol. i., p. 150.
44
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
These arguments, however, were not at first readily
admitted by Richardson's warmest admirers. The first
four volumes of Clarissa having appeared, and a report
having been spread that the catastrophe was to be un-
fortunate, many remonstrances were made on the subject
by those readers who shrunk from the extreme pain
inflicted by the tragical part of the narrative, and, lay-
ing aside the contemplation of the moral, complained,
that in a professed work of amusement, the author had
contrived to harrow up their feelings to a degree that
was intolerably painful. Old Cibber raved on the sub-
ject like a profane Bedlamite; and what was perhaps of
more consequence to Richardson, the rumor of Love-
lace's success, and Clarissa's death, occasioned Lady
Bradshaigh's opening her romantic correspondence with
him, under the assumed name of Belfour. In reply to
the expostulations of the latter, Richardson frankly
stated his own noble plan, of which he had too just
a conception to alter it, in compliance with the remon-
strances of his correspondents.
"Indeed you are not particular in your wishes for a
happy ending, as it is called. Nor can I go through
some of the scenes myself without being sensibly touch-
ed. (Did I not say that I was another Pygmalion?)
But yet I had to show, for example sake, a young lady
struggling nobly with the greatest difficulties, and
triumphing from the best motives, in the course of dis-
tresses, the tenth part of which would have sunk even
manly hearts; yet tenderly educated, born to affluence,
naturally meek, although, where an exertion of spirit
was necessary, manifesting herself to be a true he-
roine." ¹
1
1 Correspondence of Richardson, vol. iv., p. 186.
J
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
45
Defeated in this point, the friends and correspondents
of Richardson became even more importunate for the
reformation of Lovelace, and the winding up the story
by his happy union with Clarissa. On this subject also,
Cibber ranted and the ladies implored, with an earnest-
ness that seems to imply at once a belief that the persons
in whom they interested themselves had an existence,
and that it was in the power of the writer of their me-
moirs to turn their destiny which way he pleased; and
one damsel, eager for the conversion of Lovelace, im-
plores Richardson to "save his soul;" as if there had
been actually a living sinner in the case, and his future
state had literally depended on the decision to be pro-
nounced by her admired author.
Against all these expostulations Richardson hardened
himself. He knew that to bestow Clarissa upon the
repentant Lovelace would have been to undermine the
fabric he had built. This was the very purpose which
the criminal had proposed to himself in the atrocious
crime he had committed, and it was to dismiss him from
the scene rewarded, not punished. The sublimity of the
moral would have been altogether destroyed, since vice
would have been no longer rendered hateful and misera-
ble through its very success, nor virtue honored and
triumphant even by its degradation. The death of
Clarissa alone could draw down on the guilty head of
her betrayer the just and necessary retribution, and his
guilt was of far too deep a dye to be otherwise expiated.
Besides, the author felt, and forcibly pointed out, the
degradation which the fervent creation of his fancy
must have sustained, could she, with all her wrongs for-
gotten, and with the duty imposed on her by matrimony,
to love, honor, and obey her betrayer, have sat down the
46
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
commonplace good wife of her reformed rake. Indeed,
those who peruse the work with attention, will perceive
that the author has been careful, in the earlier stages of
his narrative, to bar out every prospect of such a union.
Notwithstanding the levities and constitutional good-
humor of Lovelace, his mind is too much perverted, his
imagination too much inflamed, by his own insane Quixo-
tism, and, above all, his heart is too much hardened, to
render it possible for any one seriously to think of his
conversion as sincere, or his union with Clarissa as happy.
He had committed a crime for which he deserved death
by the law of the country; and notwithstanding those
good qualities with which the author has invested him,
that he may not seem an actual incarnate fiend, there is
no reader but feels vindictive pleasure when Morden
passes the sword through his body.
On the other hand, Clarissa, reconciled to her violator,
must have lost, in the eye of the reader, that dignity,
with which the refusal of his hand, the only poor repara-
tion he could offer, at present invests her; and it was
right and fitting that a creature, every way so excellent,
should, as is fabled of the ermine, pine to death on ac-
count of the stain with which she had been so injuriously
sullied. We cannot, consistently with the high idea
which we have previously entertained of her purity of
character, imagine her surviving the contamination. On
the whole, as Richardson himself pleaded, Clarissa has,
as the narrative presently stands, the greatest of triumphs.
even in this world-the greatest, even in and after the
outrage, and because of the outrage, that any woman
ever had.
It has often been observed, that the extreme severity
of the parents and relatives in this celebrated novel does
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
47
not belong to our day, or perhaps even to Richardson's ;
and that Clarissa's dutiful scruples at assuming her own
estate, or extricating herself by Miss Howe's means, are
driven to extremity. Something, no doubt, is to be
allowed for the license of an author, who must necessa-
rily, in order to command interest and attention, extend
his incidents to the extreme verge of probability; but,
besides, it is well known, that at least within the cen-
tury, the notions of the patria potestas were of a much
severer nature than those now entertained. Forced
marriages in those days did sometimes actually take
place, and that in houses of considerable rank; and the
voice of public opinion had then comparatively little
effect upon great and opulent families, inhabiting their
country-seats, and living amid their own dependents,
where strange violences were sometimes committed, un-
der the specious pretext of enforcing domestic discipline.
Each family was a little tribe within itself; and the near
relations, like the elders among the Jews, had their San-
hedrim, where resolutions were adopted, as laws to con-
trol the free will of each individual member. It is upon
this family compact that the Harlowes ground the rights
which they assert with so much tyranny; and before the
changes which have slackened the bonds of relationship,
we believe that such incidents were not infrequent. But
whether we consider Richardson as exhibiting a state of
manners which may have lingered in the remote parts of
England down to his own time, or suppose that he color-
ed them according to his own invention, and particularly
according to his high notions of the "awful rule and
right supremacy," lodged in the head of a family, there
can be no doubt of the spirit with which the picture is
executed; and particularly of the various gradations in
48
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
which the Harlowe spirit exhibits itself, in the insolent.
and conceited brother, the mean and envious sister, the
stern and unrelenting father, softened down in the elder
brother James, and again roughened and exaggerated in
the old seaman Anthony, each of whom, in various mo-
difications, exhibits the same family features of avarice,
pride, and ambition.
Miss Howe is an admirably sketched character, drawn
in strong contrast to that of Clarissa, yet worthy of
being her friend-with more of worldly perspicacity,
though less of abstracted principle; and who, when they
argue upon points of doubt and delicacy, is often able,
by going directly to the question at issue, to start the
game, while her more gifted correspondent does but beat
the bush. Her high spirit and disinterested devotion for
her friend, acknowledging, as she does on all occasions,
her own inferiority, show her in a noble point of view;
and though we are afraid she must have given honest
Hickman (notwithstanding her resolutions to the con-
trary) rather an uneasy time of it after marriage, yet it
is impossible not to think that she was a prize worth
suffering for.
The publication of Clarissa raised the fame of the
author to the height. No work had appeared before,
perhaps none has appeared since, containing so many
direct appeals to the passions, stated too in a manner so
irresistible. And high as his reputation stood in his own
country, it was even more exalted in those of France and
Germany, whose imaginations are more easily excited,
and their passions more easily moved by tales of fictitious
distress, than are the cold-blooded English. Foreigners
of distinction have been known to visit Hampstead, and
to enquire for the Flask-walk, distinguished as a scene in
►
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
49
Clarissa's history, just as travellers visit the rocks of
Meillerie to view the localities of Rousseau's tale of pas-
sion. Diderot vied with Rousseau in heaping incense
upon the shrine of the English author. The former
compares him to Homer, and predicts for his memory
the same honors which are rendered to the Father of
Epic poetry; and the last, besides his well-known burst
of eloquent panegyric, records his opinion in a letter to
D'Alembert: "On n'a jamais fait encore, en quelque
langue que ce soit, de roman égal à Clarisse, ni même
approchant."
1
1 ["The fervent opinion of Rousseau," says Mr. D'Israeli, "must be
familiar to every reader; but Diderot, in his éloge on Richardson, ex-
ceeds even Rousseau in the enthusiasm of his feelings. I extract some
of the most interesting passages. 'Of Clarissa,' he says, 'I yet remem-
ber with delight the first time it came into my hands. I was in the
country. How deliciously I was affected! At every moment I saw my
happiness abridged by a page. I then experienced the same sensations
those feel who have long lived with one they love, and are on the point
of separation. At the close of the work, I seemed to remain deserted.'
The impassioned Diderot then breaks forth, O Richardson! thou sin-
gular genius in my eyes! thou shalt form my reading in all times. If
forced by sharp necessity, my friend falls into indigence; if the medio-
crity of my fortune is not sufficient to bestow on my children the neces-
sary cares for their education, I will sell my books-but thou shalt
remain! Yes, thou shalt rest in the same class with MOSES, HOMER,
EURIPIDES, and SOPHOCLES, to be read alternately!' And again, 'Oh
Richardson! I dare pronounce that the most veritable history is full of
fictions, and thy romances are full of truths.
viduals, thou paintest the human species.
individuals what they have neither said nor
butest to man he has said and done,' &c., &c.
never liest!'
History paints some indi-
History attributes to some
done; all that thou attri-
'Painter of nature, thou
"It is probable," adds Mr. D'Israeli, "that to a Frenchman the style
of Richardson is not so objectionable when translated as to ourselves.
The misfortune of Richardson was, that he was unskilful in the art of
writing, and that he could never lay the pen down while his inkhorn
supplied it,"-Curiosities of Literature,]
50
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
There was never, perhaps, an author who was not en-
couraged by popular applause again to venture himself
before the public; and Richardson, secure, moreover, in
the prepossession of a large party of friends and admi-
rers, was, of course, no exception to the general rule.
The subject of the third and last novel of this eminent
author seems to have been in a great degree dictated by
the criticism which Clarissa had undergone. To his own
surprise, as he assured his correspondents, he found that
the gaiety, spirit, and, occasionally, generosity of Love-
lace, joined to his courage and ingenuity, had, in spite of
his crimes, made him find too much grace in the eyes of
his fair readers. He had been so studious to prevent
this, that when he perceived his rake was rising into an
undue and dangerous degree of favor with some of the
young ladies of his own school, he threw in some darker
shades of character. In this, according to the eulogy of
Johnson, he was eminently successful; but still Lovelace
appeared too captivating in the eyes of his fair friends,
and even of Lady Bradshaigh; so that nothing remained
for the author, in point of morality, but to prepare with
all speed an antidote to the poison which he had incau-
tiously administered.
With this view, the writer tasked his talents to embody
the beau idéal of a virtuous character, who should have
all the title to admiration which he could receive from
wit, rank, figure, accomplishment, and fashion, yet com-
pounded inseparably with the still higher qualifications
which form the virtuous citizen and the faithful votary
of religion. It was with this view that Richardson pro-
duced the work, originally denominated The Good Man;
a title which, before publication, he judiciously ex-
changed for that of Sir Charles Grandison.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
51
It must be acknowledged, that although the author
exerted his utmost ability to succeed in the task which
he had assumed, and, so far as detached parts of the
work are considered, has given marks of the same genius
which he employed in his former novels, yet this last
production has neither the simplicity of the two first vo-
lumes of Pamela, nor the deep and overwhelming interest
of the inimitable Clarissa, and must, considering it as a
whole, be ranked considerably beneath both these works.
The principal cause of failure may be perhaps traced
to Richardson's too strong recollection of the aversion
which his friendly critics and correspondents had dis-
played to the melancholy scenes in Clarissa, in which,
darkening and deepening as the story proceeds, his
heroine is involved, until the drama is closed by death.
He was resolved (perhaps) to give his readers some
indemnification, and having formerly shown them virtue
in its state of earthly persecution and calamity, now
resolved to introduce her, as John Bunyan says, in her
golden slippers, and walking abroad in the sunshine.
But the author did not sufficiently reflect, that the bea-
con, upon an exposed headland, sending forth its saving
light amid the rain and the storm, and burning where all
around combines to its extinction, is a far grander and
more interesting object to the imagination than the chan-
delier in a lordly hall, secured by walls and casements
from the possibility even of a transient breeze agitating
its brilliancy of lustre.
Sir Charles Grandison is a man of large fortune, of
rank and of family, high in the opinion of all who know
him, and discharging with the most punctilious accuracy
his duties in every relation of life. But in order to his
doing so, he is accommodated with all those exterior
52
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
advantages which command awe and attract respect,
although entirely adventitious to excellence of principle.
He is munificent, but his fortune bears out his genero-
sity; he is affectionate in his domestic relations, but the
devoted attachment of his family leaves him no tempta-
tion to be otherwise; his temperament is averse from ex-
cess; his passions are under the command of his reason;
his courage has been so often proved, that he can safely,
and without reproach of the world, prefer the dictates of
Christianity to the rules of modern honor; and in ad-
venturing himself into danger, he has all the strength
and address of Lovelace himself to trust to. Sir Charles
encounters no misfortunes, and can hardly be said to
undergo any trials. The author, in a word, has sent him
forth
"victorious,
Happy, and glorious."
The only dilemma to which he is exposed in the course
of the seven volumes, is the doubt which of two beauti-
ful and accomplished women, excellent in disposition and
high in rank, sister excellences as it were, both being
devotedly attached to him, he shall be pleased to select
for his bride; and this with so small a shade of partiality
towards either, that we cannot conceive his happiness to
be endangered wherever his lot may fall, except by a
generous compassion for her, whom he must necessarily
relinquish. Whatever other difficulties surround him
occasionally, vanish before his courage and address;
and he is almost secure to make friends, and even con-
verts, of those whose machinations may for a moment
annoy him. In a word, Sir Charles Grandison "walks
the course" without competition or rivalry.
All this does well enough in a funeral sermon or
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
53
monumental inscription, where, by privilege of sup-
pressing the worst qualities and exaggerating the better,
such images of perfection are sometimes presented. But
in the living world, a state of trial and a valley of tears,
such unspotted worth, such unvarying perfection, is not
to be met with; and, what is still more important, it
could not, if we suppose it to have existence, be attend-
ed by all those favors of fortune which are accumulated
upon Richardson's hero ;—and hence the fatal objection,
of Sir Charles Grandison being the
(( faultless monster that the world ne'er saw.'
It is not the moral and religious excellence of Sir
Charles which the reader is so much disposed to quarrel
with, as that, while Richardson designs to give a high
moral lesson by the success of his hero, he has failed
through resting that success on circumstances which
have nothing to do either with morality or religion, but
might have been, if indeed they are not, depicted as the
properties of Lovelace himself. It is impossible that
any very deep lesson can be derived from contemplating
a character, at once of unattainable excellence, and
which is placed in circumstances of worldly ease and
prosperity that render him entirely superior to tempta-
tion. Propose the example of Sir Charles Grandison to
the sordid spirit, he will answer :-I will be generous
when I have such an estate :-to the unkind brother or
the cold friend-I will be affectionate, (is the ready
answer,) when I meet such reciprocity of tenderness.
Ask him who fears the reproach of the world, why he
gives or accepts a challenge?—I would do neither, he
replies, were my reputation for courage established like
54
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
that of Sir Charles Grandison. The timid may excuse
himself for not being bold in the defence of innocence,
because he has neither Sir Charles's resolution, nor that
inimitable command of his sword, which enables the
hero to baffle, and, in case of need, to disarm, all who
may oppose his interference. Even the libertine will
plead difference of temperament and habits, and contend,
that Sir Charles had all his passions under such complete
subjugation, that there was no more danger of his being
hurried off by them, than that his six long-tailed horses
should run away with his chariot.
He does, unques-
tionably, now and then, in his communications to Dr.
Bartlett and others, speak of his naturally passionate
temperament as if it were still existing; but we see so
little of its effects, or rather it appears, in spite of his
own report, so utterly subdued and withered within him,
that the only purpose of the confession seems to be, the
adding this trait of modesty and humiliation to the more
splendid virtues of the hero.
After all, there may, in this reasoning, be much of
the perversity of human nature, which is always ready,
like Job's tempter, to dispute that worth which has not
been proved by adversity. But it was human nature
which the author proposed to instruct; and, therefore,
to human nature and its feelings, he should have adapt-
ed his example of piety and morality.
To take the matter less gravely, and consider Sir
Charles Grandison as a work of amusement, it must be
allowed, that the interest is destroyed in a great mea-
sure by the unceasing ascendency given to the fortune,
as well as the character, of the hero. We feel he is too
much under the special protection of the author to need
any sympathy of ours, and that he has nothing to dread
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
55
from all the Pollexfens, O'Haras, and so forth, in the
world, so long as Richardson is decidedly his friend.
Neither are our feelings much interested about him
even while his fate is undetermined. He evinces too
little passion, and certainly no preference, being clearly
ready, with heart and good-will, to marry either Cle-
mentina or Harriet Byron, as circumstances may render
most proper, and to "bow gracefully upon the hand”
of the rejected lady, and bid her adieu.
Lady Bradshaigh, the frankest of Richardson's corre-
spondents, states this objection to him in full force, and
without ceremony :-"You have made me bounce off
my chair with reading that two good girls were in love
with your hero, and that he was fond of both. I have
such despicable notions of a divided love, that I cannot
have an idea how a worthy object can entertain such a
thought." The truth is, that Richardson was always
arguing for the superiority of duty and principle over
feeling, and, not very wisely perhaps, in an abstract
view at least, set himself willingly to the task of com-
bating even the sentiment of honest and virtuous love,
considered as a passion, although implanted by nature.
in our breasts for the wisest, as well as kindest pur-
poses, and leading, were it only by carrying our views
and wishes beyond ourselves, to many more good con-
sequences, under the modification of reason, than to
evil, numerous as these may be, when it hurries us be-
yond reason's limits. So far did the author carry his
contempt and defiance of Cupid, who had, down to his
time, been the omnipotent deity of romance, as even to
alarm Lady Bradshaigh by some hypothetical arguments.
in favor of polygamy, a system which goes to exclude
individual preferences with a vengeance.
56
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
All this must be pardoned to the honest and kind-
hearted Richardson, partly for argument's sake, partly
because he had very high notions of the rights of the
husband, as well as those of the master. It may be
some comfort to the ladies to know, as appears from
some passages in his Correspondence, that, like James
the First of England, his despotism consisted more in
theory than in practice; and that Mrs. Richardson ap-
pears to have had her full share of practical authority
and control in whatever related to their quiet family.
Regarding Sir Charles, then, merely as the twenty-
thousand prize, which was to be drawn by either of the
ladies who might be so lucky as to win it, and whose
own inclinations scarcely decided him more to the one than
to the other, it is clear that the interest must rest—no very
flattering thing for the fair sex-upon that predilection
which the reader may entertain for the English or for the
Italian lady. And with respect to Miss Byron, amiable
as she is represented, and with qualities supposed to ap-
proach almost to those of Clarissa in her happiest state,
there attaches a sort of indelicacy, of which we must
suppose Clarissa, in similar circumstances, entirely in-
capable. She literally forms a league in Sir Charles's
family, and among his friends, for the purpose of en-
gaging his affections, and is contented to betray the
secret of her own love, even when she believes it unre-
turned—a secret which every delicate mind holds so
sacred-not only to the sister of Sir Charles and old Dr.
Bartlett, but to all her own relations, and the Lord
knows whom besides, who are all to be edified by the
perusal of Sir Charles's letters. Most readers have felt
that this conduct on Miss Byron's part, though designed
*
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
57
only to elevate the hero, has the contrary effect of de-
grading the character of the heroine.
The real heroine of the work, and the only one in
whose fortunes we take a deep and decided interest, is
the unhappy Clementina, whose madness, and indeed
her whole conduct, is sketched with the same exquisite
pencil which drew the distresses of Clarissa.
There are
in those passages relating to her, upon which we do not
dwell, familiar as they must be to all our readers, scenes
which equal any thing that Richardson ever wrote, and
which would alone be sufficient to rank him with the
highest name in his line of composition. These, with
other detached passages in the work, serve to show that
it was no diminution in Richardson's powers, but solely
the adoption of an inferior plan, which renders his two
earlier works preferable to Sir Charles Grandison.
The structure of Sir Charles Grandison being wholly
different from that of Pamela and Clarissa, enabled the
author entirely to avoid, in his last work, some free and
broad descriptions, which were unavoidable while de-
tailing the enterprises of Mr. B― or Lovelace.. But
though he was freed from all temptation to fall into
indelicate warmth of description, a fault which the
grosser age of our fathers endured better than ours,
Richardson was still unfortunate in assuming the tone
of elegance and of high fashion, to which, in his last
work, he evidently aspired. Mr. B is a country
squire; the Harlowes, a purse-proud and vulgar race;
Lovelace himself a roué in point of manners; Lord
M- - has the manners and sentiments of an old rural
gossip; and the vivacity of Miss Howe often approaches
to vulgarity. Many models must have been under the
observant eye of Richardson, extensive as his acquain-
-
+
58
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
tance was through all, excepting the highest circle of
fashion, from which he might have drawn such charac-
ters, or at least have borrowed their manners and lan-
guage.
But our author's aspiring to trace the manners of the
great, as in Sir Charles Grandison, has called down the
censure of an unquestionable judge, and who appears, in
his case, disposed to be a severe critic. Lady Mary
Wortley Montague, in her inimitable Letters, has the
following passages :-"His Anna Howe and Charlotte
Grandison are recommended as patterns of charming
pleasantry, and applauded by his saint-like dames, who
mistake folly for wit and humor, and impudence and ill-
nature for spirit and fire. Charlotte behaves like a hu-
morsome child, and should have been used like one, and
whipped in the presence of her friendly confederate,
Harriet.—He (Richardson) has no idea of the manners
of high life; his old Lord M
country justice, and his virtuous
the wenches round a May-pole.
between Mr. Lovelace and his cousins, are not to be ex-
cused by the relation. I should have been much aston-
ished if Lord Denbigh should have offered to kiss me;
and I dare swear, Lord Trentham never attempted such
impertinence to you."¹
talks in the style of a
young ladies romp like
Such liberties as pass
It is no disrespect to Richardson to say, that he could
not have had many opportunities of seeing the manners
of high life; for society is formed upon principles diffe-
rent entirely from a selection of the best and wisest
men; and the author's condition, though far from being
low, indigent, or disrespectable, placed him in a hum-
1 Works of I ady Mary Wortley Montague, vol. iv., p. 182.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
59
bler and happier rank. But there is one sort of good-
breeding which is natural and unchangeable, and an-
other, which, consisting of an acquaintance with the
evanescent manners and fashions of the day, is merely
conventional, and is perpetually changing, like the
modes of dress observed in the same circles. The prin-
ciples of the first are imprinted in every bosom of sense
and delicacy. But to be ignorant of the latter, only
shows that an author is not very conversant with the
society where those flitting rules are observed, or, what
may be equally the case, is incapable of tracing their
changeful and fading hues. To transgress the rules of
natural good-breeding, or to represent characters by
whom they should be practised as doing so, is a want of
taste which must adhere as a blemish to the work so
long as it is read. But crimes against conventional
good-breeding run a prescriptive course, and cease to be
observed when the rules transgressed have, according to
the usual mutability of fashion, been superseded by
others. Such errors are like Livy's patavinity, which
became imperceptible to latter readers. It was natural
that a person of Lady Mary Wortley Montague's taste
and rank should be shocked at the want of decorum
which she complains of, but at this distance of time we
are not sufficiently acquainted with the fashions of
George the Second's reign to share her displeasure.
We know in general, that salutation continued for a
long period to be permitted by fashion, as much as the
more lately licensed freedoms of shaking hands and of-
fering the arm; and with this general knowledge it is
of little consequence to us, at what particular year of
God men of quality were restrained from kissing their
cousins, or whether Richardson has made an anachro-
60
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
nism in that important matter. The merit of Lovelace,
considered as a portrait, remains to us the same, not-
withstanding that wig, which is now frozen to his head
amid his sentimental attendance in the ivy-coppice, and
anon skimmed into the fire when he receives the fatal
news of Clarissa's death. We think as little of dress or
fashion as when we gaze on the portraits of Vandyke,
without asking whether the ruff and the sleeve be or be
not precisely of the cut of the period. Lovelace, whe-
ther exactly corresponding to the minute fashions of his
own time or no, continues equally to be what he is de-
scribed in the nervous language of Johnson, in his Life
of Rowe. "The character of Lothario seems to have
been expanded by Richardson into that of Lovelace;
but he has excelled his original in the moral effect of
the fiction. Lothario, with gaiety which cannot be
hated, and bravery which cannot be despised, retains
too much of the spectator's kindness. It was in the
power of Richardson alone, to teach us at once esteem
and detestation; to make virtuous resentment over-
power all the benevolence which wit, and elegance, and
courage, naturally excite; and to lose at last the hero in
the villain.”1
Still, however, it is impossible altogether to vindicate
Richardson from Lady Mary's charge, or to pronounce
him wholly guiltless of trespassing upon the essence of
good-breeding, as well as upon its temporary rules and
modifications. Lady G has as much horse-play in
her raillery as Miss Howe, and her lord is a double of
Mr. Hickman. Now there ought to have been a diffe-
rence betwixt the vivacity of a country-bred young
*
Life of Richardson, vol. i., p. 108.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
61
lady, trained up under a sufficiently vulgar mother, and
that of Miss Grandison, who had always lived in the
very first society; and this Lady Mary has a just right
to complain of.
There is a fault also attaches to the manners of Sir
Charles Grandison himself, though doubtless intended
as a model of elegance and courtesy. The very care
which the author has taken to deck his manners and
conversation with every becoming grace of action and
words, has introduced a heavy formality, and a sort of
flourishing politeness, into his whole person and deport-
ment. His manner, in short, seems too much studied,
and his talk too stiffly complimentary, too like a printed
book, to use a Scottish phrase, to permit us to associate
the ideas of gentlemanlike ease and affability, either
with the one or the other. We believe this objection
has been very generally entertained by the fair sex, for
whose protection the laws of politeness are introduced,
and who must therefore be the best judges how far they
are complied with.
Notwithstanding these imperfections, and the disad-
vantage which a new work always sustains at first com-
parison with its predecessors, Richardson's fame was
not diminished by the publication of his Sir Charles
Grandison, and his fortune would have been increased
but for a mercantile fraud, of a nature peculiarly auda-
cious. By some means which he could not detect, sheet
after sheet of the work as it passed the press was stolen
from the author's printing-house, and sent to Dublin,
where, availing themselves of the relations between the
two countries as they then stood, some unprincipled
booksellers prepared an Irish edition of the book, which
they were thus enabled to bring into the market as soon
62
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
as the author, and, by underselling him, greatly limited
his deserved profits. Richardson appears in vain to
have sought redress for this injustice by means of his
correspondents in Ireland.' The union with the sister
kingdom has, among other beneficial effects, had that of
rendering such frauds impossible in future; and in that
respect has been of the greatest service to literature.
Such is the succinct history of Richardson's produc-
tions, and such was its conclusion. It is only necessary
to mention, that, besides his three celebrated novels, he
completed that collection of Familiar Letters, the com-
mencement of which led the way to Pamela—“ A work,”
says Mrs. Barbauld, "usually found in the servant's
drawer, but which, when so found, has not unfrequently
detained the eye of the mistress, wondering all the while
by what secret charm she was induced to turn over a
book, apparently too low for her perusal, and that charm
was-Richardson." This work, which we have never
seen, is said, by the same authority, to illustrate the ex-
treme accuracy with which Richardson had attended to
all the duties of life.
Richardson also wrote, in order to assist Dr. Johnson,
the ninety-seventh number of the Rambler, which the
editor ushered in by the following deserved encomium:
"The reader is indebted for this day's entertainment to
an author from whom the age has received greater fa-
vors, who has enlarged the knowledge of human nature,
and taught the passions to move at the command of
virtue.'
1 [For a minute detail of proceedings in this matter, see Nichols's
Literary Anecdotes, vol. iv., p. 586 to 593.]
2 [Number 97 bears the form of a letter, to the Editor of the Rambler,
entitled, Advice to Unmarried Ladies." Mr. Croker says, "Lady
"
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
63
IN our detailed remarks on Richardson's several
novels, we have, as usual, anticipated much which we
otherwise had to say concerning his general merits as an
author. It will be to his immortal praise, that he was
perhaps the first in this line of fictitious narrative, who
threw aside the trappings of romance, with all its extra-
vagance, and appealed to the genuine passions of the
human heart. The circumstances which led him to
descend from the stilts of bombast into the walks of
nature, are described in his own account of the origin of
Pamela, and he quickly discovered that it was not in
humble life only that those feelings exist which find
sympathy in every reader's bosom ; for, if the sympathy
which the distresses and the magnanimity of Clarissa
excite, be not universal, we cannot envy those who are
proof against their charm.
Richardson was well qualified to be the discoverer of
a new style of writing, for he was a cautious, deep, and
minute examinator of the human heart, and, like Cooke
or Parry, left neither head, bay, nor inlet behind him,
until he had traced its soundings, and laid it down in
Bradshaigh, one of Mr. Richardson's female sycophants, thus addresses
him on the subject of this letter: 'A few days ago, I was pleased with
hearing a very sensible lady greatly pleased with the Rambler, No. 97.
She happened to be in town when it was published; and I asked if she
knew who was the author? She said, "it was supposed to be one who
was concerned in the Spectator, it being so much better written than any
of the Ramblers." I wanted to say who was really the author, but
durst not, without your permission.'-Rich. Cor., vol. vi., p. 108.-It
was probably on some such authority that Mr. Payne told Mr. Chalmers
(Brit. Ess., vol. xix., p. 14) that No. 97 was 'the only paper which had
a prosperous sale, and was popular.' The flatteries which Richardson's
´coterie lavished on him and all his works were quite extravagant. The
paper is rather a poor one."-CROKER'S Boswell.—Note, vol. i., p. 178.]
?
64
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
his chart, with all its minute sinuosities, its depths, and
its shallows. Hence the high, and, comparatively con-
sidered, perhaps the undue superiority assigned by
Johnson to Richardson over Fielding, against whom
the Doctor seems to have entertained some prejudice.
In one passage he asserts, that "there is more know-
ledge of the human heart in one letter of Richardson's
than in all Tom Jones." And in another, he thus ex-
plains the proposition: "There is all the difference in
the world between characters of nature and characters
of manners, and there is this difference between the
characters of Fielding and those of Richardson. Cha-
racters of manners are very entertaining; but they are
to be understood by a more superficial observer than
characters of nature, where a man must dive into the
recesses of the human heart." Again, in comparing
these two distinguished authors, the critic uses this
illustration," that there was as great a difference be-
tween them, as between a man who knew how a watch
was made, and a man who could tell the hour by looking
at the dial-plate.". Dissenting as we do from the con-
clusions to be deduced from Dr. Johnson's simile, we
would rather so modify it as to describe both authors
as excellent mechanics; the time-pieces of Richardson
showing a great deal of the internal work by which the
index is regulated; while those of Fielding merely point
to the hour of the day, being all that most men desire
to know. Or, to take a more manageable comparison,
the analogy betwixt the writings of Fielding and Rich-
ardson resembles that which free, bold, and true sketches
bear to paintings that have been very minutely labored,
¹ [Boswell's Life of Johnson, Croker's edition, 1831, vol. ii., p. 49.]
Ibid., vol. ii., p. 50.]
SAMUEL RICHARDSON,
65
(6
and which, amid their excellence, still exhibit some of
the heaviness that almost always attends the highest
degree of finishing. This, indeed, is admitted by John-
son himself, in his reply to the observation of the Honor-
able Thomas Erkskine, that Richardson was tedious.—
Why, sir, if you were to read Richardson for the story,
your impatience would be so much fretted, that you
would hang yourself. But you must read him for the
sentiment, and consider the story only as giving occasion
to the sentiment." Were we to translate the controversy
into plain language, it might be summed up in pronounc-
ing the works of Richardson the more instructive, and
the more deeply affecting, those of Fielding the more
amusing; and that a reader might select the one or the
other for his studies, according to Tony Lumpkin's
phrase, as he felt himself "in a concatenation accord-
ingly ;"—with this difference, however, that he who
would laugh with Fielding, may open Tom Jones at a
venture; but he who would weep with Richardson,
must be content to read through many pages, until his
mind is in the mood fittest to appreciate the pathetic
scenes introduced by a succession of minute and highly
labored details. This no doubt frequently occasions a
suspension of the narrative, in order to afford time for
the minute delineation of character. "Richardson him-
self has explained his principle," as is well observed by
Mr. D'Israeli. "If," he tells us, "I give speeches and
1
1 ["The censure," says Mr. D'Israeli, "which the Shakspeare of
novelists has incurred for the tedious procrastination and the minute
details of his fable; his slow unfolding characters, and the slightest
gestures of his personages, is extremely unjust; for is it not evident
that we could not have his peculiar excellences without these attendant
effects? When characters are very fully delineated, the narrative must
be suspended. Whenever the narrative is rapid, which so much delights
66
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
conversations, I ought to give them justly, for the hu-
mors and persons of characters cannot be known, unless
I repeat what they say, and their manner of saying it."
This process of miniature painting has, however, its
bounds; and many readers will be disposed to acquiesce
in the remark of D'Alembert,-“La Nature est bonne à
imiter, mais non pas jusqu'à l'ennui.” ¹
It is impossible to tell whetehr Richardson's peculiar
and circumstantial mode of narrative arose entirely out
of the mode in which he evolves his story by the corre-
spondence of the actors, or whether his early partiality
for letter-writing was not rather founded upon his innate
love of detail. But these talents and propensities must
have borne upon and fortified each other. To the letter-
writer every event is recent, and is described while
immediately under the eye, without a corresponding
degree of reference to its relative importance to what
has past and what is to come. All is, so to speak,
painted in the foreground, and nothing in the distance.
A game at whist, if the subject of a letter, must be
detailed as much at length as a debate in the House of
superficial readers, the characters cannot be very minutely featured;
and the writer who aims to instruct, (as Richardson avowedly did,) by
the glow and eloquence of his feelings, must often sacrifice to this his
local description. Richardson himself has given us the principle that
guided him in composing. He tells us, 'If I give speeches,' &c."-
Curiosities of Literature.]
¹ ["D'Alembert was a great mathematician. His literary taste was
extremely cold; he was not worthy of reading Richardson.
The
volumes, if he ever read them, must have fallen from his hands. The
delicate and subtle turnings, those folds of the human heart, which re-
quire so nice a touch, was a problem which the mathematician could
never solve. There is no other demonstration in the human heart, but
an appeal to its feelings; and what are the calculating feelings of an
arithmetician of lines and curves? He therefore declared of Richard-
son, that 'La Nature est bonne,' &c."-D'ISRAELI.-Ibid.]
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
67
Commons, upon a subject of great national interest;
and hence, perhaps, that tendency to prolixity, of which
the readers of Richardson frequently complain.
There is an additional advantage, tending to the same.
disagreeable impression, since it requires that incidents
must be, in many instances, detailed again and again, by
the various actors, to their different correspondents. If
this affords the opportunity of placing the characters,
each in their own peculiar light, and contrasting their
thoughts, plans, and sentiments, that advantage is at
least partly balanced, by arresting the progress of the
story, which stands still while the characters show all
their paces, like horses in the manege, without advancing
a yard. But then it gives the reader, as Mrs. Barbauld
well remarks, the assurance of being thoroughly ac-
quainted with those in whose fate he is to be interested.
In consequence of this, adds that accomplished lady,
"our feelings are not transient, elicited here and there
by a pathetic stroke, but we regard his characters as
real personages, whom we know and converse with, and
whose fate remains to be decided in the course of
events." The minute style of Richardson is accordingly
attended with this peculiar advantage, that as strong a
light as can be necessary is thrown on every personage
who advances on the scene, and that we have as distinct
an idea of the individual and peculiar character of
every female in Mrs. Sinclair's family whom it is neces-
sary to name; of the greedy and hypocritical Joseph
Leman; of the plausible Captain Singleton; and of
Lovelace's other agents, as we have of Lovelace himself.
The character of Colonel Morden, for example, although
we see so little of him, is quite individual. He is high-
1 Life of Richardson, vol. i., p. 82.
68
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
spirited, bold, and skilful at his weapon; a man of the
world and a man of honor; neither violent enough to
precipitate his revenge, nor forbearing enough to avoid
grasping it when the fitting opportunity offers. The
awe with which he is regarded by the Harlowes even
before his appearance, the respect which Clarissa enter-
tains for him as a natural protector, prepares us for his
approach as he enters on the scene, like the Avenger of
Blood; too late, indeed, to save Clarissa, but a worthy
vindicator of her wrongs, and a no less worthy con-
queror of Lovelace. Whatever piety and forbearance
there is in his cousin's last charge to such a man as
Colonel Morden, we cannot for a moment be either sur-
prised or sorry that it is disobeyed.
It must not be overlooked, that, by the circumstantial
detail of minute, trivial, and even uninteresting circum-
stances, the author gives to his fiction an air of reality
that can scarcely otherwise be obtained.
In every real
narrative, he who tells it, dwells upon slight and incon-
siderable circumstances, no otherwise interesting than
because they are associated in his mind with the more
important events which he desires to communicate. De
Foe, who understood, and availed himself on all occa-
sions of this mode of garnishing an imaginary history
with all the minute accompaniments which distinguish
a true one, was scarce a greater master of this peculiar
art, than was our author Richardson.
Still, with all these advantages, which so peculiarly
adapted the mode of carrying on the story by epistolary
correspondence to Richardson's peculiar genius, it has
its corresponding defects. In order that all may be
written, which must be known for the purpose of the
narrative, the characters must frequently write, when it
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
69
would be more natural for them to be acting—must fre-
quently write what it is not natural to write at all—and
must at all times write a great deal oftener, and a great
deal more, than one would now think human life has
time for. But these arguments did not probably weigh
much with Richardson, an inveterate letter-writer from
his youth upwards, and himself certainly as indefatiga-
blę (we had almost said formidable) a correspondent as
any of the characters he has drawn.
Richardson was himself aware of the luxuriance of
his imagination, and that he was sometimes apt to ex-
ceed the patience of the reader. He indulged his own
vein, by writing without any fixed plan, and at great
length, which he afterwards curtailed and compressed;
so that, strange as it may seem, his compositions were
reduced almost one-half in point of size before they
were committed to the press. In his two first novels,
he showed much attention to the plot; and though
diffuse and prolix in narration, can never be said to be
rambling or desultory. No characters are introduced,
but for the purpose of advancing the plot ; and there
are but few of those digressive dialogues and disserta-
tions with which Sir Charles Grandison abounds. The
story in Pamela and in Clarissa keeps the direct road,
though it moves slowly. But in his last work, the
author is much more excursive. There is indeed little
in the plot to require attention; the various events,
which are successfully narrated, being no otherwise con-
nected together, than as they place the character of the
hero in some new and peculiar point of view. The
same may be said of the numerous and long conversa-
tions upon religious and moral topics, which compose so
great a part of the work, that a venerable old lady,
70
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
whom we well knew, when in advanced age she became
subject to drowsy fits, chose to hear Sir Charles Grandi-
son read to her as she sat in her elbow-chair, in prefer-
ence to any other work, "because," said she, "should I
drop asleep in course of the reading, I am sure when I
awake, I shall have lost none of the story, but shall find
the party, where I left them, conversing in the cedar-
parlor.”—It is probable, after all, that the prolixity of
Richardson, which, to our giddy-paced times, is the
greatest fault of his writing, was not such an objection.
to his contemporaries. Those who with patience had
studied rant and bombast in the folios of Scuderi, could
not readily tire of nature, sense, and genius, in the
octavos of Richardson. But a modern reader may be
permitted to wish that Clarissa had been a good deal
abridged at the beginning, and Sir Charles Grandison
at the end; that the last two volumes of Pamela had
been absolutely cancelled, and the second much com-
pressed. And, upon the whole, it might be desired that
many of those trivial details of dresses and decorations,
which relish, to say truth, of the mantua-makers' shops
in which Richardson made his first efforts at composi-
tion, were altogether abolished, especially where they
are put into the letters of sensible persons, or imperti-
nently thrust upon us during the currency of a scene of
passion. It requires the recollection of Richardson's
highest powers to maintain our respect for him, where
he makes Lovelace, amidst all his triumph at Clarissa's
elopement, describe her dress to Belford, from top to toe,
with all the professional accuracy of a man-milliner.
But it is ungracious to dwell on defects, redeemed by so
many excellences.
The style of Richardson was of that pliable and facile
T
SAMUEL RICHARDSONSON
71
.
kind, which could, with slight variety, be adapted to
what best befitted his various personages. When he
wrote in his higher characters, it was copious, expressive,
and appropriate, but, through the imperfection of his
education, not always strictly elegant, nor even accu-
rate. During his life, the common cant as usual was,
that he received assistance, which, as a practical admis-
sion of personal incompetence to the task they have un-
dertaken, we believe few men of reputed talent would
stoop to accept of. It is now known that he wrote his
whole works without any such aid, excepting the Ode to
Wisdom by Mrs. Carter, and a number of Latin quota-
tions, furnished by a learned friend to bedizen the epistle
of Elias Brand.
The power of Richardson's painting in his deeper
scenes of tragedy, never has been, and probably never
will be, excelled. Those of distressed innocence, as in
the history of Clarissa and Clementina, rend the very
heart; and few, jealous of manly equanimity, should read
them for the first time in presence of society. In others,
where the same heroines, and particularly Clarissa, dis-
play a noble elevation of soul, rising above earthly con-
siderations and earthly oppression, the reader is perhaps
as much elevated towards a pure sympathy with virtue
and religion, as uninspired composition can raise him.
His scenes of unmixed horror, as the deaths of Belton
and of the infamous Sinclair, are as dreadful as the
former are elevating; and they are directed to the same
noble purpose, increasing our fear and hatred of vice,
as the former are qualified to augment our love and
veneration of virtue. In this respect Fielding might
have paid to Richardson's genius the just tribute, which,
after much depreciation of his talents in other respects,
72
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Dryden rendered to Otway-"Yet he succeeds in
moving the passions, which I cannot do.”
The lighter qualities of the novelist were less proper
to this distinguished author than those which are allied
to tragedy. Yet not even in these was Richardson defi-
cient; and his sketches of this kind display the same
accurate knowledge of humanity manifested in his
higher efforts. His comedy is not overstrained; he
never steps beyond the bounds of nature, and never
sacrifices truth and probability to brilliancy of effect.
Without what is properly termed wit, the author pos-
sessed liveliness and gaiety sufficient to color those comic
scenes; and though he is never, like his rival Fielding,
irresistibly ludicrous, nor indeed ever essays to be so,
there is a fund of quaint drollery pervades his lighter
sketches, which renders them very agreeable to the
reader.
Without a complete copy of the Works of this dis-
tinguished and truly English classic, a collection would
be deplorably deficient; yet the change of taste and of
fashion, from the causes we have freely stated, has
thrown a temporary shade over Richardson's popularity.'
1 ["The elegant and fascinating productions which honored the name
of novel, those which Richardson, Mackenzie, and Burney gave to the
public; of which it was the object to exalt virtue and degrade vice; to
which no fault could be objected, unless that they unfitted here and
there a romantic mind for the common intercourse of life, while they
refined perhaps a thousand whose faculties could better bear the fair
ideal which they presented-these have entirely vanished from the
shelves of the circulating library. It may indeed be fairly alleged in
defence of those who decline attempting this higher and more refined
species of composition, that the soil was in some degree exhausted by
over-cropping-that the multitude of base and tawdry imitations ob-
scured the merit of the few which are tolerable, as the overwhelming
blaze of blue, red, green, and yellow, at the exhibition, vitiates our
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
73
Or, perhaps, he may, in the present generation, be only
paying, by comparative neglect, the price of the very
high reputation which he enjoyed during his own age.
For if immortality, or any thing approaching to it, is
granted to authors, and to their works, it seems only to
be on the conditions assigned to that of Nourjahad, in
the beautiful Eastern tale, that they shall be liable to
occasional intervals of slumber and comparative obli-
vion. Yet under all these disadvantages, the genius of
Richardson must be ever acknowledged to have done
honor to the language in which he wrote, and his manly
and virtuous application of his talents to have been of
service to morality, and to human nature in general.
taste for the few good paintings which show their modest hues upon
its walls. The public was indeed weary of the protracted embarrass-
ments of lords and ladies who spoke such language as was never
spoken, and still more so of the see-saw correspondence between the
sentimental Lady Lucretia and the witty Miss Caroline, who battledored
it in the pathetic and the lively, like Morton and Reynolds on the
stage."-Quarterly Review, May, 1810, p. 340.]
HENRY FIELDING.
Or all the works of imagination, to which English ge-
nius has given origin, the writings of Henry Fielding
are, perhaps, most decidedly and exclusively her own.
They are not only altogether beyond the reach of trans-
lation, in the proper sense and spirit of the word, but
we even question, whether they can be fully understood,
or relished to the highest extent, by such natives of Scot-
land and Ireland, as are not habitually and intimately
acquainted with the characters and manners of Old Eng-
land. Parson Adams, Towwouse, Partridge, above all,
Squire Western, are personages as peculiar to England,
as they are unknown to other countries. Nay, the ac-
tors, whose characters are of a more general cast, as All-
worthy, Mrs. Miller, Tom Jones himself, and almost all
the subordinate agents in the narrative, have the same
cast of nationality, which adds not a little to the veri-
similitude of the tale. The persons of the story live in
England, travel in England, quarrel and fight in Eng-
land; and scarce an incident occurs, without its being
marked by something which could not well have hap-
pened in any other country. This nationality may be
ascribed to the author's own habits of life, which ren-
dered him conversant, at different periods, with all the
various classes of English society, specimens of which
he has selected with inimitable spirit of choice and de-
scription, for the amusement of his readers. Like many
other men of talent, Fielding was unfortunate, his life
HENRY FIELDING.
75
was a life of imprudence and uncertainty; but it was
while passing from the high society to which he was
born, to that of the lowest and most miscellaneous kind
to which his fortune condemned him, that he acquired
the extended familiarity with the English character, in
every rank and aspect, which has made his name im-
mortal as a painter of national manners.
HENRY FIELDING, born 22d April, 1707, was of noble
descent, the third son of General Edmund Fielding,
himself the third son of the Hon. John Fielding, who
was the fifth son of William, Earl of Denbigh, who died
in 1655. Our author was nearly connected with the
ducal family of Kingston, which boasted a brighter or-
nament than rank or titles could bestow, in the wit and
beauty of the celebrated Lady Mary Wortley Montague.
The mother of Henry Fielding was a daughter of Judge
Gold, the first wife of his father the General. Henry
was the only son of this marriage; but he had four sis-
ters of the full blood, of whom Sarah, the third, was
distinguished as an authoress by the history of David
Simple, and other literary attempts. General Fielding
married a second time, after the death of his first lady,
and had a numerous family, one of whom is well remem-
bered as a judge of police, by the title of Sir John Field-
ing. It is most probable that the expense attending so
large a family, together with a natural thoughtlessness
of disposition on the part of his father, occasioned Hen-
ry's being early thrown into those precarious circum-
stances, with which, excepting at brief intervals, he
continued to struggle through life.
After receiving the rudiments of education from the
Rev. Mr. Oliver, who is supposed to have furnished him.
76
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
with the outline of Parson Trulliber's character, Field-
ing was removed to Eton, where he became imbued
deeply with that love of classic literature, which may
be traced through all his works. As his father destined
him to the bar, he was sent from Eton to study at Ley-
den, where he is said to have given earnest attention to
the civil law. Had he remained in this regular course
of study, the courts would probably have gained a law-
yer, and the world would have lost a man of genius ;
but the circumstances of General Fielding determined
the chance in favor of posterity, though perhaps against
his son.
Remittances failed, and the young student
was compelled to return, at the age of twenty, to plunge
into the dissipation of London, without a monitor to
warn, or a friend to support him. General Fielding, in-
deed, promised his son an allowance of two hundred
a-year; but this, as his son used to say, "any one might
pay who would." It is only necessary to add, that Field-
ing was tall, handsome, and well-proportioned, had an
expressive countenance, and possessed, with an uncom-
monly strong constitution, a keen relish of pleasure,
with the power of enjoying the present moment, and
trusting to chance for the future,-and the reader has
before him sufficient grounds to estimate the extent of
his improvidence and distress. Lady Mary Wortley
Montague, his kinswoman, and early acquaintance, has
traced his temperament, and its consequences, in a few
lines; and no one who can use her words, would will-
ingly employ his own.
"I am sorry for Henry Fielding's death," says her ladyship, in one
of her letters, upon receiving information of that event, "not only as I
shall read no more of his writings, but because I believe he lost more
than others, as no man enjoyed life more than he did; though few had
HENRY FIELDING.
77
less occasion to do so, the highest of his preferment being raking in the
lowest sinks of vice and misery. I should think it a nobler and less
nauseous employment, to be one of the staff-officers that conduct the
nocturnal weddings. His happy constitution (even when he had, with
great pains, half demolished it) made him forget every evil, when he
was before a venison-pastry, or over a flask of champagne; and I am
persuaded he has known more happy moments than any prince upon
earth. His natural spirits gave him rapture with his cook-maid, and
cheerfulness when he was starving in a garret. There was a great simi-
litude between his character and. that of Sir Richard Steele. He had
the advantage, both in learning, and, in my opinion, genius; they both
agreed in wanting money, in spite of all their friends, and would have
wanted it, if their hereditary lands had been as extensive as their imagi-
nation; yet each of them was so formed for happiness, it is pity he was
not immortal."
Some resources were necessary for a man of pleasurè,
and Fielding found them in his pen, having, as he used
to say himself, no alternative, but to be a hackney
writer, or a hackney coachman. He at first employed
himself in writing for the theatre, then in high reputa-
tion, having recently engaged the talents of Wycherley,
Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar. Fielding's come-
dies and farces were brought on the stage in hasty suc-
cession; and play after play, to the number of eighteen,
sunk or swam on the theatrical sea, betwixt the years
1727 and 1736. None of these are now known or read,
excepting the mock-tragedy of Tom Thumb, the trans-
lated play of The Miser, and the farces of The Mock-
Doctor and Intriguing Chamber-Maid; and yet they
are the productions of an author unrivalled for his con-
ception and illustration of character in the kindred walk
of imaginary narrative.
Fielding, the first of British novelists, for such he
may surely be termed, has thus added his name to that
of Le Sage and others, who, eminent for fictitious narra-
tion, have either altogether failed in their dramatic at-
78
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
tempts, or at least have fallen far short of that degree
of excellence which might have been previously argued.
of them. It is hard to fix upon any plausible reason for
a failure, which has occurred in too many instances to
be the operation of mere chance, especially since à
priori one would think the same talents necessary for
both walks of literature. Force of character, strength
of expression, felicity of contrast and situation, a well-
constructed plot, in which the development is at once
natural and unexpected, and where the interest is kept
uniformly alive, till summed up by the catastrophe-all
these are requisites as essential to the labor of the nove-
list, as to that of the dramatist, and, indeed, appear to
comprehend the sum of the qualities necessary to success
in both departments. Fielding's biographers have, in
this particular instance, explained his lack of theatrical
success, as arising entirely from the careless haste with
which he huddled up his dramatic compositions; it be-
ing no uncommon thing with him to finish an act or
two in the morning, and to write out whole scenes upon
the paper in which his favorite tobacco had been wrap-
ped up. Negligence of this kind will no doubt give rise
to great inequalities in the productions of an author, so
careless of his reputation; but will scarcely account for
an attribute something like dulness, which pervades
Fielding's plays, and which is rarely found in those
works which a man of genius throws off "at a heat," to
use Dryden's expression, in prodigal self-reliance on his
internal resources. Neither are we at all disposed to
believe, that an author so careless as Fielding, took
much more pains in laboring his novels, than in compos-
ing his plays; and we are, therefore, compelled to seek
some other and more general reason for the inferiority
HENRY FIELDING.
79
of the latter. This may perhaps be found in the nature
of those two studies, which, intimately connected as
they seem to be, are yet naturally distinct in some very
essential particulars; so much so as to vindicate the
general opinion, that he who applies himself with emi-
nent success to the one, becomes, in some degree, un-
qualified for the other ;-like the artisan, who, by a par-
ticular turn for excellence in one mechanical depart-
ment, loses the habit of dexterity necessary for acquit-
ting himself with equal reputation in another; or as the
artist, who has dedicated himself to the use of water-
colors, is usually less distinguished by his skill in oil-
painting.
It is the object of the novel-writer, to place before
the reader as full and accurate a representation of the
events which he relates, as can be done by the mere
force of an excited imagination, without the assistance
of material objects. His sole appeal is made to the
world of fancy and of ideas, and in this consists his
strength and his weakness, his poverty and his wealth.
He cannot, like the painter, present a visible and tangi-
ble representation of his towns and woods, his palaces
and his castles; but, by awakening the imagination of
a congenial reader, he places before his mind's eye,
landscapes fairer than those of Claude, and wilder than
those of Salvator. He cannot, like the dramatist, pre-
sent before our living eyes the heroes of former days, or
the beautiful creations of his own fancy, embodied in
the grace and majesty of Kemble or of Siddons; but
he can teach his reader to conjure up forms even more
dignified and beautiful than theirs. The same difference
follows him through every branch of his art. The au-
thor of a novel, in short, has neither stage nor scene-
80
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
painter, nor company of comedians, nor dresser, nor
wardrobe; words, applied with the best of his skill,
must supply all that these bring to the assistance of the
dramatist. Action, and tone, and gesture, the smile of
the lover, the frown of the tyrant, the grimace of the
buffoon,-all must be told, for nothing can be shown.
Thus, the very dialogue becomes mixed with the narra-
tion ; for he must not only tell what the characters actu-
ally said, in which his task is the same as that of the
dramatic author, but must also describe the tone, the look,
the gesture, with which their speech was accompanied,
-telling, in short, all which, in the drama, it becomes
the province of the actor to express. It must, therefore,
frequently happen, that the author best qualified for a
province, in which all depends on the communication of
his own ideas and feelings to the reader, without any
intervening medium, may fall short of the skill necessary
to adapt his compositions to the medium of the stage,
where the very qualities most excellent in a novelist are
out of place, and an impediment to success. Descrip-
tion and narration, which form the essence of the novel,
must be very sparingly introduced into dramatic com-
position, and scarce ever have a good effect upon the
stage. Even Puff, in The Critic, has the good sense to
leave out "all about gilding the eastern hemisphere ;"
and the very first thing which the players struck out of
his memorable tragedy was, the description of Queen
· Elizabeth, her palfrey, and her side-saddle. The drama
speaks to the eye and ear; and when it ceases to ad-
dress these bodily organs, and would exact from a thea-
trical audience that exercise of the imagination which is
necessary to follow forth and embody circumstances
neither spoken nor exhibited, there is an immediate
HENRY FIELDING.
81
failure, though it may be the failure of a man of genius.
Hence it follows, that though a good acting play may
be made by selecting a plot and characters from a novel,
yet scarce any effort of genius could render a play into
a narrative romance. In the former case, the author
has only to contract the events within the space neces-
sary for representation, to choose the most striking
characters, and exhibit them in the most forcible con-
trast, discard from the dialogue whatever is redundant
or tedious, and so dramatize the whole. But we know
not any effort of genius, which could successfully insert
into a good play, those accessories of description and
delineation, which are necessary to dilate it into a reada-
ble novel. It may thus easily be conceived, that he
whose chief talent lies in addressing the imagination.
only, and whose style, therefore, must be expanded and
circumstantial, may fail in a kind of composition where
so much must be left to the efforts of the actor, with
his allies and assistants the scene-painter and property-
man, and where every attempt to interfere with their
province, is an error unfavorable to the success of the
piece. Besides, it must be farther remembered, that in
fictitious narrative an author carries on his manufacture
alone, and upon his own account; whereas, in dramatic
writing, he enters into partnership with the performers,
and it is by their joint efforts that the piece is to suc-
ceed. Copartnery is called, by Civilians, the mother of
discord; and how likely it is to prove so in the present
instance, may be illustrated by reference to the admira-
ble dialogue between the Player and the Poet in Joseph
Andrews, book iii., chap. 10. The poet must either be
contented to fail, or to make great condescensions to
the experience, and pay much attention to the peculiar
82
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
qualifications, of those by whom his piece is to be re-
presented. And he who in a novel had only to fit sen-
timents, action, and character, to the ideal beings, is
now compelled to assume the much more difficult task
of adapting all these to real existing persons, who, unless
their parts are exactly suited to their own taste, and
their peculiar capacities, have, each in his line, the
means, and not unfrequently the inclination, to ruin the
success of the play. Such are, amongst many others,
the peculiar difficulties of the dramatic art, and they
seem impediments which lie peculiarly in the way of the
novelist who aspires to extend his sway over the stage.
Another circumstance may in the present day greatly
interfere with the success of dramatic authors, and
arises from the decay of that familiar acquaintance with
the stage and its affairs, which prevailed during the
more splendid days of the British theatre. It requires
a frequent and close attendance upon the stage to learn
the peculiar points which interest an audience, and the
art of forming the situations, as they are technically
called, which arrest attention and bring down applause.
This is a qualification for dramatic excellence, which
fashionable hours and modern manners render difficult
to any one who is not absolutely himself an actor.
Nevertheless it is of such consequence, that it will be
found, that the dullest and worst plays, written by au-
thors who have themselves trod the stage, are, however
intolerable in the closet, redeemed, in action, by some
felicitous position or encounter of persons, which makes
them pass muster on the boards. But this observation,
though arising naturally out of the subject, cannot be
said to apply to Fielding, much of whose life had proba-
bly been passed behind the scenes, and who had, indeed,
HENRY FIELDING.
83
as we shall see, been at one time a sort of manager
himself.
We have noticed, that until the year 1737, or there-
abouts, Fielding lived the life of a man of wit and plea-
sure about town, seeking and finding amusement in
scenes of gaiety and dissipation, and discharging the
expense incidental to such a life, by the precarious re-
sources afforded by the stage. He even became, for a
season, the manager of a company, having assembled
together, in 1735, a number of discarded comedians,
who, he proposed, should execute his own dramas at the
little theatre in the Haymarket, under the title of the
Great Mogul's Company of Comedians. The project
did not succeed; and the company, which, as he ex-
pressed it, had seemed to drop from the clouds, were
under the necessity of disbanding.
During his theatrical career, Fielding, like most
authors of the time, found it impossible to interest the
public sufficiently in the various attempts which he
made to gain popular favor, without condescending to
flatter their political animosities. Two of his dramatic
pieces, Pasquin, and The Historical Register, "display
great acrimony against Sir Robert Walpole, from whom,
in the year 1730, he had in vain sought for patronage.'
The freedom of his satire is said to have operated con-
1 [We preserve the verses addressed to Walpole on this occasion, as
a specimen of Fielding's poetry.
While at the helm of state you ride,
Our nation's envy and its pride;
While foreign courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those councils which they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard, a greater man than you?
Which that he is, you cannot doubt,
When you have read the sequel out.
84
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
siderably in producing a measure which was thought
necessary to arrest the license of the stage, and put an end
to that proneness to personal and political satire which
had been fostered by the success of Gay's Beggars'
Opera. This measure was the discretional power vest-
You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,
Philosophers, and such folk, tell us,
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen.
If then, as it might follow straight,
Wretched to be, is to be great;
Forbid it, gods, that you should try
What 'tis to be so great as I!
The family that dines the latest,
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest;
But latest hours must surely fall
For him who never dines at all.
Your taste in architect, you know,
Hath been admired by friend and foe;
But can your earthly domes compare
With all my castles-in the air?
We're often taught it doth behove us
To think those greater, who're above us;
Another instance of my glory,
Who live above you, twice two story;
And from my garret can look down
On the whole street of Arlington.
Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted:
This, too, doth in my favor speak;
Your levee is but twice a-week,
From mine I can exclude but one day,
My door is quiet on a Sunday.
Nor in the manner of attendance,
Doth your great bard claim less ascendance.
Familiar you to admiration
May be approached by all the nation;
While I, like the Mogul in Indo,
Am never seen but at my window.
If with my greatness you're offended,
The fault is easily amended;
HENRY FIELDING.
85
ed in the Lord Chamberlain, of refusing a license to any
piece of which he should disapprove. The regulation
was the cause of much clamor at the time; but licen-
tious satire has since found so many convenient modes
of access to the public, that its exclusion from the stage
is no longer a matter of interest or regret; nor is it
now deemed a violent aggression on liberty, that con-.
tending political parties cannot be brought into collision
within the walls of the theatres, intended, as they are,
for places of public amusement, not for scenes of party
struggle.
About 1736, Fielding seems to have formed the reso-
lution of settling in life. He espoused a young lady of
Salisbury, named Craddock, beautiful, amiable, and pos-
sessed of L.1500. About the same time, by the death,
it has been supposed, of his mother, he succeeded to a
small estate of about L.200 per annum, situated at
Stower, in Derbyshire, affording him, in those days, the
means of decent competence. To this place he retired
For I'll come down, with wondrous ease,
Into whatever place you please.
I'm not ambitious, little matters
Will serve us great, but humble creatures.
Suppose a secretary o' this isle,
Just to be doing with a while;
Admiral, general, judge, or bishop,
Or I can foreign treaties dish up.
If the good genius of the nation
Should call me to negotiation,
Tuscan and French ar in my head,
Latin I write, and Greek-I read.
If you should ask, what pleases best?
To get the most, and do the least;
What fitted for? You know, I'm sure,
I'm fittest for―a sinecure.]
86
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
from London, but unfortunately carried with him the
same improvident disposition to enjoy the present at
expense of the future, which seems to have marked his
whole life. He established an equipage, with showy
liveries; and his biographers lay some stress on the cir-
cumstance, that the color, being a bright yellow, re-
quired to be frequently renewed, an important par
ticular, which, in humble imitation of our accurate
predecessors, we deem it unpardonable to suppress.
Horses, hounds,, and the exercise of an unbounded hos-
pitality, soon aided the yellow livery-men in devouring
the substance of their improvident master; and three
years found Fielding without land, home, or revenue, a
student in the Temple, where he applied himself closely
to the law, and after the usual term was called to the
bar. It is probable, he brought nothing from Derby-
shire save that experience of a rural life, and its plea-
sures, which afterward enabled him to delineate the
inimitable Squire Western.
Fielding had now a profession, and, as he strongly
applied his powerful mind to the principles of the law,
it might have been expected that success would have
followed in proportion. But those professional persons
who can advance or retard the practice of a young law-
yer, mistrusted, probably, the application of a wit and
a man of pleasure, to the business they might otherwise
have confided to him; and it is said, that Fielding's
own conduct was such as to justify their want of confi-
dence. Disease, the consequence of a free life, came to
the aid of dissipation of mind, and interrupted the
course of Fielding's practice by severe fits of the gout,
which gradually impaired his robust constitution.' We
["As long as his health permitted him," says Nichols, "he attended
1
+
HENRY FIELDING.
87
find him, therefore, having again recourse to the stage,
where he attempted to produce a continuation of his
own piece of The Virgin Unmasqued; but, as one of
the characters was supposed to be written in ridicule of
a man of quality, the Chamberlain refused his license.
Pamphlets of political controversy, fugitive tracts, and
essays, were the next means he had recourse to for sub-
sistence; and as his ready pen produced them upon
every emergency, he contrived, by the profits, to sup-
port himself and his family, to which he was fondly
attached.
Amid this anxious career of precarious expedient,
and constant labor, he had the misfortune to lose his
wife; and his grief at this domestic calamity was so
extreme, that his friends became alarmed for the conse-
quences to his reason. The violence of the emotion,
however, was transient, though his regret was lasting;
and the necessity of subsistence compelled him again to
resume his literary labors. At length, in the year 1741
or 1742, circumstances induced him to engage in a mode
of composition, which he retrieved from the disgrace in
which he found it, and rendered a classical department
of British literature.
The novel of Pamela, published in 1740, had carried
-with punctual assiduity, both in term-time and on the Western Circuit;
and it is probable that he would have arisen to considerable eminence
in the law, had not the progress of his success been stopped by repeated
attacks of the gout. These came so frequently upon him, that it was
impossible for him to be as constant at the bar as the laboriousness of
his profession required. Under this disadvantage, he still pursued his
researches with an eagerness of curiosity peculiar to him; and attained
such a knowledge of jurisprudence in general, and of crown-law in par-
ticular, as to leave two volumes in folio upon the latter subject.”—Lite-
rary Anecdotes, vol. iii., p. 367.]
88
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
the fame of Richardson to the highest pitch; and Field-
ing,-whether he was tired of hearing it over-praised,
(for a book, several passages of which would now be
thought highly indelicate, was in those days even recom-
mended from the pulpit,)' or whether, as a writer for
daily subsistence, he caught at whatever interested the
public for the time; or whether, in fine, he was seduced
by that wicked spirit of wit which cannot forbear turn-
ing into ridicule the idol of the day,-resolved to cari-
cature the style, principles, and personages of this
favorite performance. As Gay's desire to satirize
Philips gave rise to The Shepherd's Week, so Field-
ing's purpose to ridicule Pamela produced the History
of Joseph Andrews; and in both cases, but especially
in the latter, a work was executed infinitely better than
could have been expected to arise out of such a motive,
and the reader received a degree of pleasure very diffe-
rent, as well as far superior, to what the author himself
appears to have proposed. There is, indeed, a fine vein
of irony in Fielding's novel, as will appear from com-
paring it with the pages of Pamela; but Pamela, to
which that irony was applied, is now in a manner for-
gotten, and Joseph Andrews continues to be read, for
the admirable pictures of manners which it presents,
and, above all, for the inimitable character of Mr.
Abraham Adams, which alone is sufficient to stamp
2
¹ [See note, Life of Richardson, ante, p. 35.]
2 ["The Rev. William Young, a learned and much-esteemed friend
of Mr. Fielding's, sat for this picture. Mr. Young was remarkable for
his intimate acquaintance with the Greek writers, and was as passionate
an admirer of Eschylus as Parson Adams is represented to have been.
The overflowings of his benevolence were likewise as strong, and his
fits of reverie as frequent. Indeed, they occurred to him on the most
interesting occasions." So says Mr. Nichols-see his Literary Anecdotes,
HENRY FIELDING.
89
the superiority of Fielding over all writers of his class.
The worthy parson's learning, his simplicity, his evan-
gelical purity of heart, and benevolence of disposition,
are so admirably mingled with pedantry, absence of
mind, and with the habit of athletic and gymnastic
exercise, then acquired at the universities by students
of all descriptions, that he may be safely termed one of
the richest productions of the Muse of Fiction. Like
Don Quixote, Parson Adams is beaten a little too much,
and too often; but the cudgel lights upon his shoulders,
as on those of the honored Knight of La Mancha, with-
out the slightest stain to his reputation; and he is bas-
tinadoed without being degraded. The style of this
piece is said, in the preface, to have been an imitation
of Cervantes; but both in Joseph Andrews and Tom
Jones, the author appears also to have had in view the
Roman Comique of the once celebrated Scarron. From
this author he has copied the mock heroic style, which
tells ludicrous events in the language of the classical
Epic; a vein of pleasantry which is soon wrought out,
and which Fielding has employed so often as to expose
him to the charge of pedantry.
Joseph Andrews was eminently successful; and the
aggrieved Richardson, who was fond of praise even to
adulation, was proportionately offended, while his group
of admirers, male and female, took care to echo back his
sentiments, and to heap Fielding with reproach. Their
animosity survived his life, and we find the most un-
generous reproaches thrown upon his memory, in the
course of Richardson's correspondence. Richardson
vol. iii., p. 371. Mr. Young superintended and improved the edition of
Ainsworth's Latin Dictionary, 2 vols. folio, 1752; and he was also em-
ployed in correcting an edition of Hederic's Greck Lexicon.]
F
90
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
was well acquainted with Fielding's sisters, and com-
plained to them,-not of Fielding's usage of himself,
that he was too wise, or too proud to mention,-but of
his unfortunate predilection to what was mean and low
in character and description. The following expressions
are remarkable, as well for the extreme modesty of the
writer who thus rears himself into the paramount judge
of Fielding's qualities, as for the delicacy which could
intrude such observations on the ear of his rival's sister:
"Poor Fielding! I could not help telling his sister, that
I was equally surprised at, and concerned for, his con-
tinued lowness. Had your brother, said I, been born
in a stable, or been a runner at a spunging-house, one
should have. thought him a genius, and wished he had
had the advantage of a liberal education, and of being
admitted into good company !"—After this, we are not
surprised at its being alleged, that Fielding was desti-
tute of invention and talents; that the run of his best
works was nearly over; and that he would soon be for-
gotten as an author! Fielding does not appear to have
retorted any of this ill-will; so that, if he gave the first
offence, and that an unprovoked one, he was also the
first to retreat from the contest, and to allow to Richard-
son those claims which his genius really demanded from
the liberality of his contemporaries. In the fifth num-
ber of the Jacobite Journal, Fielding highly commends.
Clarissa, which is by far the best and most powerful
of Richardson's novels, and, with those scenes in Sir
Charles Grandison which refer to the history of Cle-
mentina, contains the passages of deep pathos on which
his claim to immortality must finally rest. Perhaps this
is one of the cases in which one would rather have sym-
pathized with the thoughtless offender, than with the
HENRY FIELDING.
91
less liberal and almost ungenerous mind which so long
retained its resentment.'
After the publication of Joseph Andrews, Fielding
had again recourse to the stage, and brought out The
Wedding Day, which, though on the whole unsuccess-
ful, produced him some small profit. This was the last
of his theatrical efforts which appeared during his life.
The manuscript comedy of The Fathers was lost by Sir
Charles Hanbury Williams, and, when recovered, was
acted after the author's death for the benefit of his
family. An anecdote respecting the carelessness with
which Fielding regarded his theatrical fame, is thus
given by former biographers :-
2
"On one of the days of its rehearsal, (i.e. the rehearsal of The Wed-
ding Day,) Garrick, who performed a principal part, and who was even
then a favorite with the public, told Fielding, he was apprehensive that
the audience would make free with him in a particular passage, and
remarked, that as a repulse might disconcert him during the remainder
of the night, the passage should be omitted—'No, d—n 'em,' replied
he, if the scene is not a good one, let them find that out.' According-
ly, the play was brought out without alteration, and, as had been fore-
seen, marks of disapprobation appeared. Garrick, alarmed at the hisses
he had met with, retired into the green-room, where the author was
solacing himself with a bottle of champagne. He had by this time
drank pretty freely; and, glancing his eye at the actor, while clouds of
tobacco issued from his mouth, cried out,—'What's the matter, Gar-
rick? what are they hissing now?'-'Why, the scene that I begged
you to retrench,' replied the actor; 'I knew it would not do; and they
have so frightened me, that I shall not be able to collect myself again
the whole night.'-'Oh! d-n 'em,' rejoined he, with great coolness,
'they have found it out, have they?'"
Besides various fugitive pieces, Fielding published in,
or about, 1743, a volume of Miscellanies, including The
1 [See Life of Richardson, ante, pp. 22, 38.]
2 [See Nichols's Literary Anccdotes, vol. iii., p. 363, for curious particu-
lars concerning this comedy's fate. |
92
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Journey from this World to the Next, a tract containing
a good deal of Fielding's peculiar humor, but of which
it is difficult to conceive the plan or purport. The His-
tory of Jonathan Wild the Great next followed. It is
not easy to see what Fielding proposed to himself by a
picture of complete vice, unrelieved by any thing of
human feeling, and never by any accident even deviat-
ing into virtue; and the ascribing a train of fictitious.
adventures to a real character, has in it something clumsy
and inartificial on the one hand, and, on the other, sub-
jects the author to a suspicion that he only used the title
of Jonathan Wild, in order to connect his book with
the popular renown of that infamous depredator. But
there are few passages in Fielding's more celebrated
works, more marked with his peculiar genius, than the
scene betwixt his hero and the Ordinary, when in New-
gate.
Besides these more permanent proofs of his indus-
trious application to literature, the pen of Fielding was
busily employed in the political and literary controver-
sies of the times. He conducted one paper, called The
Jacobite Journal, the object of which was to eradicate
those feelings and sentiments which had been already
so effectually crushed upon the Field of Culloden. The
True Patriot, and The Champion,' were works of, the
same kind, which he entirely composed, or in which, at
least, he had a principal share. In these various papers
1 ["A great portion of The Champion is employed on the follies,
vices, amusements, and literature of the age; and the remainder is
occupied by political wit and discussion. To every paper is annexed
what is termed 'an index to the times,' consisting of news, miscella-
neous and political, frequently charged with the most sarcastic irony.
In the critical department are to be found many ingenious dissertations
on literary subjects.”—Quarterly Review, May, 1809.]
HENRY FIELDING.
93
he steadily advocated what was then called the Whig
cause, being attached to the principles of the Revolu-
tion, and the royal family of Brunswick, or, in other
words, a person well affected to church and state.¹ His
zeal was long unnoticed, while far inferior writers were
enriched out of the secret-service-money with unex-
ampled prodigality. At length, in 1749, he received.
a small pension, together with the then disreputable
office of a Justice of Peace for Westminster and Middle-
sex, of which he was at liberty to make the best he
could by the worst means he might choose. This office,
such as it was, he owed to the interference of Mr., after-
wards Lord Lyttleton.
At this period, the Magistrates of Westminster, thence
termed Trading Justices, were repaid by fees for their
services to the public; a mean and wretched system,
which made it the interest of these functionaries to in-
flame every petty dispute which was brought before
them, to trade, as it were, in guilt and misery, and to
wring their precarious subsistence out of thieves and
pickpockets. The habits of Fielding, never choice or
1 [“ The True Patriot," says Mr. Nichols, "was not without its effect
in exciting the sentiments of loyalty, and a love for the constitution in
the breasts of his (Fielding's) countrymen. Mr. Addison, in his Free-
holder, had set a fine example in this species of composition, and in Mr.
Fielding he had not an unworthy follower. In The True Patriot was
displayed a solid knowledge of the British laws and government, to-
gether with occasional sallies of humor, which would have made no
inconsiderable figure in the political works of the greatest wits among
our author's predecessors. Another periodical paper written by him
was The Jacobites' Journal. It appeared in the beginning of 1748, and
was calculated to discredit the shattered remains of an unsuccessful
party; and, by a well-applied raillery and ridicule, to bring the senti-
ments of the disaffected into contempt, with a view of effacing them
not only from the conversation, but from the minds of men."—Literary
Anecdotes, vol. iii., p. 373.]
94
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
select in his society, were not improved by that to
which his place exposed him. Horace Walpole gives
us, in his usual unfeeling, but lively manner, the follow-
ing description of a visit made to Fielding in his capa-
city of a Justice, by which we see his mind had stooped
itself completely to his situation.
"Rigby gave me as strong a picture of nature. He and Peter Bathurst,
t'other night, carried a servant of the latter's, who had attempted to
shoot him, before Fielding, who, to all his other avocations, has, by
the grace of Mr. Lyttleton, added that of Middlesex Justice. He sent
them word he was at supper,-they must come next morning. They
did not understand that freedom, and ran up, where they found him
banqueting with a blind man, [Fielding's brother, probably,] a whore,
and three Irishmen, on some cold mutton, and a bone of ham, both in
one dish, and the dirtiest cloth. He never stirred, or asked them to sit.
Rigby, who had seen him come so often to beg a guinea of Sir C.
Williams, and Bathurst, at whose father's he had lived for victuals,
understood that dignity as little, and pulled themselves chairs, on
which he civilized.” ¹
This is a humiliating anecdote, even after we have
made allowance for the aristocratic exaggeration of
Walpole, who, in acknowledging Fielding's talents else-
where, has not failed to stigmatize the lowness of his
society and habits.² Yet it is consoling to observe,
that Fielding's principles remained unshaken, though
the circumstances attending his official situation tended
to increase the careless disrespectability of his private
1 Letters from the Hon. Horace Walpole to George Montague, Esq.
-Lond. 1818, p. 58.
2 In his poetical account of Twickenham, Fielding's residence in the
neighborhood is not forgotten,—
"Where Fielding met his bunter muse,
And as they quaff'd the fiery juice,
Droll nature stamp'd each lucky hit,
With unimaginable wit."
The Parish Register of Twickenham.
A
HENRY FIELDING.
95
""
habits. His own account of his conduct respecting the
dues of the office on which he depended for subsistence,
has never been denied or doubted. "I will confess,
says he, "that my private affairs, at the beginning of
the winter, had but a gloomy aspect; for I had not
plundered the public, or the poor, of those sums which
men, who are always ready to plunder both as much as
they can, have been pleased to suspect me of taking;
on the contrary, by composing, instead of inflaming,
the quarrels of porters and beggars, (which, I blush
when I say, hath not been universally practised,) and
by refusing to take a shilling from a man who most un-
doubtedly would not have had another left, I had re-
duced an income of about L.500 a-year, of the dirtiest
money upon earth, to little more than L.300; a consi-
derable portion of which remained with my clerk.”
Besides the disinterestedness of which he set an ex-
ample unusual in those days, Fielding endeavored, by
various suggestions, to abridge the catalogue of crimes
and depravity which his office placed so closely under
his eye. His Enquiry into the Increase of Thieves and
Robbers, contains several hints which have been adopted
by succeeding statesmen, and some which are still wor-
thy of more attention than they have yet received. As
a magistrate, indeed, he was desirous of retrieving the
dignity and independence of his own office; and his
zeal on that subject has led him a little farther than he
will be followed by the friends of rational freedom.
But we cannot omit mentioning, that he was the first to
touch on the frequency of pardons, rendered necessary
by the multiplication of capital punishments, and that
he placed his finger on that swelling imposthume of the
state, the poor's rates, which has wrought so much evil,
96
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
and is likely to work so much more. He published also
a Charge to the Grand Jury of Middlesex, some Tracts
concerning Law Trials of importance, and left behind
him a manuscript on Crown Law. On the subject of
the poor, he afterwards published a scheme for restrict.
ing them to their parishes, and providing for them in
work-houses, which, like many others which have since.
appeared, only showed that he was fully sensible of the
evil, without being able to suggest an effectual or prac-
tical remedy. A subsequent writer on the same thorny
subject, Sir Frederic Morton Eden, observes, that Field-
ing's treatise exhibits "both the knowledge of the
magistrate, and the energy and expression of the novel
writer." It was, however, before publishing his scheme
for the provision of the poor, that he made himself im-
mortal by the production of Tom Jones.
1
The History of a Foundling was composed under all
the disadvantages incident to an author alternately
pressed by the disagreeable task of his magisterial
duties, and by the necessity of hurrying out some ephe-
meral essay or pamphlet to meet the demands of the
passing day. It is inscribed to the Hon. Mr. Lyttleton,
afterwards Lord Lyttleton, with a dedication, in which
he intimates, that without his assistance, and that of the
Duke of Bedford, the work had never been completed,
as the author had been indebted to them for the means
of subsistence while engaged in composing it. Ralph
Allen, the friend of Pope, is also alluded to as one of his
[See "The State of the Poor, or a History of the Laboring Classes
in England, from the Conquest to the present period, in which are par-
ticularly considered their Domestic Economy, with respect to Diet,
Dress, Fuel, and Habitation, and the various plans which have been
proposed and adopted for their relief," &c. By Sir Frederic Morton
Eden, Bart. 3 vols. 4to. London, 1797.]
HENRY FIELDING.
97.
benefactors, but unnamed, by his own desire; thus con-
firming the truth of Pope's beautiful couplet-
"Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame."
It is said that this munificent and modest patron made
Fielding a present of £200 at one time, and that even
before he was personally acquainted with him.
Under such precarious circumstances the first English
novel was given to the public, which had not yet seen
any works of fiction founded upon the plan of painting
from nature. Even Richardson's novels are but a step
from the old romance, approaching, indeed, more nearly
to the ordinary course of events, but still dealing in im-
probable incidents, and in characters swelled out beyond
the ordinary limits of humanity. The History of a
Foundling is truth and human nature itself, and there
lies the inestimable advantage which it possesses over
all previous fictions of this particular kind. It was re-
ceived with unanimous acclamation by the public, and
proved so productive to Millar the publisher, that he
handsomely added £100 to £600, for which last sum he
had purchased the work.
The general merits of this popular and delightful
work have been so often dwelt upon, and its imperfec-
tions so frequently censured, that we can do little more
than hastily run over ground which has been repeatedly
occupied. The felicitous contrivance, and happy extri-
cation of the story, where every incident tells upon and
advances the catastrophe, while, at the same time, it il-
lustrates the characters of those interested in its ap-
proach, cannot too often be mentioned with the highest
approbation. The attention of the reader is never di-
verted or puzzled by unnecessary digressions, or recalled
98
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
to the main story by abrupt and startling recurrences;
he glides down the narrative like a boat on the surface
of some broad navigable stream, which only winds
enough to gratify the voyager with the varied beauty
of its banks. One exception to this praise, otherwise so
well meritéd, occurs in the story of the Old Man of the
Hill; an episode, which, in compliance with a custom
introduced by Cervantes, and followed by Le Sage,
Fielding has thrust into the midst of his narrative, as he
had formerly introduced the History of Leonora, equally
unnecessarily and inartificially, into that of Joseph An-
drews. It has also been wondered, why Fielding should
have chosen to leave the stain of illegitimacy on the
birth of his hero; and it has been surmised, that he did
so in allusion to his own first wife, who was also a natu-
ral child. A better reason may be discovered in the
story itself; for had Miss Bridget been privately mar-
ried to the father of Tom Jones, there could have been
no adequate motive assigned for keeping his birth secret
from a man so reasonable and compassionate as All-
worthy.
But even the high praise due to the construction and
arrangement of the story, is inferior to that claimed by
the truth, force, and spirit of the characters, from Tom
Jones himself, down to Black George the gamekeeper,
and his family. Amongst these, Squire Western stands
alone;¹ imitated from no prototype, and in himself an
inimitable picture of ignorance, prejudice, irascibility,
1 ["There now are no Squire Westerns ås of old;
And our Sophias are not so emphatic,
But fair as then, or fairer to behold.
We have no accomplish'd blackguards like Tom Jones,
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones."
Don Juan, canto xiii., st. 110.]
HENRY FIELDING.
99
and rusticity, united with natural shrewdness, constitu-
tional good-humor, and an instinctive affection for his
daughter,—all which qualities, good and bad, are
grounded upon that basis of thorough selfishness, natu-
ral to one bred up, from infancy, where no one dared to
contradict his arguments, or to control his conduct. In
one incident alone, Fielding has departed from this ad-
mirable sketch. As an English squire, Western ought
not to have taken a beating so unresistingly from the
friend of Lord Fellamar. We half suspect that the pas-
sage is an interpolation. It is inconsistent with the
Squire's readiness to engage in rustic affrays. We
grant a pistol or sword might have appalled him; but
Squire Western should have yielded to no one in the use
of the English horsewhip; and as, with all his brutali-
ties, we have a sneaking interest in the honest jolly
country-gentleman, we would willingly hope there is
some mistake in this matter.
The character of Jones, otherwise a model of gene-
rosity, openness, and manly spirit, mingled with thought-
less dissipation, is, in like manner, unnecessarily de-
graded by the nature of his intercourse with Lady Bel-
laston; and this is one of the circumstances which
incline us to believe, that Fielding's ideas of what was
gentleman-like and honorable had sustained some de-
preciation, in consequence of the unhappy circumstances
of his life, and of the society to which they condemned
him.
A more sweeping and general objection was made
against the History of a Foundling by the admirers of
Richardson, and has been often repeated since. It is
alleged, that the ultimate moral of Tom Jones, which
conducts to happiness, and holds up to our sympathy
100
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
and esteem, a youth who gives way to licentious habits,
is detrimental to society, and tends to encourage the
youthful reader in the practice of those follies, to which
his natural passions, and the usual course of the world,
but too much direct him. French delicacy, which, on
so many occasions, has strained at a gnat, and swallow-
ed a camel, saw this fatal tendency in the work, and by
an arrêt prohibited the circulation of a bungled abridge-
ment by De la Place, entitled a translation. To this
charge Fielding himself might probably have replied,
that the vices into which Jones suffers himself to fall,
are made the direct cause of placing him in the distress-
ful situation, which he occupies during the greater part
of the narrative; while his generosity, his charity, and
his amiable qualities, become the means of saving him
from the consequences of his folly. But we suspect
with Dr. Johnson, that there is something of cant both
in the objection, and in the answer to it.
"Men," says
that moralist, "will not become highwaymen, because
Macheath is acquitted on the stage ;" and we add, that
they will not become swindlers and thieves, because
they sympathize with the fortunes of the witty picaroon
Gil Blas, or licentious debauchees, because they read
Tom Jones. The professed moral of a piece is usually
what the reader is least interested in; it is like the men-
dicant, who cripples after some splendid and gay pro-
cession, and in vain solicits the attention of those who
have been gazing upon it. Excluding from considera-
tion those infamous works, which address themselves
directly to awakening the grosser passions of our na-
ture, we are inclined to think, the worst evil to be ap-
prehended from the perusal of novels is, that the habit
is apt to generate an indisposition to real history, and
HENRY FIELDING.
101
useful literature; and that the best which can be hoped
is, that they may sometimes instruct the youthful mind
by real pictures of life, and sometimes awaken their bet-
ter feelings and sympathies by strains of generous sen-
timent, and tales of fictitious woe. Beyond this point
they are a mere elegance, a luxury contrived for the
amusement of polished life, and the gratification of that
half love of literature, which pervades all ranks in an
advanced stage of society, and are read much more for
amusement, than with the least hope of deriving in-
struction from them. The vices and follies of Tom
Jones, are those which the world soon teaches to all
who enter on the career of life, and to which society is
unhappily but too indulgent, nor do we believe, that, in
any one instance, the perusal of Fielding's Novel has
added one libertine to the large list, who would not
have been such, had it never crossed the press. And it
is with concern we add our sincere belief, that the fine
picture of frankness and generosity, exhibited in that
fictitious character, has had as few imitators as the
career of his follies. Let it not be supposed that we
are indifferent to morality, because we treat with scorn
that affectation, which, while in common life, it con-
nives at the open practice of libertinism, pretends to de-
test the memory of an author, who painted life as it
was, with all its shades, and more than all the lights
which it occasionally exhibits, to relieve them. For
particular passages of the work, the author can only be
defended under the custom of his age, which permitted,
in certain cases, much stronger language than ours. He
has himself said, that there is nothing which can offend
the chastest eye in the perusal; and he spoke probably
according to the ideas of his time. But in modern estı-
102
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
mation, there are several passages at which delicacy
may justly take offence; and we can only say, that they
may be termed rather jocularly coarse than seductive;
and that they are atoned for by the admirable mixture
of wit and argument, by which, in others, the cause of
true religion and virtue is supported and advanced.
Fielding considered his works as an experiment in
British literature; and, therefore, he chose to prefix a
preliminary Chapter to each Book, explanatory of his
own views, and of the rules attached to this mode of
composition. Those critical introductions, which rather
interrupt the course of the story, and the flow of the in-
terest at the first perusal, are found, on a second or
third, the most entertaining chapters of the whole work.
The publication of Tom Jones carried Fielding's fame
to its height; but seems to have been attended with no
consequences to his fortune, beyond the temporary re-
lief which the copy-money afforded him. It was after
this period, that he published his proposal for making
an effectual Provision for the Poor, formerly noticed,
and a pamphlet relating to the mysterious case of the
celebrated Elizabeth Canning, in which he adopted the
cause of common sense against popular prejudice, and
failed in consequence in the object of his publication.
Amelia was the author's last work of importance. It
may be termed a continuation of Tom Jones; but we
have not the same sympathy for the ungrateful and dis-
solute conduct of Booth, which we yield to the youth-
ful follies of Jones. The character of Amelia is said to
have been drawn for Fielding's second wife. If he put
her patience, as has been alleged, to tests of the same
kind, he has, in some degree, repaid her, by the picture
he has drawn of her feminine delicacy and pure tender-
HENRY FIELDING.
103
ness. Fielding's Novels show few instances of pathos;
it was, perhaps, inconsistent with the life which he was
compelled to lead; for those who see most of human
misery become necessarily, in some degree, hardened to
its effects. But few scenes of fictitious distress are more
affecting, than that in which Amelia is described as
having made her little preparations for the evening, and
sitting in anxious expectation of the return of her un-
worthy husband, whose folly is, in the meantime, pre-
paring for her new scenes of misery. But our sympathy
for the wife is disturbed by our dislike of her unthankful
helpmate, of whose conversion we have no hope, and with
whose errors we have no sympathy. The tale, is, there-
fore, on the whole, unpleasing, even though relieved by
the humors of the doughty Colonel Bath, and the learned
Dr. Harrison, characters drawn with such force and pre-
cision, as Fielding alone knew how to employ.
Millar published Amelia in 1751. He had paid a
thousand pounds for the copyright; and when he began
to suspect that the work would be judged inferior to
its predecessor, he employed the following stratagem to
push it upon the trade. At a sale made to the book-
sellers, previous to the publication, Millar offered his
¹[“H. Fielding has given a true picture of himself and his first wife,
in the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Booth, some compliments to his
own figure excepted; and I am persuaded, several of the incidents he
mentions are real matters of fact. I wonder he does not perceive Tom
Jones and Mr. Booth are sorry scoundrels. All this sort of books have
the same fault, which I cannot easily pardon, being very mischievous.
They place a merit in extravagant passions, and encourage young peo-
ple to hope for impossible events, to draw them out of the misery they
choose to plunge themselves into, expecting legacies from unknown
relatives, and generous benefactors to distressed virtue, as much out of
nature as fairy treasures."-LADY M. W. MONTAGUE-Works, vol. iv., p.
259-60.]
104
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
friends his other publications on the usual terms of dis-
count; but when he came to Amelia, he laid it aside, as
a work expected to be in such demand, that he could
not afford to deliver it to the trade in the usual man-
ner. The ruse succeeded—the impression was anxiously
bought up, and the bookseller relieved from every ap-
prehension of a slow sale.'
Notwithstanding former failures, Fielding, in 1752,
commenced a new attempt at a literary newspaper and
review, which he entitled the Covent-Garden Journal, to
be published twice a week, and conducted by Sir Alex-
ander Drawcansir. It was the author's failing, that he
could not continue any plan of this nature, (for which
otherwise his ready pen, sharp wit, and classical know-
ledge, so highly fitted him,) without involving himself
in some of the party squabbles, or petty literary broils,
of the day. On the present occasion, it was not long
ere he involved himself in a quarrel with Dr. Hill,² and
other periodical writers. Among the latter, we are
sorry to particularize Smollett, although possessed of
the most kindred genius to Fielding's which has yet ap-
peared in British literature. The warfare was of brief
duration, and neither party would obtain honor by an
enquiry into the cause or conduct of its hostilities.
1
Meanwhile, Fielding's life was fast decaying; a com-
¹ ["Johnson," says Boswell, "read Fielding's Amelia through with-
out stopping. "-"He appears," says Malone, "to have been particu-
larly pleased with the character of the heroine of this novel, and said,
Fielding's Amelia was the most pleasing heroine of all the romances,
but that vile broken nose never cured, ruined the sale of perhaps the
only book, of which, being published betimes one morning, a new edi-
tion was called for before night."-Anecdotes, p. 221.]
2 [See the particulars of this warfare in D'Israeli's Quarrels of Au-
thors, vol. ii., p. 99.}
HENRY FIELDING.
105
plication of diseases had terminated in a dropsical habit,
which totally undermined his strong constitution. The
Duke of Newcastle, then prime minister, was desirous
of receiving assistance from him in the formation of a
plan, for the remedy and prevention of secret robberies,
and improving the police of the metropolis. For the
small consideration of £600, paid by government, Field-
ing engaged to extirpate several gangs of daring ruffians,
which at this time infested London, and its vicinity;
and though his health was reduced to the last extremity,
he continued himself to superintend the conduct of his.
agents, to take evidence, and make commitments, until
this great object was attained.
These last exertions seem to have been fatal to his
exhausted frame, which suffered at once under dropsy
and jaundice, and asthma. The Bath waters were tried
in vain, and various modes of cure or alleviation were
resorted to, of which tapping only appears to have suc-
ceeded to a certain extent. The medical attendants
gave their last sad advice in recommending a milder cli-
mate. Of his departure for Lisbon, in conformity with
their opinion, he has himself left the following melan-
choly record, painting the man and his situation a thou-
sand times better than any other pen could achieve.
"1
"On this day, Wednesday, June 26, 1754," he says, "the most
melancholy sun I had ever beheld arose, and found me awake at my
house at Fordhook. By the light of this sun, I was, in my own opinion,
last to behold and take leave of some of those creatures on whom I
doated with a mother-like fondness, guided by nature and passion, and
uncured and unhardened by all the doctrine of that philosophical
school, where I had learned to bear pains, and to despise death. In this
situation, as I could not conquer nature, I submitted entirely to her, and
she made as great a fool of me, as she had ever done of any woman
1 Voyage to Lisbon.
106
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
whatsoever; under pretence of giving me leave to enjoy, she drew me
in to suffer, the company of my little ones, during eight hours; and I
doubt not whether, in that time, I did not undergo more than in all my
distemper. At twelve precisely my coach was at the door, which was
no sooner told me, than I kissed my children round, and went into it
with some little resolution. My wife, who behaved more like a heroine
and philosopher, though at the same time the tenderest mother in the
world, and my eldest daughter, followed me. Some friends went with
us, and others here took their leave; and I heard my behavior ap-
plauded, with many murmurs and praises, to which I well knew I had
no title.'
2
This affecting passage makes a part of his Journey to
Lisbon, a work which he commenced during the voyage,
with a hand trembling in almost its latest hour.
It re-
mains a singular example of Fielding's natural strength
of mind, that while struggling hard at once with the de-
pression and with the irritability of disease, he could
still exhibit a few flashes of that bright wit, which once
set the "world" in a roar. His perception of character,
and power of describing it, had not forsaken him in
those sad moments; for the master of the ship in which
he sailed, the scolding landlady of the Isle of Wight,
the military coxcomb who visits their vessel, are all por-
traits, marked with the master-hand which traced Par-
son Adams and Squire Western.
The Journey to Lisbon was abridged by fate. Field-
ing reached that city, indeed, alive, and remained there
two months; but he was unable to continue his propos-
ed literary labors. The hand of death was upon him,
and seized upon its prey in the beginning of October,
1754. He died in the forty-eighth year of his life, leav-
ing behind him a widow, and four children, one of whom
died soon afterwards. His brother, Sir John Fielding,
well known as a magistrate, aided by the bounty of Mr.
HENRY FIELDING.
107
D
Allen, made suitable provision for the survivors; but of
their fate we are ignorant.
Thus lived, and thus died, at a period of life when the
world might have expected continued delight from his
matured powers, the celebrated Henry Fielding, father
of the English Novel; and in his powers of strong and
national humor, and forcible yet natural exhibition of
character, unapproached as yet, even by his most suc-
cessful followers.
Abbotsford, October 25, 1820.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
THE Life of SMOLLETT, whose genius has raised an
imperishable monument to his fame, has been written,
with spirit and elegance, by his friend and contemporary,
the celebrated Dr. Moore, and more lately by Dr. Robert
Anderson of Edinburgh, with a careful research, which
leaves to us little except the task of selection and
abridgement.
Our author was descended from an ancient and honor-
able family; an advantage to which, from various pas-
sages in his writings, he seems to have attached consi-
derable weight, and the consciousness of which seems to
have contributed its share in forming some of the pecu-
liarities of his character.
Sir James Smollett of Bonhill, the grandfather of the
celebrated author, was bred to the bar, became one of
the Commissaries (i. e. Consistorial Judges) of Edin-
burgh, represented the burgh of Dumbarton in the Scot-
tish Parliament, and lent his aid to dissolve that repre-
sentative body for ever, being one of the Commissioners
for framing the Union with England. By his lady, a
daughter of Sir Aulay MacAulay of Ardincaple, Sir
James Smollett had four sons, of whom Archibald, the
youngest, was father of the poet.
It appears that Archibald Smollett followed no pro-
fession, and that, without his father's consent, he mar-
ried an amiable woman, Barbara, daughter of Mr. Cun-
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
109
ningham of Gilbertfield. The disunion betwixt the son
and father, to which this act of imprudence gave rise,
did not prevent Sir James Smollett from assigning to
him, for his support, the house and farm of Dalquhurn,
near his own mansion of Bonhill. Archibald Smollett
died early, leaving two sons and a daughter wholly de-
pendent on the kindness of his grandfather. The eldest
son embraced the military life, and perished by the ship-
wreck of a transport. The daughter, Jane, married Mr.
Telfer of Leadhills, and her descendant, Captain John
Smollett, R.N., now represents the family, and possesses
the estate of Bonhill. The second son of Archibald
Smollett is the subject of this Memoir.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT (baptized Tobias George) was born.
in 1721, in the old house of Dalquhurn, in the valley of
Leven, in perhaps the most beautiful district in Britain.
Its distinguished native has celebrated the vale of Leven,
not only in the beautiful Ode addressed to his parent
stream, but in the Expedition of Humphry Clinker,
where he mentions the home of his forefathers in the
following enthusiastic, yet not exaggerated terms:-
1
"A very little above the source of the Leven, on the lake, stands the
house of Cameron, belonging to Mr. Smollett, so embosomed in an oak
wood, that we did not see it till we were within fifty yards of the door.
The lake approaches on one side to within six or seven yards of the win.
dow. It might have been placed in a higher situation, which would
have afforded a more extensive prospect, and a drier atmosphere; but
this imperfection is not chargeable on the present proprietor, who pur-
chased it ready built, rather than be at the trouble of repairing his own
family-house of Bonhill, which stands two miles from hence on the
Leven, so surrounded with plantations, that it used to be known by the
name of the Mavis (or thrush) Nest. Above that house is a romantic
glen, or cleft of a mountain, covered with hanging woods, having at
1 The late Commissary Smollett.
110
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
bottom a stream of fine water that forms a number of cascades in its
descent to join the Leven, so that the scene is quite enchanting.
"I have seen the Lago di Gardi, Albano de Vico, Bolsena, and Gene-
va, and I prefer Loch-Lomond to them all; a preference which is cer-
tainly owing to the verdant islands that seem to float upon its surface,
affording the most enchanting objects of repose to the excursive view.
Nor are the banks destitute of beauties which even partake of the sub-
lime. On this side they display a sweet variety of woodland, corn-fields,
and pasture, with several agreeable villas, emerging, as it were, out of
the lake; till at some distance, the prospect terminates in huge moun-
tains, covered with heath, which, being in the bloom, affords a very rich
covering of purple. Every thing here is romantic beyond imagination.
This country is justly styled the Arcadia of Scotland: I do not doubt
but it may vie with Arcadia in every thing but climate. I am sure it
excels it in verdure, wood, and water."
A poet bred up amongst such scenes, must become
doubly attached to his art; and accordingly it appears
that Smollett was in the highest degree sensible of the
beauties of nature, although his fame has chiefly risen
upon his power of delineating human character. He
obtained the rudiments of classical knowledge at the
Dumbarton grammar-school, then taught by Mr. John
Love, the scarce less learned antagonist of the learned
Ruddiman. From thence he removed to Glasgow, where
he pursued his studies with diligence and success, and
was finally bound apprentice to Mr. John Gordon, an
eminent surgeon.
This destination was contrary to
young Smollett's wishes, which strongly determined him
to a military life; and he is supposed to have avenged
himself both of his grandfather, who contradicted his
inclinations, and of his master, by describing the former
under the unamiable character of the old Judge, and the
latter as Mr. Potion, the first master of Roderick Ran-
dom. At a later period he did Mr. Gordon justice by
mentioning him in the following terms :-"I was intro-
duced to Mr. Gordon," says Matthew Bramble, "a pa-
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
111
triot of a truly noble spirit, who is father of the linen
manufactory in that place, and was the great promoter
of the city work-house, infirmary, and other works of
public utility. Had he lived in ancient Rome, he would
have been honored with a statue at the public expense.
During his apprenticeship, Smollett's conduct indicat-
ed that love of frolic, practical jest, and playful mis-
chief, of which his works show many proofs, and the
young novelist gave also several indications of his
talents and propensity to satire.' It is said, that his
master expressed his conviction of Smollett's future
eminence in very homely but expressive terms, when
some of his neighbors were boasting the superior de-
corum and propriety of their young pupils. "It may be
all very true," said the keensighted Mr. Gordon; "but
give me, before them all, my own bubbly-nosed callant,
with the stane in his pouch." Without attempting to
render this into English, our Southern readers must be
informed, that the words contain a faithful sketch of a
1 ["Although, at so early a period of life, he was liable to very great
mistakes in judging of the characters of mankind, yet he began to
direct the edge of his boyish satire against such scanty shoots of affecta-
tion and ridicule as were produced in a city enriched by commerce, and
enlightened by its university. The shafts of his wit were not even then
confined to the coquetry and foppery of the youthful and fashionable
only, but were sometimes aimed at the selfishness and hypocrisy of the
more formal and serious part of the citizens, among whom the chief
means of acquiring importance were the possession of wealth, and the
decent observance of the duties of religion.
"These early productions of his muse afforded much entertainment
to his young companions, but they gave offence to many pious and in-
dustrious persons, who were unjustly accused of being hypocrites, and
exposed to his satire. Some of them, it is said, possessed a considera-
ble portion of that species of humor for which he was afterwards so
much distinguished. None of them, however, have been thought wor-
thy of preservation."-ANDERSON'S Life of Smollett, p. 14.]
112
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
negligent, unlucky, but spirited urchin, never without
some mischievous prank in his head, and a stone in his
pocket ready to execute it.¹
In the eighteenth year of Smollett's life, his grand-
father, Sir James, died, making no provision by his will
for the children of his youngest son, a neglect which,
joined to other circumstances already mentioned, pro-
cured him from his irritable descendant the painful dis-
tinction which the old Judge holds in the narrative of
Roderick Random.
Without efficient patronage of any kind, Smollett, in
his nineteenth year, went to London to seek his fortune
wherever he might find it. He carried with him the
Regicide, a tragedy, written during the progress of hist
studies, but which, though it evinces in particular pas-
sages the genius of the author, cannot be termed with
justice a performance suited for the stage. Lord Lyttle.
ton, as a patron-Garrick and Lacy, as managers,—gave
1 ["On a winter evening," says Dr. Moore, "when the streets were
covered with snow, Smollett happened to be engaged in a snow-ball
fight with a few boys of his own age. Among his associates was the
apprentice of that surgeon who is supposed to have been delineated un-
der the name of Crab in Roderick Random. He entered his shop while
his apprentice was in the heat of the engagement. On the return of the
latter, the master remonstrated severely with him for his negligence in
quitting the shop. The youth excused himself by saying that while he
was employed in making up a prescription, a fellow had hit him with a
snow-ball; and he had been in pursuit of the delinquent.
'A mighty
probable story truly,' said the master, in an ironical tone; 'I wonder
how long I should stand here,' added he, 'before it would enter into any
mortal's head to throw a snowball at me.' While he was holding his
head erect, with a most scornful air, he received a very severe blow in
the face by a snowball. Smollett, who stood concealed behind the pil-
lar at the shop-door, had heard the dialogue; and perceiving that his
companion was puzzled for an answer, he extricated him by a repartee
equally smart and à propos."—Life of Smollett.]
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
113
the youthful author some encouragement, which, per-
haps, the sanguine temper of Smollett overrated; for,
in the story of Mr. Melopoyn, where he gives the his-
tory of his attempts to bring the Regicide on the stage,
the patron and the manager are not spared; and, in
Peregrine Pickle, the personage of Gosling Scrag, which
occurs in the first edition only, is meant to represent
Lord Lyttleton. The story is more briefly told in the
preface to the first edition of the Regicide, where the
author informs us that his tragedy
((
was taken into the protection of one of those little fellows who are
sometimes called great men, and, like other orphans, neglected accord-
ingly. Stung with resentment," he adds, "which I mistook for con-
tempt, I resolved to punish this barbarous indifference, and actually
discarded my patron; consoling myself with the barren praises of a few
associates, who, in the most indefatigable manner, employed their time
and influence in collecting from all quarters observations on my piece,
which, in consequence of those suggestions, put on a new appearance
almost every day, until my occasions called me out of the kingdom."
Disappointed in the hopes he had founded on in his
theatrical attempt, Smollett accepted the situation of
surgeon's mate on board of a ship of the line, in the ex-
pedition to Carthagena, in 1741, of which he published
a short account in Roderick Random, and a longer nar-
rative in a Compendium of Voyages, published in 1751.
But the term of our author's service in the navy was
chiefly remarkable from his having acquired, in that
brief space, such intimate knowledge of our nautical
world, as enabled him to describe sailors with such
truth and spirit of delineation, that from that time who-
ever has undertaken the same task has seemed to copy
more from Smollett than from nature. Our author
quitted the navy, in disgust alike with the drudgery,
and with the despotic discipline, which in those days
114
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
was qualified by no urbanity on the part of superior offi-
cers, and which exposed subordinates in the service to
such mortifications, as a haughty spirit like that of
Smollett could very ill endure. He left the service in
the West Indies, and after a residence of some time in
the island of Jamaica, returned to England in 1746.
Obscure traces of the vexatious persecutions which he
underwent during his service in the navy, may be found
in Roderick Random; but the temper of the author
was too irritable to encourage our full confidence in the
truth of his satire.
It was at this time, when, incensed at the brutal seve-
rities exercised by the government's troops in the High-
lands, to which romantic regions he was a neighbor by
birth, Smollett wrote the pathetic, spirited, and patriotic
verses entitled The Tears of Caledonia. The late Ro-
bert Graham, Esq., of Gartmore, a particular friend and
trustee of Smollett, has recorded the manner in which
this effusion was poured forth.
"Some gentlemen having met at a tavern were amusing themselves be-
fore supper with a game at cards; while Smollett, not choosing to play,
sat down to write. One of the company, who also was nominated by
him one of his trustees," (Gartmore himself,) "observing his earnest-
ness, and supposing he was writing verses, asked him if it was not so.
He accordingly read them the first sketch of his Tears of Scotland, con-
sisting only of six stanzas; and on their remarking that the termination
of the poem, being too strongly expressed, might give offence to per-
sons whose political opinions were different, he sat down, without reply,
and, with an air of great indignation, subjoined the concluding stanza:
"While the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my Country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat.!
Yes, spite of thine insulting foe,.
My sympathizing verse shall flow.
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn,
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn !"
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
115
To estimate the generous emotions with which Smol-
lett was actuated on this occasion, it must be remarked
that his patriotism was independent of party feeling, as
he had been bred up in Whig principles, which were
those of his family; and although these appear from
his historical work to have been in some degree modi-
fied, yet the author continued attached to the principles
of the Revolution. It is also to be remembered, that at
the extinction of a civil war, the least appearance of
sympathy with the vanquished party is sure to interrupt
fairer prospects of preferment than any which opened
to Smollett. His feelings for his country's distresses,
and his resentment of the injuries she sustained, were as
genuine and disinterested as the mode of expressing
them is pathetic and spirited.
man.
Smollett, on his return from the West Indies, settled
in London, and commenced his career as a professional
He was not successful as a physician, probably
because his independent and haughty spirit neglected
the by-paths which lead to fame in that profession.
One account says, that he failed to render himself
agreeable to his female patients, certainly not from
want of address or figure, for both were remarkably
pleasing, but more probably by a hasty impatience of
listening to petty complaints, and a want of sympathy
with the lamentations of those who labored under no
real indisposition. It is remarkable, that although very
many, perhaps the greatest number of successful medi-
cal men, have assumed a despotic authority over their
patients after their character was established, few or
none have risen to preeminence in practice who used
the same want of ceremony in the commencement of
their career. Perhaps, however, Dr. Smollett was too
116
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
soon discouraged, and abandoned prematurely a profes-
sion in which success is proverbially slow.
Smollett, who must have felt his own powers, had
naturally recourse to his pen, to supply the deficiencies
of an income which his practice did not afford; and
besides repeated attempts to get his tragedy acted, he
sent forth, in 1746, Advice, and in 1747, Reproof, both
poetical satires possessed of considerable merit, but
which only influenced the fate of the author, as they
increased the number of his personal enemies. Rich,
the manager, was particularly satirized in Reproof.
Smollett had written for the Covent-Garden theatre an
opera called Alceste, which was not acted in conse-
quence of some quarrel betwixt the author and mana-
ger, which Smollett thus avenged.
About 1747, Smollett was married to Miss Lascelles, a
beautiful and accomplished woman, to whom he had
become attached in the West Indies. Instead of an
expected fortune of L.3000, he gained by this connexion
only a lawsuit, and increased the expense of housekeep-
ing, which he was still less able to afford, and was again
obliged to have recourse to his literary talents.
Necessity is the mother of invention in literature as
well as in the arts, and the necessity of Smollett brought
him forth in his preeminent character of a Novelist.
Roderick Random may be considered as an imitation of
Le Sage, as the hero flits through almost every scene of
public and private life, recording, as he paints his own
adventures, the manners of the times, with all their
various shades and diversities of coloring; but forming
no connected plot or story, the several parts of which
hold connexion with, or bear proportion to, each other.
It was the second example of the minor-romance, or
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
117
English novel. Fielding had shortly before set the
example in his Tom Jones, and a rival of almost equal
eminence, in 1748, brought forth the Adventures of
Roderick Random; a work which was eagerly received
by the public, and brought both reputation and profit to
the author.
It was generally believed that Smollett painted some
of his own early adventures under the veil of fiction;
but the public carried the spirit of applying the charac-
ters of a work of fiction to living personages much far-
ther perhaps than the author intended. Gawkey,
Crabbe, and Potion,' were assigned to individuals in
the West of Scotland; Mrs. Smollett was supposed to
be Narcissa; the author himself represented Roderick
Random (of which there can be little doubt); a book-
binder and barber, the early acquaintances of Smollett,
contended for the character of the attached, amiable,
simple-hearted Strap; and the two naval officers, under
2
1 ["Gordon is generally said to have been the original of Potion in
Roderick Random. This has been denied by Smollett's biographers;
but their conjecture is of no more weight than the tradition which it
contradicts. In the characters of a work so compounded of truth and
fiction, the author alone could have estimated the personality which he
intended, and of that intention he was not probably communicative.
The tradition still remaining at Glasgow is, that Smollett was a restive
apprentice, and a mischievous stripling. While at the University he
cultivated the study of literature, as well as that of medicine, and show-
ed a disposition for poetry, but very often in that bitter vein of satire
which he carried so plentifully into the temper of his future years."
CAMPBELL.]
" ["Mr. Lewis, of Chelsea, who died in 1783, used to bind books for,
and enjoy the company and conversation of the first literary men of his
day; and was generally supposed to have been the original of Strap, in
Roderick Random. Mrs. Lewis often assured the writer of this article,
that her husband denied the assertions of many people, as often as it
was mentioned to him; but there is every reason to suppose him to
have been the person that Smollett had in view, as they came out of
118
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
in
whom Smollett had served, were stigmatized under the
names of Oakum and Whiffle. Certain it is, that the
contempt with which his unfortunate play had been
treated forms the basis of Mr. Melopoyn's story,
which Garrick and Littleton are roughly treated under
the characters of Marmozet and Sheerwit. The public
did not taste less keenly the real merits of this interest-
ing and humorous work, because they conceived it to
possess the zest arising from personal allusion; and the
sale of the work exceeded greatly the expectations of
all concerned.
Having now the ear of the public, Smollett published,
by subscription, his unfortunate tragedy, the Regicide,
in order to shame those who had barred his access to
the stage. The preface is filled with complaints, which
are neither just nor manly, and with strictures upon
Garrick and Lyttleton, which amount almost to abuse.
The merits of the piece by no means vindicate this ex-
treme resentment on the part of the author, and of this
Smollett himself became at length sensible. He was
impetuous, but not sullen in his resentment, and gene-
rously allowed, in his History of England, the full merit
to those, whom, in the first impulse of passion and dis-
appointment, he had treated with injustice.'
Scotland together, and, when Smollett lived at Chelsea, Mr. Lewis used
to dine every Sunday with him."-NICHOLS's Literary Anecdotes, vol. iii.,
p. 465.]
1 Desirous "of doing justice in a work of truth for wrongs done in a
work of fiction," (to use his own expression,) in giving a sketch of the
liberal arts in his History of England, he remarked, "the exhibitions
of the stage were improved to the most exquisite entertainment by the
talents and management of Garrick, who greatly surpassed all his pre-
decessors of this, and perhaps every other nation, in his genius for act-
ing, in the sweetness and variety of his tones, the irresistible magic of
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
119
In 1750, Smollett made a tour to Paris, where he
gleaned materials for future works of fiction, besides
enlarging his acquaintance with life and manners. A
coxcomb painter, whom he met on this occasion, formed
the original of the exquisite Pallet; while Dr. Akenside,
a man of very different character, was marked the
future prey of satire as the pedantic Doctor of Medi-
cine. He is said to have offended Smollett by some
national reflections on Scotland,' while his extravagant
his eye, the fire and vivacity of his action, the elegance of attitude, and
the whole pathos of expression.
"Candidates for literary fame appeared even in the higher sphere of
life, embellished by the nervous sense and extensive erudition of a
Corke, by the delicate taste, the polished muse, and tender feelings of a
Lyttleton."
Not satisfied with this public declaration of his sentiments, he wrote
in still stronger terms to Mr. Garrick :
"DEAR SIR,
Chelsea, Jan. 27, 1762.
"I this morning received your Winter's Tale, and am agreeably flat-
tered by this mark of your attention. What I have said of Mr. Garrick
in the History of England, was, I protest, the language of my heart. I
shall rejoice if he thinks I have done him barely justice. I am sure the
public will think I have done him no more than justice. In giving a
short sketch of the liberal arts, I could not, with any propriety, forbear
mentioning a gentleman so eminently distinguished by a genius that
has no rival. Besides, I thought it was a duty incumbent on me in par-
ticular, to make a public atonement in a work of truth for wrongs done
him in a work of fiction.
Among the other inconveniences arising from ill health, I deeply
regret my being disabled from a personal cultivation of your good-will,
and the unspeakable enjoyment I should sometimes derive from your
private conversation, as well as from the public exertion of your talents;
but sequestered as I am from the world of entertainment, the conscious-
ness of standing well in your opinion will ever afford singular satisfac-
tion to,
Dear Sir,
"Your very humble Servant,
"T. SMOLLETT."
[Akenside had studied his profession at Edinburgh.]
120
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
zeal for liberty, which was in no great danger, and his
pedantic and exclusive admiration of the manners of
classical antiquity, afforded, as Smollett has drawn them,
an ample fund of ridicule.
Peregrine Pickle is supposed to have been written
chiefly in Paris, and appeared in 1751. It was received
by the public with uncommon avidity, and a large im-
pression dispersed, notwithstanding the efforts of cer-
tain booksellers and others, whom Smollett accuses of
attempts to obstruct the sale, the book being published
on account of the author himself. His irritable temper
induced him to run hastily before the public with com-
plaints, which, howsoever well or ill-grounded, the pub-
lic has been at all times accustomed to hear with great
indifference. Many professional authors, philosophers,
and other public characters of the time, were also
satirized with little restraint.
The splendid merits of the work itself were a much
greater victory over the author's enemies, if he really
had such, than any which he could gain by personal
altercation with unworthy opponents. Yet by many
his second novel was not thought quite equal to his
first. In truth, there occurs betwixt Roderick Random
and Peregrine Pickle a difference, which is often observ-
ed betwixt the first and second efforts of authors who
have been successful in this line. Peregrine Pickle is
more finished, more sedulously labored into excellence,
exhibits scenes of more accumulated interest, and. pre-
sents a richer variety of character and adventure, than
Roderick Random; but yet there is an ease and sim-
plicity in the first novel which is not quite attained in
the second, where the author has substituted splendid
coloring for strict fidelity of outline. Thus, of the in-
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
121
imitable sea-characters, Trunnion, Pipes, and even
Hatchway, border upon caricature; but Lieutenant
Bowling and Jack Rattlin are truth and nature itself.
The reason seems to be, that when an author brings
forth his first representation of any class of characters,
he seizes on the leading and striking outlines, and there-
fore, in the second attempt of the same kind, he is forc-
ed to make some distinction, and either to invest his
personage with less obvious and ordinary traits of cha-
racter, or to place him in a new and less natural light.
Hence, it would seem, the difference in opinion which
sometimes occurs betwixt the author and the reader, re-
specting the comparative value of early and of subse-
quent publications. The author naturally esteems that
most upon which he is conscious much more labor has
been bestowed, while the public often remain constant
to their first love, and prefer the facility and truth of
the earlier work to the more elaborate execution dis-
played in those which follow it. But though the sim-
plicity of its predecessor was not, and could not be, re-
peated in Smollett's second novel, his powers are so far
from evincing any falling off, that in Peregrine Pickle
there is a much wider range of character and incident,
than is exhibited in Roderick Random, as well as a
more rich and brilliant display of the talents and humor
of the distinguished author.
Peregrine Pickle did not, however, owe its success en-
tirely to its intrinsic merit. The Memoirs of a Lady
of Quality, a separate tale, thrust into the work, with
which it has no sort of connexion, in the manner intro-
duced by Cervantes, and followed by Le Sage and
Fielding, added considerably to its immediate popula-
rity. These Memoirs, which are now regarded as a
122
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
tiresome and unnecessary excrescence upon the main
story, contain the history of Lady Vane, renowned at
that time for her beauty and her intrigues.' The lady
not only furnished Smollett with the materials for re-
cording her own infamy, but, it is said, rewarded him
handsomely for the insertion of her story. Mr. Mac-
Kercher, a character of a different description, was also
introduced. He was remarkable for the benevolent
Quixotry with which he supported the pretensions of
the unfortunate Mr. Annesley, a claimant of the title
and property of Anglesea. The public took the in-
terest in the frailties of Lady Vane, and the benevolence
of Mr. MacKercher, which they always take in the his-
tory of living and remarkable characters; and the anec-
dotes respecting the demirep and the man of charity,
greatly promoted the instant popularity of Peregrine
Pickle.
The extreme license of some of the scenes described
in this novel, gave deep offence to the thinking part of
the public; and the work, in conformity to their just
complaints, was much altered in the second edition.
The preliminary advertisement has these words :-
"It was the author's duty, as well as his interest, to oblige the public
with this edition, which he has endeavored to render less unworthy of
their acceptance by retrenching the superfluities of the first, reforming
its manners, and correcting its expression. Divers uninteresting inci-
dents are wholly suppressed; some humorous scenes he has endeavor-
ed to heighten; and he flatters himself that he has expunged every ad-
1 Lady Vane was the daughter of Francis Hawes, Esq., of Purley-
Hall, near Reading, in Berkshire, one of the South-Sea Directors in
1720, and married, about the beginning of 1732, at the age of seventeen,
to Lord William Hamilton, who dying July 11, 1734, she married, May
19, 1735, Lord Viscount Vane, of the kingdom of Ireland, with whom
she had various scandalous lawsuits, and died in London, March 31,
1788, in the seventy-second year of her life.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
123
venture, phrase, and insinuation, that could be construed by the most
delicate reader into a trespass upon the rules of decorum.
"He owns with contrition, that, in one or two instances, he gave way
too much to the suggestions of personal resentment, and represented
characters, as they appeared to him at the time, through the exaggerat-
ed medium of prejudice. But he has in this impression endeavored to
make atonement for these extravagances. Howsoever he may have
erred in point of judgment or discretion, he defies the whole world to
prove that he was ever guilty of one act of malice, ingratitude, or dis-
honor. This declaration he may be permitted to make, without incur-
ring the imputation of vanity or presumption, considering the numerous
shafts of envy, rancour, and revenge, that have lately, both in public
and private, been levelled at his reputation."
In reference to this palinode, we may barely observe,
that the passages retrenched in the second edition are,
generally speaking, details of frolics in which the author
had permitted his turn for humor greatly to outrun his
sense of decency and propriety; and, in this respect,
notwithstanding what he himself says in the passage
just quoted, the work would have been much improved
by a more unsparing application of the pruning knife.
Several personal reflections were also omitted, particu-
larly those on Lyttleton and Fielding, whom he had
upbraided for his dependence on that statesman's pa-
tronage.¹
¹ Lyttleton's celebrated Monody on the Death of his Wife, was ridi-
culed by a burlesque Ode on the death of my Grandmother, of which
the following may be a sufficient specimen :
"Where wast thou, wittol Ward, when hapless fate;
From these weak arms my aged granam tore;
These pious arms assay'd too late
To drive the dismal phantom from the door.
Could not thy healing drop, illustrious quack,
Could not thy salutary pill prolong her days,
For whom, so oft, to Marybone, alack!
Thy sorrels dragg'd thee through the worst of ways ?"
&c. &c.
Neither is Smollett more respectful to Lyttleton in his personal cha-
124
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
•
Dr. Anderson informs us, that, "at this period,
Smollett seems to have obtained the degree of Doctor
of Physic, probably from a foreign University, and an-
nounced himself a candidate for fame and fortune as a
physician, by a publication entitled, 'An Essay on the
External Use of Water, in a letter to Dr.
"
with
particular Remarks upon the present Method of using
the Mineral Waters at Bath in Somersetshire, and a
plan for rendering them more safe, agreeable, and effi-
cacious; 4to, 1752.' The performance advanced his
1
racter than to his poetical talent. He describes him as "the famous
Gosling Scrag, Esq., son and heir of Sir Marmaduke Scrag, who seats
himself in the chair of judgment, and gives sentence upon the authors
of the age. I should be glad to know upon what pretensions to genius
this predominance is founded? Do a few flimsy odes, barren epistles,
pointless epigrams, and the superstitious suggestions of a half-witted
enthusiast, entitle him to that eminent rank he maintains in the world
of letters? or did he acquire the reputation of a wit, by a repetition of
trite invectives against a minister, conveyed in a theatrical cadence, ac-
companied with the most ridiculous gestures, before he believed it was
his interest to desert his master, and renounce his party? For my own
part, I never perused any of his performances, I never saw him open
his mouth in public, I never heard him speak in private conversation,
without recollecting and applying these two lines in Pope's Dunciad-
Dulness, delighted, eyed the lively dunce,
Remembering she herself was pertness once.""
Lord Lyttleton's patronage of Fielding is thus contemptuously notic-
ed, in a recommendation to a young author to feed the vanity of Gos-
ling Scrag, Esq.: "I advise Mr. Spondy to give him the refusal of this
same pastoral; and who knows but he may have the good fortune of
being listed in the number of his beef-eaters, in which case he may, in
process of time, be provided for in the Customs or Church: and when
he is inclined to marry his own cook-maid, his gracious patron may
condescend to give the bride away; and may finally settle him in his old
age as a trading Westminster Justice."-Peregrine Pickle, Edit. 1751,
vol. iv., p. 123.
¹ [The diploma of Smollett's doctorate was granted by the Marischal
College of Aberdeen in June, 1750.]
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
125
reputation as a man of science and taste, but failed to
conduct the physician to professional eminence and
wealth. This is the only publication in the line of his
profession which is known to have proceeded from his
pen." If the Essay was intended to serve as an intro-
duction to practice, it was totally unsuccessful. Per-
haps Smollett's character as a satirist, and the readiness
he had shown to ingraft the peculiarities and history of
individuals into works of fiction, were serious obstacles
to him in a profession which demands so much confi-
dence as that of a family physician. But it is probable
that the author's chief object in the publication was to
assist the cause of a particular friend, Mr. Cleland, a
surgeon at Bath, then engaged in a controversy concern-
ing the use of these celebrated waters.
In the year 1753, Dr. Smollett published The Adven-
tures of Ferdinand Count Fathom, one of those works
which seem to have been written for the purpose of
showing how far humor and genius can go, in painting
a complete picture of human depravity. Smollett has
made his own defence for the loathsome task which he
has undertaken.
"Let me not," says he, in the dedication, "be condemned for having
chosen my principal character from the purlieus of treachery and fraud,
when I declare my purpose is to set him up as a beacon for the benefit
of the inexperienced and unwary, who, from the perusal of these me-
moirs, may learn to avoid the manifold snares with which they are con-
tinually surrounded in the paths of life, while those who hesitate on the
brink of iniquity may be terrified from plunging into that irremediable
gulf, by surveying the deplorable fate of Ferdinand Count Fathom."
But while we do justice to the author's motives, we
are obliged to deny the validity of his reasoning. To a
reader of a good disposition and well-regulated mind,
the picture of moral depravity presented in the charac-
126
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
ter of Count Fathom is a disgusting pollution of the
imagination. To those, on the other hand, who hesitate
on the brink of meditated iniquity, it is not safe to de-
tail the arts by which the ingenuity of villany has tri-
umphed in former instances; and it is well known that
the publication of the real account of uncommon crimes,
although attended by the public and infamous punish-
ment of the perpetrators, has often had the effect of sti-
mulating others to similar actions. To some unhappy
minds, it may occur as a sort of extenuation of the
crime which they meditate, that even if they carry
their purpose into execution, their guilt will fall far
short of what the author has ascribed to his fictitious
character; and there are other imaginations so ill regu-
lated, that they catch infection from stories of wicked-
ness, and feel an insane impulse to emulate and to rea-
lize the pictures of villany, which are embodied in such
narratives as those of Zeluco or Count Fathom.
Condemning, however, the plan and tendency of the
work, it is impossible to deny our applause to the won-
derful knowledge of life and manners, which is evinced
in the tale of Count Fathom, as much as in any of
Smollett's works. The horrible adventure in the hut of
the robbers, is a tale of natural terror which rises into
the sublime; and, though often imitated, has never yet
been surpassed, or perhaps equalled. In Count Fathom
also is to be found the first candid attempt to do justice
to a calumniated race. The benevolent Jew of Cumber-
land had his prototype in the worthy Israelite, whom
Smollett has introduced with very great effect into the
history of Fathom.
Shortly after this publication, Smollett's warmth of
temper involved him in an unpleasant embarrassment.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
127
A person, called Peter Gordon, after having been saved
by Smollett's humanity from imprisonment and ruin,
and after having prevailed upon him to interpose his
credit on his behalf to an inconvenient extent, withdrew
within the verge of the court, set his creditors at defi-
ance, and treated his benefactor with so much personal
insolence, that Smollett chastised him by a beating. A
prosecution was commenced by Gordon, and his counsel,
Mr. Home Campbell, whether in indulgence of his natu-
ral rudeness and impetuosity, of which he had a great
share, or whether moved by some special enmity against
Smollett, opened the case with an unusual torrent of
violence and misrepresentation. But the good sense
and impartiality of the jury acquitted Smollett of the
assault, and he was no sooner cleared of the charge than
he sent an angry remonstrance to Mr. Home Campbell,
demanding that he should retract what he had said to
his disadvantage. It does not appear how the affair
was settled, but Smollett's manifesto, as a literary curio-
sity, is inserted in the Appendix to this Memoir. Be-
sides that this expostulation is too long for the occasion,
and far too violent to be dignified, Smollett imputes to
Campbell the improbable charge, that he was desirous
to revenge himself upon the author of Ferdinand Count
Fathom, because he had satirized the profession of the
law. Lawyers are seldom very sensitive on this head,
and if they were, they would have constant exercise for
their irritability; since scarce a satirical author, of
whatsoever description, has concluded his work, without
giving cause to the gentlemen of the robe for some such
offence, as Smollett supposes Campbell to have taken in
the present instance. The manifesto of Smollett con-
tains, however, some just censure on the prevailing
128
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
mode in which witnesses are treated in the courts of
justice in England, who, far from being considered as
persons brought there to speak the truth in a matter
wherein they have no concern, and who are therefore
entitled to civil treatment, and to the protection of the
court, on the contrary are often regarded as men stand-
ing forward to perjure themselves, and are therefore
condemned beforehand to a species of moral pillory,
where they are pelted with all the foul jests which the
wit of their interrogators can suggest.
Smollett's next task was a new version of Don Quixote,
to which he was encouraged by a liberal subscription.
The work was inscribed to Don Ricardo Wall, Principal
Secretary of State to his Most Catholic Majesty, by
whom the undertaking had been encouraged. Smollett's
version of this admirable classic is thus elegantly com-
pared with those of Motteux (or Ozell) and of Jarvis,
by the late ingenious and amiable Lord Woodhouselee,
in his "Essay on the Principles of Translation."
"Smollett inherited from nature a strong sense of ridicule, a great
fund of original humor, and a happy versatility of talent, by which he
could accommodate his style to almost every species of writing. He
could adopt, alternately, the solemn, the lively, the sarcastic, the bur-
lesque, and the vulgar. To these qualifications he joined an inventive
genius, and a vigorous imagination. As he possessed talents equal to
the composition of original works of the same species with the romance
of Cervantes, so it is not perhaps possible to conceive a writer more
completely qualified to give a perfect translation of that novel.
"Motteux,.with no great abilities as an original writer, appears to me
to have been endowed with a strong perception of the ridiculous in hu-
man character, a just discernment of the weaknesses and follies of man-
kind. He seems likewise to have had a great command of the various
styles which are accommodated to the expression both of grave burles-
que, and of low humor. Inferior to Smollett in inventive genius, he
seems to have equalled him in every quality which was essentially re-
quisite to a translator of Don Quixote. It may, therefore, be supposed,
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
129
that the contest between them will be nearly equal, and the question of
preference very difficult to be decided. It would have been so, had
Smollett confided in his own strength, and bestowed on his task that
time and labor which the length and difficulty of the work required;
but Smollett too often wrote in such circumstances, that despatch was
his primary object. He found various English translations at hand,
which he judged might save him the labor of a new composition. Jar-
vis could give him faithfully the sense of his author; and it was neces-
sary only to polish his asperities, and lighten his heavy and awkward
phraseology. To contend with Motteux, Smollett found it necessary to
assume the armor of Jarvis. This author had purposely avoided, through
the whole of his work, the smallest coincidence of expression with Mot-
teux, whom, with equal presumption and injustice, he accuses in his
preface of having 'taken his version wholly from the French.' We
find, therefore, both in the translation of Jarvis, and that of Smollett,
which is little else than an improved edition of the former, that there is
a studied rejection of the phraseology of Motteux. Now, Motteux,
though he has frequently assumed too great a license, both in adding
to, and retrenching from the ideas of his original, has, upon the whole,
a very high degree of merit as a translator. In the adoption of corre-
sponding idioms, he has been eminently fortunate; and, as in these there
is no great latitude, he has, in general, preoccupied the appropriate
phrases; so that a succeeding translator, who proceeded on the rule of
invariably rejecting his phraseology, must have, in general, altered for
the worse. Such, I have said, was the rule laid down by Jarvis, and by
his copyist and improver, Smollett, who, by thus absurdly rejecting
what his own judgment and taste must have approved, has produced a
composition decidedly inferior, on the whole, to that of Motteux.
"Smollett was a good poet, and most of the verse translations, inter-
spersed through this work, are executed with ability. It is on this head
that Motteux has assumed to himself the greatest license. He has very
presumptuously mutilated the poetry of Cervantes, by leaving out many
entire stanzas from the larger compositions, and suppressing some of
the smaller altogether. Yet the translation of those poems which he
has retained is possessed of much poetical merit, and, in particular,
those verses which are of a graver cast, are, in my opinion, superior to
those of his rival.
"On the whole, I am inclined to think, the version of Motteux is by
far the best we have yet seen of the romance of Cervantes, and that, if
corrected in its licentious observations and enlargements, and in some
other particulars, which I have noticed in the course of this comparison,
we should have nothing to desire superior to it in the way of transla-
tion."
130
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
After the publication of Don Quixote, Smollett paid
a visit to his native country,' in order to see his mother,
who then resided at Scotston, in Peeblesshire, with her
daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Telfer. Dr.
Moore has given us the following beautiful anecdote re-
specting the meeting of the mother with her distin-
guished son.
"On Smollett's arrival, he was introduced to his mother, with the con-
nivance of Mrs. Telfer, as a gentleman from the West Indies, who was
intimately acquainted with her son. The better to support his assumed
character, he endeavored to preserve a serious countenance, approach-
ing to a frown; but, while his mother's eyes were riveted on his coun-
tenance, he could not refrain from smiling: She immediately sprung
from her chair, and, throwing her arms around his neck, exclaimed,
'Ah, my son! my son! I have found you at last!'
"( She afterwards told him, that if he had kept his austere looks, and
continued to gloom, he might have escaped detection some time longer;
'but your old roguish smile,' added she, 'betrayed you at once.'”
Having revisited the seat of his family, then possessed
by his cousin, and spent a day or two at Glasgow, the
scene of his early studies and frolics, Smollett returned
to England, in order to undertake the direction of the
Critical Review, a work which was established under
patronage of the Tories and High-Church party; and
which was intended to maintain their principles in op-
position to the Monthly Review, conducted according to
the sentiments of Whigs and Low-Churchmen.
Smollett's taste and talents qualified him highly for
periodical criticism, as well as the promptitude of his
wit, and the ready application which he could make of
1 [Smollett, while in Edinburgh at this time, was introduced to all the
leading literati of Scotland, through the friendship of the late Dr. Car-
lyle, minister of Inveresk-a man of great talents, whose Memoirs
("Autobiography; with Memoirs of Men and Events of the Time,"
8vo, Edin., 1860) are highly curious.]
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
131
a large store of miscellaneous learning and acquired
knowledge. But, on the other hand, he was always a
hasty, and often a prejudiced judge; and, while he
himself applied the critical scourge without mercy, he
could not endure that those who felt his blows should
either wince or complain under his chastisement. To
murmur against his decrees was the sure way to incur
further marks of his resentment, and thus his criticism
deviated still more widely from dispassionate discussion,
as the passions of the reviewer and of the author became
excited into a clamorous contest of mutual rejoinder,
recrimination, and abuse. Many petty squabbles, which
occurred to teaze and embitter the life of Smollett, and
to diminish the respectability with which his talents
must otherwise have invested him, had their origin in his
situation as Editor of the Critical Review. He was en-
gaged in one controversy with the notorious Shebbeare,
in another with Dr. Grainger,' the elegant author of the
beautiful Ode to Solitude, and in several wrangles and
brawls with persons of less celebrity.
But the most unlucky controversy in which his criti-
cal office involved our author, was that with Admiral
Knowles, who had published a pamphlet vindicating his
own conduct in the secret expedition against Rochfort,
which disgracefully miscarried, in 1757. This defence
was examined in the Critical Review; and Smollett,
himself the author of the article, used the following in-
temperate expressions concerning Admiral Knowles.
"He is an admiral without conduct, an engineer without
knowledge, an officer without resolution, and a man
without veracity." The admiral commenced a prosecu-
tion against the printer of the Review, declaring at the
1 [See Appendix, No. II.]
132
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
same time that he desired only to discover the author of
the paragraph, and, should he prove a gentleman, to de-
mand satisfaction of a different nature. This decoy, for
such it proved, was the most effectual mode which could
have been devised to draw the high-spirited Smollett
within the danger of the law. When the court were
about to pronounce judgment in the case, Smollett ap-
peared, and took the consequences upon himself, and
Admiral Knowles redeemed the pledge he had given, by
enforcing judgment for a fine of one hundred pounds,
and obtaining a sentence against the defendant of three
months' imprisonment. How the Admiral reconciled his
conduct to the rules usually observed by gentlemen, we
are not informed; but the proceeding seems to justify
even Smollett's strength of expression, when he terms.
him an officer without resolution, and a. man without
veracity. This imprisonment took place in 1759, and
was, as we have stated already, the most memorable re-
sult of the various quarrels in which his duty as a critic
engaged Dr. Smollett. We resume the account of his
literary labors, which our detail of these disputes has
something interrupted.
About 1757, Smollett compiled and published with-
out his name, a useful and entertaining collection, en-
titled, A Compendium of Authentic and Entertaining
Voyages, digested in a chronological series; the whole
exhibiting a clear view of the Customs, Manners, Reli-
gion, Government, Commerce, and Natural History of
most Nations of the Known World; illustrated with a
variety of Genuine Charts, Maps, Plans, Heads, &c., in
7 vols. 12mo. This collection introduced to the British
public several voyages which were otherwise little known,
and contained, amongst other articles not before pub-
1
133
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
lished, Smollett's own account of the Expedition to
Carthagena, of which he had given a short sketch in the
Adventures of Roderick Random.
In the same year, 1757, the farce or comedy of The
Reprisal, ro the Tars of Old England, was written and
acted, to animate the people against the French, with
whom we were then at war. In pursuance of this plan,
every species of national prejudice is called up and ap-
pealed to, and the Frenchman is represented as the liv-
ing representative and original of all the caricature.
prints and ballads against the eaters of soupe maigre.
and wearers of wooden shoes. The sailors are drawn to
the life, as the sailors of Smollett always are. The
Scotchman and Irishman are hit off with the touch of a
caricaturist of skill and spirit. But the story of the
piece is as trivial as possible, and, on the whole, it forms
no marked exception to the observation, that successful
novelists have been rarely distinguished by excellence
in dramatic composition.
rences.
Garrick's generous conduct to Smollett upon this oc-
casion, fully obliterated all recollection of old diffe-
The manager allowed the author his benefit on
the sixth, instead of the ninth night of the piece, abated
certain charges or advances usually made on such occa-
sions, and himself performed Lusignan on the same.
evening, in order to fill the theatre. Still, it seems, re-
1
¹ ["Mr. Garrick was applied to, I suppose with some fears of the au-
thor, lest his farce should not meet a favorable reception from a man
whom he had so grossly slandered. However, the manager approved
the piece; and he acted it in the best manner he could. The Tars of
Old England procured the author a pretty large benefit; and here Mr.
Garrick had the satisfaction to gratify Smollett by not asking the price
which might in rigor have been exacted by the managers for the charges
of a benefit. Of this Mr. Garrick apprized him in the following letter :~
134
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
ports were in circulation that Smollett had spoken un-
kindly of Garrick, which called forth the following
contradiction, in a letter which our author addressed to
that celebrated performer.
"In justice to myself, I take the liberty to assure you, that if any
person accuses me of having spoken disrespectfully of Mr. Garrick, of
having hinted that he solicited for my farce, or had interested views in
bringing it upon the stage, he does me wrong, upon the word of a gen-
tleman. The imputation is altogether false and malicious. Exclusive
of other considerations, I could not be such an idiot to talk in that
strain when my own interest so immediately required a different sort of
conduct. Perhaps the same insidious methods have been taken to in-
flame former animosities, which on my part are forgotten and self-con-
demned. I must own you have acted in this affair of the farce with that
candor, openness, and cordiality, which even mortify my pride, while
they lay me under the most sensible obligation; and I shall not rest
satisfied until I have an opportunity to convince Mr. Garrick that my
gratitude is at least as warm as any other of my passions. Meanwhile,
I profess myself,
"Sir,
"Your most humble servant,
"T. SMOLLETT.” 1
Nov. 26, 1757.-SIR,-There was a mistake made by our office-keepers
to your prejudice, which has given me much uneasiness. Though the
expense of our theatre every night amounts to £90 and upwards, yet we
take no more from gentlemen who write for the theatre, and who pro-
duce an original performance, than 60 guineas; they who only alter an
old play pay 80 guineas for the expense, as in the case of Amphytrion;
this occasioned the mistake, which I did not discover till lately.
Though it is very reasonable to take fourscore pounds for the expense
of the house, yet, as we have not yet regulated this matter, I cannot
possibly agree that Dr. Smollett shall be the first precedent. I have en-
closed a draft upon Mr. Clutterbuck for the sum due to you.-I am, most
sincerely, your most obedient humble servant, D. GARRICK."-DAVIES'
Life of Garrick, vol. i., p. 319.]
1
[“A short time after the representation of The Reprisal, the follow-
ing panegyric on Mr. Garrick, mingled with some disparaging reflections
on Mr. Moore, the author of The Gamester, and Dr. Brown, the author
of Barbarossa, appeared in the Critical Review, unquestionably with the
approbation of Smollett, and probably intended by him as a public re-
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
135
In the beginning of the year 1758, Smollett published
his Complete History of England, deduced from the De-
scent of Julius Caesar to the Treaty of Aix-La-Chapelle,
in 1748; in four volumes 4to. It is said that this volu-
minous work, containing the history of thirteen centu-
ries, and written with uncommon spirit and correctness
of language, was composed and finished for the press
within fourteen months, one of the greatest exertions of
facility of composition ever recorded in the history of
literature. Within a space so brief it could not be ex-
pected that new facts should be produced; and all the
novelty which Smollett's history could present must
needs consist in the mode of stating facts, or in the re-
flections deduced from them. In this work, the author
fully announced his political principles, which, notwith-
standing his Whig education, were those of a modern
Tory, and a favorer of the monarchical part of our con-
stitution. For such a strain of sentiment, some readers
will think no apology necessary; and by others none
which we might propose would be listened to. Smollett
has made his own defence, in a letter to Dr. Moore,
dated 2d January, 1758.
"I deferred answering your kind letter, until I should have finished
traction of the very unfair representation he had given in Roderick Ran-
dom of his treatment of him respecting The Regicide.
"We often see this inimitable actor laboring through five tedious acts
to support a lifeless piece, with a mixture of pity and indignation, and
cannot help wishing there were in this age good poets to write for one
who so well deserves them.
'Quidquid calcaverit hic rosa fiet.'
"He has the art, like the Lydian king, of turning all that he touches
into gold, and can ensure applause to every fortunate bard, from inimi-
table Shakspeare and Old Ben, to gentle Neddy Moore, and the author
of Barbarossa.”"-ANDERSON's Life of Smollett, p. 56.]
136
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
my history, which is now completed. I was agreeably surprised to hear
that my work had met with any approbation at Glasgow, for it was not
at all calculated for that meridian. The last volume will, I doubt not,
be severely censured by the west-country Whigs of Scotland.
"I desire you will divest yourself of prejudice, at least as much
as you can, before you begin to peruse it, and consider well the
facts before you pass judgment. Whatever may be its defect, I protest
before God I have, as far as in me lay, adhered to truth, without espous-
ing any faction, though I own I sat down to write with a warm side to
those principles in which I was educated; but in the course of my en-
quiries, some of the Whig ministers turned out such a set of sordid
knaves, that I could not help stigmatizing them for their want of in-
tegrity and sentiment."
In another letter to Dr. Moore, dated Chelsea, Sep-
tember 28, he expresses himself as follows :—
"I speak not of the few who think like philosophers, abstracted from
the notions of the vulgar. The little petulant familiarities of our friend
I can forgive, in consideration of the good-will he has always manifest-
ed towards me and my concerns. He is mistaken, however, in sup-
posing that I have imbibed priestly notions; I consider the church not
as a religious, but a political establishment, so minutely interwoven in
our constitution, that the one cannot be detached from the other, with-
out the most imminent danger of destruction to both. The use which
our friend makes of the Critical Review is whimsical enough; but I
shall be glad if he uses it at any rate. I have not had leisure to do
much in that work for some time past, therefore I hope you will not
ascribe the articles indiscriminately to me; for I am equally averse to
the praise and censure that belong to other men. Indeed, I am sick of
both, and wish to God my circumstances would allow me to consign my
pen to oblivion. I really believe that mankind grow every day more
malicious.
1
"You will not be sorry to hear, that the weekly sale of the History
has increased to above ten thousand. A French gentleman of talents
and crudition has undertaken to translate it into that language, and I
have promised to supply him with corrections.
¹ Dr. Moore's friend was so much enraged at some criticisms in that
Review, that he continued to take it for no other purpose than that
he might read all the publications censured by it, and none of those
which it praised.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
137
As a powerful political party were insulted, and, as
they alleged, misrepresented in Smollett's history, they
readily lent their influence and countenance to the pro-
prietors of Rapin's History, who, alarmed at the exten-
sive sale of Smollett's rival work, deluged the public.
with criticisms and invectives against the author and
his book. In process of time the controversy slept, and
the main fault of the history was found to be, that the
haste with which the author had accomplished his task,
had necessarily occasioned his sitting down contented.
with superficial, and sometimes inaccurate, informa-
tion.
In the course of 1760, and 1761, The Adventures of
Sir Lancelot Greaves appeared, in detached portions, in
various numbers of the British Magazine, or Monthly
Repository, being written for the purpose of giving
some spirit and popularity to that miscellany. Smollett
appears to have executed his task with very little pre-
meditation. During a part of the time he was residing
at Paxton, in Berwickshire, on a visit to the late George
Home, Esq., and when post-time drew near, he used to
retire for half an hour or an hour, to prepare the neces-
sary quantity of copy, as it is technically called in the
printing-house, which he never gave himself the trouble
to correct, or even to read over. Sir Lancelot Greaves
was published separately, in 1762.
The idea of this work was probably suggested to our
author during his labors upon Don Quixote, and the
plan forms a sort of corollary to that celebrated ro-
mance. The leading imperfection is-the utter extrava-
gance of the story, as applicable to England, and to the
period when it is supposed to have happened. In Spain,
ere the ideas of chivalry were extinct amongst that na-
138
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
tion of romantic Hidalgos, the turn of Don Quixote's
frenzy seems not altogether extravagant, and the armor
which he assumed was still the ordinary garb of battle.
But in England, and in modern times, that a young,
amiable, and otherwise sensible man, acquainted also
with the romance of Cervantes, should have adopted a
similar whim, gives good foundation for the obvious re-
mark of Ferret: "What! you set up for a modern Don
Quixote! The scheme is too stale and extravagant :
what was a humorous and well-timed satire in Spain
near two hundred years ago, will make but a sorry jest,
when really acted from affectation, at this time of day
in England." To this Sir Lancelot replies, by a tirade
which does not remove the objection so shrewdly stated
by the misanthrope, affirming that he only warred
against the foes of virtue and decorum; or, in his own
words, "had assumed the armor of his forefathers, to
remedy evils which the law cannot reach, to detect fraud
and treason, abase insolence, mortify pride, discourage
slander, disgrace immodesty, and stigmatize ingrati-
tude." The degree of sanity which the amiable enthu-
siast possesses ought to have shown him, that the gene-
rous career he had undertaken would be much better
accomplished without his armor, than with that super-
fluous and ridiculous appendage; and that for all the
purposes of reformation to be effected in England, his
pocket-book, filled with bank-notes, would be a better
auxiliary than either sword or lance. In short, it be
comes clear to the reader, that Sir Lancelot wears
panoply only that his youthful elegance and address,
his bright armor and generous courser, may make him
the more exact counterpart to the Knight of La
Mancha.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
139
If it be unnatural that Sir Lancelot should become a
knight-errant, the whim of Crowe, the captain of a mer-
chant vessel, adopting, at second-hand, the same folly,
is, on the same grounds, still more exceptionable. There
is nothing in the honest seaman's life or profession
which renders it at all possible that he should have
caught contagion from the insanity of Sir Lancelot.
But, granting the author's premises, and surely we
often make large concessions with less advantage in
prospect, the quantity of comic humor which Smollett
has extracted out of Crowe and Crabshaw, has as much
hearty mirth in it as can be found even in his more
finished compositions. The inferior characters are all
sketched with the same bold, free, and peculiar touch
that distinguishes this powerful writer; and, besides
these we have named, Ferret, and Clarke, the kind-
hearted attorney's clerk, with several subordinate per-
sonages, have all the vivacity of Smollett's strong pen-
cil. Aurelia Darnel is by far the most feminine, and,
at the same time, ladylike person, to whom the author
has introduced us. There is also some novelty of situa-
tion and incident, and Smollett's recent imprisonment
in the King's Bench, for the attack on Admiral Knowles,
enabled him to enrich his romance with a portrait of
the unfortunate Theodore, King of Corsica, and other
companions in his captivity, whose misfortunes or fro-
lics had conducted them to that place of imprisonment.
Smollett's next labor was to lend his aid in finishing
that useful compendium, The Modern Universal History,
to which he contributed the Histories of France, Italy,
and Germany. In the year 1761, he published, in de-
tached numbers, his Continuation of the History of Eng-
land, which he carried on until he brought the narrative
140
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
down to 1765. The sale of this work was very exten-
sive; and although Smollett acquired by both histories
about L.2000, which, in those days, was a large sum,
yet the bookseller is said to have made L. 1000 clear
profit on the very day he made his bargain, by trans-
ferring it to a brother of the trade. This Continuation,
appended as it usually is to the History of England by
Hume, forms a classical and standard work. It is not
our present province to examine the particular merits of
Smollett as a Historian; but it cannot be denied that,
as a clear and distinct narrative of facts, strongly and
vigorously told, with a laudable regard to truth and im-
partiality, the Continuation may vie with our best his-
torical works. The author was incapable of being
swayed by fear or favor; and where his judgment is
influenced, we can see that he was only misled by an
honest belief in the truth of his own arguments. At
the same time, the Continuation, like Smollett's original
History, has the defects incident to hurried composition,
and likewise those which naturally attach themselves to
contemporary narrative. Smollett had no access to
those hidden causes of events which time brings forth
in the slow progress of ages; and his work is chiefly
compiled from those documents of a public and general
description, which often contain rather the colorable
pretexts which statesmen are pleased to assign for their
actions, than the real motives themselves. The English
history, it is true, suffers less than those of other coun-
tries from this restriction of materials; for there are so
many eyes upon our public proceedings, and they un-
dergo such sifting discussion, both in and out of Par-
liament, that the actual motives of those in whose hands
government is vested for the time, become speedily sus-
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
141
pected, even if they are not actually avowed or unveil-
ed. Upon the whole, with all its faults and deficien-
cies, it may be long ere we have a better History of
Britain, during this latter period, than is to be found in
the pages of Smollett.
Upon the accession of George III., and the commence-
ment of Lord Bute's administration, Smollett's pen was
employed in the defence of the young monarch's govern-
ment, in a weekly paper called The Briton, which was
soon silenced, and driven out of the field by the celebrat-
ed North Briton, conducted by John Wilkes. Smol-
lett had been on terms of kindness with this distin-
guished demagogue, and had twice applied to his friend-
ship, once for the kind purpose of obtaining the dis-
mission of Dr. Johnson's black servant, Francis Barber,
from the navy, into which he had inconsiderately enter-
ed;¹ and again, to mediate betwixt himself and Admi-
¹ ["Johnson's negro servant, Francis Barber, having left him, and
been some time at sea, not pressed, as has been supposed, but with his
own consent, it appears, from a letter to John Wilkes, Esq., from Dr.
Smollett, that his master kindly interested himself in procuring his re-
lease from a state of life of which Johnson always expressed the ut-
most abhorrence. He once said, 'No man will be a sailor who has con-
trivance enough to get himself into a jail; for being in a ship is being
in a jail, with the chance of being drowned;' and at another time, ‘A
man in a jail has more room, better food, and commonly better com-
pany.' The letter was as follows:-' Chelsea, 16th March, 1759.-DEAR
SIR,-I am again your petitioner, in behalf of that great CHAM of lite-
rature, Samuel Johnson. His black servant, whose name is Francis
Barber, has been pressed on board the Stag Frigate, Captain Angel, and
our lexicographer is in great distress. He says the boy is a sickly lad,
of a delicate frame, and particularly subject to a malady in his throat,
which renders him very unfit for his Majesty's service. You know
what matter of animosity the said Johnson has against you; and I dare
say you desire no better opportunity of resenting it, than that of laying
him under an obligation. He was humble enough to desire my assis-
tance on this occasion, though he and I were never Cater-cousins; and
هما
142
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
ral Knowles, in the matter of the prosecution. Closer
ties than these are readily dissolved before the fire of
politics. The friends became political opponents; and
Smollett, who had to plead an unpopular cause to un-
willing auditors, and who, as a Scotchman, shared deep-
ly and personally in that unpopularity, was compelled
to give up The Briton, more, it would seem, from lack
of spirit in his patron Lord Bute, to sustain the contest
any longer, than from any deficiency of zeal on his own
part. So, at least, we may interpret the following pas-
sage, in a letter which he wrote from Italy to Caleb
Whiteford, in 1770 :—
"I hope you will not discontinue your endeavors to represent faction
and false patriotism in their true colors, though I believe the ministry
little deserves that any man of genius should draw his pen in their de-
fence. They seem to inherit the absurd stoicism of Lord Bute, who
set himself up as a pillory, to be pelted by all the blackguards of Eng-
land, upon the supposition that they would grow tired and leave off. I
don't find that your ministers take any pains even to vindicate their
moral characters from the foulest imputations; I would never desire a
stronger proof of a bad heart, than a total disregard of reputation. A
late nobleman, who had been a member of several administrations,
owned to me, that one good writer was of more importance to the go-
vernment than twenty placemen in the House of Commons."
In 1763, Smollett lent his assistance, or at least his
name, to a translation of Voltaire's works, and also to a
compilation entitled The Present State of all Nations,
containing a Geographical, Natural, Commercial, and
Political History of all the Countries of the known World.
I gave him to understand, that I would make application to my friend
Mr. Wilkes, who perhaps, by his interest with Dr. Hay and Mr. Elliot,
might be able to procure the discharge of his lacquey. It would be su-
perfluous to say more on the subject, which I leave to your own con-
sideration; but I cannot let slip this opportunity of declaring, that I
am, with the most inviolable esteem and attachment, dear sir, your af.
fectionate, obliged, humble servant, T. SMOLLETT.'"-CROKER'S BOS-
Bos-
well, vol. i., p. 337-8.]
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
143
About this time, Elizabeth, an amiable and accom-
plished young person, the only offspring of Smollett's
marriage, and to whom her father was devotedly at-
tached, died in the fifteenth year of her life, leaving her
parents overwhelmed with the deepest sorrow.
Ill health aided the effects of grief, and it was under
these circumstances that Smollett undertook a journey
to France and Italy, in which countries he resided from
1763 to 1766. Soon after his return in 1766, he pub-
lished his Travels through France and Italy, containing
Observations on Character, Customs, Religion, Govern-
ment, Police, Commerce, Arts, and Antiquities, with a
particular Description of the Town, Territory, and Cli
mate of Nice; to which is added, a Register of the
Weather, kept during a Residence of Eighteen Months
in that City; in 2 vols. 8vo, in the form of letters to
his friends in England, from different parts of those
countries.
Smollett's Travels are distinguished by acuteness of
remark, and shrewdness of expression,-by strong sense
and pointed humor; but the melancholy state of the
author's mind induced him to view all the ordinary
objects from which travellers receive pleasure, with
cynical contempt. Although so lately a sufferer by
the most injurious national prejudices, he failed not
to harbor and cherish all those which he himself had
formerly adopted against the foreign countries through
which he travelled. Nature had either denied Smollett
the taste necessary to understand and feel the beauties
of art, or else his embittered state of mind had, for the
time, entirely deprived him of the power of enjoying
them. The harsh censures which he passes on the Ve-
nus de Medicis, and upon the Pantheon; and the sar-
144
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
I
casm with which his criticisms are answered by Sterne,'
are both well known. Yet, be it said without offence
to the memory of that witty and elegant writer, it is
more easy to assume, in composition, an air of alternate
gaiety and sensibility, than to practise the virtues of
generosity and benevolence, which Smollett exercised
during his whole life, though often, like his own Mat-
thew Bramble, under the disguise of peevishness and ir-
ritability. Sterne's writings show much flourish con-
cerning virtues of which his life is understood to have
produced little fruit; the temper of Smollett was
"like a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly.”
On his return to Britain, in 1766, he visited Scotland
for the last time, and had the pleasure of receiving a pa-
rent's last embrace. His health was now totally ruined.
Constant rheumatism, and the pain arising from a neg-
lected ulcer, which had got into a bad state, rendered
1 ["The learned Smelfungus," says Sterne, in allusion to Smollett,
"travelled from Boulogne to Paris,-from Paris to Rome,—and so on;
-but he set out with the spleen and jaundice; and every object he
passed by was discolored or distorted. He wrote an account of them;
but 'twas nothing but the account of his miserable feelings. I met
Smelfungus in the grand portico of the Pantheon, he was just coming
out of it. "Tis nothing but a huge cock-pit,' said he. 'I wish you had
said nothing worse of the Venus of Medicis,' replied I; for in passing
through Florence, I had heard he had fallen foul upon the goddess, and
used her worse than a common strumpet, without the least provocation
in nature.
"I popp'd upon Smelfungus again at Turin, in his return home;
and a sad tale of sorrowful adventures he had to tell, 'wherein he spoke
of moving accidents by flood and field, and of the cannibals that each
other eat; the Anthropophagi.' He had been flay'd alive, and bedevil'd,
and used worse than St. Bartholomew at every stage he had come at.
'I'll tell it,' cried Smelfungus, 'to the world.'-'You had better tell it,'
said I, 'to your physician.'"-Sentimental Journey,]
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
145
him a victim to excruciating agonies. He afterwards
recovered in a great degree, by applying mercurial oint-
ment, and using the solution of corrosive sublimate.
He gives a full account of the process of the cure in a
letter to Dr. Moore, which concludes thus: "Had I been
as well in summer, I should have exquisitely enjoyed
my expedition to Scotland, which was productive of no-
thing to me but misery and disgust. Between friends,
I am now convinced that my brain was in some measure
affected; for I had a kind of coma vigil upon me from
April to November without intermission.' In conside-
ration of these circumstances, I know you will forgive
all my peevishness and discontent; and tell good Mrs.
¹ ["The remarkable expression of a Coma Vigil," says D'Israeli, “ dif-
ficult to explain, may be described by a verse of Shakspeare, in his an-
tithetical account of love, a passion made up of contrarieties. Thus
the Coma Vigil was
"Still-waking sleep! that is not what it is.”
Calamities of Authors, vol. i., p. 22.
Pope partook of a calamity not uncommon in the family of genius,
and fell into that state of exhaustion, which Smollett once experienced
during half a year, of a 'Coma Vigil,' an affection of the brain, where
the principle of life is so reduced, that all external objects appear to be
passing in a dream; a sort of torpid indistinct existence. This curious
circumstance is related by Spence. 'His perpetual application (after
he set to study of himself) reduced him in four years to so bad a state
of health, that after trying physicians in vain, he resolved to give way
to his distemper, and sat down calmly in a full expectation of death in a
short time. Under this thought he wrote letters to take a last farewell
of some of his more particular friends, and amongst the rest one to the
Abbé Southcot. The Abbé was extremely concerned, both for his very
ill state of health, and the resolution he said he had taken. He
thought there might yet be hopes, and went immediately to Dr. Rad-
cliffe, with whom he was well acquainted, told him Mr. Pope's case, got
full directions from him, and carried them down to Mr. Pope in Wind-
sor Forest. The chief thing, the doctor ordered him, was to apply less,
and to ride every day; the following his advice soon restored him to
his health."-Quarterly Review, July, 1820.]
146
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Moore, to whom I present my most cordial respects,
that, with regard to me, she has as yet seen nothing
but the wrong side of the tapestry."
Finding himself at liberty to resume his literary
labors, Smollett published, in 1769, the, political satire,
called The Adventures of an Atom, in which are sati-
rized the several leaders of political parties, from 1754
till the dissolution of Lord Chatham's administration.
His inefficient patron, Lord Bute, is not spared in this
work; and Chatham is severely treated under the name
of Jowler. The inconsistency of this great minister, in
encouraging the German war, seems to have altered
Smollett's opinion of his patriotism; and he does his ac-
knowledged talents far less than justice, endeavoring by
every means to undervalue the successes of his brilliant
administration, or to impute them to causes independent
of his measures. The chief purpose of the work (besides
that of giving the author the opportunity to raise his
hand, like that of Ishmael, against every man) is to in-
spire a national horror of continental connexions.
Shortly after the publication of The Adventures of
an Atom, disease again assailed Smollett with redoubled
violence. Attempts being vainly made to obtain for
him the office of Consul, in some port of the Mediterra-
nean, he was compelled to seek a warmer climate, with-
out better means of provision than his own precarious
finances could afford.' The kindness of his distin-
guished friend and countryman, Dr. Armstrong, (then
1 ["Smollett had written both for and against ministers, perhaps not
always from independent motives; but to find the man whose genius
has given exhilaration to millions, thus reduced to beg, and to be re-
fused the means that might have smoothed the pillow of his death-bed
in a foreign country, is a circumstance which fills the mind rather too
strongly with the recollection of Cervantes."-CAMPBELL.]
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
147
abroad,) procured for Dr. and Mrs. Smollett a house at
Monte Novo, a village situated on the side of a moun-
tain overlooking the sea, in the neighborhood of Leg-
horn; a romantic and salutary abode, where he pre-
pared for the press the last, and, like music "sweetest
in the close," the most pleasing of his compositions,
The Expedition of Humphry Clinker. This delightful
work was published in 1771, in three volumes, 12mo,
and very favorably received by the public.
The very ingenious scheme of describing the various
effects produced upon different members of the same
family by the same objects, was not original, though it
has been supposed to be so. Anstey, the facetious
author of the New Bath Guide, had employed it six or
seven years before Humphry Clinker appeared. But
Anstey's diverting satire was but a light sketch, com-
pared to the finished and elaborate manner in which
Smollett has, in the first place, identified his characters,
and then fitted them with language, sentiments, and
power of observation, in exact correspondence with
their talents, temper, condition, and disposition. The
portrait of Matthew Bramble, in which Smollett de-
scribed his own peculiarities, using towards himself the
same rigid anatomy which he exercised upon others, is
unequalled in the line of fictitious composition. It is
peculiarly striking to observe, how often, in admiring
the shrewd and sound sense, active benevolence, and
honorable sentiments combined in Matthew, we lose
sight of the humorous peculiarities of his character, and
with what effect they are suddenly recalled to our re-
membrance, just at the time and in the manner when
we least expect them. All shrewish old maids, and
simple waiting-women, which shall hereafter be drawn,
148
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
must be contented with the praise of approaching in
merit to Mrs. Tabitha Bramble and Winifred Jenkins.
The peculiarities of the hot-headed young Cantab, and
the girlish romance of his sister, are admirably con-
trasted with the sense and pettish half-playful misan-
thropy of their uncle; and Humphry Clinker (who by
the way resembles Strap, supposing that excellent per-
son to have a turn toward methodism) is, as far as he
goes, equally delightful. Captain Lismahago was pro-
bably no violent caricature, allowing for the manners of
the time. We can remember a good and gallant officer
who was said to have been his prototype, but believe ·
the opinion was only entertained from the striking
resemblance which he bore in externals to the doughty
captain.
When Humphry Clinker appeared in London, the
popular odium against the Scotch nation, which Wilkes
and Churchill had excited, was not yet appeased, and
Smollett had enemies amongst the periodical critics,
who failed not to charge him with undue partiality to
his own country. They observed, maliciously, but not
untruly, that the cynicism of Matthew Bramble becomes
gradually softened as he journeys northward, and that
he who equally detested Bath and London, becomes
wonderfully reconciled to walled cities and the hum
of men, when he finds himself an inhabitant of the
northern metropolis. It is not worth defending so
excellent a work against so weak an objection. The
author was a dying man, and his thoughts were turned
towards the scenes of youthful gaiety and the abode of
early friends, with a fond partiality, which, had they
been even less deserving of his attachment, would have
been not only pardonable, but praiseworthy.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
149
Moritur, et moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos.
Smollett failed not, as he usually did, to introduce
himself, with the various causes which he had to com-
plain of the world, into the pages of this delightful
romance. He appears as Mr. Serle, and more boldly
under his own name, and in describing his own mode of
living, he satirizes without mercy the book-makers of
the day, who had experienced his kindness without
repaying him by gratitude. It does not, however, seem
perfectly fair to make them atone for their ungracious
return to his hospitality, by serving up their characters
as a banquet to the public; and, in fact, it too much.
resembles the design of which Pallet accuses the
Physician, of converting his guests into patients, in
order to make him amends for the expense of the en-
tertainment.
But criticism, whether candid or unjust, was soon to
be of little consequence to the author. After the publi-
cation of his last work, he lingered through the summer,
and at length, after enduring the vicissitudes of a
wasting and painful disorder with unabated composure,
the world lost Tobias Smollett, on the 21st October,
1771, at the untimely age of only fifty-one years. There
is little doubt that grief for the loss of his daughter, a
feeling of ungrateful neglect from those who were called
upon to lend him assistance, a present sense of con-
fined circumstances, which he was daily losing the
power of enlarging by his own exertions, together with
gloomy apprehensions for the future, materially aided
the progress of the mortal disorder by which he was
removed.¹
1 ["Had Smollett lived a few years longer," says Dr. Anderson, "he
150
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
More happy in this respect than Fielding, Smollett's
grave at Leghorn is distinguished by a plain monument,
erected by his widow, to which Dr. Armstrong, his con-
stant and faithful friend, supplied the following spirited
inscription:-
Hic ossa conduntur
TOBIÆ SMOLLETT, Scoti;
Qui, prosapia generosa et antiqua natus,
Priscæ virtutis exemplar emicuit;
Aspectu ingenuo,
Corpore valido,
Pectore animoso,
Indole apprime benigna,
Et fere supra facultates munifica,
Insignis.
Ingenio feraci, faceto, versatili,
Omnigenæ fere doctrinæ mire capaci,
Varia fabularum dulcedine,
Vitam moresque hominum,
Ubertate summa ludens, depinxit.
Adverso, interim, nefas! tali tantoque alumno
Nisi quo satyræ opipare supplebat,
Seculo impio, ignavo, fatuo,
Quo musæ vix nisi nothæ
Mecænatulis Britannicis
Fovebantur.
In memoriam
Optimi et amabilis omnino viri,
Permultis amicis desiderati,
Hocce marmor
Dilectissima simul et amantissima conjux.
L. M.
Sacravit.
In the year 1774, a column was erected to Smollett's
memory near the house in which he was born, by his
must have inherited the estate of Bonhill, of about L.1000 a-year, by
the death of his cousin, Mr. Smollett, whose heir of entail he was; and
who would, in all probability, have bequeathed him, what he could no
longer retain, the rest of his fortune, of nearly the same value, both of
which fell to his sister, Mrs. Telfer."-Life of Smollett, p. 102.]
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
151
cousin, James Smollett, Esq. of Bonhill, with the fol-
lowing nervous and classical inscription, written by
Professor George Stewart of Edinburgh, and partly by
the late John Ramsay, Esq. of Ochtertyre, and correct-
ed by Dr. Johnson. The lines printed in Italics are by
the latter:
1
Siste, viator!
Si leporis ingeniique venam benignam,
Si morum callidissimum pictorem,
Unquam es miratus,
Immorare paululum memoriæ
TOBIE SMOLLETT, M.D.
Viri virtutibus hisce
Quas in homine et cive
Et lavides et imiteris,
Haud mediocriter ornati:
Qui in literis variis versatus,
Postquam, felicitate sibi propria,
Sese posteris commendaverat,
Morte acerba raptus
Anno ætatis 51.
Eheu! quam procul a patria!
Prope Liburni portum in Italia,
Jacet sepultus.
Tali tantoque viro, patruelo suo,
Cui in decursu lampada
Se potius tradidisse decuit,
Hanc Columnam,
Amoris, cheu! inane monumentum
In ipsis Levinæ ripis,
Quas versiculis sub exitu vitæ illustratas,
Primis infans vagitibus personuit,
Ponendam curavit
JACOBUS SMOLLETT de Bonhill.
Abi et reminiscere,
Hoc quidem honore,
Non modo defuncti memoriæ,
Verum etiam exemplo, prospectum esse;
Aliis enim, si modo digni sint,
Idem erit virtutis præmium!¹
¹ [Dr. Johnson visited Mr. James Smollett, at Bouhill, on Thursday,
152
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
The widow of Smollett long continued an inhabitant of
the neighborhood of Leghorn, supporting herself in
obscurity and with difficulty, upon the small remnant
of fortune he had been able to bequeath to her. We
remember a benefit play being performed on her ac-
28th October, 1773; and the reader will find an account of the Doctor's
emendations on the Inscription of the Pillar in Croker's Boswell, vol.
iii., p. 61-63.
The following is an extract from D'Israeli's Calamities of Authors:
"Of most 'Authors by profession,' who has displayed a more fruit-
ful genius, and exercised more intense industry, with a loftier sense of
his independence, than Smollet? But look into his life, and enter into
his feelings, and you will be shocked at the disparity of his situation
with the genius of the man. His life was a succession of struggles,
vexations, and disappointments; yet of success in his writings. Smol-
lett, who is a great poet, though he has written little in verse, and
whose rich genius had composed the most original pictures of human
life, was compelled by his wants to debase his name by setting it to
Voyages and Translations which he never could have read. When he
had worn himself down in the service of the public, or the booksellers,
there remained not, of all his slender remunerations, in the last stage of
life, sufficient to convey him to a cheap country and a restorative air,
on the Continent. The father may have thought himself fortunate,
that the daughter whom he loved with more than common affection
was no more to share his wants; but the husband had by his side the
faithful companion of his life, left without a wreck of fortune. Smol-
lett gradually perishing in a foreign land, neglected by an admiring
public, and without fresh resources from the booksellers, who were
receiving the income of his works-threw out his injured feelings in
the character of Bramble; the warm generosity of his temper, but not
his genius, seemed fleeting with his breath. Yet when Smollett died,
and his widow in a foreign land was raising a plain monument over his
dust, her love and her piety but 'made the little less.' She perished in
friendless solitude! Yet Smollett dead-soon an ornamented column
is raised at the place of his birth, while the grave of the author seemed
to multiply the editions of his works. There are indeed grateful feel.
ings in the public at large for a favorite author; but the awful testimony
of those feelings by its gradual progress, must appear beyond the grave!
They visit the column consecrated by his name, and his features are
most loved, most venerated in the bust."-Calamities, vol. i., p. 17.]
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
153
count, at Edinburgh, in which Houston Stewart Nichol-
son, Esq., an amateur performer, appeared in the part.
of Pierre. The profits are said to have amounted to
L.300. A prologue, written for the occasion, by Mr.
Graham of Gartmore, was spoken by the late Mr.
Woods, of the Theatre-Royal, Edinburgh.
Smollett's Ode to Independence, the most characteris-
tic of his poetical works, was published, two years after
his death, by the Messrs. Foulis of Glasgow. The mytho-
logical commencement is eminently beautiful.
His name was appended to a version of Telemachus,
as, during his life, it had appeared to a translation of Gil
Blas, to which it is supposed he contributed little or
nothing more. In 1785, a farce, called The Israelites, or
The Pampered Nabob, was acted on the Covent Garden
stage, for the benefit of Mr. Aiken. It was ascribed to
Smollett on very dubious evidence, was indifferently re-
ceived, and has never since appeared, either on the stage
or in print.
THE person of Smollett was eminently handsome, his
features prepossessing, and, by the joint testimony of
all his surviving friends, his conversation in the highest
degree instructive and amusing. Of his disposition,
those who have read his works (and who has not done
so?) may form a very accurate estimate; for in each of
them he has presented, and sometimes under various
points of view, the leading features of his own charac-
ter, without disguising the most unfavorable of them.
Nay, there is room to believe, that he rather exaggerated
than softened that cynical turn of temper, which was
the principal fault of his disposition, and which engaged
154
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
him in so many quarrels. It is remarkable, that all his
heroes, from Roderick Random downward, possess a
haughty, fierce irritability of disposition, until the same.
features appear softened, and rendered venerable by age
and philosophy, in Matthew Bramble. The sports in
which they most delight are those which are attended
with disgrace, mental pain, and bodily mischief to
others; and their humanity is never represented as
interrupting the course of their frolics. We know not
that Smollett had any other marked failing, save that
which he himself has so often and so liberally acknow-
ledged. When unseduced by his satirical propensities,
he was kind, generous, and humane to others; bold, up-
right, and independent in his own character; stooped to
no patron, sued for no favour, but honestly and honor-
ably maintained himself on his literary labors; when, if
he was occasionally employed in work which was beneath
his talents, the disgrace must remain with those who
saved not such a genius from the degrading drudgery
of compiling and translating. He was a doating father,
and an affectionate husband; and the warm zeal with
which his memory was cherished by his surviving friends,
showed clearly the reliance which they placed upon his
regard. Even his resentments, though often hastily
adopted, and incautiously expressed, were neither un-
generous nor enduring. He was open to conviction, and
ready to make both acknowledgment and allowance
when he had done injustice to others, willing also to for-
give and to be reconciled when he had received it at
their hand.
Churchill,' and other satirists, falsely ascribe to Smol-
¹ The article upon The Rosciad, in the Critical Review, (that fertile
mother of all the dissensions in which Smollett was engaged,) was so
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
155
lett the mean passion of literary envy, to which his
nature was totally a stranger. The manner in which he
mentions Fielding and Richardson in the account of the
literature of the century, shows how much he under-
stood, and how liberally he praised, the merit of those,
who, in the view of the world, must have been regarded
as his immediate rivals. "The genius of Cervantes," is
his generous expression, "was transfused into the novels
of Fielding, who painted the characters, and ridiculed
the follies of life, with equal strength, humor, and pro-
priety ;”—a passage which we record with pleasure, as a
proof that the disagreement which existed betwixt
Smollett and Fielding did not prevent his estimating
with justice, and recording in suitable terms, the merits.
of the Father of the English Novel. His historian,
with equal candor, proceeds to tell his reader, that "the
laudable aim of enlisting the passions on the side of
virtue was successfully pursued by Richardson, in hist
Pamela, Clarissa, and Grandison, a species of writing
severe as to call forth the bard's bitter resentment, in the 2d edition;
where, ascribing the offensive article to Smollett, in which he was mis-
taken, he thus apostrophizes him :
"Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen,
The Muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?
What had I done, that angry heav'n should send
The bitterest foe where most I wish'd a friend ?
Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,
And hail'd the honors of thy matchless fame.
For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,
So nobler Pickle stand superbly bound;
From Livy's temples tear th' historic crown,
Which, with more justice, blooms upon thine own," &c
A poet of inferior note, author of a poem called The Race, has brought
the same charge against Smollett, in still coarser terms.
156
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
equally new and extraordinary, where, mingled with
much superfluity and impertinence, we find a sublime
system of ethics, an amazing knowledge and command
of human nature.”¹
1 [Dr. Moore thus sums up his account of Smollett :-"The person
of Dr. Smollett was stout and well proportioned, his countenance
engaging, his manner reserved, with a certain air of dignity that seemed
to indicate that he was not unconscious of his own powers. He was of
a disposition so humane and generous, that he was ever ready to serve
the unfortunate, and on some occasions to assist them beyond what his
circumstances could justify. Though few could penetrate with more
acuteness into character, yet none was more apt to overlook misconduct
when attended with misfortune.
"He lived in an hospitable manner, but he despised that hospitality
which is founded on ostentation, which entertains only those whose
situation in life flatters the vanity of the entertainer, or such as can
make returns of the same kind; that hospitality which keeps a debtor
and creditor account of dinners. Smollett invited to his plain but plen-
tiful table, the persons whose characters he esteemed, in whose conver-
sation he delighted; and many for no other reason, than because they
stood in need of his countenance and protection.
"As nothing was more abhorrent to his nature than pertness or intru-
sion, few things could render him more indignant than a cold reception.
To this, however, he imagined he had sometimes been exposed on his
applications in favor of others; for himself he never made an applica-
tion to any great man in his life.
"Free from vanity, Smollett had a considerable share of pride, and
great sensibility; his passions were easily moved, and too often impe-
tuous when roused; he could not conceal his contempt of folly, his
detestation of fraud, nor refrain from proclaiming his indignation
against every instance of oppression.
"Though Smollett possessed a versatility of style in writing, which he
could accommodate to every character, he had no suppleness in his
conduct. His learning, diligence, and natural acuteness, would have
rendered him eminent in the science of medicine, had he persevered in
that profession; other parts of his character were ill suited for
augmenting his practice. He could neither stoop to impose on credu-
lity, nor humor caprice.
"He was of an intrepid, independent, imprudent disposition; equally
incapable of deceit and adulation, and more disposed to cultivate the
acquaintance of those he could serve than of those who could serve
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
157
In leaving Smollett's personal for his literary charac-
ter, it is impossible not to consider the latter as con-
trasted with that of his eminent contemporary, Fielding.
true, that such comparisons, though recommended
he example of Plutarch, are not in general the best
de of estimating individual merit. But, in the pre-
sent case, the contemporary existence, the private his-
tory, accomplishments, talents, pursuits, and, unfortu-
nately, the fates of these two great authors, are so
crosely allied, that it is scarce possible to name the one
without exciting recollections of the other. Fielding
and Smollett were both born in the highest rank of so-
ciety, both educated to learned professions, yet both
obliged to follow miscellaneous literature as the means
of subsistence. Both were confined, during their lives,
by the narrowness of their circumstances, both united
a humorous cynicism with generosity and good-nature,
-both died of the diseases incident to a sedentary life,
and to literary labor,—and both drew their last breath
in a foreign land, to which they retreated under the ad-
verse circumstances of a decayed constitution, and an
exhausted fortune.
Their studies were no less similar than their lives.
They both wrote for the stage, and neither of them suc-
cessfully. They both meddled in politics, and never ob-
tained effectual patronage; they both wrote travels, in
which they showed that their good-humor was wasted
under the sufferings of their disease; and to conclude,
they were both so eminently successful as novelists, that
no other English author of that class has a right to be
him. What wonder that a man of his character was not what is called
successful in life!"]
158
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
1
mentioned in the same breath with Fielding and Smol-
lett.
If we compare the works of these two great asters
yet more closely, we may assign to Fielding, -
hesitation, the praise of a higher and purer
was shown by his rival; more elegance of cc.
and expression; a nearer approach to the grav
Swift and Cervantes; a great deal more addre
city in the conduct of his story; and, finally, a …….
describing amiable and virtuous characters, and off-
ing before us heroes, and especially heroines, of a much
higher as well as more pleasing character than Smollett
was able to present.
dif-
Thus the art and felicity with which the story of Tom
Jones evolves itself, is nowhere found in Smollett's
novels, where the heroes pass from one situation in life,
and from one stage of society, to another totally uncon-
nected, except that, as in ordinary life, the adventures
recorded, though not bearing upon each other, or on the
catastrophe, befall the same personage. Characters are
introduced and dropped without scruple, and, at the end
of the work, the hero is found surrounded by a very
ferent set of associates from those with whom his for-
tune seemed at first indissolubly connected. Neither
are the characters which Smollett designed should be
interesting, half so amiable as his readers could desire.
The low-minded Roderick Random, who borrows Strap's
money, wears his clothes, and, rescued from starving by
the attachment of that simple and kind-hearted adhe-
rent, rewards him by squandering his substance, receiv-
ing his attendance as a servant, and beating him when
the dice ran against him, is not to be named in one day
with the open-hearted, good-humored, and noble-minded
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
159
Tom Jones, whose libertinism (one particular omitted).
is perhaps rendered but too amiable by his good quali-
ties. We believe there are few readers who are not dis-
gusted with the miserable reward assigned to Strap in
the closing chapter of the novel. Five hundred pounds,
(scarce the value of the goods he had presented to his
master,) and the hand of a reclaimed street-walker, even
when added to a Highland farm, seem but a poor re-
compense for his faithful and disinterested attachment.
The Englishman is a hundred times more grateful to
Partridge, (whose morality is very questionable, and
who follows Jones's fortunes with the self-seeking
fidelity of a cur, who, while he loves his master, has his
eye upon the flesh-pots,) than Roderick Random shows
himself towards the disinterested and generous attach-
ment of poor Strap. There may be one way of explain-
ing this difference of taste betwixt these great authors,
by recollecting, that in Scotland, at that period, the ab-
solute devotion of a follower to his master was some-
thing which entered into, and made part of the character
of the lower ranks in general; and therefore domestic
fidelity was regarded as a thing more of course than in
England, and received less gratitude than it deserved,
in consideration of its more frequent occurrence.
But, to recur to our parallel betwixt the characters of
Fielding and those of Smollett, we should do Jones
great injustice by weighing him in the balance with the
wild and ferocious Pickle, who,-besides his gross and
base brutality towards Emilia, besides his ingratitude to
his uncle, and the savage propensity which he shows, in
the pleasure he takes to torment others by practical
jokes resembling those of a fiend in glee,-exhibits a low
and ungentlemanlike tone of thinking, only one degree
160
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
higher than that of Roderick Random. The blackguard
frolic of introducing a prostitute, in a false character, to
his sister, is a sufficient instance of that want of taste
and feeling which Smollett's admirers are compelled to
acknowledge, may be detected in his writings. It is yet
more impossible to compare Sophia or Amelia to the fe
males of Smollett, who (excepting Aurelia Darnel) are
drawn as the objects rather of appetite than of affection,
and excite no higher or more noble interest than might
be created by the houris of the Mahomedan paradise.
It follows from this superiority on the side of Field-
ing, that his novels exhibit, more frequently than those
of Smollett, scenes of distress, which excite the sym-
pathy and pity of the reader. No one can refuse his
compassion to Jones, when, by a train of practices upon.
his generous and open character, he is expelled from his
benefactor's house under the foulest and most heart-
rending accusations; but we certainly sympathize very
little in the distress of Pickle, brought on by his own
profligate profusion, and enhanced by his insolent mis-
anthropy. We are only surprised that his predominat-
ing arrogance does not weary out the benevolence of
Hatchway and Pipes, and scarce think the ruined spend-
thrift deserves their persevering and faithful attach-
ment.
But the deep and fertile genius of Smollett afforded
resources sufficient to make up for these deficiencies;
and when the full weight has been allowed to Fielding's
superiority of taste and expression, his northern con-
temporary will still be found fit to balance the scale
with his great rival. If Fielding had superior taste, the
palm of more brilliancy of genius, more inexhaustible
richness of invention, must in justice be awarded to
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
161
Smollett. In comparison with his sphere, that in which
Fielding walked was limited; and compared with the
wealthy profusion of varied character and incident
which Smollett has scattered through his works, there
is a poverty of composition about his rival. Fielding's
fame rests on a single chef d'oeuvre; and the art and in-
dustry which produced Tom Jones, was unable to rise
to equal excellence in Amelia. Though, therefore, we
may justly prefer Tom Jones as the most masterly ex-
ample of an artful and well-told novel, to any individual
work of Smollett; yet Roderick Random, Peregrine
Pickle, and Humphry Clinker, do each of them far ex-
cel Joseph Andrews or Amelia; and, to descend still
lower, Jonathan Wild, or The Journey to the next World,
cannot be put into momentary comparison with Sir
Lancelot Greaves, or Ferdinand Count Fathom.
Every successful novelist must be more or less a poet,
even although he may never have written a line of
verse. The quality of imagination is absolutely indis-
pensable to him: his accurate power of examining and
embodying human character and human passion, as well
as the external face of nature, is not less essential; and
the talent of describing well what he feels with acute-
ness, added to the above requisites, goes far to complete
the poetic character. Smollett was, even in the ordi-
nary sense, which limits the name to those who write
verses, a poet of distinction; and, in this particular, su-
perior to Fielding, who seldom aims at more than a
slight translation from the classics. Accordingly, if he
1
¹ A judge, competent in the highest degree, has thus characterized
Smollett's poetical compositions. They have a portion of delicacy,
not to be found in his novels; but they have not, like those prose fic-
tions, the strength of a master's hand. Were he to live again, we might
wish him to write more poetry, in the belief that his poetical talent
་
16-2
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
is surpassed by Fielding in moving pity, the northern
novelist soars far above him in his powers of exciting
terror. Fielding has no passages which approach in
sublimity to the robber-scene in Count Fathom; or to
the terrible description of a sea-engagement, in which
Roderick Random sits chained and exposed upon the
poop, without the power of motion or exertion, during
the carnage of a tremendous engagement. Upon many
other occasions, Smollett's descriptions ascend to the
sublime; and, in general, there is an air of romance in
his writings, which raises his narratives above the level
and easy course of ordinary life. He was, like a pre-
eminent poet of our own day, a searcher of dark
bosoms, and loved to paint characters under the strong
agitation of fierce and stormy passions. Hence misan-
thropes, gamblers, and duellists, are as common in his
works, as robbers in those of Salvator Rosa, and are
drawn, in most cases, with the same terrible truth and
effect. To compare Ferdinand Count Fathom to the
Jonathan Wild of Fielding, would be perhaps unfair to
the latter author; yet, the works being composed on
the same plan, (a very bad one, as we think,) we cannot
help placing them by the side of each other; when it
becomes at once obvious that the detestable Fathom is a
living and existing miscreant, at whom we shrink as if
from the presence of an incarnate fiend, while the villain
of Fielding seems rather a cold personification of the
abstract principle of evil, so far from being terrible, that
notwithstanding the knowledge of the world argued in
would improve by exercise; but we should be glad that we had more
novels just as they are."-Specimens of the British Poets, by THOMAS
CAMPBELL, Vol. vi. The truth is, that in these very novels are expend-
ed many of the ingredients both of grave and humorous poetry.
1
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
163
many passages of his adventures, we are compelled to
acknowledge him absolutely tiresome.
It is, however, chiefly in his profusion, which amounts
almost to prodigality, that we recognize the superior
richness of Smollett's fancy. He never shows the least
desire to make the most either of a character, or a situ-
ation, or an adventure, but throws them together with a
carelessness which argues unlimited confidence in his
own powers. Fielding pauses to explain the principles
of his art, and to congratulate himself and his readers
on the felicity with which he constructs his narrative,
or makes his characters evolve themselves in its pro-
gress. These appeals to the reader's judgment, ad-
mirable as they are, have sometimes the fault of being
diffuse, and always the great disadvantage, that they
remind us we are perusing a work of fiction; and that
the beings with whom we have been conversant during
the perusal, are but a set of evanescent phantoms, con-
jured up by a magician for our amusement. Smollett
seldom holds communication with his readers in his own
person. He manages his delightful puppet-show with-
out thrusting his head beyond the curtain, like Gines de
Passamont, to explain what he is doing; and hence, be-
sides that our attention to the story remains unbroken,
we are sure that the author, fully confident in the
abundance of his materials, has no occasion to cke them
out with extrinsic matter.
Smollett's sea-characters have been deservedly con-
sidered as inimitable; and the power with which he has
diversified them, in so many instances, distinguishing
the individual features of each honest tar, while each
possesses a full proportion of professional manners and
habits of thinking, is a most absolute proof of the rich-
164
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
ness of fancy with which the author was gifted, and
which we have noticed as his chief advantage over
Fielding. Bowling, Trunnion, Hatchway, Pipes, and
Crowe, are all men of the same class, habits, and tone
of thinking, yet so completely differenced by their sepa-
rate and individual characters, that we at once acknow-
ledge them as distinct persons, while we see and allow
that every one of them belongs to the old English navy.
These striking portraits have now the merit which is che-
rished by antiquaries-they preserve the memory of the
school of Benbow and Boscawen, whose manners are now
banished from the quarterdeck to the forecastle. The
naval officers of the present day, the splendor of whose ac-
tions has thrown into shadow the exploits of a thousand
years, do not now affect the manners of foremast-men,
and have shown how admirably well their duty can be
discharged without any particular attachment to tobacco
or flip, or the decided preference of a check shirt over a
linen one.¹ But these, when memory carries them back
thirty or forty years, must remember many a weather-
beaten veteran, whose appearance, language, and senti-
ments free Smollett from the charge of extravagance in
his characteristic sketches of British seamen of the last
century.
In the comic part of their writings, we have already
said, Fielding is preeminent in grave irony, a Cervantic
species of pleasantry, in which Smollett is not equally
successful. On the other hand, the Scotchman, notwith-
standing the general opinion denies that quality to his
countrymen, excels in broad and ludicrous humor. His
+
["The strong picture of the discomforts of his naval life, which he
afterwards drew, is said to have attracted considerable attention to the
internal economy of our ships of war, and to have occasioned the com-
mencement of some salutary reformations."-CAMPBELL.]
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
165
fancy seems to run riot in accumulating ridiculous cir-
cumstances one upon another, to the utter destruction
of all power of gravity; and perhaps no books ever
written have excited such peals of inextinguishable
laughter as those of Smollett. The descriptions which
affect us thus powerfully, border sometimes upon what
is called farce or caricature; but if it be the highest
praise of pathetic composition that it draws forth tears,
why should it not be esteemed the greatest excellence of
the ludicrous that it compels laughter? the one tribute
is at least as genuine an expression of natural feeling as
the other; and he who can read the calamitous career of
Trunnion and Hatchway, when run away with by their
mettled steeds, or the inimitable absurdities of the
Feast of the Ancients, without a good hearty burst of
honest laughter, must be well qualified to look sad and
gentlemanlike with Lord Chesterfield and Master Stephen.
Upon the whole, the genius of Smollett may be said to
resemble that of Rubens. His pictures are often defi-
cient in grace; sometimes coarse, and even vulgar in
conception; deficient in keeping, and in the due subor
dination of parts to each other; and intimating too
much carelessness on the part of the artist. But these
faults are redeemed by such richness and brilliancy of
colors; such a profusion of imagination-now bodying
forth the grand and terrible-now the natural, the
easy, and the ludicrous; there is so much of life, action,
and bustle, in every group he has painted; so much
force and individuality of character, that we readily
grant to Smollett an equal rank with his great rival
Fielding, while we place both far above any of their
successors in the same line of fictitious composition.
Abbotsford, 1st June, 1821.
APPENDIX.
No. I.
LETTER FROM TOBIAS SMOLLETT TO THE HON.
ALEXANDER HUME CAMPBELL.
THIS Letter exists in a rough draught, sent by the author to his
friend Mr. MacKercher. The consequences are not known, but the
letter appeared in the European Magazine, vol. v., from Smollett's hand-
writing.
"I have waited several days in hope of receiving from you an ac-
knowledgment touching those harsh, unjustifiable, (and, let me add,)
unmannerly expressions, which you annexed to my name, in the Court
of King's Bench, when you opened the cause depending between me
and Peter Gordon; and, as I do not find that you have discovered the
least inclination to retract what you said to my prejudice, I have taken
this method to refresh your memory, and to demand such satisfaction
as a gentleman, injured as I am, has a right to claim.
"The business of a counsellor is, I apprehend, to investigate the truth
in behalf of his client; but surely he has no privilege to blacken and
asperse the character of the other party, without any regard to veracity
or decorum. That you assumed this unwarrantable privilege in com-
menting upon your brief, I believe you will not pretend to deny, when
I remind you of those peculiar flowers of elocution which you poured
forth on that notable occasion. First of all, in order to inspire the
court with horror and contempt for the defendant, you gave the jury
to understand that you did not know this Dr. Smollett; and, indeed,
his character appeared in such a light, from the facts contained in your
brief, that you never should desire to know him. I should be glad to
learn of what consequence it could be to the cause whether you did or
did not know the defendant, or whether you had or had not an inclina-
tion to be acquainted with him? Sir, this was a pitiful personality,
calculated to depreciate the character of a gentleman to whom you was
a stranger, merely to gratify the rancor and malice of an abandoned
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
167
Did I ever seek your
fellow who had feed you to speak in his cause.
acquaintance, or court your protection? I had been informed, indeed,
that you was a lawyer of some reputation, and, when the suit com-
menced, would have retained you for that reason, had I not been antici-
pated by the plaintiff; but, far from coveting your acquaintance, I
never dreamed of exchanging a word with you on that or any other
subject: you might therefore have spared your invidious declaration,
until I had put it in your power to mortify me with a repulse, which,
upon my honor, would never have been the case, were you a much
greater man than you really are. Yet this was not the only expedient
you used to prepossess the jury against me. You was hardy enough to
represent me as a person devoid of all humanity and remorse; as a
barbarous ruffian, who, in a cowardly manner, had, with two associates
as barbarous as myself, called a peaceable gentleman out of his lodgings,
and assaulted him in the dark, with an intent to murder. Such an
horrid imputation, publicly fixed upon a person whose innocence you
could hardly miss to know, is an outrage, for which, I believe, I might
find reparation from the law itself, notwithstanding your artful manner
of qualifying the expression by saying, provided the facts can be proved.
This low subterfuge may, for aught I know, screen you from a prose-
cution at law, but can never acquit you in that court which every man
of honor holds in his own breast. I say, you must have known my
innocence from the weakness of the evidence which you produced, and
with which you either was, or ought to have been previously acquainted,
as well as from my general character, and that of my antagonist, which
it was your duty to have learned. I will venture to say, you did know
my character, and in your heart believed me incapable of such brutality
as you laid to my charge. Surely I do not overrate my own importance
in affirming, that I am not so obscure in life as to have escaped the
notice of Mr. Hume Campbell; and I will be bold enough to challenge
him and the whole world to prove one instance in which my integrity
was called, or at least left, in question. Have not I, therefore, reason
to suppose that, in spite of your internal conviction, you undertook
the cause of a wretch, whose ingratitude, villany, and rancor, are, I
firmly believe, without example in this kingdom; that you magnified a
slight correction bestowed by his benefactor, in consequence of the
most insolent provocation, into a deliberate and malicious scheme of
assassination; and endeavored, with all the virulence of defamation, to
destroy the character, and even the life, of an injured person, who, as
well as yourself, is a gentleman by birth, education, and profession?
In favor of whom, and in consequence of what, was all this zeal mani-
fested, all this slander exhausted, and all this scurrility discharged?
Your client, whom you dignified with the title of Esquire, and en-
168
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
deavored to raise to the same footing with one in point of station aud
character, you knew to be an abject miscreant, whom my compassion and
humanity had lifted from the most deplorable scenes of distress; whom
I had saved from imprisonment and ruin; whom I had clothed and fed
for a series of years; whom I had occasionally assisted with my purse,
credit, and influence. You knew, or ought to have known, that, after
having received a thousand marks of my benevolence, and prevailed
upon me to indorse notes for the support of his credit, he withdrew
himself into the verge of the court, and took up his habitation in a ·
paltry alehouse, where he not only set me and the rest of his creditors
at defiance, but provoked me by scurrilous and insolent letters and
messages, to chastise him in such a manner as gave him a handle for
this prosecution, in which you signalized yourself as his champion for
a very honorable consideration. There is something so palpably un-
grateful, perfidious, and indeed diabolical, in the conduct of the prose-
cutor, that, even in these degenerate days, I wonder how he could find
an attorney to appear in his behalf. O tempora! O mores! After
having thus sounded the trumpet of obloquy in your preamble, and tor-
tured every circumstance of the plaintiff's evidence to my detriment
and dishonor, you attempted to subject me to the ridicule of the Court,
by asking a question of my first witness, which had no more relation
to the cause, than if you had desired to know the name of his grand-
mother. What title had you to ask of a tradesman, if he knew me to
be an author? What affinity had this question with the circumstances
of the assault? Was not this foreign to the purpose? Was it not
impertinent, and proposed with a view to put me out of countenance,
and to raise the laugh of the spectators at my expense? There, indeed,
you was disappointed, as you frequently are in those little digressive
efforts by which you make yourself remarkable. Though I do not pre-
tend to possess that superlative degree of effrontery by which some
people make a figure at the bar, I have assurance enough to stand the
mention of my works without blushing, especially when I despise the
taste, and scorn the principles, of him who would turn them to my
disgrace. You succeeded, however, in one particular; I mean, in
raising the indignation of my witness; of which you took all imaginable
advantage, puzzling, perplexing, and brow-beating him with such arti-
fice, eagerness, and insult, as overwhelmed him with confusion, and
had wellnigh deprived me of the benefit of his evidence. Luckily for
me, the next gentleman who was called confirmed what the other had
swore, and proved to the satisfaction of the judge and jury, and even to
your own conviction, that this terrible deliberate assassination was no
more than a simple blow given to a rascal after repeated provocation,
and that of the most flagrant kind; that no advantage was taken in
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
169
point of weapons; and that two drabs, whom they had picked up for
the purpose, had affirmed upon oath a downright falsehood, with a
view to blast my reputation. You yourself was so conscious of this
palpable detection, that you endeavored to excuse them by a forced
explanation, which, you may depend upon it, shall not screen them
from a prosecution for perjury. I will not say, that this was like
patronising a couple of gipsies who had forsworn themselves, conse-
quently forfeited all title to the countenance, or indeed forbearance of
the Court; but this I will say, that your tenderness for them was of a
piece with your whole behavior to me, which I think was equally inso-
lent and unjust; for, granting that you had really supposed me guilty
of an intended assassination before the trial began, you saw me in the
course of evidence acquitted of that suspicion, and heard the judge
insist upon my innocence in his charge to the jury, who brought in
their verdict accordingly. Then, sir, you ought in common justice to
have owned yourself mistaken, or to have taken some other opportu-
nity of expressing your concern for what you had said to my disadvan-
tage; though even such an acknowledgment would not have been
a sufficient reparation, because, before my witnesses were called, many
persons left the court with impressions to my prejudice, conceived
from the calumnies which they heard you espouse and encourage. On
the whole, you opened the trial with such hyperbolical impetuosity,
and conducted it with such particular bitterness and rancor, that every-
body perceived you was more than ordinarily interested; and I could
not divine the mysterious bond of union that attached you to Peter
Gordon, Esq., until you furnished me with a key to the whole secret,
by that strong emphasis with which you pronounced the words—Ferdi-
nand Count Fathom. Then I discovered the source of your good-will
towards me, which is no other than the history of a lawsuit inserted in
that performance, where the author takes occasion to observe, that the
counsel behaved like men of consummate abilities in their profession;
exerting themselves with equal industry, eloquence, and erudition, in
their endeavors to perplex the truth, brow-beat the evidence, puzzle the
judge, and mislead the jury. Did any part of this character come home
to your own conscience? or did you resent it as a sarcasm levelled at
the whole bench without distinction? I take it for granted, that this
must have been the origin of your enmity to me; because I can recol-
lect no other circumstance in my conduct, by which I could incur the
displeasure of a man whom I scarce knew by sight, and with whom I
never had the least dispute, or indeed concern. If this was the case,
you pay a very scurvy compliment to your own integrity, by fathering
a character which is not applicable to any honest man, and give the
world a handle to believe, that our courts of justice stand greatly in
170
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
need of reformation. Indeed, the petulance, license, and buffoonery of
some lawyers in the exercise of their function, is a reproach upon
decency, and a scandal to the nation; and it is surprising that the
Judge, who represents his Majesty's person, should suffer such insults
upon the dignity of the place. But whatever liberties of this kind are
granted to counsel, no sort of freedom, it seems, must be allowed to
the evidence, who, by the by, are of much more consequence to the
cause. You will take upon you to divert the audience at the expense
of a witness, by impertinent allusions to some parts of his private
character and affairs; but if he pretends to retort the joke, you insult,
abuse, and bellow against him, as an impudent fellow, who fails in his
respect to the Court. It was in this manner you behaved to my
first witness, whom you first provoked into a passion by your injurious
insinuations; then you took an advantage of the confusion which you
had entailed upon him; and, lastly, you insulted him, as a person who
had shuffled in his evidence. This might have been an irreparable
injury to the character of a tradesman, had not he been luckily known
to the whole jury, and many other persons in Court, as a man of un-
questionable probity and credit. Sir, a witness has as good a title as
you have to the protection of the Court; and ought to have more,
because evidence is absolutely necessary for the investigation of truth;
whereas, the aim of a lawyer is often to involve it in doubt and
obscurity. Is it for this purpose you so frequently deviate from the
point, and endeavor to raise the mirth of the audience with flat jokes
and insipid similes? or have you really so miserably mistaken your own
talents, as to set up for the character of a man of humor? For my own
part, were I disposed to be merry, I should never desire a more preg-
nant subject of ridicule, than your own appearance and behavior; but,
as I am at present in a very serious mood, I shall content myself with
demanding adequate reparation for the injurious treatment I have re-
ceived at your hands; otherwise, I will in four days put this letter in
the press, and you shall hear in another manner-not from a ruffian
and an assassin-but from an injured gentleman, who is not ashamed of
subscribing himself," &c.
No. II.
CONTROVERSY WITH SHEBBEARE AND GRAINGER.
[Among others, he incurred at this time the resentment of Dr. Sheb-
beare, a well-known political and miscellaneous writer, who had been
chastised in the Review, for his insolent and seditious publications;
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
171
and severely punished by the government for his arrogance and abuse,
in stigmatizing some great names with all the virulence of censure, and
even assailing the throne itself, with oblique insinuation and ironical
satire. The incensed author suspected Smollett, and retaliated in a
pamphlet, entitled The Occasional Critic, or the Decrees of the Scots Tri-
bunal in the Critical Review rejudged, 8vo, 1757, written with all the
presumption of Dennis without his learning, with all his rage without
his integrity.
Although the "Occasional Critic" in many instances stumbled on
the truth, the whole animation of the performance arose from the viva-
city and virulence with which the enraged writer maintained that the
authors of the Critical Review were Scots scrubs, and rascals, barbers,
tailors, apothecaries, and surgeons' mates, who understood neither
Greek, Latin, French, nor English, nor any other language; and that
Scotland never produced any one man of genius, learning, or in-
tegrity.
The acrimony of Dr. Shebbeare's retaliation was greater than Smol-
lett's patience, which was not his most shining virtue, could bear,
without resistance or reply; and it immediately drew from him, or one
of his literary associates, the following observations:
"Whatever regard we may have for our fellow-subjects in North
Britain, and surely we do regard them, not only as our brethren, but
also as a people distinguished by their learning and capacity, we have
no call to enter the lists as their champions, against an antagonist
whom they themselves would hardly deign to oppose.
"We cannot help, however, taking this opportunity of declaring,
that of five persons concerned in writing the Critical Review, one only
is a native of Scotland; so that our hypercritic's national rancor against
that kingdom seems to have mistaken its object; unless he levelled the
whole at one member of our society, whom indeed he has reviled,
bespattered, and belied with all the venom of low, invidious malice,
and all the filth of vulgar abuse. These attacks, however, we forgive,
as the natural effect of resentment. That person has occasionally
checked and chastised him, as an ignorant and presumptuous quack
in politics, an enemy to his king and country, and a desperate incen-
diary, who, by misrepresenting facts, and aspersing characters, endea-
vored to raise a ferment in the nation, at a time when a concurrence
of unfortunate incidents had produced a spirit of discontent among
the people."-Critical Review, 1757.
He had no sooner repelled the illiberal abuse of a writer, whose
injustice he reprobated, and whose resentment he despised, than he
was thrown into a more vexatious, and less creditable dispute with Dr.
Grainger, a man of genius, and a poet, who suspected him to be the
172
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
writer of the article in the Critical Review, in which his "Translation
of Tibullus" had been treated with unjustifiable severity. Whether
Dr. Grainger's suspicions were well or ill founded, he thought his
translation had been criticised in the Review with malignity, and pub-
lished an angry "Letter to Tobias Smollett, M.D., occasioned by his
Criticism upon a late Translation of Tibullus," 8vo, 1758; in which,
after refuting the criticisms of the reviewer, he proves, by examples
principally taken from the article on his own work, that the authors of
the Critical Review had broken, in every particular, their promises
solemnly made to the public, in the plan of their journal: mentions
Smollett in contemptuous terms, and indulges himself in some ludi-
crous reflections on the unlucky diminutive of his Christian name.
These personal reflections and pleasantries, which mingled in the
controversy between the poet and the critic, who mutually respected
each other's talents and character, were not forgotten when Dr. Grain-
ger's "Letter" fell under the animadversions of Smollett, or one of
his associates, in the Critical Review, who, in ridiculing that playful
species of vengeance, was guilty of injustice, if he meant to in-
sinuate that his antagonist could be classed among the dunces of
the age.
The writer of the article observes, that "Dr. Grainger had found in
Dr. Smollett's Christian name Tobias, and its diminutive Toby, a very
extraordinary fund of humor and ridicule; but that this species of wit,
however entertaining, was not new, for that others had played on the
cognomen with as much dexterity as he had on the prenomen; that
Smollett had been facetiously converted, by that stupendous genius Dr.
Hill, into Small-head and Small-wit; that the same happy thought had
struck the dunces of a former age, who had not only punned success-
fully on the name of Alexander Pope, but had even written a poem
against him, entitled Sawney. Think not, reader," he adds, "that
we presume to compare Dr. Smollett, as a writer, with Mr. Pope; we
are sensible of the infinite disparity; but in one respect their fate is
similar; they have both been abused, belied, and accused of ignorance,
malice, and want of genius, by the confessed dunces of the age, at a
time when their works were read and approved, at least as much as any
other English contemporary author."
Men of letters, it has often been remarked, are more easily provoked,
and more vindictive when provoked, than other men. Their quarrels,
when they are enraged, are commonly more violent, and better known,
than the ordinary competitions of interest in which other men indulge
themselves; as they originate in the jealousy of their own fame, or in
the envy of that of their brethren, and are circulated in the popular
vehicles of wit and satire. The controversy between Smollett and Dr.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
173
Grainger, it is probable, did not originate in envy, with which the mind
of Smollett was not tainted, nor in any personal animosity against his
amiable and ingenious countryman, but in a systematic opposition to
the authors of the "Monthly Review," in which Dr. Grainger was known
to be concerned, who had an interest in decrying the qualifications of
his colleagues, and of impeaching the decrees of the tribunal in which
he presided.
Of the unjust suspicions which his concern in the Critical Review
excited in the breasts of Mr. Home, the author of the tragedy of
"Douglas," Dr. Wilkie, author of "The Epigoniad," and some other
writers of his own country, whose talents and characters he respected,
he complains in a letter to Dr. Moore, in the year 1758, in which is the
following paragraph :-
The
"I have for some time done very little in the Critical Review.
remarks upon Home's tragedy I never saw until they were in print;
and yet I have not read one line of the 'Epigoniad.' I am told the
work has merit; and I am truly sorry that it should have been so
roughly handled. Notwithstanding the censures that have been so
freely bestowed upon these and other productions of our country, the
authors of the Critical Review have been insulted and abused as a Scots
Tribunal."
Besides these, many other disputes arose with different writers, who
considered themselves injured by the severity of his criticisms. Seldom
a month passed without some complaints of his injustice and inhu-
manity towards bad writers, or their employers, and those not often
expressed in the most decent terms. The public, to whom they ap-
pealed, refused their sympathy, and retorted the charge, with disgrace,
on his accusers; who, being authors without talents, were them-
selves, impostors, who defrauded the public, and had little reason
to expect his indulgence. But whatever reason he had to complain of
the personal abuse he suffered from detected dulness and mortified
vanity, he afterwards found, that the revenge of an author was nothing
compared to the rancor of the politician, and the resentment of little
men placed in great stations.-ANDERSON'S Life of Smollett, pp. 57, 62.]
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
THIS author, distinguished in the eighteenth century,
survived till the present was considerably advanced, in-
teresting to the public, as well as to private society, not
only on account of his own claims to distinction, but as
the last of that constellation of genius which the pre-
dominating spirit of Johnson had assembled about him,
and in which he presided a stern Aristarchus. Cumber-
land's character and writings are associated with those
of Goldsmith, of Burke, of Percy, of Reynolds, names
which sound in our ears as those of English classics.
He was his own biographer; and from his Memoirs we
are enabled to trace a brief sketch of his life and labors,
as also of his temper and character;' on which latter
subject we have the evidence of contemporaries, and
perhaps some recollections of our own.
RICHARD CUMBERLAND boasted himself, with honest
pride, the descendant of parents respectable for their
station, eminent in learning, and no less for worth and
piety. The celebrated Richard Bentley was his mater-
nal grandfather, a name dreaded as well as respected in
literature, and which his descendant, on several occa-
sions, protected with filial respect against those, who
continued over his grave the insults which he had re-
1
¹ [“Memoirs of Richard Cumberland, written by himself, containing
an Account of his Life and Writings, interspersed with Anecdotes and
Characters of several of the most distinguished persons of his time,
with whom he has had intercourse and connexion. London: 1806,
4to; 1807, 2 vols. 8vo."]
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
175
This emi-
ceived from the wits of Queen Anne's reign.
nent scholar had one son, the well-known author of The
Wishes, and two daughters. The second, Joanna, the
Phoebe of Byron's pastoral, married Denison Cumber-
land, son of an arch-deacon, and grandson of Richard
Cumberland, Bishop of Peterborough.' Though pos-
sessed of some independence, he became Rector of
Stanwick, at the instance of his father-in-law, Dr. Bent-
ley, and, in course of time, Bishop of Clonfert, and was
afterwards translated to the see of Kilmore.
Richard Cumberland, the subject of this memoir, was
the second child of this marriage, the eldest being
1 The following amiable picture of Richard Cumberland occurs in the
lately published and very interesting Memoirs of Samuel Pepys :
"18th March, 1667.-Comes my old friend Mr. Richard Cumberland to
see me, being newly come to town, whom I have not seen almost, if not
quite, these seven years. In a plain country parson's dress. I could
not spend much time with him, but prayed him to come with his bro-
ther, who was with him, to dine with me to-day; which he did do: and
I had a great deal of his good company; and a most excellent person he
is as any I know, and one that I am sorry should be lost and buried in a
little country town, and would be glad to remove him thence; and the
truth is, if he would accept of my sister's fortune, I should give L.100
more with him than to a man able to settle her four times as much as I
fear he is able to do.'
It is impossible to suppress a smile at the manner in which the can-
did journalist describes the brother-in-law whom he finally adopted, not
without a glance of regret towards Cumberland :—
“ February 7th, 1667-8.—Met my cosen Roger again, and Mr. Jackson,
who is a plain young man, handsome enough for her, one of no educa-
tion nor discourse, but of few words, and one altogether that, I think,
will please me well enough. My cosen had got me to give the odd
sixth L.100 presently, which I intended to keep to the birth of the first
child; and let it go-I shall be eased of the care. So there parted, my
mind pretty well satisfied with this plain fellow for my sister; though
I shall, I see, have no pleasure nor content in him, as if he had been a
man of reading and parts, like Cumberland."-PEPYS' Diary, vol. ii.,
pp. 29, and 189.
176
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Joanna, a daughter. He was born on the 19th of Feb-
ruary, 1732; and, as he naturally delights to record
with precision, in an apartment called the Judge's
Chamber, of the Master's Lodge of Trinity College,
then occupied by his celebrated maternal grandfather—
inter sylvas Academi. With equal minuteness the
grandson of the learned Bentley goes through the
course of his earlier studies, and registers his progress
under Kinsman of St. Edmondsbury, afterwards at
Westminster, and finally at Cambridge; in all which
seminaries of classical erudition, he highly distinguished
himself. At college he endangered his health by the
severity with which he followed his studies, obtained
his Bachelor's degree with honor, and passed with tri-
umph a peculiarly difficult examination; the result of
which was his being elected to a Fellowship.
Amid his classical pursuits, the cultivation of English
letters was not neglected, and Cumberland became the
author of many poems of considerable merit. It may
be observed, however, that he seldom seems to have
struck out an original path for himself, but rather wrote
because others had written successfully, and in the
manner of which they had set an example, than from
the strong impulse of that inward fire, which makes or
forces a way for its own coruscations, without respect
to the course of others. Thus Cumberland wrote an
Elegy in a Churchyard on Saint Mark's Eve, because
Gray had, with general applause, published an Elegy in
a Country Churchyard. He composed a drama on the
subject of Elfrida, and with a chorus, in imitation of
Mason; he imitated Hammond, and he imitated Spenser,
and seems to display a mind full of information and ac-
tivity, abounding with the natural desire of distinction,
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
177
but which had not yet attained sufficient confidence in
its own resources, to attempt a road to eminence of his
own discovery; and this is a defect from which none of
his compositions are perhaps entirely free.
Mr. Cumberland's original destiny was to have walk-
ed the respectable and retired path by which his ances-
tors had ascended to church dignity; and there is every
reason to believe, that, as he was their equal in worth
and learning, his success in life might have been the
same as theirs. But a temptation, difficult to be resist-
ed, turned him from the study of divinity to that of
politics.
The Rev. Mr. Cumberland, father of the poet, had it in
his power to render some important political services to
the Marquis of Halifax, then distinguished as a public
character; and in recompense or acknowledgment of
this, young Richard was withdrawn from the groves of
Cam, and the tranquil pursuit of a learned profession, to
attend the noble lord in the advantageous and confiden-
tial situation of private secretary. Amidst much cir-
cumlocution and moral reflection, which Cumberland
bestows on this promotion and change of pursuit, the
reader may fairly infer, that though he discharged with
regularity the ostensible duties of his office, it was not
suited to him; nor did he give the full satisfaction
which perhaps he might have done, had a raw academi-
cian, his head full, as he says, of Greek and Latin, and
little acquainted with the affairs of the existing world,
been in the first place introduced for a time to busy life
as a spectator, ere called to take an active part in it as a
duty. His situation, however, led him into the best
society, and ensured liberal favor and patronage (so far
as praise and recommendation went) to the efforts of
178
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
his muse. In particular, his connexion with Lord Hali-
fax introduced our author to Bubb Doddington, after-
wards Lord Melcombe, of Diary memory, who affected
the character of Mecænas, and was in reality an accom-
plished man.
It was under the joint auspices of Lords Halifax and
Melcombe, that Cumberland executed what he has enti-
tled his first legitimate drama, The Banishment of
Cicero,—an unhappy subject, the deficiencies of which
are not redeemed by much powerful writing. This tra-
gedy was recommended to Garrick by the two noble
patrons of Cumberland; but, in despite of his deference
for great names and high authorities, the manager
would not venture on so unpromising a subject of repre-
sentation. The Banishment of Cicero was published by
the author, who frankly admits, that in doing so he
printed Garrick's vindication.
About this time, as an earnest of future favors, Cum-
berland obtained, through the influence of Lord Halifax,
the office of crown-agent for the province of Nova Sco-
tia, and conceived his fortune sufficiently advanced in
the world to settle himself by marriage. In 1759, there-
fore, he united himself to Elizabeth, only daughter of
George Ridge, of Kilmerton, by Miss Brooke, a niece of
Cumberland's grandfather, Bentley. Mrs. Cumberland
was accomplished and beautiful, and the path of promo-
tion appeared to brighten before the happy bridegroom.
Lord Bute's star was now rising fast in the political
horizon, and both the Marquis of Halifax and the versa-
tile Bubb Doddington had determined to worship the
influence of this short-lived luminary. The latter ob-
tained a British peerage, a barren honor, which only en-
titled him to walk in the procession at the coronation,
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
179
and the former had the Lieutenancy of Ireland. The
celebrated Single-Speech Hamilton held the post of
Chief Secretary to the Lord-lieutenant, while Cumber-
land, not to his perfect content, was obliged to confine
himself to the secondary department of Ulster Secretary.
There was wisdom, perhaps, in the selection, though it
would have been unreasonable to expect the disappoint-
ed private secretary to concur in that opinion. No one
ever doubted the acute political and practical talents of
William Gerard Hamilton, while Cumberland possessed,
perhaps, too much of the poetical temperament to rival
him as a man of business. A vivid imagination, eager
on its own schemes, and unapt to be stirred by matter
of duller import; a sanguine temper, to which hopes
too often seem as certainties, joined to a certain portion
both of self-opinion and self-will, although they are de-
lightful, considered as the attributes of an intimate
friend, are inconvenient ingredients in the character of
a dependent, whose duty lies in the paths of ordinary
business. Besides, Mr. D'Israeli has produced the fol-
lowing curious evidence, to show that Cumberland's
habits were not those which fit a man for ordinary
affairs: "A friend who was in office with the late Mr.
Cumberland, assures me that he was so intractable to
the forms of business, and so easily induced to do more
or to do less than he ought, that he was compelled to
perform the official business of this literary man, to free
himself from his annoyance; and yet Cumberland could
not be reproached with any deficiency in a knowledge
of the human character, which he was always touching
with a caustic pleasantry." "
1
1 The Literary Character illustrated, 1822, vol. ii., p. 106.
180
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Cumberland, however, rendered his principal some
effectual service, even in the most worldly applica-
tion of the phrase-he discovered a number of
lapsed patents, the renewal of which the Lord-lieutenant
found a convenient fund of influence; but the Ulster
Secretary had no other reward than the empty offer of
a baronetcy, which he wisely declined. He was grati-
fied, however, though less directly, by the promotion of
his father to the see of Clonfert in Ireland.
The new
prelate shifted his residence to that kingdom, where,
during his subsequent life, his son, with pious duty,
spent some considerable part of every year in attendance
on his declining age.
Lord Halifax, on his return to England, obtained the
seals of Secretary of State, and Cumberland, a candidate
for the office of Under Secretary, received the cold an-
swer from his patron, that "he was not fit for every
situation;" a reason scarce rendered more palatable by
the special addition, that he did not possess the necessary
fluency in the French tongue. Sedgewick, the success-
ful competitor, vacated a situation at the Board of
Trade, called Clerk of Reports, and Cumberland be-
came desirous to hold it in his room. As this was in
the gift of Lord Hillsborough, the proposal to apply for
it was in a manner withdrawing from the patronage of
Lord Halifax, who seems to have considered it as such,
and there ensued some coldness betwixt the minister
and his late private secretary. On looking at these
events, we can see that Cumberland was probably no
good man of business, as it is called, certainly no good
courtier; for, holding such a confidential situation with
Lord Halifax, he must otherwise have rendered himself
either too useful, or too agreeable, to be easily parted with.
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
181
An attempt of Cumberland's to fill up the poetical
part of an English opera, incurred the jealousy of Bick-
erstaff, the author of Love in a Village, then in pos-
session of that department of dramatic composition.
The piece, called the Summer's Tale, succeeded in such
a degree, as induced the rival writer to vent his indigna-
tion in every species of abuse against the author and
the drama. In a much better spirit, Cumberland as-
cribed Bickerstaff's hostility to an anxious apprehension
for his interest, and generously intimated his intention
to interfere no farther with him as a writer of operas.
The dispute led to important consequences; for Smith,
well known by the deserved appellation of Gentleman
Smith, then of Covent-Garden, turned the author's dra-
matic genius into a better channel, by strongly recom-
mending to him to attempt the legitimate drama. By
this encouragement, Mr. Cumberland was induced to
commence his dramatic career, which he often pursued
with success, and almost always with such indefatigable
industry, as has no parallel in our theatrical history.
The Brothers was the first fruit of this ample harvest.
It was received with applause, and is still on the stock-
list of acting plays. The sudden assumption of spirit
by Sir Benjamin Dove, like Luke's change from servility
to insolence, is one of those incidents which always tell
well upon the spectator. The author acknowledges his
obligations to Fletcher's Little French Lawyer ; but the
comedy is brought to bear on a point so different, that
little is in this instance detracted from its merit.
But the West Indian, which succeeded in the follow-
ing year, raised its author much higher in the class of
dramatic writers of the period, and--had Sheridan not
been-must have placed Cumberland decidedly at the
182
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
head of the list. It is a classical comedy; the dialogue
spirited and elegant; the characters well conceived, and
presenting bold features, though still within the line of
probability; and the plot regularly conducted, and
happily extricated. The character of Major O'Flaherty,
those who have seen it represented by Jack Johnstone¹
will always consider as one of the most efficient in the
British drama. It could only have been drawn by one
who, like Cumberland, had enjoyed repeated opportuni-
ties of forming a true estimate of the Irish gentleman ;
and the Austrian cockade in his hat, might serve to re-
mind the British administration, that they had sacrificed
the services of this noble and martial race to unjust
restrictions and political prejudices. The character of
Major O'Flaherty may have had the additional merit
of suggesting that of Sir Lucius O'Trigger; but the
latter is a companion, not a copy, of Cumberland's
portrait.
Garrick, reconciled with the author by a happy touch
of praise in the prologue to The Brothers, contributed
an epilogue, and Tom King supported the character of
Belcour with that elastic energy, which gave reality to
'Commonly called Irish Johnstone. The judgment displayed by this
excellent actor, in his by-play, as it is called, was peculiarly exquisite.
When he intercepts the cordial designed for Lady Rusport, and which
her attendant asserts was only good for ladies' complaints, the quiet
and sly expression of surprise, admirably subdued by good-breeding,
and by the respect of a man of gallantry even to the foibles of the fair
sex, and the dry mode in which he pronounced that the potion was
very "good for some gentlemen's complaints too," intimate at once.
the quality of her ladyship's composing draught, but in a manner accu-
rately consistent with the perfect politeness of the discoverer, enjoying
the jest himself, yet anxious to avoid the most distant appearance of
insulting or ridiculing the lady's frailty. Go thy ways, old Jack! we
shall hardly see thy like in thy range of character.
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
183
all the freaks of a child of the sun, whose benevolence
seems as instinctive as his passions.
The Fashionable Lover, which followed the West
Indian, was an addition to Cumberland's reputation.
There was the same elegance of dialogue, but much less
of the vis comica. The scenes hang heavy on the stage,
and the character of Colin M'Leod, the honest Scotch
servant, not being drawn from nature, has little, except-
ing tameness, to distinguish it from the Gibbies and
Sawnies which had hitherto possession of the stage, as
the popular representatives of the Scottish nation. The
author himself is, doubtless, of a different opinion, and
labors hard to place his Fashionable Lover by the side
of the West Indian, in point of merit; but the critic
cannot avoid assenting to the judgment of the audience.
The Choleric Man' was next acted, and was well received,
though now forgotten; and other dramatic sketches, of
minor importance, were given by Cumberland to the
public, before the production of his Battle of Hastings,
a tragedy, in which the language, often uncommonly
striking, has more merit than the characters or the plot.
The latter has the inconvenient fault of being inconsis-
tent with history, which at once affords a hold to every
critic of the most ordinary degree of information. It
was successful, however, Henderson performing the
principal character. Bickerstaff being off the stage,
our author also wrote Calypso, and another opera, with
1 ["Cumberland is so distressed with abuse about his play, that he
has solicited Goldsmith to take him off the rack of the newspapers."
JOHNSON TO MRS. THRALE.-"The play in question was the Choleric
Man, which Cumberland afterwards published with a Dedication to
Detraction. He was very sensitive to such attacks, as Sheridan more
than hints in the character of Sir Fretful Plagiary."—CROKER, vol. ii.,
p. 197.]
184
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
the view of serving a meritorious young composer,
named Butler.
Neither did these dramatic labors entirely occupy
Cumberland's time. He found leisure to defend the
memory of his grandfather, Bentley, in a controversy
with Lowth, and to plead the cause of the unhappy
Daniel Perreau, over whose fate hangs a veil so myste-
rious.' Cumberland drew up his address to the jury, an
elegant and affecting piece of composition, which had
much effect on the audience in general, though it failed
in moving those who had the fate of the accused in their
hands.
The satisfaction which the author must have derived
from the success of his various dramatic labors, seems
to have been embittered by the criticisms to which,
whether just or invidious, all authors, but especially
those who write for the theatre, are exposed. He
acknowledges that he gave too much attention to the
calumnies and abuse of the public press, and tells us,
that Garrick used to call him the man without a skin.
Unquestionably, toughness of hide is necessary on such
occasions; but, on the whole, it will be found that they
who give but slight attention to such poisoned arrows,
experience least pain from their venom.
There was, indeed, in Cumberland's situation, enough
to console him for greater mortifications than malevolent
criticism ought to have had power to inflict. He was
happy in his family, consisting of four sons and two
daughters. All the former entered the King's service;
the first and third as soldiers, the second and fourth in
[Robert and Daniel Perreau, twin-brothers, were executed in
January, 1776, for the alleged forgery of a bond.]
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
185
the navy. Besides these domestic blessings, Cumberland
stood in the first ranks of literature, and, as a matter of
course, in the first rank in society, to which, in England,
successful literature is a ready passport. His habits and
manners qualified him for enjoying this distinguished
situation, and his fortune, including the profits of his
office, and his revenues, seems not to have been inade-
quate to his maintaining his ground in society. It was
shortly after improved by Lord George Germain, after-
wards Lord Sackville, who promoted him in the hand-
somest manner to the situation of Secretary to the Board
of Trade, at which he had hitherto held a subordinate
situation.
A distant relation also, Decimus Reynolds, constituted
Mr. Cumberland heir to a considerable property, and
placed his will in the hands of his intended successor, in
order that he might not be tempted to alter it at a future
period. Cumberland was too honorably minded to
accept of it, otherwise than as a deposit to be called back
at the testator's pleasure. After the course of several
years, Mr. Reynolds resumed it accordingly. Another
remarkable disappointment had in the meanwhile be-
fallen, which, while it closed his farther progress in
political life, gave a blow to his private fortune which it
never seems to have recovered, and, in the author's own
words, “very strongly contrasted and changed the com-
plexion of his latter days from that of the preceding
ones."
In the year 1780, hopes were entertained of detaching
Spain from the hostile confederacy by which Britain
was all but overwhelmed. That kingdom could not but
dread the example held out by the North Americans to
their own colonies. It was supposed possible to open
186
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
a negotiation with the minister, Florida Blanca, and
Richard Cumberland was the agent privately intrusted.
with conducting this political intrigue. He was to pro-
ceed in a frigate to Lisbon, under pretence of a voyage
for health or pleasure; and either to go on to Madrid,
or to return to Britain, as he should be advised, after
communicating with the Abbé Hussey, chaplain to his
Catholic Majesty, the secret agent in this important
affair. Mrs. Cumberland and her daughters accom-
panied him on this expedition. On the voyage, the
envoy had an opportunity, precious to an author and
dramatist, of seeing British courage displayed on its
own proper element, by an action betwixt the Milford
and a French frigate, in which the latter was captured.
He celebrated this action in a very spirited sea-song,
which we remember popular some years afterwards.
There was one point of the utmost consequence in the
proposed treaty, a point which always has been so in
negotiations with Spain, and which will again become.
so whenever she shall regain her place in the European
republic. This point respects Gibraltar. There is little
doubt that the temptation of recovering this important
fortress was the bait which drew the Spanish nation
into the American war; and could this fortress have
been ceded to its natural possessor, mere regard to the
Family Compact would not have opposed any insur-
mountable obstacle to a separate peace with England.
But the hearts of the English people were as unaltera-
bly fixed on retaining this badge of conquest, as those
of the Spaniards upon regaining it; and in truth its
surrender must have been generally regarded at home
and abroad as a dereliction of national honor, and a con-
fession of national weakness. Mr. Cumberland was
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
187
therefore instructed not to proceed to Madrid, until he
should learn from the Abbé Hussey whether the cession
of this important fortress was, or was not, to be made,
on the part of Spain, the basis of the proposed negotia-
tion. In the former event, the secret envoy of England
was not to advance to Madrid; but, on the contrary,
to return to Britain. It was to ascertain this point that
Hussey went to Madrid; but unhappily his letters to
Cumberland, who remained at Lisbon, while they en-
couraged him to try the event of a negotiation, being
desirous perhaps, on his own account, that the negotia-
tions should not be broken off, gave him no assurances
whatever upon the point by which his motions were to
be regulated. Walpole, the British minister at Lisbon,
seems to have seen through the Abbé's duplicity, and
advised Cumberland to conform implicitly to his instruc-
tions, and either return home, or at least not leave Lis-
bon without fresh orders from England. Unluckily,
Mr. Cumberland had adopted the idea that delay would
be fatal to the success of the treaty, and, sanguine re-
specting the peaceful disposition of the Spanish minis-
try, and confident in the integrity of Hussey, he resolv-
ed to proceed to Madrid upon his own responsibility—a
temerity against which the event ought to warn all po-
litical agents.
The following paragraph of a letter to Lord Hillsbo-
rough, shows Mr. Cumberland's sense of the risk which
he thought it his duty to incur :-
"I am sensible I have taken a step which exposes me
to censure upon failure of success, unless the reasons on
which I have acted be weighed with candor, and even
with indulgence. In the decision I have taken for en-
188
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
tering Spain, I have had no other object but to keep
alive a treaty to which any backwardness or evasion on
my part would, I am persuaded, be immediate extinc-
tion. I know where my danger lies ; but as my endea-
vors for the public service, and the honor of your ad-
ministration, are sincere, I have no doubt that I shall
obtain your protection."
""
From this quotation, to which others might be added,
it is evident that, even in Cumberland's own eyes, no-
thing but his success could entirely vindicate him from
the charge of officious temerity; and the events which
were in the meantime occurring in London, removed
this chance to an incalculable distance. When he ar-
rived at Madrid, he found Florida Blanca in full posses-
sion of the whole history of the mob termed Lord
George Gordon's, and, like foreigners on all such occa-
sions, bent to perceive in the explosion of a popular tu-
mult the downfall of the British monarch and ministry.'
A negotiation, of a delicate nature at any rate, and
opened under such auspices, could hardly be expected.
to prosper, although Mr. Cumberland did his best to
keep it alive. Under a reluctant permission of the
British ministry, rather extorted than granted, the en-
voy resided about twelve months in Madrid, trying ear-
nestly to knit the bonds of amity between ministers, who
seem to have had little serious hope or intention of pa-
cification, until at length Cumberland's return was com-
manded in express terms, on the 18th January, 1781.
The point upon which his negotiation finally shipwreck-
ed, was that very article to which his instructions from
the beginning had especially directed him, the ces-
1 Memoirs, vol. ii., p. 18.
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
189
sion of Gibraltar. According to Cumberland, the
Spaniards only wanted to talk on this subject; and if
he had been permitted to have given accommodation in
a matter of mere punctilio, the object of a separate
treaty might have been accomplished. To this sanguine
statement we can give no credit. Spain was at the very
moment employed in actively combining the whole
strength of her kingdom for the recovery of this for-
tress, with which she naturally esteemed her national
honor peculiarly connected. She was bribed by the
promise of the most active and powerful assistance from
France; and it is very improbable that her ministry
would have sacrificed the high hopes which they enter-
tained of carrying this important place by force of arms,
in exchange for any thing short of its specific surrender.
Still, however, as Mr. Cumberland acted with the
most perfect good faith, and with a zeal, the fault of
which was only its excess, the reader can scarce be pre-
pared, by our account of his errors, for the unworthy
treatment to which he was subjected. Our author af-
firms, and we must presume with perfect accuracy, that
when he set out upon this mission, besides receiving a
thousand pounds in hand, he had assurance from the
Secretary of the Treasury, that all bills drawn by Mr.
Cumberland on his own bank, should be instantly re-
placed from the treasury; and he states, that, notwith-
standing this positive pledge, accompanied by the nam-
ing a very large sum as placed at his discretion, no one
penny was ever so replaced by government; and that
he was obliged to repay from his private fortune, to a
ruinous extent, the bankers who had advanced money on
his private credit; for which, by no species of appeal or
application, was he ever able to obtain reimbursement.
190
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Whatever may be thought of Mr. Cumberland's po-
itical prudence in venturing beyond his commission, or
of his sanguine disposition, which too long continued to
hope a favorable issue to a desperate negotiation, there
can be no doubt that he was suffered to remain at
Madrid, in the character of a British agent, recognised
as such by the ministry, in constant correspondence.
with the Secretary of State, and receiving from him di-
rections respecting his residence at, or departure from
Madrid. There seems, therefore, to have been neither
humanity nor justice in refusing the payment of his
drafts, and subjecting him to such wants and difficulties,
that, after having declined the liberal offer of the Span-
ish monarch to defray his expenses, the British agent
was only extricated from the situation of a penniless
bankrupt, by the compassion of a private friend, who
advanced him a seasonable loan of five hundred pounds.
The state of the balance due to him was indeed conside-
rable, being no less than four thousand five hundred
pounds; and it may be thought, that, as Mr. Cumber-
land's situation was ostensibly that of a private gentle-
man, travelling for health, much expense could not-at
least ought not to have attended his establishment.
But his wife and daughters were in family with him ;
and we must allow for domestic comfort, and even some
sort of splendor, in an individual, who was to hold com-
munication with the principal servants of the Spanish
crown. Besides, he had been promised an ample al-
lowance for secret-service money, out of a sum placed
at his own discretion. The truth seems to be, that Lord
North's administration thought a thousand pounds was
enough to have lost on an unsuccessful negotiation ; and
as Cumberland had certainly made himself in some de
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
191
gree responsible for the event, the same ministers, who,
doubtless, would have had no objection to avow the
issue of his intrigues had they been successful, chose, in
the contrary event, to disown them.
To encounter the unexpected losses to which he was
thus subjected, Mr. Cumberland was under the neces-
sity of parting with his paternal property at an unfa-
vorable season, and when its value could not be ob-
tained. Shortly after followed the dissolution of the
Board of Trade; and the situation of Secretary fell
under Burke's economical pruning-knife-a compensa-
tion amounting only to one-half the value being appoint-
ed to the holder. Thus unpleasingly relieved from offi-
cial and political duties, Mr. Cumberland adopted the
prudent resolution of relinquishing his town residence,
and settling himself and his family at Tunbridge, where
he continued to live in retirement, yet not without the
exercise of an elegant hospitality, till the final close of
his long life.
The Anecdotes of Eminent Painters in Spain, in two
volumes, together with a Catalogue of the Pictures
which adorn the Escurial, suffered to be made by the
King of Spain's express permission, were the principal
fruits of our author's visit to the continent.
Yet we
ought to except the very pretty story of Nicolas Pe-
drosa, an excellent imitation of Le Sage, which appear-
ed in the Observer, a periodical paper, which Cumber-
land edited with considerable success. This was one of
the literary enterprises in which the author, from his
acquaintance with men and manners, as well as his taste
and learning, was well qualified to excel, and the work
continues to afford amusement both to the general
reader and the scholar. The latter is deeply interested
192
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
in the curious and classical account which the Observer
contains of the early Greek drama. In this department,
Cumberland has acknowledged his debts to the cele-
brated Bentley, his grandfather, and to his less known,
but scarce less ingenious relation, Richard Bentley, son
of the celebrated scholar, and author of the comedy or
farce termed The Wishes. The aid of the former was
derived from the notes which Cumberland possessed,
but that of Richard Bentley was more direct.
This learned and ingenious, but rather eccentric per-
son, was the friend of Horace Walpole, who, as his
nephew Cumberland complains with some justice, exer-
cised the rights of patronage rather unmercifully. He
had been unsuccessful as a dramatic author. His comic
piece entitled The Wishes, was written with a view of
ridiculing the ancient drama of Greece, particularly in
their pedantic adherence to the unities.
This was a
purpose which could be scarcely understood by a vulgar
audience, for much of it turned on the absurd structure
of the stage of Athens, and the peculiar stoicism with
which the Chorus, supposed to be spectators of the
scene, deduce moral lessons of the justice of the gods
from the atrocities which the action exhibits, but with-
out stirring a finger to interfere or to prevent them.
In ridicule of this absurdity, the Chorus in The Wishes
are informed that a madman has just broken his way
into the cellars, with a torch in his hand, to set fire to a
magazine of gunpowder; on which, instead of using
any means of prevention or escape, they began, in
strophe and antistrophe, to lament their own condition,
and exclaim against the thrice-unhappy madman-or
rather the thrice-unhappy friends of the madman, who
had not taken measures of securing him—or rather upon
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
193
the six-times unhappy fate of themselves, thus exposed
to the madman's fury. All this is a good jest to those
who remember the stoicism with which the Choruses of
Eschylus and Euripides view and comment upon the
horrors which they witness on the stage, but it might
have been esteemed caviare to the British audience in
general; yet the entertainment was well received until
the extravagant incident of hanging Harlequin on the
stage. The author was so sensible of the absurdity of
this exhibition, that he whispered to his nephew, Cum-
berland, during the representation,-"If they do not
damn this, they deserve to be d-d themselves ;" and,
as he spoke, the condemnation of the piece was com-
plete. It is much to be wished that this singular per-
formance were given to the public in print.-The notice
of Richard Bentley has led us something from our pur-
pose, which only called on us to remark, that he fur-
nished Cumberland with those splendid translations.
from the Greek dramatists which adorn The Observer.
The author, however, claims for himself the praise due
to a version of the Clouds of Aristophanes, afterwards
incorporated with this periodical work.
He
The modern characters introduced by Cumberland in
his Observer, were his own; and that of the benevolent
Israelite, Abraham Abrahams, was, he informs us, writ-
ten upon principle, in behalf of a persecuted race.
followed up this generous intention in a popular comedy,
entitled "The Jew." The dramatic character of Sheva,
combining the extremes of habitual parsimony and na-
tive philanthropy, was written in the same spirit of
benevolence as that of Abrahams, and was excellently
performed by Jack Bannister. The public prints gave
the Jews credit for acknowledging their gratitude in a
194
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
very substantial form. The author, in his Memoirs,
does not disguise his wish, that they had flattered him
with some token of the debt which he conceives them
to have owed. We think, however, that a prior token
of regard should have been bestowed on the author of
Joshua, in the tale of Count Fathom; and, moreover,
we cannot be surprised that the people in question felt
a portrait in which they were rendered ludicrous as well
as interesting, to be something between an affront and a
compliment. Few of the better class of the Jewish per-
suasion would, we believe, be disposed to admit either
Abrahams or Sheva as fitting representatives of their
tribe.
In his retreat at Tunbridge, laboring in the bosom of
his family, and making their common sitting-room his
place of study, Cumberland continued to compose a
number of dramatic pieces, of which he himself seems
almost to have forgotten the names, and of which a
modern reader can trace very few. We have subjoined,
however, a list of them, with his other works, taken
from the Index of his Memoirs. Several were success-
ful; several unfortunate; many never performed at all
but the spirit of the author continued unwearied and
undismayed. The Arab, The Walloons, and many other
plays, are forgotten; but the character of Penruddock,
in the Wheel of Fortune, well conceived in itself, and
admirably supported by Kemble,' and since by Charles.
1 ["Mr. Kemble took great pains," says Mr. Boaden, "with the
character of Penruddock in the Wheel of Fortune. It came at length
upon the stage, on the 28th of February, (1795,) one of the most perfect
impersonations that had ever excited human sympathy. He had fash-
ioned every sentence of the part to his own organs, so that it seemed
a decided reality; and his personal manner was so little disturbed, that
the spectator, by an easy delusion, almost fancied that Mr. Kemble was
;
€
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
195
Young, continues to command attention and applause.
The Carmelite, a tragedy, on the regular tragic plan,
attracted much attention, as the inimitable Siddons
played the part of the Lady of St. Valois, and Kemble
that of Montgomeri. The plot, however, had that fault.
which, after all, clings to many of Cumberland's pieces
—there was a want of originality. The spectator, or
reader, was by the story irresistibly reminded of Dou-
glas, and there was more taste than genius in the dia-
logue. The language was better than the sentiments;
but the grace of the one could not always disguise that
the other wanted novelty. The Brothers, The West
Indian, and The Wheel of Fortune, stand high in the
list of acting plays, and we are assured, by a very com-
petent judge, that First Love, which we have not our-
selves lately seen, is an excellent comedy, and maintains
possession of the stage. The drama must have been
Cumberland's favorite style of composition, for he went
on, shooting shaft after shaft at the mark which he did
not, always hit, and often effacing by failures the me-
mory of triumphant successes. His plays at last
amounted to upwards of fifty, and intercession and
flattery were sometimes necessary to force their way
to the stage. On these occasions the Greenroom tradi-
tions avow that the veteran bard did not hesitate to
relating some striking misfortunes that had happened, in early life, to
himself. I most seriously affirm, that, for identity, Penruddock would
hardly admit of competition. Here, from the great intimacy between
us, he advised with me as to the plain and almost quaker attire he wore ;
and I saw in his walk, and occasionally in his countenance, the image
of that noble wreck of treachery and love, which was shortly to command
the tears of a whole people. He had a habit, by intense meditation, of
working himself into a character which he considered important, and
calculated to diversify the usual range of his performances. Penrud-
dock merited his pains."-Memoirs of Kemble, vol. ii., p. 140.]
196
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
bestow the most copious praises on the company who
were to bring forward a new piece, at the expense of
their rivals of the other house, who had his tribute of
commendation in their turn, when their acceptance of a
play put them in his good graces. It was also said, that
when many of the dramatic authors united in a com-
plaint to the Lord Chancellor against the late Mr. Sheri-
dan, then manager of Drury-Lane, he prevented Cum-
berland from joining the confederacy, by offering to
bring out any manuscript play which he should select
for performance. But selection was not an easy task to
an author, to whom all the offspring of his genius were
equally dear. After much nervous hesitation, he trust-
ed the chance to fortune; and out of a dozen of manu-
script plays which lay by him, is said to have reached
the manager the first which came to hand, without
reading the title. Yet if Cumberland had the fondness
of an author for his own productions, it must be owned
he had also the fortitude to submit, without murmuring,
to the decision of the public. "I have had my full
share of success, and I trust I have paid my tax for it,”
he says, good-humoredly, "always without mutiny, and
very generally without murmuring. I have never irri-
tated the town by making a sturdy stand against their
opposition, when they have been pleased to point it
against any one of my productions. I never failed to
withdraw myself on the very first intimation that I was
unwelcome; and the only offence that I have been
guilty of, is, that I have not always thought the worse
of a composition only because the public did not think
well of it.'
¹ Memoirs, vol. i., p. 269. [We presume this play was The Jew of
Mogadore, acted in 1808. It was set to music by Michael Kelly, who, in
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
197
The Sacred Muse shared with her dramatic sisters in
Cumberland's worship. In his poem of Calvary, he
treated of a subject which, notwithstanding Klopstock's
success, may be termed too lofty and too awful to be
the subject of verse. He also wrote, in a literary part-
nership with Sir James Bland Burgess, (well known as
the author of Richard Cœur de Lion, and other compo-
sitions,) The Exodiad, an epic poem, founded on sacred
history. By Calvary the author sustained the inconve-
nient loss of a hundred pounds, and The Exodiad did
not prove generally successful.
The author also undertook the task of compiling his
own Memoirs; and the well-known Mr. Richard Sharp,¹
equally beloved for his virtues, and admired for the
extent of his information, and the grace with which he
communicates it, by encouraging Mr. Cumberland to
become his own biographer, has performed a most ac-
ceptable service to the public. It is indeed one of the
his Reminiscences, gives the following account of the reception of the
piece by the management of Drury Lane. We quote the passage as
highly to Mr. Sheridan's honor:-"It was with great reluctance that
the Board of Management at Drury Lane accepted it; therefore, when
I had finished the music of the first act, I rested upon my oars, until I
knew their final determination. I met Mr. Sheridan one day in Essex
street in the Strand, and told him of it. He desired me to go on with
it by all means, ‘For,' said he, 'if the opera should fail, you will fall
with a fine classical scholar, and elegant writer, as well as a sound dra-
matist,' (such was his expression of opinion of Cumberland's abilities).
'Go instantly,' continued he, 'to those discerning critics, who call
themselves the "Board of Management," and tell them from me, if you
please, that they are all asses, to presume to sit in judgment on the
writings of such a man as Cumberland; and say, further, that I order
the opera to be accepted, and put into rehearsal.'-'And pray, sir,' said
I, 'in what light am I to view this Board of Management ?—What are
they?' 'Pegs to hang hats upon,' said Sheridan."]
¹ [Author of Letters and Essays in prose and verse. London: 12ino,
1834.]
198
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS
author's most pleasing works, and conveys a very accu-
rate idea of his talents, feelings, and character, with
many powerful sketches of the age which has passed
away. It is impossible to read, without deep interest,
Cumberland's account of the theatre in Goodman's
Fields, where Garrick, in the flower of his youth, and
all the energy of genius, bounded on the stage as
Lothario, and pointed out to ridicule the wittol husband
and the heavy-paced Horatio; while in the last charac-
ter, Mr. Quin, contrasting the old with the modern dra-
matic manner, surly and solemn, in a dark-green coat,
profusely embroidered, an enormous periwig, rolled
stockings, and high-heeled, square-toed shoes, mouthed
out his heroics in a deep, full, unvaried tone of decla-
mation, accompanied by a kind of sawing action, which
had more of the senate than the stage. Several charac-
ters of distinguished individuals are also drawn in the
Memoirs with much force; particularly those of Dod-
dington, Lord Halifax, Lord Sackville, George Selwyn,
and others of the past age.
There are some traits of
satire and ridicule which are perhaps a little overcharg-
ed. This work was to have remained in manuscript
until the author's death, when certainly such a publica-
tion appears with a better grace than while the auto-
biographer still treads the stage. But Mr. Cumberland,
notwithstanding his indefatigable labors, had never
been in easy circumstances since his unlucky negotia-
tion in Spain; and in the work itself, he makes the
affecting confession, that circumstances, paramount to
prudence and propriety, urged him to anticipate the
date of publication. The Memoirs were bought by
Lackington's house for L.500, and passed speedily from
a quarto to an octavo shape.
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
199
We have yet to mention another undertaking of this
unwearied author, at a period of life advanced beyond
the ordinary date of humanity. The Edinburgh Review
was now in possession of a full tide of popularity, and
the Quarterly Review was just commenced, or about to
commence, under powerful auspices, when Mr. Cumber-
land undertook the conduct of a critical work, which he
entitled The London Review, on an entirely new plan,
inasmuch as each article was to be published with the
author's name annexed. He was supported by assis-
tants of very considerable talents; but, after two or
three numbers, the scheme became abortive. In fact,
though the plan contained an appearance of more bold-
ness and fairness than the ordinary scheme of anony-
mous criticism, yet it involved, certain inconveniences,
which its author did not foresee.' It is true, no one
seriously believes that, because the imposing personal
plural We is adopted in a critical article, the reader is
from that circumstance to infer that the various pieces
in a periodical review, are subjected to the revisal of a
board of literary judges, and that each criticism is sanc-
tioned by their general suffrage, and bears the stamp of
their joint wisdom. Still, however, the use of the first
person plural is so far legitimate, that in every well-
governed publication of the kind, the articles, by whom-
¹ [“The London Review, set up in 1809, under Mr. Cumberland's edi-
torial care, did not outlive many numbers. He spoke great things in
the prospectus about the distinguishing feature of the journal, viz., its
having the writer's name affixed to the articles. This plan has suc-
ceeded pretty well both in France and Germany, but has failed utterly,
as often as it has been tried, in this country. It is needless, however,
to go into any speculation on the principle here; for the London Review,
whether sent into the world with or without names, must soon have
died of the original disease of dulness."-BYRON'S Works, vol. ix., p.
62, note.]
#
200
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
soever written, are at least revised by the competent
person selected as editor, which affords a better warrant
to the public for candor and caution, than if each were
to rest on the separate responsibility of the individual
writer. It is even more important to remark, that the
anonymous character of periodical criticism has a ten-
dency to give freedom to literary discussion, and at the
same time, to soften the animosities to which it might
otherwise give rise; and, in that respect, the peculiar
language which members of the senate hold towards
each other, and which is for that reason called parlia-
mentary, resembles the ordinary style of critical discus-
sion. An author, who is severely criticized in a review,
can hardly be entitled, in the ordinary case, to take no-
tice of it otherwise than as a literary question; whereas
a direct and immediate collision, with a particular indi-
vidual, seems to tend either, on the one hand, to limit
the freedom of criticism, by placing it under the regu-
lation of a timid complaisance, or, on the other, to ren-
der it (which is, to say the least, needless) of a fiercer
and more personal cast, and thereby endanger the
decorum, and perhaps the peace of society. Besides
this, there will always be a greater authority ascribed
by the generality of readers to the oracular opinion
issued from the cloudy sanctuary of an invisible body,
than to the mere dictum of a man with a Christian
name and sirname, which may not sound much better
than those of the author over whom he predominates.
In the far-famed Secret Tribunal of Germany, it was
the invisibility of the judges which gave them all their
awful jurisdiction.
So numerous were Cumberland's publications, that,
having hurried through the greater part of them, we
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
201
have yet to mention his novels, though it is as a writer
of fictitious history he is here introduced. They were
three in number, Arundel, Henry, and John de Lancas-
ter. The two first were deservedly well received by the
public; the last was a labor of old age, and was less for-
tunate. It would be altogether unfair to dwell upon it,
as forming a part of those productions on which the au-
thor's literary reputation must permanently rest.
Arundel, the first of these novels, was hastily written
during the residence of a few weeks at Brighthelm-
stone, and sent to the press by detached parcels. It
showed at the first glance what is seldom to be found
in novels, the certainty that the author had been well
acquainted with schools, with courts, and with fashion-
able life, and knew the topics on which he was employ-
ing his pen. The style, also, was easy and clear, and
the characters boldly and firmly sketched. Cumberland,
in describing Arundel's feelings at exchanging his col-
lege society, and the pursuits of learning, to become
secretary to the Earl of G., unquestionably remembered
the alteration of his own destination in early life. But
there is no reason to think that in the darker shades of
the Earl of G. he had any intention to satirize his pa-
tron, the Earl of Halifax, whom he paints in his Me-
moirs in much more agreeable colors.
The success which this work obtained, without labor,
induced the author to write Henry, on which he be-
stowed his utmost attention. He formed it upon Field-
ing's model, and employed two years in polishing and
correcting the style. Perhaps it does not, after all,
claim such great precedence over Arundel as the labor
of the author induced him to expect. Yet it would be
unjust to deny to Henry the praise of an excellent
202
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
novel. There is much beauty of description, and con-
siderable display of acquaintance with English life in
the lower ranks; indeed, Cumberland's clowns, sketch-
ed from his favorite men of Kent, amongst whom he
spent his life, may be placed by the side of similar por-
traits by the first masters.
Above all, the character of Ezekiel Daw, though the
outline must have been suggested by that of Abraham
Adams, is so well distinguished by original and spirited
conception, that it may pass for an excellent original.
The Methodists, as they abhor the lighter arts of litera-
ture, and perhaps contemn those which are more serious,
have, as might have been expected, met much rough
usage at the hands of novelists and dramatic authors,
who generally represent them either as idiots or hypo-
crites. A very different feeling is due to many, per-
haps to most, of this enthusiastic sect; nor is it rashly
to be inferred, that he who makes religion the general
object of his life, is for that sole reason to be held
either a fool or an impostor. The professions of
strict piety are inconsistent with open vice, and there-
fore must, in the general case, lead men to avoid the
secret practice of what, openly known, must be attend-
ed with loss of character; and thus the Methodists, and
other rigid sectaries, oppose to temptation the strong
barriers of interest and habitual restraint, in addition to
those restrictions which religion and morality impose on
all men.
The touch of enthusiasm connected with
Methodism renders it a species of devotion, warmly af-
fecting the feelings, and therefore peculiarly calculated
to operate upon the millions of ignorant poor, whose
understandings the most learned divines would in vain
address by mere force of argument; and, doubtless,
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
203
many such simple enthusiasts as Ezekiel Daw, by their
well-meant and indefatigable exertions amongst the
stubborn and ignorant, have been the instruments of
Providence to call such men from a state of degrading
and brutal profligacy, to a life more worthy of rational
beings, and of the name of Christians. Thus thinking,
we are of the opinion, that the character of Ezekiel
Daw, which shows the Methodist preacher in his
strength and in his weakness, bold and fervent when
in discharge of his mission, simple, well-meaning, and
even absurd in the ordinary affairs of life, is not only
an exquisite, but a just portrait.
Cumberland seems to have been less happy in some
of the incidents of low life which he has introduced.
He forced, as we have some reason to suspect, his own
elegance of ideas, into an imitation of Fielding's scenes
of this nature; and, as bashful men sometimes turn im-
pudent in laboring to be easy, our ingenious author has
occasionally, in his descriptions of Zachary Cawdle and
his spouse, become disgusting, when he meant to be
humorous.
The author of Henry piqued himself particularly on
the conduct of the story, but we confess ourselves una-
ble to discover much sufficient reason. His skein is
neither more artfully perplexed, nor more happily dis-
entangled, than in many tales of the same kind; there
is the usual, perhaps we should call it the necessary, de-
gree of improbability, for which the reader must make
the usual and necessary allowance, and little can be said
in this respect, either to praise or censure the author.
But there is one series of incidents, connected with a
train of sentiment rather peculiar to Cumberland, which
may be traced through several of his dramas, which ap-
204
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
pears in Arundel, and which makes a principal part of
the interest in Henry. He had a peculiar taste in love
affairs, which induced him to reverse the usual and
natural practice of courtship, and to throw upon the
softer sex the task of wooing, which is more gracefully,
as well as naturally, the province of the man. In Henry,
he has carried this farther, and endowed his hero with
all the self-denial of the Hebrew patriarch, when he has
placed him within the influence of a seductive being,
much more fascinating in her address, than the frail
Egyptian matron. In this point, Cumberland either did
not copy his master, Fielding, at all, or, what cannot
be conceived of an author so acute, he mistook for seri-
ous that author's ironical account of the continence of
Joseph Andrews. We do not desire to bestow many
words on this topic; but we are afraid, such is the uni-
versal inaccuracy of moral feeling in this age, that a
more judicious author would not have striven against
the stream, by holding up his hero as an example of
what is likely to create more ridicule than imitation.
It might also be justly urged against the author, that
the situations in which Henry is placed with Susan, ex-
ceed the decent license permitted to modern writers;
and certainly they do so. But Cumberland himself en-
tertained a different opinion, and concludes with this
apology :—“ If, in my zeal to exhibit virtue triumphant
over the most tempting allurements, I have painted
those allurements in too vivid colors, I am sorry, and
ask pardon of all those who think the moral did not heal
the mischief."
Another peculiarity of our author's plot is, that an
affair of honor, a duel either designed or actually
fought, forms an ordinary part of them. This may be
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
205
expected in fictitious history, as a frequent incident,
since the remains of the Gothic customs survive in that
particular only, and since the indulgence which it yields
to the angry passions gives an oportunity, valuable to
the novelist, of stepping beyond the limits prescribed
by the ordinary rules of society, and introducing scenes
of violence, without incurring the charge of improba-
bility. But Cumberland himself had something of a
chivalrous disposition. His mind was nurtured in sen-
timents of honor, and in the necessity of maintaining
reputation with the hazard of life; in which he resem-
bled another dramatic poet, the celebrated author of
Douglas, who was also an enthusiast on the point of
honor. In private life, Cumberland has proved his cou-
rage; and in his Memoirs he mentions, with some com-
placency, his having extorted from a "rough and bois-
terous captain of the sea" an apology for some expres-
sions reflecting on his friend and patron, Lord Sackville.
In his Memoirs, he dwells with pleasure on the attach-
ment shown to him by two companies of Volunteers,
raised in the town of Tunbridge, and attaches conside-
rable importance to the commission of Commandant,
with which their choice had invested him. They pre-
sented their commander with a sword, and, when their
pay was withdrawn, offered to continue their service,
gratuitously, under him.
The long and active literary life of this amiable man
and ingenious author, was concluded on the 7th May,
1811, in his eightieth year, at the house of Mr. Henry
Fry, in Bedford Place, Russel Square, and he was inter-
red in Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey.
His literary executors were Mr. Richard Sharp, al-
ready mentioned, Mr. Rogers, the distinguished author
206
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
of The Pleasures of Memory, and Sir James Bland
Burgess; but we have seen none of his posthumous
works, except Retrospection, a poem in blank verse,
which appeared in 1812, and which seems to have been
wrought up out of the ideas which had suggested them-
selves, while he was engaged in writing his Memoirs.
Mr. Cumberland had the misfortune to outlive his
lady and several of his family. His surviving offspring
were Charles, who, we believe, held high rank in the
army, and William, a post-captain in the navy. His
eldest daughter, Elizabeth, married Lord Edward Ben-
tinck, son of the Duke of Portland; his second, Sophia,
was less happily wedded to William Badcock, Esq., who
died in the prime of life, and left a family of four
grandchildren, whom Chancery awarded to the care of
Mr. Cumberland. His third surviving daughter was
Frances Marianne, born during his unlucky embassy to
Spain. To her the author affectionately inscribed his
Memoirs, "as having found, in her filial affection, all
the comforts that the best of friends could give, and
derived, from her talents and understanding, all the
enjoyments that the most pleasing of companions could
communicate."
In youth, Mr. Cumberland must have been handsome;
in age, he possessed a pleasing external appearance, and
the polite ease of a gentleman accustomed to the best
company. In society, he was eloquent, well-informed
and full of anecdote; a willing dealer in the commerce
of praise, or for he took no great pains to ascertain its
sincerity—we should rather say, of flattery. His con-
versation often showed the author in his strong and in
his weak points. The foibles are well known which
Sheridan embodied on the stage, in the character of Sir
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
207
Fretful Plagiary. But it is not from a caricature that
a just picture can be drawn, and in the little pettish
sub-acidity of temper which Cumberland sometimes ex-
hibited, there was more of humorous sadness, than of
ill-will, either to his critics or his contemporaries. He
certainly, like most poets, was little disposed to yield to
the assaults of the former, and often, like a gallant com-
mander, drew all his forces together, to defend the
point which was least tenable. He was a veteran also,
the last living representative of the literature of his
own age, and conceived himself the surviving deposi
tary of their fame, obliged to lay lance in rest against
all which was inconsistent with the rules which they
had laid down or observed. In these characters it can-
not be denied, that while he was stoutly combating for
the cause of legitimate comedy and the regular novel,
Cumberland manifested something of personal feeling
in his zeal against those contemporaries who had found
new roads, or by-paths, as he thought them, to fame
and popularity, and forestalled such as were scrupu-
lously treading the beaten highway, without turning to
the right or to the left. These imperfections, arising,
perhaps, from natural temper, from a sense of unmerit-
ed neglect, and the pressure of disadvantageous circum-
stances of fortune, or from the keen spirit of rivalry
proper to men of an ardent disposition, rendered irrita-
ble by the eagerness of a contest for public applause,
are the foibles rather of the profession than the indi-
vidual; and though the man of letters might have been
more happy had he been able entirely to subdue them,
they detract nothing from the character of the man of
worth, the scholar, and the gentleman.
We believe Cumberland's character to have been
208
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
•
justly, as well as affectionately, summed up in the ser-
mon preached on occasion of his funeral, by his vene-
rable friend, Dr. Vincent, then Dean of Westminster.
"The person you now see deposited, is Richard Cum-
berland, an author of no small merit; his writings were
chiefly for the stage, but of strict moral tendency-they
were not without their faults, but these were not of a
gross description. He wrote as much as any, and few
wrote better; and his works will be held in the highest
estimation, so long as the English language is under-
stood. He considered the theatre as a school for moral
improvement, and his remains are truly worthy of
mingling with the illustrious dead which surround us.
In his subjects on Divinity, you find the true Christian
spirit; and may God, in his mercy, assign him the true
Christian reward !"
CATALOGUE OF CUMBERLAND'S WORKS,`
Epic.
Calvary.
Exodiad.
Arab.
FROM THE
INDEX TO HIS MEMOIRS.
Dramatic.
Banishment of Cicero.
Battle of Hastings.
Brutus the Elder.
Box-Lobby Challenge.
Brothers.
Choleric Man.
Country Attorney.
Calypso.
Caractacus.
Carmelite.
Clouds, from the Greck of Aris-
tophanes.
Dependant.
Days of Geri.
Don Pedro.
Eccentric Lover
Fashionable Lover.
False Demetrius.
False Impressions.
First Love.
Hint to Husbands.
Impostor.
Jew.
Joanna of Montfaucon; a Drama-
tic Romance.
Last of the Family.
Mysterious Husband.
Natural Son.
Note of Hand.
RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
209
Sailor's Daughter.
Shakspeare in the Shades.
Timon of Athens.
Torrendal.
Walloons.
Wat Tyler.
West Indian.
Wheel of Fortune.
Widow of Delphi.
Word for Nature.
Fugitive Pieces,
Affectation.
Lines to Princess Amelia.
Avarice.
Dreams.
Envy.
Epilogue to the Arab.
Fragment.
Hamlet.
Hammond.
Humility.
Lines on Pride.
on Prudery.
to the Prince of Wales.
to Romney the Painter.
Elegy on St. Mark's Eve.
Translations from the Troades.
from Virgil.
Prose Publications.
Curtius Redeemed from the Gulf.
Evidences of the Christian Revela-
tion.
Controversy with Lowth on the
Subject of Dr. Bentley.
Miscellaneous.
Anecdotes of Eminent Painters in
Spain.
Catalogue of Paintings in the King
of Spain's Palace.
Sermons.
Periodical Papers in the Observer.
Translation of the Psalms
Memoirs.
Judges.
Verses to Dr. James
Lord Mansfield.
on Nelson's Death.
Ode to the Sun.
Lines addressed to Pitt.
Novels.
Arundel.
Henry.
John de Lancaster.
To this formidable list there remain yet to be added
the critical papers written by the author for the London
Review; Retrospection, a poem, in blank verse, on the
author's own past life; and perhaps other publications,
unknown to the Editor.
Abbotsford, December, 1824.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
OUR biographical notices of distinguished Novelists
were in some degree proportioned to the space which
their labors occupy in the Collection for which these
sketches were originally written. On that principle,
the present subject, so interesting in every other point
of view, could not be permitted long to detain us.
The circumstances also of Dr. Goldsmith's life, his early
struggles with poverty and distress, the success of his
brief and brilliant career after he had become distin-
guished as an author, are so well known, and have been
so well and so often told, that a short outline is all that
ought here to be attempted.
Oliver Goldsmith was born on the 29th November,
1728, at Pallas, (or rather Palice,) in the parish of Far-
ney, and county of Longford, in Ireland, where his
father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, a minister of the
Church of England, at that time resided. This worthy
clergyman, whose virtues his celebrated son afterwards
rendered immortal, in the character of the Village
Preacher, had a family of seven children, for whom he
was enabled to provide but very indifferently. He
obtained ultimately a benefice in the county of Ros-
common, but died early; for the careful researches of
the Rev. John Graham of Lifford have found his widow
nigra veste senescens, residing with her son Oliver in
Ballymahon, so early as 1740. Among the shop ac-
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
211
counts of a petty grocer of the place, Mrs. Goldsmith's
name occurs frequently as a customer for trifling arti-
cles; on which occasions Master Noll appears to have
been his mother's usual emissary. He was recollected,
however, in the neighborhood, by more poetical employ-
ments, as that of playing on the flute, and wandering
in solitude on the shores, or among the islands of the
river Inny, which is remarkably beautiful at Bally-
mahon.
Oliver early distinguished himself by the display of
lively talents, as well as by that uncertainty of humor
which is so often attached to genius, as the slave in the
chariot of the Roman triumph. An uncle by affinity,
the Rev. Thomas Contarine, undertook the expense of
affording to so promising a youth the advantages of a
scholastic education.' He was put to school at Edge-
worths-town, and, in June 1744, was sent to Dublin
College as a sizer; a situation which subjected him to
much discouragement and ill usage, especially as he
had the misfortune to fall under the charge of a brutal
tutor.2
1 ["This benevolent man," says Mr. Campbell, "was descended from
the noble family of the Contarini of Venice. His ancestor having
married a nun in his native country, was obliged to fly with her into
France, where she died of the small-pox. Being-pursued by ecclesias-
tical censures, Contarini came to England; but the puritanical manners,
which then prevailed, having afforded him but a cold reception, he was
on his way to Ireland, when, at Chester, he met with a young lady,
of the name of Chaloner, whom he married. Having afterwards con-
formed to the Established Church, he, through the interest of his wife's
family, obtained ecclesiastical preferment in the diocese of Elphin.
Their lineal descendant was the benefactor of Goldsmith."-Specimens,
vol. iv., p. 252.]
2
[“Though he occasionally distinguished himself by his trauslations
from the classics, his general appearance at the University corresponded
212
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
On 15th June, 1747, Goldsmith obtained his only
academical laurel, being an Exhibition on the founda-
tion of Erasmus Smythe, Esq. Some indiscreet frolic
induced him soon afterwards to quit the University for
a period; and he appears thus early to have commenced
that sort of idle strolling life, which has often great
charms for youths of genius, because it frees them from
every species of subjection, and leaves them full masters
of their own time, and their own thoughts; a liberty
which they do not feel too dearly bought, at the ex-
pense of fatigue, of hunger, and of all the other incon-
veniences incidental to those who travel without money.
Those who can recollect journeys of this kind, with all
the shifts, necessities, and petty adventures, which
attend them, will not wonder at the attractions which
they had for such a youth as Goldsmith.' Notwith-
neither with the former promises, nor future development of his talents.
He was, like Johnson, a lounger at the college-gate. He gained neither
premiums nor a scholarship, and was not admitted to the degree of
bachelor of arts, till two years after the regular time. His backward-
ness, it would appear, was the effect of despair rather than of wilful
negligence. He had been placed under a savage tutor, named Theaker
Wilder, who used to insult him at public examinations, and to treat his
delinquencies with a ferocity that broke his spirit. On one occasion,
poor Oliver was so imprudent as to invite a company of young people,
of both sexes, to a dance and supper in his rooms. On receiving
intelligence of which, Theaker grimly repaired to the place of revelry,
belabored him before his guests, and rudely broke up the assembly.
The disgrace of this inhuman treatment drove him for a time from the
University. He set out from Dublin, intending to sail from Cork for
some other country, he knew not whither; but after wandering about
till he was reduced to such famine, that he thought a handful of grey
peas, which a girl gave him at a wake, the sweetest repast he had ever
tasted, he returned home, like the prodigal son, and matters were
adjusted for his being received again at college."-CAMPBELL.]
¹ ["About the time of his finally leaving the university, his father
died. His uncle Contarine, from whom he experienced the kindness
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
213
standing these erratic expeditions, he was admitted
Bachelor of Arts in 1749.
Goldsmith's persevering friend, Mr. Contarine, seems
to have recommended the direction of his nephew's
studies to medicine, and in the year 1752 he was settled
at Edinburgh to pursue that science. Of his residence
in Scotland, Goldsmith retained no favorable recollec-
of a father, wished him to have taken orders, and Oliver is said to have
applied for them, but to have been rejected; though for what reason
is not sufficiently known. He then accepted the situation of private
tutor in a gentleman's family, and retained it long enough to save
about L.30, with which he bought a tolerable horse, and went forth
upon his adventures. At the end of six weeks, his friends having
heard nothing of him, concluded that he had left the kingdom, when
he returned to his mother's house without a penny, upon a little horse,
which he called Fiddleback, and which was not worth more than
twenty shillings. The account which he gave of himself was, that he
had been at Cork, where he had sold his former horse, and paid his
passage for America; but the ship happening to sail whilst he was
viewing the curiosities of the city, he had just money enough left to
purchase Fiddleback, and to reach the house of an old acquaintance on
the road. This nominal friend, however, had received him very coldly,
and in order to evade his application for pecuniary relief, had advised
him to sell his diminutive steed, and promised him another in its place,
which would cost him nothing either for price or provender. To con-
firm this promise, he pulled out an oaken staff from beneath a bed.
Just as this generous offer had been made, a neighboring gentleman
came in, and invited both the miser and Goldsmith to dine with him.
Upon a short acquaintance, Oliver communicated his situation to the
stranger, and was enabled by his liberality, to proceed on his journey.
This was his story. His mother, it may be supposed, was looking
rather gravely upon her prudent child, who had such adventures to
relate, when he concluded them by saying, 'And now, my dear mother,
having struggled so hard to come home to you, I wonder that you are
not more rejoiced to see me.'-Mr. Contarine next resolved to send
him to the Temple; but, on his way to London he was fleeced of all
his money in gaming, and returned once more to his mother's house in
disgrace and affliction. Again was his good uncle reconciled to him,
and equipped him for Edinburgh, that he might pursue the study of
medicine.”—CAMPBELL.]
214
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
tions. He was thoughtless, and he was cheated; he
was poor, and he was nearly starved. Yet, in a very
lively letter from Edinburgh, addressed to Robert Bri-
anton of Ballymahon, he closes a sarcastic description.
of the country and its inhabitants, with the good-
humored candor which made so distinguished a part
of his character. "An ugly and a poor man is society
only for himself, and such society the world lets me
enjoy in great abundance.
Fortune has given you
circumstances, and Nature a power to look charming
in the eyes of the fair. Nor do I envy my dear Bob
such blessings, while I may sit down and laugh at
the world and at myself, the most ridiculous object.
in it." 1
From Edinburgh our student passed to Leyden, but
not without the diversities of an arrest for debt, a cap-
tivity of seven days at Newcastle, from having been
found in company with some Scotchmen in the French
service, and the no less unpleasing variety of a storm.*
1 ["On his arrival at Edinburgh," says Mr. Campbell, "he took
lodgings, and sallied forth to take a view of the city; but, at a late
hour, he recollected that he had omitted to inform himself of the name
and address of his landlady; and would not have found his way back,
if he had not fortunately met the porter who had carried his lug-
gage."]
2 [Mr. Campbell continues, "If Leyden, however, was his object, he,
with the usual eccentricity of his motions, set out to reach it, by way
of Bourdeaux, and embarked in a ship which was bound thither from
Leith; but was driven, by stress of weather, into Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
His fellow passengers were some Scotchmen, who had been employed
in raising men in their own country for the service of the King of
France. They were arrested, by orders from government, at New-
castle; and Goldsmith, who had been committed to prison with them,
was not liberated till after a fortnight's confinement. By this accident,
however, he was eventually saved from an early death. The vessel
sailed during his imprisonment, and was wrecked at the mouth of the
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
215
At Leyden, Goldsmith was peculiarly exposed to a
temptation which he never at any period of his life
could easily resist. The opportunities of gambling
were frequent, he seldom declined them, and was at
length stripped of every shilling.
In this hopeless condition Goldsmith commenced his
travels, with one shirt in his pocket, and a devout reli-
ance on Providence. It is understood, that in the nar-
rative of George, eldest son of the Vicar of Wakefield,
the author has given a sketch of the resources which
enabled him, on foot and without money, to make the
tour of Europe. Through Germany and Flanders he
had recourse to his violin, in which he was tolerably
skilled; and a lively tune usually procured him a lodg-
ing in some peasant's cottage for the evening. In Italy,
where his musical skill was held in less esteem, he found
hospitality by disputing at the monasteries, in the cha-
racter of a travelling scholar, upon certain philosophical
theses, which the learned inhabitants were obliged, by
their foundation, to uphold against all impugners.
Thus, he obtained, sometimes money, sometimes lodg
ings. He must have had other resources to procure
both, which he has not thought proper to intimate.
The foreign Universities afford similar facilities to poor
scholars, with those presented by the Monasteries.
Goldsmith resided at Padua for several months, and is
said to have taken a degree at Louvain. Thus far is
certain, that an account of the tour made by so good a
judge of human nature, in circumstances so singular,
would have made one of the most entertaining books in
the world; and it is both wonder and pity, that Gold-
Garonne, where every soul on board perished."-Specimens, &c., vol.
vi., p. 255.]
216
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
66
smith did not hit upon a publication of his travels,
amongst the other literary resources in which his mind
was fertile. He was not ignorant of the advantages
which his mode of travelling had opened to him.
"Countries," he says, in his Essay on Polite Litera-
ture in Europe, wear very different appearances to
travellers of different circumstances. A man who is
whirled through Europe in his post-chaise, and the pil-
grim who walks the great tour on foot, will form very
different conclusions. Haud inexpertus loquor." Per-
haps he grew ashamed of the last admission, which he
afterwards omitted. Goldsmith spent about twelve
months in these wanderings, and landed in England in
the year 1756, after having perambulated France, Italy,
and part of Germany.
Poverty was now before our author in all its bitter-
ness. His Irish friends had long renounced or forgot-
ten him; and the wretched post of usher to an aca-
demy, of which he has drawn so piteous a picture in
George's account of himself, was his refuge from actual
starving. Unquestionably, his description was founded
on personal recollections, where he says, "I was up
early and late; I was brow-beat by the master; hated
for my ugly face by the mistress; worried by the boys
within; and never permitted to stir out, to seek civility
abroad." This state of slavery he underwent at Peck-
ham Academy, and had such bitter recollection thereof,
as to be offended at the slightest allusion to it. An
acquaintance happening to use the proverbial phrase,
"Oh, that is all a holiday at Peckham," Goldsmith
reddened, and asked if he meant to affront him. From
this miserable condition he escaped with difficulty, to
that of journeyman, or rather shop-porter, to a chemist
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
217
in Fish-street-hill, in whose service he was recognised
by Dr. Sleigh,' his countryman and fellow-student at
Edinburgh, who, to his eternal honor, relieved Oliver
Goldsmith from this state of slavish degradation.
Under the auspices of his friend and countryman,
Goldsmith commenced practice as a physician about the
Bankside, and afterwards near the Temple; and al-
though unsuccessful in procuring fees, had soon plenty
of patients. It was now that he first thought of having
recourse to that pen, which afterwards afforded the
public so much delight. He wrote, he labored, he com-
piled; he is described by one contemporary as wearing
a rusty full-trimmed black suit, the very livery of the
muses, with his pockets stuffed with papers, and his
head with projects; gradually he forced himself and
his talents into notice, and was at last enabled to write,
in one letter to a friend, that he was too poor to be
gazed at, but too rich to need assistance; and to boast
in another, of the refined conversation which he was
sometimes admitted to partake in.
He now circulated proposals for publishing, by sub-
scription, his Essay on Polite Literature in Europe, the
profits of which he destined to equipping himself for
India, having obtained from the Company the appoint-
ment of physician to one of their factories on the coast
of Coromandel. But to rise in literature was more his
desire than to increase his fortune. "I eagerly long,"
he said, "to embrace every opportunity to separate my-
self from the vulgar, as much in my circumstances as I
1 The Dr, Sligo of Foote's farce, "The Devil upon two Sticks in
London."
Letter to Danicl Hodson, Esq. See Life of Goldsmith, prefixed to
his Works, in four volumes, 1801, vol. i., p. 42.
218
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
am already in my sentiments.I find I want con-
stitution and a strong steady disposition, which alone
makes men great. I will, however, correct my faults,
since I am conscious of them." 1
Goldsmith's versatile talents and ready pen soon en-
gaged him in the service of the booksellers; and doubt-
less the touches of his spirit and humor were used to
enliven the dull pages of many a sorry miscellany and
review; a mode of living which, joined to his own im-
providence, rendered his income as fluctuating as his
occupation. He wrote many Essays for various periodi-
1 ["Whatever change of public estimation he experienced, the man
was not to be altered, and he continued to exhibit a personal character
which was neither much reformed by experience, nor dignified by repu-
tation. It is but too well known, that with all his original and refined
faculties, he was often the butt of witlings, and the dupe of impostors.
He threw away his money at the gaming-table, and might also be said
to be a losing gambler in conversation, for he aimed in all societies at
being brilliant and argumentative; but generally chose to dispute on the
subjects which he least understood, and contrived to forfeit as much
credit for common sense as could be got rid of in colloquial intercourse.
After losing his appointment to India, he applied to Lord Bute for a
salary, to be enabled to travel into the interior of Asia. The petition
was neglected because he was then unknown. The same boon, how-
ever, or some adequate provision, might have been obained for him
afterwards, when he was recommended to the Earl of Northumberland,
at that time Lord-lieutenant of Ireland. But when he waited on the
earl, he threw away his prepared compliments on his lordship's steward,
and then retrieved the mistake by telling the nobleman, for whom he
had meditated a courtly speech, that he had no confidence in the pa-
tronage of the great, but would rather rely upon the booksellers. There
must have been something, however, with all his peculiarities, still en-
dearing in his personal character. Burke was known to recall his
memory with tears of affection in his eyes. It cannot be believed, that
the better genius of his writings was always absent from his conversa-
tion. One may conceive graces of his spirit to have been drawn forth
by Burke and Reynolds, which neither Johnson nor Garrick had the
sensibility to appreciate."-CAMPBELL.]
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
219
cal publications, and afterwards collected them into one
volume, finding that they were unceremoniously appro-
priated by his contemporaries. In the preface, he com-
pares himself to the fat man in a famine, who, when his
fellow-sufferers propose to feast on the superfluous part
of his person, insisted with some justice on having the
first slice himself. But his most elaborate effort in this
style is the Citizen of the World; letters supposed to be
written by a Chinese philosopher, resident in England,
an imitation of the Lettres Persannes of Montesquieu.
Still, however, though subsisting thus precariously, he
was getting forward in society; and had already, in
the year 1761, made his way as far as Dr. Johnson, who
seems, from their first acquaintance, till death separated
them, to have entertained for Goldsmith the most sin-
cere friendship, regarding his genius with respect, his
failings with indulgence, and his person with affection.
It was probably soon after this first acquaintance,
that Necessity, the parent of so many works of genius,
gave birth to the Vicar of Wakefield. The circum-
stances attending the sale of the work to the fortunate
publisher, are too singular to be told in any other
words than those of Johnson, as reported by his faith-
ful chronicler, Boswell.
"I received one morning a message from poor Goldsmith, that he
was in great distress; and, as it was not in his power to come to me,
begging that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a
guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as
soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for
his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had
already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira and a glass
before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm,
and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated.
He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he pro-
duced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady I
220
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
should soon return, and, having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty
pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent,
not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so
ill.” 1
Newbury, the purchaser of the Vicar of Wakefield, best
known to the present generation by recollection of their
infantine studies,' was a man of worth as well as wealth,
and the frequent patron of distressed genius. When he
completed the bargain, which he probably entered into
partly from compassion, partly from deference to John-
son's judgment, he had so little confidence in the value
of his purchase, that the Vicar of Wakefield remained
in manuscript until the publication of the Traveller had
established the fame of the author.
For this beautiful poem Goldsmith had collected ma-
terials during his travels; and a part of it had been
actually written in Switzerland, and transmitted from
that country to the author's brother, the Rev. Dr. Henry
Goldsmith. His distinguished friend, Dr. Johnson,
aided him with several general hints; and is said to
have contributed the sentiment which Goldsmith has so
beautifully versified in the concluding lines.
The publication of the Traveller gave the author all
that celebrity which he had so long labored to attain.
He now assumed the professional dress of the medical
science, a scarlet cloak, wig, sword, and cane, and was
admitted as a valued member of that distinguished so-
1 ["See Croker's Edition of Boswell, vol. i., p. 429. Mrs. Piozzi gives
the same anecdote with some variations; among others, that Johnson
found Goldsmith with his bottle of Madeira in the evening, not the
morning; and Mr. Croker inclines to adopt this more favorable ac-
count."]
2 ["Mr. John Newberry of St. Paul's Churchyard, died in December,
1767. For some account of his life and publications, see NICHOLS'S
Literary Anecdotes, vol. iii., pp. 466 and 731–2."]
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
221
ciety, which afterwards formed the Literary Club; or as
it is more commonly called, emphatically, The CLUB.
For this he made certain sacrifices, renouncing some of
the public places which he had formerly found conve-
nient in point of expense and amusement; not with-
out regret, for he used to say, "In truth, one must
make some sacrifices to obtain good society; for here
am I shut out of several places where I used to play the
fool very agreeably." It often happened amid those
sharper wits with whom he now associated, that the
simplicity of his character, mingled with an inaccuracy
of expression, an undistinguishing spirit of vanity, and
a hurriedness of conception, which led him often into
absurdity, rendered Dr. Goldsmith in some degree the
butt of the company. Garrick, in particular, who pro
bably presumed somewhat on the superiority of a thea
trical manager over a dramatic author, shot at him
many shafts of small epigrammatic wit. It is likely that
Goldsmith began to feel that this spirit was carried too
far, and, to check it in the best taste, he composed his
celebrated poem of Retaliation, in which the characters
and failings of his associates are drawn with satire, at
once pungent and good-humored. Garrick is smartly
chastised; Burke, the Dinner-bell of the House of Com-
mons, is not spared; and of all the more distinguished
names of the Club, Johnson, Cumberland, and Reynolds
alone escape the lash of the satirist. The former is not
mentioned, and the two latter are even dismissed with
unqualified and affectionate applause.' Retaliation had
1 ["I conclude my account of Goldsmith," says Mr. Cumberland,
"with gratitude for the epitaph he bestowed on me in his poem called
Retaliation. It was upon a proposal started by Edmund Burke, that a
party of friends, who had dined together at Sir Joshua Reynolds' and
222
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
the effect of placing the author on a more equal footing
with his society than he had ever before assumed.
Even against the despotism of Johnson, though much
respecting him, and as much beloved by him, Goldsmith
made a more spirited stand than was generally ven-
tured upon by the compeers of that arbitrary Sultan of
literature. Of this Boswell has recorded a striking in-
stance. Goldsmith had been descanting on the difficulty
my house, should meet at the St. James's Coffee-house, which accord-
ingly took place, and was occasionally repeated with much festivity and
good fellowship. Dr. Bernard, Dean of Derry, a very amiable and old
friend of mine, Dr. Douglas, since Bishop of Salisbury, Johnson, David
Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Oliver Goldsmith, Edmund, and Richard
Burke, Hickey, with two or three others, constituted our party. At
one of these meetings an idea was suggested of extemporary epitaphs
upon the parties present; pen and ink were called for, and Garrick off
hand wrote an epitaph with a good deal of humor upon poor Goldsmith,
who was the first in jest, as he proved to be in reality, that we commit-
ted to the grave. The dean also gave him an epitaph, and Sir Joshua
illuminated the dean's verses with a sketch of his bust in pen and ink,
inimitably caricatured. Neither Johnson nor Burke wrote any thing,
and when I perceived that Oliver was rather sore, and seemed to watch
me with that kind of attention which indicated his expectation of some-
thing in the same kind of burlesque with theirs, I thought it time to
press the joke no further, and wrote a few couplets at a side-table,
which, when I had finished, and was called upon by the company to
exhibit, Goldsmith, with much agitation, besought me to spare him,
and I was about to tear them, when Johnson wrested them out of my
hand, and, in a loud voice, read them at the table. I have now lost all
recollection of them, and, in fact, they were little worth remembering,
but, as they were serious and complimentary, the effect upon Goldsmith
was the more pleasing, for being so entirely unexpected. The conclud-
ing line, which is the only one I can call to mind, was—
'All mourn the poet, I lament the man.'
This I recollect, because he repeated it several times, and seemed
much gratified by it. At our next meeting he produced his epitaphs,
as they stand in the little posthumous poem above mentioned, and this
was the last time he ever enjoyed the company of his friends."-Me-
moirs, vol. i., p. 369–71.]
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
223
and importance of making animals in an apologue speak
in character, and particularly instanced the Fable of the
Little Fishes. Observing that Doctor Johnson was
laughing scornfully, he proceeded smartly:
"Why,
Dr. Johnson, this is not so easy as you seem to think;
for if you were to make little fishes talk, they would
talk like whales."
To support the expense of his new dignities, Gold-
smith labored incessantly at the literary oar.
The Let-
ters on the History of England, commonly ascribed to
Lord Lyttleton, and containing an excellent and enter-
taining abridgement. of the annals of Britain, are the
work of Goldsmith. His mode of compiling them we
learn from some interesting anecdotes of the author,
communicated to the public by Lee Lewes, an actor of
genius, whom he patronised, and with whom he often
associated.
"He first read in a morning, from Hume, Rapin, and
sometimes Kennet, as much as he designed for one let-
ter, marking down the passages referred to on a sheet
of paper, with remarks. He then rode or walked out
with a friend or two, whom he constantly had with
him; returned to dinner, spent the day generally con-
vivially, without much drinking (which he was never in
the habit of), and when he went up to bed, took up his
books and paper with him, where he generally wrote
the chapter, or the best part of it, before he went to
rest. This latter exercise cost him very little trouble,
he said; for having all his material ready for him, he
wrote it with as much facility as a common letter.
<
"But of all his compilations, he used to say, his Selec-
tions of English Poetry showed more the art of pro-
fession.' Here he did nothing but mark the particular
224
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
passages with a red-lead pencil, and for this he got two
hundred pounds-but then he used to add, a man shows
his judgment in these selections, and he may be often.
twenty years of his life cultivating that judgment." "
Goldsmith, amid these more petty labors, aspired to
the honors of the sock, and the Good-Natured Man
was produced at Covent Garden, 29th January, 1768,
with the moderate success of nine nights' run. The
principal character the author probably drew from the
weak side of his own; for no man was more liable than
Goldsmith to be gulled by pretended friends. The cha-
racter of Croaker, highly comic in itself, and admirably
represented by Shuter, helped to save the piece, which
was endangered by the scene of the bailiffs, then con-
sidered as too vulgar for the stage. Upon the whole,
however, Goldsmith is said to have cleared five hundred
pounds by this dramatic performance. He hired bet-
ter chambers in the Temple, embarked more boldly in
literary speculation, and unfortunately at the same time
enlarged his ideas of expense, and indulged his habit of
playing at games of hazard. The Memoirs, or Anec-
dotes, which we have before quoted, give a minute and
curious description of his habits and enjoyments about
this period, when he was constantly occupied with ex-
tracts, abridgements, and other arts of book-making,
but at the same time working slowly, and in secret, on
those immortal verses, which secure for him so high a
rank among English poets.
((
“Goldsmith, though quick enough at prose," continues Mr. Lewes,
was rather slow in his poetry—not from the tardiness of fancy, but the
time he took in pointing the sentiment, and polishing the versification.
He was, by his own confession, four or five years collecting materials in
all his country excursions for this poem, (The Deserted Village,) and was
actually engaged in the construction of it above two years. His man-
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
225
·
ner of writing poetry was this: he first sketched a part of his design in
prose, in which he threw out his ideas as they occurred to him; he then
sat carefully down to versify them, correct them, and add such other
ideas as he thought better fitted to the subject. He sometimes would
exceed his prose design by writing several verses impromptu, but these
he would take uncommon pains afterwards to revise, lest they should
be found unconnected with his main design.
"The writer of these Memoirs" (Lee Lewes) "called upon the Doctor
the second morning after he had begun The Deserted Village, and to him
he communicated the plan of his poem. Some of my friends,' con-
tinued he, 'differ with me on this plan, and think this depopulation of
villages does not exist-but I am myself satisfied of the fact. I re-
member it in my own country, and have seen it in this.' He then read
what he had done of it that morning, beginning,
'Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,-
The shelter'd cot,—the cultivated farm,-
The never-failing brook,-the busy mill,-
The decent church, that topt the neighboring hill,—
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made.'
'Come,' says he, 'let me tell you this is no bad morning's work; and
now, my dear boy, if you are not better engaged, I should be glad to
enjoy a Shoemaker's holiday with you.' This Shoemaker's holiday was a
day of great festivity to poor Goldsmith, and was spent in the follow-
ng innocent manner :-
"Three or four of his intimate friends rendezvoused at his chambers,
to breakfast, about ten o'clock in the morning; at eleven they pro-
ceeded by the City-Road, and through the fields to Highbury Barn to
dinner; about six o'clock in the evening they adjourned to White Con-
duit House to drink tea; and concluded the evening by supping at the
Grecian or Temple Exchange Coffee-houses, or at the Globe, in Fleet
Street. There was a very good ordinary of two dishes and pastry kept
at Highbury Barn about this time (five-and-twenty years ago, in 1796) at
10d. per head, including a penny to the waiter, and the company gene-
rally consisted of literary characters, a few Templars, and some citizens.
who had left off trade. The whole expenses of this day's fête never
exceeded a crown, and oftener from three-and-sixpence to four shil-
226
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
lings, for which the party obtained good air and exercise, good living,
the example of simple manners, and good conversation."
The reception given to the Deserted Village, so full of
natural elegance, simplicity, and pathos, was of the
warmest kind. The publisher showed at once his skill
and generosity, by pressing upon Doctor Goldsmith a
hundred pounds, which the author insisted upon return-
ing, when upon computation he found that it came to
nearly a crown for every couplet, a sum which he con-
ceived no couplet could be worth. The sale of the poem
made him ample amends for this unusual instance of
moderation. Lissoy, near Ballymahon, where his bro-
ther the clergyman had his living, claims the honor of
being the spot from which the localities of the Deserted
Village were derived. The church which tops the
neighboring hill, the mill, and the lake, are still pointed
out; and a hawthorn has suffered the penalty of poetical
celebrity, being cut to pieces by those admirers of the
bard, who desired to have classical tooth-pick cases and
tobacco-stoppers. Much of this supposed locality may
be fanciful, but it is a pleasing tribute to the poet in the
land of his fathers.
Goldsmith's Abridgements of the History of Rome and
England may here be noticed. They are eminently well
calculated to introduce youth to the knowledge of their
studies; for they exhibit the most interesting and strik-
ing events, without entering into controversy or dry de-
tail. Yet the tone assumed in the History of England
drew on the author the resentment of the more zealous
Whigs, who accused him of betraying the liberties of
the people, when, "God knows," as he expresses himself
in a letter to Langton, "I had no thought for or against
liberty in my head; my whole aim being to make up a
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
227
book of a decent size, and which, as Squire Richard says,
would do no harm to nobody."
His celebrated play of She Stoops to Conquer, was
Goldsmith's next work of importance. If it be the ob-
ject of comedy to make an audience laugh, Johnson says.
that it was better obtained by this play than by any
other of the period.' Lee Lewes was, for the first time,
produced in a speaking character, as young Marlow, and
is, therefore, entitled to record his own recollections
concerning the piece.
"The first night of its performance, Goldsmith, instead of being at
the Theatre, was found sauntering, between seven and eight o'clock, in
the Mall, St. James's Park; and it was on the remonstrance of a friend,
who told him 'how useful his presence might be in making some sud-
den alterations which might be found necessary in the piece,' that he
was prevailed on to go to the Theatre. He entered the stage-door just
in the middle of the fifth act, when there was a hiss at the improbability
of Mrs. Hardcastle supposing herself forty miles off, though on her own
grounds, and near the house. 'What's that?' says the Doctor, terrified
at the sound. 'Pshaw, Doctor,' says Colman, who was standing by the
side of the scene, 'don't be fearful of squibs, when we have been sitting
almost these two hours upon a barrel of gunpowder.'
"In the Life of Dr. Goldsmith, prefixed to his Works, the above reply
of Colman's is said to have happened at the last rehearsal of the piece,
but the fact was (I had it from the Doctor himself) as I have stated, and
he never forgave it to Colman to the last hour of his life."
It may be here noticed, that the leading incident of
the piece was borrowed from a blunder of the author
himself, who, while travelling in Ireland, actually mis-
took a gentleman's residence for an inn. It is remark-
able enough that we ourselves are acquainted with an-
other instance of the kind, which took place, however, in
the middle rank of life.
1 [For a humorous account of the first performance of this play, see
Cumberland's Memoirs, vol. i., p. 365-9.]
228
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
It must be owned, that however kind, amiable, and
benevolent Goldsmith showed himself to his contempo-
raries, more especially to such as needed his assistance,
he had no small portion of the jealous and irritable spi
rit proper to the literary profession. He suffered a
newspaper lampoon about this time to bring him into a
foolish affray with Evans the editor, which did him but
little credit.¹
In the meantime, a neglect of economy, occasional
losses at play, and too great a reliance on his own versa-
tility and readiness of talent, had considerably embar-
rassed his affairs. He felt the pressure of many engage-
ments, for which he had received advances of money,
and which it was, nevertheless, impossible for him to
carry on with that despatch, which the booksellers
thought themselves entitled to expect. One of his last
publications was a History of the Earth and Animated
Nature, in six volumes, which is to science what his
abridgements are to history; a book which indicates no
depth of research, or accuracy of information, but which
presents to the ordinary reader a general and interesting
view of the subject, couched in the clearest and most
beautiful language, and abounding with excellent re-
flections and illustrations. It was of this work that
Johnson threw out the remark which he afterwards in-
terwove in his friend's epitaph,-" He is now writing a
Natural History, and will make it as agreeable as a Per-
sian Tale."
1 ¹ [Evans, a bookseller, received personal chastisement at the hands of
Goldsmith, who afterwards published a rather pompous apology for
this violence in the newspapers. See a conversation on the subject in
Boswell, Croker's edition, vol. ii., p. 197. See also D'Israeli's Calamities
of Authors, vol. ii., n. 84 7
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
229
Gold-
But the period of his labors was now near.
smith had for some time been subject to fits of the
strangury, brought on by too severe application to se-
dentary labors; and one of those attacks, aggravated by
mental distress, produced a fever. In spite of cautions
to the contrary, he had recourse to Dr. James's fever
powders, from which he received no relief. He died on
the 4th April, 1774, and was privately interred in the
Temple burial-ground. A monument, erected by sub-
scription in Westminster-Abbey, bears a Latin inscrip-
tion from the pen of Dr. Johnson :-
OLIVARI GOLDSMITH,
Poetæ, Physici, Historici,
Qui nullum fere scribendi genus non tetigit,
Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit,
Sive risus essent movendi,
Sive lacrymæ,
Affectuum potens at lenis dominator.
Ingenio, sublimis, vividus, versatilis;
Oratione, grandis, nitidus, venustus.
Hoc monumentum Memoriam colent
Sodalium amor,
Amicorum fides,
Lectorum veneratio.
Natus in Hibernia Ferniæ Longiordiensis,
In loco cui nomen Pallas,
Nov. XXIX. MDCCXXXI,
Eblanæ literis institutus,
Obiit Londini,
April IV. MDCCLXXIV.
This elegant epitaph was the subject of a petition to
Dr. Johnson, in the form of a round robin, entreating
him to substitute an English inscription, as more proper
for an author who had distinguished himself entirely by
works written in English; but the Doctor kept his pur-
pose.
230
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
The person and features of Dr. Goldsmith were rather
unfavorable. He was a short stout man, with a round
face, much marked with the small-pox, and a low fore-
head, which is represented as projecting in a singular
manner. Yet these ordinary features were marked by a
strong expression of reflection and of observation.
The peculiarities of Goldsmith's disposition have been
already touched upon in the preceding narrative. He
was a friend to virtue, and in his most playful pages
never forgets what is due to it. A gentleness, delicacy,
and purity of feeling, distinguishes whatever he wrote,
and bears a correspondence to the generosity of a dis-
position which knew no bounds but his last guinea. It
was an attribute almost essential to such a temper, that
he wanted the proper guards of firmness and decision,
and permitted, even when aware of their worthlessness,
the intrusions of cunning and of effrontery. The story
of the White Mice is well known; and in the humorous
History of the Haunch of Venison, Goldsmith has re-
corded another instance of his being duped. This could
not be entirely out of simplicity; for he, who could so
well embody and record the impositions of Master Jen-
kinson, might surely have penetrated the schemes of
more ordinary swindlers. But Goldsmith could not
give a refusal; and, being thus cheated with his eyes
open, no man could be a surer or easier victim to the
impostors, whose arts he could so well describe. He
might certainly have accepted the draught on neighbor
Flamborough, and indubitably would have made the
celebrated bargain of the gross of green spectacles.
With this cullibility of temper was mixed a hasty and
eager jealousy of his own personal consequence : he un-
willingly admitted that any thing was done better than
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
GOLDSMITHI.
231
he himself could have performed it; and sometimes
made himself ridiculous by hastily undertaking to dis-
tinguish himself upon subjects which he did not under-
stand. But with these weaknesses, and with that of
carelessness in his own affairs, terminates all that cen-
sure can say of Goldsmith. The folly of submitting to
imposition may be well balanced with the universality
of his benevolence; and the wit which his writings
evince, more than counterbalances his defects in conver-
sation, if these could be of consequence to the present
and future generations.
“As a writer,” says Dr. Johnson, "he was of the most distinguished
class. Whatever he composed, he did it better than any other man
could. And whether we regard him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as
a historian, he was one of the first writers of his time, and will ever
stand in the foremost class.'
>>
Excepting some short Tales, Goldsmith gave to the
department of the novelist only one work-the inimi-
table Vicar of Wakefield. We have seen that it was
suppressed for nearly two years, until the publication of
the Traveller had fixed the author's fame. Goldsmith
had, therefore, time for revisal, but he did not employ
it. He had been paid for his labor, as he observed, and
could have profited nothing by rendering the work
ever so perfect. This, however, was false reasoning,
though not unnatural in the mouth of the author who
must earn daily bread by daily labor. The narrative,
which in itself is as simple as possible, might have been
cleared of certain improbabilities, or rather impossibili-
ties, which it now exhibits. We cannot, for instance,
conceive how Sir William Thornhill should contrive to
masquerade under the name of Burchell among his own
tenantry, and upon his own estate; and it is absolutely
232
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
impossible to see how his nephew, the son, doubtless, of
a younger brother, (since Sir William inherited both
title and property,) should be nearly as old as the Baro-
net himself. It may be added, that the character of
Burchell, or Sir William Thornhill, is in itself extrava-
gantly unnatural. A man of his benevolence would
never have so long left his nephew in the possession of
wealth which he employed to the worst of purposes.
Far less would he have permitted his scheme upon Olivia
in a great measure to succeed, and that upon Sophia also
to approach consummation; for, in the first instance, he
does not interfere at all, and in the second, his interven-
tion is accidental. These, and some other little circum-
stances in the progress of the narrative, might easily
have been removed upon revisal.
1
But whatever defects occur in the tenor of the story,
the admirable ease and grace of the narrative, as well
as the pleasing truth with which the principal characters
are designed, make the Vicar of Wakefield one of the
most delicious morsels of fictitious composition on which
the human mind was ever employed. The principal
character, that of the simple Pastor himself, with all the
worth and excellency which ought to distinguish the
ambassador of God to man, and yet with just so much
of pedantry and literary vanity as serves to show that
he is made of mortal mould, and subject to human fail-
ings, is one of the best and most pleasing pictures ever
designed. It is perhaps impossible to place frail hu-
1 ["I have found, however, one point where the German (Schlegel)
is right it is about the Vicar of Wakefield. 'Of all romances in minia-
ture (and perhaps this is the best shape in which romance can appear)
the Vicar of Wakefield is, I think, the most exquisite:' He thinks !-he
might be sure."-BYRO", vol. v., p. 96.]
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
233
manity before us in an attitude of more simple dignity
than the Vicar, in his character of pastor, of parent, and
of husband. His excellent helpmate, with all her mo-
therly cunning, and housewifely prudence, loving and
respecting her husband, but counterplotting his wisest
schemes, at the dictates of maternal vanity, forms an ex-
cellent counterpart. Both, with their children around
them, their quiet labor and domestic happiness, compose
· a fireside picture of such a perfect kind, as perhaps is
nowhere else equalled. It is sketched indeed from com-
mon life, and is a strong contrast to the exaggerated
and extraordinary characters and incidents which are
the resource of those authors, who, like Bayes, make it
their business to elevate and surprise; but the very sim-
plicity of this charming book renders the pleasure it af-
fords more permanent. We read the Vicar of Wakefield
in youth and in age-we return to it again and again,
and bless the memory of an author who contrives so well
to reconcile us to human nature. Whether we choose
the pathetic and distressing incidents of the fire, the
scenes at the jail, or the lighter and humorous parts of
the story, we find the best and truest sentiments enforced
in the most beautiful language; and perhaps there are
few characters of purer dignity have been described
than that of the excellent pastor, rising above sorrow
and oppression, and laboring for the conversion of those
felons, into whose company he had been thrust by his
villanous creditor. In too many works of this class, the
critics must apologize for or censure particular passages
in the narrative, as unfit to be perused by youth and in-
nocence. But the wreath of Goldsmith is unsullied; he
wrote to exalt virtue and expose vice; and he accom-
plished his task in a manner which raises him to the
234
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
highest rank among British authors.
British authors. We close his vo-
lume with a sigh that such an author should have writ-
ten so little from the stores of his own genius,¹ and that
he should have been so prematurely removed from the
sphere of literature, which he so highly adorned.
sus.
¹ [Mr. Cumberland says, "Distress drove Goldsmith upon undertak-
ings, neither congenial with his studies, nor worthy of his talents. I
remember him, when, in his chamber in the Temple, he showed me the
beginning of his Animated Nature; it was with a sigh, such as genius
draws when hard necessity diverts it from its bent to drudge for bread,
and talks of birds and beasts and creeping things, which Pidcock's
showman would have done as well. Poor fellow, he hardly knew an
ass from a mule, nor a turkey from a goose, but when he saw it on the
table. But publishers hate poetry, and Paternoster-Row is not Parnas-
Even the mighty Dr. Hill, who was not a very delicate feeder,
could not make a dinner out of the press, till by a happy transforma-
tion into Hannah Glass, he turned himself into a cook, and sold receipts
for made dishes to all the savory readers in the kingdom. Then, in-
deed, the press acknowledged him second in fame only to John Bunyan
his feasts kept pace in sale with Nelson's fasts; and when his own
name was fairly written out of credit, he wrote himself into an immor-
tality under an alias. Now, though necessity, or, I should rather say,
the desire of finding money for a masquerade, drove Oliver Goldsmith
upon abridging histories, and turning Buffon into English, yet I much
doubt if without that spur he would ever have put his Pegasus into ac-
tion; no, if he had been rich the world would have been poorer than it
is, by the loss of all the treasures of his genius and the contributions of
his pen."-Memoirs. vol. i., p. 352.]
喝
​SAMUEL JOHNSON.
Of all the men distinguished in this or any other age,
Dr. JOHNSON has left upon posterity the strongest and
most vivid impression, so far as persou, manners, disposi-
tion, and conversation, are concerned. We do but name
him, or open a book which he has written, and the sound
and action recall to the imagination at once, his form,
his merits, his peculiarities, nay, the very uncouthness
of his gestures, and the deep impressive tone of his
voice. We learn not only what he said, but form an
idea how he said it; and have, at the same time, a
shrewd guess of the secret motive why he did so, and
whether he spoke in sport or in anger, in the desire
of conviction, or for the love of debate. It was said of
a noted wag, that his bon-mots did not give full satisfac-
tion when published, because he could not print his face.
But with respect to Dr. Johnson, this has been in some
degree accomplished; and, although the greater part of
the present generation never saw him, yet he is, in our
mind's eye, a personification as lively as that of Siddons
in Lady Macbeth, or Kemble in Cardinal Wolsey.
All this, as the world well knows, arises from Johnson
having found in James Boswell such a biographer, as no
man but himself ever had, or ever deserved to have.
The performance, which chiefly resembles it in structure,
is the life of the philosopher Demophon, in Lucian ; but
that slight sketch is far inferior in detail and in vivacity
to Boswell's Life of Johnson, which, considering the
236
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
eminent persons to whom it relates, the quantity of mis-
cellaneous information and entertaining gossip which it
brings together, may be termed, without exception, the
best parlor-window book that ever was written. Accord-
ingly, such has been the reputation which it has enjoyed,
that it renders useless even the form of an abridgement,
which is the less necessary in this work, as the great
Lexicographer only stands connected with the depart-
ment of fictitious narrative by the brief tale of Rasselas.
A few dates and facts may be shortly recalled, for the
sake of uniformity of plan, after which we will venture
to offer a few remarks upon Rasselas, and the character
of its great author.
Samuel Johnson was born and educated in Lichfield,
where his father was a country bookseller of some emi-
nence, since he belonged to its magistracy. He was born
18th September, 1709. His school-days were spent in his
native city, and his education completed at Pembroke
College, Oxford. Of gigantic strength of body, and
mighty powers of mind, he was afflicted with that name-
less disease on the spirits, which often rendered the lat-
ter useless; and externally deformed by a scrofulous
complaint, the scars of which disfigured his otherwise
strong and sensible countenance.
1
1 ["Mr. Michael Johnson was a man of a large and robust body, and
of a strong and active mind; yet, as in the most solid rocks, veins of
unsound substance are often discovered, there was in him a mixture of
that disease, the nature of which eludes the most minute enquiry,
though the effects are well known to be a weariness of life, an uncon-
cern about those things which agitate the greater part of mankind, and
a general sensation of gloomy wretchedness. From him then his son
inherited, with some other qualities, 'a vile melancholy,' which in his
too strong expression of any disturbance of the mind 'made him mad
all his life, at least not sober.'"-BOSWELL.]
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
237
The indigence of his parents compelled him to leave.
College upon his father's death in 1731, when he gathered
in a succession of eleven pounds sterling. In poverty,
however, his learning and his probity secured him respect.
He was received in the best society of his native place.
His first literary attempt, the translation of Father Lobo's
Voyage to Abyssinia, appeared during this period, and
probably led him, at a later period, to lay in that remote
kingdom the scene of his philosophical tale, which fol-
lows this essay. About the same time, he married a wife
considerably older than himself, and attempted to set up
a school in the neighborhood of Lichfield. The project
proved unsuccessful; and in 1737, he set out to try to
mend his fortunes in London, attended by David Garrick.
Johnson had with him in manuscript his tragedy of Irene,
and meant to commence dramatic author; Garrick was
to be bred to the law-Fate had different designs for
both.
There is little doubt, that upon his outset in London,
Johnson felt in full force the ills which assail the unpro-
tected scholar, whose parts are yet unknown to the pub-
lic, and who must write at once for bread and for dis-
tinction.' His splendid imitation of Juvenal, London,
a satire, was the first of his works which drew the atten-
1 ["Who would say that Johnson himself would have been such a
champion in literature—such a front-rank soldier in the fields of fame,
if he had not been pressed into the service, and driven on to glory with
the bayonet of sharp necessity pointed at his back? If fortune had
turned him into a field of clover, he would have lain down and rolled in
it. The mere manual labor of writing would not have allowed his
lassitude and love of ease to have taken the pen out of the ink-horn,
unless the cravings of hunger had reminded him that he must fill the
sheet before he saw the tablecloth. He might indeed have knocked
down Osborne for a blockhead, but he would not have knocked
him down with a folio of his own writing."-CUMBERLAND.]
238
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
tion of the public; yet, neither its celebrity, nor that
of its more brilliant successor, the Vanity of Human
Wishes, the deep and pathetic morality of which has
often extracted tears from those whose eyes wander dry
over pages professedly sentimental, could save the poet
from the irksome drudgery of a writer of all work. His
tragedy of Irene was unfortunate on the stage, and his
valuable hours were consumed in obscure labor. He was
fortunate, however, in a strong and virtuous power
of thinking, which prevented his plunging into those
excesses, in which neglected genius, in catching at mo-
mentary gratification, is so apt to lose character and re-
spectability. While his friend, Savage, was wasting
considerable powers in temporary gratification, Jóhnson
was advancing slowly but surely into a higher class of
society. The powers of his pen were supported by those
of his conversation; he lost no friend by misconduct,
no respect by a closer approach to intimacy, and each
new friend whom he made, continued still his admirer.
The booksellers, also, were sensible of his value as a
literary laborer, and employed him in that laborious and
gigantic task, a Dictionary of the language. How it is
executed is well known, and sufficiently surprising, con-
sidering that the learned author was a stranger to the
Northern languages, on which English is radically
grounded, and that the discoveries in grammar, since
made by Horne Tooke, were then unknown. In the
meantime, the publication of the Rambler, though not
very successful during its progress, stamped the charac-
ter of the author as one of the first moral writers of the
age, and as eminently qualified to write, and even to
improve, the English language.
In 1752, Johnson was deprived of his wife, a loss
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
239
After her
which he appears to have felt most deeply.
death, society, the best of which was now open to a
man who brought such stores to increase its pleasures,
seems to have been his principal enjoyment, and his
great resource when assailed by that malady of mind
which embittered his solitary moments.
The Idler, scarcely so popular as the Rambler, fol-
lowed in 1758. In 1759, Rasselas was hastily composed,
in order to pay the expenses of his mother's funeral, and
some small debts which she had contracted. This beau-
tiful tale was written in one week, and sent in portions
to the printer. Johnson told Sir Joshua Reynolds that
he never afterwards read it over! The publishers paid
the author a hundred pounds, with twenty-four more,
when the work came to a second edition.
The mode in which Rasselas was composed, and the
purposes for which it was written, show that the author's
situation was still embarrassed. But his circumstances
became more easy in 1762, when a pension of L.300
placed him beyond the drudgery of laboring for mere
subsistence. It was distinctly explained, that this grant.
was made on public grounds alone, and intended as
homage to Johnson's services for literature. But two
political pamphlets, The False Alarm, and that upon the
Falkland Islands, afterwards showed that the author
was grateful.
In 1765, pushed forward by the satire of Churchill,
Johnson published his subscription Shakspeare, for
which proposals had been long in circulation.
The author's celebrated Journey to the Hebrides was
published in 1775. Whatever might be his prejudices
against Scotland, its natives must concede, that his
remarks concerning the poverty and barrenness of the
;
240
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
country, tended to produce those subsequent exertions,
which have done much to remedy the causes of reproach.
The Scots were angry because Johnson was not enrap-
tured with their scenery, which, from a defect of bodily
organs, he could not appreciate, or even see ;¹ and they
appear to have set rather too high a rate on the hospi-
tality paid to a stranger, when they contended it should
shut the mouth of a literary traveller upon all subjects.
but those of panegyric. Dr. Johnson took a better way
of repaying the civilities he received, by exercising kind-
ness and hospitality in London to all such friends as he
had received attention from in Scotland.
His pamphlet, entitled Taxation no Tyranny, which
drew upon him much wrath from those who supported
the American cause, is written in a strain of high
toryism, and tended to promote an event, pregnant
with much good and evil, the separation of the mother
country from the American colonies.
In 1777, he was engaged in one of his most pleasing,
as well as most popular works, The Lives of the British
Poets, which he executed with a degree of critical force.
and talent which has seldom been concentrated.²
Johnson's laborious and distinguished career termi-
nated in 1783, when virtue was deprived of a steady
1 [Miss Reynolds, who knew him longer, and saw him more constantly
than Mr. Boswell, says, "Dr. Johnson's sight was so very defective, that
he could scarcely distinguish the face of his most intimate acquaintance
at half a yard; and, in general, it was observable, that his critical
remarks on dress, &c., were the result of very close inspection of the
object, partly from curiosity, and partly from a desire of exciting
admiration of his perspicuity, of which he was not a little ambi-
tious."--CROKER, vol. iii., p. 286.]
2 ["Johnson strips many a leaf from every laurel. Still, Johnson's
is the finest critical work extant, and can never be read without instruc-
tion and delight."-BYRON, vol. vi., p. 376.]
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
241
supporter, society of a brilliant ornament, and literature
of a successful cultivator. The latter part of his life
was honored with general applause, for none was more
fortunate in obtaining and preserving the friendship of
the wise and the worthy. Thus loved and venerated,
Johnson might have been pronounced happy.
But
Heaven, in whose eyes strength is weakness, permitted
his faculties to be clouded occasionally with that morbid
affection of the spirits, which disgraced his talents by
prejudices, and his manners by rudeness.
When we consider the rank which Dr. Johnson held,
not only in literature, but in society, we cannot help
figuring him to ourselves as the benevolent giant of
some fairy tale, whose kindnesses and courtesies are still
mingled with a part of the rugged ferocity imputed to
the fabulous sons of Anak; or rather, perhaps, like a
Roman Dictator, fetched from his farm, whose wisdom
and heroism still relished of his rustic occupation. And
there were times when, with all Johnson's wisdom, and
all his wit, this rudeness of disposition, and the sacrifices.
and submissions which he unsparingly exacted, were so
great, that even his kind and devoted admirer, Mrs.
Thrale, seems at length to have thought that the honor
of being Johnson's hostess was almost counterbalanced
by the tax which he exacted on her time and patience.
The cause of those deficiencies in temper and manners,
was no ignorance of what was fit to be done in society,
or how far each individual ought to suppress his own
wishes in favor of those with whom he associates; for,
theoretically, no man understood the rules of good-
breeding better than Dr. Johnson, or could act more
exactly in conformity with them, when the high rank
of those with whom he was in company for the time
242
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
required that he should put the necessary restraint upon
himself. But during the greater part of his life, he had
been in a great measure a stranger to the higher society,
in which such restraint is necessary; and it may be
fairly presumed, that the indulgence of a variety of
little selfish peculiarities, which it is the object of good-
breeding to suppress, became thus familiar to him. The
consciousness of his own mental superiority in most
companies which he frequented, contributed to his dog-
matism; and when he had attained his eminence as a
dictator in literature, like other potentates, he was not
averse to a display of his authority: resembling in this
particular Swift, and one or two other men of genius,
who have had the bad taste to imagine that their talents
elevated them above observance of the common rules of
society.' It must be also remarked, that in Johnson's
time, the literary society of London was much more
confined than at present, and that he sat the Jupiter of
1 [Sir Walter Scott elsewhere supplies the following anecdote :-
"Mr. Boswell has chosen to omit, for reasons which will be presently
obvious, that Johnson and Adam Smith met at Glasgow; but I have
been assured, by Professor John Miller, that they did so, and that
Smith, leaving the party where he had met Johnson, happened to come
to another where Miller was. Knowing that Smith had been in John-
son's society, they were anxious to know what had passed, and the
more so, as Smith's temper seemed much ruffled. At first, Smith
would only answer, 'He's a brute-he's a brute;' but, on closer exa-
mination, it appeared that Johnson no sooner saw Smith, than he at-
tacked him for some point of his famous letter on the death of Hume.
Smith vindicated the truth of his statement. What did Johnson say?
was the universal inquiry. Why, he said,' replied Smith, with the
deepest impression of resentment, he said, you lie !'—' And what did
you reply?'-'I said, you are a son of a
these two great moralists meet and part, and such was the classical
dialogue between two great teachers of philosophy."-CROKER'S BOS?
well, vol. iii., p. 65.]
!' On such terms did
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
243
a little circle, sometimes indeed nodding approbation,
but always prompt, on the slightest contradiction, to
launch the thunders of rebuke and sarcasm.
He was,
in a word, despotic, and despotism will occasionally lead
the best dispositions into unbecoming abuse of power.
It is not likely that any one will again enjoy, or have an
opportunity of abusing, the singular degree of submis-
sion which was rendered to Johnson by all around him.
The unreserved communications of friends, rather than
the spleen of enemies, have occasioned his character
being exposed in all its shadows, as well as its lights.
But those, when summed and counted, amount only to
a few narrow-minded prejudices concerning country and
party, from which few ardent tempers remain entirely
free, an over-zeal in politics, which is an ordinary attri-
bute of the British character, and some violences and
solecisms in manners, which left his talents, morals, and
benevolence, alike unimpeachable.¹
Of Rasselas, translated into so many languages, and
so widely circulated through the literary world, the
merits have been long justly appreciated. It was com-
posed in solitude and sorrow; and the melancholy cast
of feeling which it exhibits, sufficiently evinces the tem-
per of the author's mind. The resemblance, in some
respects, betwixt the tenor of the moral and that of
Candide, is striking, and Johnson himself admitted,
that if the authors could possibly have seen each other's
1 ["To obviate all the reflections which have gone round the world
to Johnson's prejudice, by applying to him the epithet of a bear, let me
impress upon my readers a just and happy saying of my friend Gold-
smith, who knew him well :-' Johnson, to be sure, has a roughness in
his manner; but no man alive has a more tender heart. He has nothing
of the bear but his skin.'"-BOSWELL.]
244
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
manuscript, they could not have escaped the charge of
plagiarism. But they resemble each other like a whole-
some and a poisonous fruit. The object of the witty
Frenchman is to induce a distrust of the wisdom of the
great Governor of the Universe, by presuming to arraign
him of incapacity before the creatures of his will. John-
son uses arguments drawn from the same premises, with
the benevolent view of encouraging men to look to
another and a better world, for the satisfaction of
wishes, which in this seem only to be awakened in order
to be disappointed. The one is a fiend-a merry devil,
we grant-who scoffs at and derides human miseries;
the other, a friendly though grave philosopher, who
shows us the nothingness of earthly hopes, to teach us
that our affections ought to be placed higher.
·
The work can scarce be termed a narrative, being in
a great measure void of incident; it is rather a set of
moral dialogues on the various vicissitudes of human
life, its follies, its fears, its hopes, its wishes, and the
disappointment in which all terminate. The style is in
Johnson's best manner; enriched and rendered sonorous
by the triads and quaternions which he so much loved,
and balanced with an art which perhaps he derived
from the learned Sir Thomas Brown. The reader may
sometimes complain, with Boswell, that the unalleviated
picture of human helplessness and misery, leaves sad-
ness upon the mind after perusal. But the moral is to
be found in the conclusion of the Vanity of Human
Wishes, a poem which treats of the same melancholy
subject, and closes with this sublime strain of mora-
lity :-
"Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd;
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
245
#
For Love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For Patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For Faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat:
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain;
These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain,
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she cannot find."
(
LAURENCE STERNE.
LAURENCE STERNE was one of those few authors who
have anticipated the labors of the biographer, and
left to the world what they desired should be known of
their family and their life. It is but a slight sketch,
however, addressed to his daughter, and stops short
just where the reader becomes most interested in its
progress, being very succinct in all which regards the
author's personal history.
"Roger Sterne," (says this narrative,) "grandson to Archbishop
Sterne, Lieutenant in Handaside's regiment, was married to Agnes
Hebert, widow of a captain of a good family. Her family name was
(I believe) Nuttle;-though, upon recollection, that was the name of
her father-in-law, who was a noted sutler in Flanders, in Queen Anne's
1 Mr. Sterne was descended from a family of that name in Suffolk, one of
which settled in Nottinghamshire. The following genealogy is extracted from
Thoresby's Ducatus Leodinensis, p. 215.
SIMON STERNE, of Mansfield.
Dr. Richard Sterne,
Archbishop of York,
ob. June 1683.
1
Richard Sterne,
of York and
Kilvington,
Esq. 1700.
| 2
William Sternc,
of Mansfield.
Elizabeth, daughter
of Mr. Dickinson,
ob. 1670.
| 3
Simon Sterne,
of Elvington
and Halifax,
ob. 1703.
Mary, daughter
and heiress of
Roger Jaques,
of Elvington,
near York.
}
| 1
Richard.
| 2
ROGER.
13
Jaques, LL.D.
14
Mary.
5
Elizabeth.
ob. 1759.
Richard.
| 6
Frances.
LAURENCE STERNE.
LAURENCE STERNE.
247
wars, where my father married his wife's daughter, (N. B. he was in
debt to him,) which was in September 25, 1711, old style. This Nuttle
had a son by my grandmother,—a fine person of a man, but a graceless
whelp!-what became of him I know not.-The family (if any left) live
now at Clonmel, in the south of Ireland; at which town I was born,
November 24, 1713, a few days after my mother arrived from Dunkirk.
-My birthday was ominous to my poor father, who was, the day of
our arrival, with many other brave officers, broke, and sent adrift into
the wide world, with a wife and two children;-the elder of which was
Mary. She was born at Lisle, in French Flanders, July 10, 1712, new
style. This child was the most unfortunate:-She married one Wee-
mans, in Dublin, who used her most unmercifully ;-spent his substance,
became a bankrupt, and left my poor sister to shift for herself; which
she was able to do but for a few months, for she went to a friend's
house in the country, and died of a broken heart. She was a most
beautiful woman, of a fine figure, and deserved a better fate.—The
regiment in which my father served being broke, he left Ireland as soon
as I was able to be carried, with the rest of his family, and came to the
family-seat at Elvington, near York, where his mother lived. She was
daughter to Sir Roger Jaques, and an heiress. There we sojourned for
about ten months, when the regiment was established, and our house-
hold decamped with bag and baggage for Dublin.-Within a month of
our arrival, my father left us, being ordered to Exeter; where, in a sad
winter, my mother and her two children followed him, travelling from
Liverpool, by land, to Plymouth.-(Melancholy description of this
journey not necessary to be transmitted here.)-In twelve months we
were all sent back to Dublin. My mother with three of us, (for she
lay-in at Plymouth of a boy, Joram,) took ship at Bristol, for Ireland,
and had a narrow escape from being cast away, by a leak springing up
in the vessel.—At length, after many perils and struggles, we got to
Dublin.-There my father took a large house, furnished it, and in a
year and a half's time spent a great deal of money. In the year one
thousand seven hundred and nineteen, all unhinged again; the regi-
ment was ordered, with many others, to the Isle of Wight, in order to
embark for Spain in the Vigo expedition. We accompanied the regi-
ment, and were driven into Milford Haven, but landed at Bristol; from
thence, by land, to Plymouth again, and to the Isle of Wight;—where,
I remember, we stayed encamped some time before the embarkation of
the troops-(in this expedition, from Bristol to Hampshire, we lost
poor Joram,-a pretty boy, four years old, of the small-pox)—my
mother, sister, and myself, remained at the Isle of Wight during the
Vigo expedition, and until the regiment had got back to Wicklow, in
Ireland; from whence my father sent for us. We had poor Joram's
248
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
loss supplied, during our stay in the Isle of Wight, by the birth of a
girl, Anne, born September the twenty-third, one thousand seven hun-
dred and nineteen.-This pretty blossom fell at the age of three years,
in the barracks of Dublin. She was, as I well remember, of a fine deli-
cate frame, not made to last long,—as were most of my father's babes.
We embarked for Dublin, and had all been cast away by a most violent
storm; but through the intercessions of my mother, the captain was
prevailed upon to turn back into Wales, where we stayed a month,
and at length got into Dublin, and travelled by land to Wicklow :
where my father had for some weeks given us over for lost. We lived
in the barracks at Wicklow one year (one thousand seven hundred
and twenty) when Devijeher (so called after Colonel Devijeher) was
born;. from thence we decamped to stay half a year with Mr. Feather-
ston, a clergyman, about seven miles from Wicklow; who, being a
relation of my mother's, invited us to his parsonage at Animo.¹ It was
in this parish, during our stay, that I had that wonderful escape in fall-
ing through a mill-race whilst the mill was going, and of being taken
up unhurt; the story is incredible, but known for truth in all that part
of Ireland, where hundreds of the common people flocked to see me.
From hence we followed the regiment to Dublin, where we lay in the
barracks a year. In this year (one thousand seven hundred and twenty-
one) I learned to write, &c. The regiment ordered in twenty-two to
Carrickfergus, in the north of Ireland. We all decamped; but got no
further than Drogheda; thence ordered to Mullengar, forty miles west,
where, by Providence, we stumbled upon a kind relation, a collateral
descendant from Archbishop Sterne, who took us all to his castle, and
kindly entertained us for a year, and sent us to the regiment to Carrick-
fergus, loaded with kindnesses, &c. A most rueful and tedious journey
had we all (in March) to Carrickfergus, where we arrived in six or seven
days.-Little Devijeher here died; he was three years old; he had been
left behind at nurse at a farm-house near Wicklow, but was fetched to
us by my father the summer after :-another child sent to fill his place,
Susan. This babe, too, left us behind in this weary journey. The
autumn of that year, or the spring afterwards, (I forget which,) my
father got leave of his colonel to fix me at school,-which he did near
Halifax, with an able master; with whom I stayed some time, till, by
God's care of me, my cousin Sterne, of Elvington, became a father to
me, and sent me to the university, &c., &c. To pursue the thread of
1 This village, or rather hamlet, is within a few miles of the romantic lake
called Glandelow, on which are to be seen the singularly interesting ecclesias-
tical antiquities, called the Seven Churches. The mill where Sterne encoun-
tered this remarkable risk has been only lately destroyed; and his escape still
lives in village tradition.
LAURENCE STERNE.
249
our story, my father's regiment was, the year after, ordered to London-
derry, where another sister was brought forth, Catherine, still living;
but most unhappily estranged from me by my uncle's wickedness and
her own folly. From this station the regiment was sent to defend Gib-
raltar, at the siege, where my father was run through the body by
Captain Phillips, in a duel (the quarrel began about a goose)!; with
much difficulty he survived, though with an impaired constitution,
which was not able to withstand the hardships it was put to; for he
was sent to Jamaica, where he soon fell by the country fever, which
took away his senses first, and made a child of him; and then, in a
month or two, walking about continually without complaining, till the
moment he sat down in an arm-chair, and breathed his last, which was
at Port Antonio, on the north of the island. My father was a little
smart man, active to the last degree in all exercises, most patient of
fatigue and disappointments, of which it pleased God to give him full
measure. He was, in his temper, somewhat rapid and hasty, but of a
kindly sweet disposition, void of all design; and so innocent in his own
intentions, that he suspected no one; so that you might have cheated
him ten times in a day, if nine had not been sufficient for your purpose.
My poor father died in March, 1731. I remained at Halifax till about
the latter end of that year, and cannot omit mentioning this anecdote
of myself and schoolmaster:-He had the ceiling of the school-room
new whitewashed; the ladder remained there. I, one unlucky day,
mounted it, and wrote with a brush, in large capital letters, LAU.
STERNE, for which the usher severely whipped me. My master was
very much hurt at this, and said, before me, that never should that
name be effaced, for I was a boy of genius, and he was sure I should
come to preferment. This expression made me forget the stripes I
had received. In the year thirty-two¹ my cousin sent me to the univer-
sity, where I staid some time. 'Twas there that I commenced a friend-
ship with Mr. H, which has been lasting on both sides. I then
came to York, and my uncle got me the living of Sutton; and at York
I became acquainted with your mother, and courted her for two years:
—she owned she liked me, but thought herself not rich enough, or me
too poor, to be joined together. She went to her sister's in S-; and
I wrote to her often. I believe then she was partly determined to have
me, but would not say so. At her return she fell into a consumption ;
-and one evening that I was sitting by her, with an almost broken
•
1 He was admitted of Jesus College, in the University of Cambridge, 6th
July, 1733, under the tuition of Mr. Cannon.
Matriculated 29th March, 1735.
Admitted to the degree of B.A. in January, 1736.
Admitted M.A. at the commencement of 1740.
250
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
1
heart to see her so ill, she said, 'My dear Laurey, I never can be yours,
for I verily believe I have not long to live! but I have left you every
shilling of my fortune.' Upon that she showed me her will. This
generosity overpowered me. It pleased God that she recovered, and I
married her in the year 1741. My uncle ¹ and myself were then upon
very good terms; for he soon got me the Prebendary of York;-but
he quarrelled with me afterwards, because I would not write paragraphs
in the newspapers;-though he was a party man, I was not, and detested
such dirty work, thinking it beneath me. From that period he became
my bitterest enemy.2 By my wife's means I got the living of Stilling-
ton; a friend of hers in the south had promised her, that, if she mar-
ried a clergyman in Yorkshire, when the living became vacant, he would
make her a compliment of it. I remained near twenty years at Sutton,
doing duty at both places. I had then very good health. Books,
painting, fiddling, and shooting, were my amusements.
3
As to the
Squire of the parish, I cannot say we were on a very friendly footing;
but at Stillington, the family of the C- -s showed us every kindness:
'twas most truly agreeable to be within a mile and a half of an amiable
family, who were ever cordial friends. In the year 1760, I took a house
at York for your mother and yourself, and went up to London to pub-
lish my two first volumes of Shandy. In that year Lord Falconbridge
presented me with the curacy of Coxwould; a sweet retirement in
comparison of Sutton. In sixty-two I went to France before the peace
4
5
¹ Jaques Sterne, LL.D. He was Prebendary of Durham, Canon Residen-
tiary, Precentor, and Prebendary of York, Rector of Rise, and Rector of Horn-
sey cum Riston, both in the East Riding of the county of York. He died June
9th, 1759.
2 It hath, however, been insinuated, that he for some time wrote a periodi-
cal electioneering paper at York, in defence of the Whig interest.-Monthly
Review, vol. liii., p. 344.
3 A specimen of Mr. Sterne's abilities in the art of designing, may be seen in
Mr. Wodhul's Poems, 8vo, 1772.
4 The first edition was printed in the preceding year at York.
5 The following is the order in which Mr. Sterne's publications appeared:
1747. The case of Elijah and the Widow of Zarephath considered. A Charity
Sermon preached on Good Friday, April 17, 1747, for the support of two charity
schools in York.
1750. The Abuses of Conscience. Set forth in a sermon preached in the
cathedral church of St. Peter, York, at the Summer Assizes before the Hon.
Mr. Baron Clive, and the Hon. Mr. Baron Smythe, on Sunday, July 29, 1750.
1759. Vol. 1 and 2 of Tristram Shandy.
1760. Vol. 1 and 2 of Sermons.
1761. Vol. 3 and 4 of Tristram Shandy.
1762. Vol. 5 and 6 of Tristram Shandy.
1765. Vol. 7 and 8 of Tristram Shandy.
LAURENCE STERNE.
251
was concluded; and you both followed me. I left you both in France,
and in two years after, I went to Italy for the recovery of my health;
and, when I called upon you, I tried to engage your mother to return
to England with me:¹ she and yourself are at length come, and I have
had the inexpressible joy of seeing my girl every thing I wished for.
"I have set down these particulars relating to my family and self for my
Lydia, in case hereafter she might have a curiosity, or a kinder motive, to
know them,"
To these notices, the following brief account of his
death has been added by another writer:
"As Mr. Sterne, in the foregoing, hath brought down the account
of himself until within a few months of his death, it remains only to
mention, that he left York about the end of the year 1767, and came to
London, in order to publish The Sentimental Journey, which he had
written during the preceding summer at his favorite living of Coxwould.
His health had been for some time declining; but he continued to
visit his friends, and retained his usual flow of spirits. In February,
1768, he began to perceive the approaches of death; and with the con-
cern of a good man, and the solicitude of an affectionate parent, devoted
his attention to the future welfare of his daughter. His letters, at
this period, reflect so much credit on his character, that it is to be
lamented some others in the collection were permitted to see the light.
After a short struggle with his disorder, his debilitated and worn-out
frame submitted to fate on the 18th day of March, 1768, at his lodgings
in Bond Street. He was buried at the new burying-ground belonging
to the parish of St. George, Hanover Square, on the 22d of the same
month, in the most private manner; and hath since been indebted to
strangers for a monument very unworthy of his memory; on which the
following lines are inscribed:-
Near to this Place
Lies the Body of
The Reverend LAURENCE STERNE, A.M.
Died September 13, 1768.
Aged 53 Years. 2
1766. Vols. 3, 4, 5, and 6 of Sermons.
1767. Vol. 9 of Tristram Shandy.
1768. The Sentimental Journey.
The remainder of his works were published after his death.
1 From this passage, it appears that the present account of Mr. Sterne's Life
and Family was written about six months only before his death.
2 It is scarcely necessary to observe, that this date is erroneous.
252
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
To these Memoirs we can only add a few circum-
stances. The Archbishop of York, referred to as great-
grandfather of the author, was Dr. Richard Sterne, who
died in June, 1683. The family came from Suffolk to
Nottinghamshire, and are described by Guillam as bear-
ing Or a cheveron, between three crosses flory sable.
The crest is that Starling proper, which might incur
the censure of. a zealous herald. It is a pun upon
Estourneau, the French for a starling, as approaching
to the proper name Sterne. This may be termed cant-
ing, in the armorial language, but the pen of Yorick
has rendered it immortal.
Sterne was educated at Jesus College, Cambridge,
and took the degree of Master of Arts there in 1740.
His protector and patron, in the outset of life, was his
uncle Dr. Jaques Sterne, who was Prebendary of Dur-
ham, Canon Residentiary, Precentor, and Prebendary
of York, with other good preferments. Dr. Sterne was
a keen Whig, and zealous supporter of the Hanoverian
succession. The politics of the times being extremely
violent, he was engaged in many controversies, particu-
larly with Dr. Richard Burton, a surgeon and man-mid-
wife, whom he had arrested upon a charge of high trea-
son, during the affair of 1745. Laurence Sterne, in the
Memoir which precedes these notices, represents himself
as having quarrelled with his uncle, because he would
not assist him with his pen in controversies of this
description; yet there is reason to believe he adopted
his kinsman's enmities in some degree, since he consign-
ed Dr. Burton to painful immortality, under the name.
of Dr. Slop.
When settled in Yorkshire, Sterne has represented
his time as much engaged in books, music, and painting.
LAURENCE STERNE.
253
The former seems to have been in a great measure sup-
plied by the library of Skelton Castle, the abode of his
intimate friend and relation, John Hall Stevenson, au-
thor of the witty and indecent collection, entitled Crazy
Tales, where there is a very humorous description of his
ancient residence, under the name of Crazy Castle.
This library had the same cast of antiquity which be-
longed to the Castle itself, and doubtless contained
much of that rubbish of ancient literature, in which the
labor and ingenuity of Sterne contrived to find a mine.
Until 1759, Sterne had only printed two sermons; but
in that year he surprised the world, by publishing the
two first volumes of Tristram Shandy. Sterne states
himself, in a letter to a friend, as being "tired of em-
ploying his brains for other people's advantage-a fool-
ish sacrifice I have made for some years to an ungrate-
ful person."-This passage probably alludes to his quar-
rel with his uncle; and as he mentions having taken a
small house in York for the education of his daughter,
it is probable that he looked to his pen for some assis-
tance, though, in a letter to a nameless doctor, who had
accused him of writing in order to have nummum in
loculo, he declares he wrote, not to be fed, but to be
famous. Tristram, however, procured the author both
fame and profit. The brilliant genius, which mingled.
with so much real or affected eccentricity, the gaping
astonishment of the readers who could not conceive the
drift or object of the publication, with the ingenuity of
those who attempted to discover the meaning of pas-
sages which really had none, gave the book a most ex-
traordinary degree of eclat. But the applause of the
public was not unmingled with censure. Sterne was
not on good terms with his professional brethren: he
254
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
had too much wit, and too little forbearance in the use
of it; too much vivacity, and too little respect for his
cloth and character, to maintain the formalities, or even
the decencies, of the clerical station; and, moreover, he
had, in the full career of his humor, assigned to some
of his grave compeers ridiculous epithets and characters,
which they did not resent the less, that they were cer-
tainly witty, and probably applicable. Indeed, to re-
quire a person to pardon an insult on account of the
wit which accompanies the infliction, although it is
what jesters often seem to expect, is as reasonable as to
` desire a wounded man to admire the painted feathers
which wing the dart by which he is pierced. The
tumult was loud on all sides; but amid shouts of ap-
plause and cries of censure, the notoriety of Tristram
spread still wider and wider, and the fame of Sterne
rose in proportion. The author therefore triumphed,
and bid the critics defiance.
"I shall be attacked and pelted," he says, in one of his letters,
"either from cellar or garret, write what I will; and, besides, must ex-
pect to have a party against me of many hundreds, who either do not,
or will not, laugh-'tis enough that I divide the world-at least I will
rest contented with it."
On another occasion he says,—
"If my enemies knew that, by this rage of abuse and ill will, they
were effectually serving the interests both of myself and works, they
would be more quiet; but it has been the fate of my betters, who have
found that the way to fame is like the way to heaven, through much
tribulation; and till I shall have the honor to be as much maltreated as
Rabelais and Swift were, I must continue humble, for I have not filled
up the measure of half their persecutions."
The author went to London to enjoy his fame, and
met with all that attention which the public gives to
men ofʼnotoriety. He boasts of being engaged fourteen
LAURENCE STERNE.
255
66
Johnson, "will be very
The man Sterne, I am
dinners deep, and received this hospitality as a tribute ;
while his contemporaries saw the festivity in a very dif-
ferent light.
Any man who has a name, or who has
the power of pleasing," said
generally invited in London.
told, has had engagements for three months." John-
son's feelings of morality, and respect for the priest-
hood, led him to speak of Sterne with contempt; but
when Goldsmith added, "And a very dull fellow," he
replied with his emphatic, "Why, no, sir."
The two first volumes of Tristram proved introduc-
tors-singular in their character certainly-to two
volumes of Sermons, which the simple name of the
Rev. Laurence Sterne (ere yet he became known as the
author of this wild and capricious offspring of fancy)
would never have recommended to notice, but which
were sought for and read eagerly under that of Yorick.
They maintained the character of the author for wit,
genius, and eccentricity.
The third and fourth volumes of Tristram appeared
in 1761, and the fifth and sixth in 1762. Both these
publications were as popular as the two first volumes.
The seventh and eighth, which came forth in 1765, did
not attract so much attention. The novelty was in a
great measure over; and although they contain some of the
most beautiful passages which ever fell from the author's
pen, yet neither uncle Toby nor his faithful attendant
were sufficient to attract the public favor in the same
degree as before. Thus the popularity of this singular
work was for a time impeded by that peculiar and
affected style, which had at first attracted by its novelty,
but which ceased to please when it was no longer new.
Four additional volumes of Sermons appeared in 1766 ;
256
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
•
and in 1767 the ninth and last volume of Tristram
Shandy. "I shall publish," he says, "but one this
year; and the next I shall begin a new work of four
volumes, which when finished I shall continue Tristram
with fresh spirit."
The new work was unquestionably his Sentimental
Journey; for which, according to the evidence of La
Fleur, Sterne had made much larger collections than
were ever destined to see the light. The author's
health was now become extremely feeble; and his Ita-
lian travels were designed, if possible, to relieve his
consumptive complaints. The remedy proved unsuc-
cessful; yet he lived to arrive in England, and to pre-
pare for the press the first part of the Sentimental Jour-
ney, which was published in 1768.
In this place we may insert with propriety those
notices of Sterne and his valet La Fleur, which appear
in Mr. Davis's interesting selection of anecdotes, which
he has entitled an Olio.
"La Fleur was born in Burgundy. When a mere child he conceived
a strong passion to see the world, and at eight years of age ran away
from his parents. His prevenancy was always his passport, and his
wants were always supplied-milk, bread, and a straw-bed amongst the
peasantry, were all he wanted for the night, and in the morning he wished
to be on his way again. This rambling life he continued till he attained
his tenth year, when being one day on the Pont Neuf at Paris, surveying
with wonder the objects that surrounded him, he was accosted by a
drummer, who easily enlisted him in the service. For six years La
Fleur beat his drum in the French army; two years more would have
entitled him to his discharge, but he preferred anticipation, and, ex-
changing dress with a peasant, easily made his escape. By having re-
course to his old expedients, he made his way to Montreuil, where he
introduced himself to Varenne, who fortunately took a fancy to him.
The little accommodations he needed were given him with cheerfulness;
and as what we sow we wish to see flourish, this worthy landlord pro-
mised to get him a master; and as he deemed the best not better than
LAURENCE STERNE.
257
La Fleur merited, he promised to recommend him to un Milord Anglois.
He fortunately could perform as well as promise, and he introduced him
to Sterne, ragged as a colt, but full of health and hilarity. The little
picture which Sterne has drawn of La Fleur's Amours is so far true-
He was fond of a very pretty girl at Montreuil, the elder of two sisters,
who, if living, he said, resembles the Maria of Moulines: her he after-
wards married, and, whatever proof it might be of his affection, was
none of his prudence, for it made him not a jot richer or happier than
he was before. She was a mantua-maker, and her closest application
could produce no more than six sous a day; finding that her assistance
could go little towards their support, and after having had a daughter by
her, they separated and he went to service. At length, with what
money he had got together by his servitude, he returned to his wife,
and they took a public-house in Royal-street, Calais.-There ill luck at-
tended him,—war broke out; and the loss of the English sailors, who
navigated the packets, and who were his principal customers, so reduc-
ed his little business, that he was obliged again to quit his wife, and con-
fide to her guidance the little trade which was insufficient to support
them both. He returned in March, 1783, but his wife had fled. A
strolling company of comedians passing through the town, had seduced
her from her home, and no tale or tidings of her have ever since reach-
ed him.
From the period he lost his wife, says our informant, he has
frequently visited England, to whose natives he is extremely partial,
sometimes as a sergeant, at others as an express. Where zeal and dili-
gence were required, La Fleur was never yet wanting."
In addition to La Fleur's account of himself, (conti-
nues Mr. Davis,) the writer of the preceding obtained
from him several little circumstances relative to his
master, as well as the characters depicted by him, a few
of which, as they would lose by abridgement, I shall
give verbatim.
"There were moments," said La Fleur, "in which my master appear-
ed sunk into the deepest dejection-when his calls upon me for my
services were so seldom, that I sometimes apprehensively pressed in
upon his privacy, to suggest what I thought might divert his melan-
choly. He used to smile at my well-meant zeal, and I could see he was
happy to be relieved. At others, he seemed to have received a new
soul-he launched into the levity natural à mon pays," said La Fleur,
"and cried gaily enough, Five la bagătelle!' It was in one of those
moments that he became acquainted with the Grisette of the glove shop
•
258
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
-she afterwards visited him at his lodgings, upon which La Fleur
made not a single remark; but on naming the fille de chambre, his other
visitant, he exclaimed, 'It was certainly a pity-she was so pretty and
petite.'"
The lady mentioned under the initial L., was the
Marquise Lamberti; to the interest of this lady he was
indebted for the passport, the want of which began to
make him seriously uneasy. Count de B. (Breteuil),
notwithstanding the Shakspeare, La Fleur thinks, would
have troubled himself little about him. Choiseul was
minister at the time.
"Poor Maria
Was, alas! no fiction.-When we came up to her," said La Fleur,
"she was grovelling in the road like an infant, and throwing the dust
upon her head-and yet few were more lovely. Upon Sterne's accost-
ing her with tenderness, and raising her up in his arms, she collected
herself, and resumed some composure-told him her tale of misery,
and wept upon his breast-my master sobbed aloud. I saw her gently
disengage herself from his arms, and she sung him the service to the
Virgin; my poor master covered his face with his hands, and walked
by her side to the cottage where she lived; there he talked earnestly to
the old woman."
"Every day," said La Fleur, "while we stayed there, I carried them
meat and drink from the hotel, and when we departed from Moulines,
my master left his blessings and some money with the mother."-
"How much," added he, "I know not-he always gave more than he
could afford."
Sterne was frequently at a loss upon his travels for
ready money. Remittances were become interrupted
by war, and he had wrongly estimated his expenses; he
had reckoned along the post-roads, without adverting
to the wretchedness that was to call upon him in his
way.
At many of our stages my master has turned to me with tears in his
eyes-These poor people oppress me, La Fleur; how shall I relieve
me?' He wrote much, and to a late hour." I told La Fleur of the in-
considerable quantity he had published; he expressed extreme surprise.
"I know," said he, "upon our return from this tour, there was a large
LAURENCE STERNE.
259
trunk completely filled with papers.'
"Do you know any thing of
their tendency, La Fleur ?"—"Yes; they were miscellaneous remarks
upon the manners of the different nations he visited; and in Italy he
was deeply engaged in making the most elaborate enquiries into the
differing governments of the towns, and the characteristic peculiarities
of the Italians of the various states."
To effect this, he read much-for the collections of
the Patrons of Literature were open to him; he ob-
served more. Singular as it may seem, Sterne endeavor-
ed in vain to speak Italian. His valet acquired it on
their journey; but his master, though he applied now
and then, gave it up at length as unattainable.—“ I the
more wondered at this," said La Fleur, as he must
have understood Latin."
The assertion, sanctioned by Johnson, that Sterne
was licentious and dissolute in conversation, stands thus
far contradicted by the testimony of La Fleur: “His
conversation with women," he said, "was of the most
interesting kind; he usually left them serious if he did
not find them so."
""
The Dead Ass
Was no invention. The mourner was as simple and
affecting as Sterne has related. La Fleur recollected
the circumstance perfectly.
To Monks
Sterne never exhibited any particular sympathy. La
Fleur remembered several pressing in upon him, to all
of whom his answer was the same- -Mon père, je suis
occupé. Je suis pauvre comme vous.
IN March, 1768, Laurence Sterne, his frame exhausted
by long debilitating illness, expired at his lodgings in
Bond Street, London. There was something in the
260
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
manner of his death singularly resembling the particu-
lars detailed by Mrs. Quickly, as attending that of
Falstaff, the compeer of Yorick for infinite jest, however
unlike in other particulars. While life was ebbing fast,
and the patient lay on his bed totally exhausted, he
complained that his feet were cold, and requested the
female attendant to chafe them. She did so, and it
seemed to relieve him. He complained that the cold
came up higher; and whilst the assistant was in the act
of rubbing his ankles and legs, he expired without a
groan. It was also remarkable that his death took
place much in the manner which he himself had wish-
ed; and that the last offices were rendered him, not in
his own house, or by the hand of kindred affection, but
in an inn, and by strangers.
We are well acquainted with Sterne's features and
personal appearance, to which he himself frequently
alludes. He was tall and thin, with a hectic and con-
sumptive appearance. His features, though capable of
expressing with peculiar effect the sentimental emotions
by which he was often affected, had also a shrewd,
humorous, and sarcastic character, proper to the wit
and the satirist, and not unlike that which predominates.
in the portraits of Voltaire. His conversation was
animated, and witty; but Johnson complained that it
was marked by license, better suiting the company of
the Lord of Crazy Castle, than of the great moralist.
It has been said, and probably with truth, that his tem-
per was variable and unequal, the natural consequence
of an irritable bodily frame, and continued bad health.
But we will not readily believe that the parent of uncle
Toby could be a harsh, or habitually a bad-humored
man.
Sterne's letters to his friends, and especially to
LAURENCE STERNE.
261
his daughter, breathe all the fondness of affection; and
his resources, such as they were, seem to have been
walays at the command of those whom he loved.¹
If we consider Sterne's reputation as chiefly founded
on Tristram Shandy, he must be regarded as liable to
two severe charges ;-those, namely, of indecency, and
of affectation. Upon the first accusation Sterne was
himself peculiarly sore, and used to justify the licen-
tiousness of his humor by representing it as a mere
breach of decorum, which had no perilous consequence
to morals. The following anecdote we have from a
sure source :—“Soon after Tristram had appeared,
Sterne asked a Yorkshire lady of fortune and condition
whether she had read his book. "I have not," Mr.
Sterne," was the answer; "and, to be plain with you,
I am informed it is not proper for female perusal."
"My dear good lady," replied the author, "do not be
gulled by such stories; the book is like your young
heir there,” (pointing to a child of three years old, who
was rolling on the carpet in his white tunics,) "he
shows at times a good deal that is usually concealed,
but it is all in perfect innocence !" This witty excuse
may be so far admitted; for it cannot be said that the
1 ["Of the lamentable contrast between sentiments and conduct,
which this transfer of the seat of sensibility from the heart to the fancy
produces, the annals of literary men afford unluckily too many exam-
ples. Alfieri, though he could write a sonnet full of tenderness to his
mother, never saw her (says Mr. W. Rose) but once, after their eady
separation, though he frequently passed within a few miles of her resi-
dence. The poet Young, with all his parade of domestic sorrows, was,
it appears, a neglectful husband and harsh father; and Sterne (to use
the words employed by Lord Byron) preferred whining over a dead
ass to relieving a living mother.'"-MOORE's Life of Byron, vol. iii., p.
127 n.]
と
​262
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
licentious humor of Tristram Shandy is of the kind
which applies itself to the passions, or is calculated to
corrupt society. But it is a sin against taste, if allowed.
to be harmless as to morals. A handful of mud is nei-
ther a firebrand nor a stone; but to fling it about in
sport, argues coarseness of mind, and want of common
manners.
Sterne, however, began and ended by braving the
censure of the world in this particular. A remarkable
passage in one of his letters shows how lightly he was
sometimes disposed to treat the charge; and what is
singular enough, his plan for turning it into ridicule
seems to have been serious.
"Crebillon (le fils) has made a convention with me, which if he is not
too lazy, will be no bad persiflage. As soon as I get to Toulouse, he has
agreed to write me an expostulatory letter on the indecencies of T.
Shandy-which is to be answered by recrimination upon the liberties in
his own works. These are to be printed together-Crebillon against
Sterne-Sterne against Crebillon-the copy to be sold, and the money
equally divided: this is good Swiss policy."
In like manner, the greatest admirers of Sterne must
own, that his style is affected, eminently, and in a
degree which even his wit and pathos are inadequate to
support. The style of Rabelais, which he assumed for
his model, is to the highest excess rambling, excursive,
and intermingled with the greatest absurdities. But
Rabelais was in some measure compelled to adopt this
Harlequin's habit, in order that, like licensed jesters, he
might, under the cover of his folly, have permission to
vent his satire against church and state. Sterne assum-
ed the manner of his master, only as a mode of attract-
ing attention, and of making the public stare; and,
therefore, his extravagancies, like those of a feigned
LAURENCE STERNE.
263
madman, are cold and forced, even in the midst of his
most irregular flights. A man may, in the present day,
be, with perfect impunity, as wise or as witty, nay, as
satirical, as he can, without assuming the cap and bells
of the ancient jester as an apology; and that Sterne
chose voluntarily to appear under such a disguise, must
be set down as mere affectation, and ranked with his
unmeaning tricks of black or marbled pages, employed
merely ad captandum vulgus. All popularity thus
founded, carries in it the seeds of decay; for eccen-
tricity in composition, like fantastic modes of dress,
however attractive when first introduced, is sure to be
caricatured by stupid imitators, to become soon unfa-
shionable, and of course to be neglected.
If we proceed to look more closely into the manner of
composition which Sterne thought proper to adopt, we
find a sure guide in the ingenious Dr. Ferriar of Man-
chester, who, with most singular patience, has traced
our author through the hidden sources whence he bor-
rowed most of his learning, and many of his more strik-
ing and peculiar expressions. Rabelais, (much less read
than spoken of,) the lively but licentious miscellany
called Moyen de Parvenir, and D'Aubigne's Baron de
Fæneste, with many other forgotten authors of the six-
teenth century, were successively laid under contribu-
tion. Burton's since celebrated work on Melancholy
(which Dr. Ferriar's Essay instantly raised to double
price in the book-market) afforded Sterne an endless
mass of quotations, with which he unscrupulously garn-
ished his pages, as if they had been collected in the
course of his own extensive reading.' The style of the
1 ["Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, 4to, 1st edition, 1624.-8th edition,
264
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
same author, together with that of Bishop Hall, furnish-
ed the author of Tristram with many of those whim-
sical expressions, similes, and illustrations, which were
long believed the genuine effusions of his own eccentric
wit. For proofs of this sweeping charge we must refer
the reader to Dr. Ferriar's well-known Essay, and Illus-
trations, as he delicately terms them, of Sterne's Writ-
ings; in which it is clearly shown, that he, whose man-
ner and style were so long thought original, was, in
fact, the most unhesitating plagiarist who ever cribbed
from his predecessors in order to garnish his own pages.
It must be owned, at the same time, that Sterne selects
folio, 1676-9th edition, 2 vols. 8vo, 1800, reprinted from the best folio
edition, 1651-2.
Robert Burton was the younger brother of William Burton, author
of the description of Leicestershire; according to Wood, 'he was an
exact mathematician, a curious calculator of nativities, a general read
scholar, a thorough-paced philologist, and one that well understood the
surveying of lands. As he was by many accounted a severe student, a
devourer of authors, a melancholy and humorous person, so by others
who knew him well, a person of great honesty, plain dealing, and
charity. I have often heard some of the ancients of Christ's Church
say, that his company was very merry, facete, and juvenile; and no
man in his time did surpass him for his ready and dexterous interlard-
ing his common discourses among them with verses from the poets, or
sentences from classic authors, which being then all the fashion in the
university, made his company the more acceptable.' Burton composed
The Anatomy with a view of relieving his own melancholy; but in-
creased it to such a degree, that nothing could make him laugh but go-
ing to the Bridgefoot, and hearing the ribaldry of the bargemen, which
rarely failed to throw him into a violent fit of laughter. His epitaph at
Christ Church, in Oxford, intimates that excessive application to this
celebrated work, the author's only production, was the occasion of his
death. Paucis notus, paucioribus ignotus, hic jacet Democritus Junior, cui
vitam dedit et mortem melancholia.
"Dr. Johnson was so well pleased with Burton's Anatomy, that he
declared it was the only book that ever enticed him out of bed two
hours earlier than he wished to rise."-DAVIS's Olio, p. 105.]
LAURENCE STERNE.
265
the materials of his mosaic work with so much art,
places them so well, and polishes them so highly, that
in most cases we are disposed to pardon the want of
originality, in consideration of the exquisite talent with
which the borrowed materials are wrought up into the
new form.
One of Sterne's most singular thefts, considering the
tenor of the passage stolen, is his declamation against
literary depredators of his own class :-
"Shall we," says Sterne, "for ever make new books, as apothecaries
make new medicines, by pouring only out of one vessel into another?
Are we for ever to be twisting and untwining-the same rope-for ever
in the same track? for ever at the same pace?"
The words of Burton are:-
"As apothecaries, we make new mixtures, every day pour out of one
vessel into another; and as the Romans robbed all the cities in the
world to set out their bad-sited Rome, we skim the cream of other
men's wits, pick the choice flowers of their tilled gardens, to set out our
own sterile plots. We weave the same web, still twist the same rope
again and again."
We cannot help wondering at the coolness with which
Sterne could transfer to his own work so eloquent a
tirade against the very arts which he was practising.
Much has been said about the right of an author to
avail himself of his predecessors' labors; and certainly,
in a general sense, he that revives the wit and learning
of a former age, and puts it into the form likely to cap-
tivate his own, confers a benefit on his contemporaries.
But to plume himself with the very language and
phrases of former writers, and to pass their wit and
learning for his own, was the more unworthy in Sterne,
as he had enough of original talent, had he chosen to
exert it, to have dispensed with all such acts of literary
petty larceny.
266
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Tristram Shandy is no narrative, but a collection of
scenes, dialogues, and portraits, humorous or affecting,
intermixed with much wit, and with much learning, ori-
ginal or borrowed. It resembles the irregularities of a
Gothic room, built by some fanciful collector, to contain
the miscellaneous remnants of antiquity which his pains
have accumulated, and bearing as little proportion in its
parts, as there is connexion between the pieces of rusty
armor with which it is decorated. Viewing it in this
light, the principal figure is Mr. Shandy the elder,
whose character is formed in many respects upon that
of Martinus Scriblerus. The history of Martin was
designed by the celebrated club of wits, by whom it
was commenced, as a satire upon the ordinary pursuits
of learning and science. Sterne, on the contrary, had
no particular object of ridicule; his business was only
to create a person, to whom he could attach the great
quantity of extraordinary reading and antiquated learn-
ing which he had collected. He, therefore, supposed in
Mr. Shandy a man of an active and metaphysical, but
at the same time a whimsical cast of mind, whom too
much and too miscellaneous learning had brought with-
in a step or two of madness, and who acted in the or-
dinary affairs of life upon the absurd theories adopted
by the pedants of past ages. He is most admirably
contrasted with his wife, well described as a good lady
of the true poco-curante school, who neither obstructed
the progress of her husband's hobbyhorse, to use a
phrase which Sterne has rendered classical, nor could be
prevailed upon to spare him the least admiration for the
grace and dexterity with which he managed it.
Yorick the lively, witty, sensitive, and heedless Par-
son, is the well-known personification of Sterne himself,
LAURENCE STERNE.
267
and undoubtedly, like every portrait of himself drawn
by a master of the art, bore a strong resemblance to the
original. Still, however, there are shades of simplicity
thrown into the character of Yorick, which did not
exist in that of Sterne. We cannot believe, that the
jests of the latter were so void of malice prepense, or
that his satire flowed entirely out of honesty of mind
and mere jocundity of humor. It must be owned,
moreover, that Sterne was more like to have stolen a
passage out of Stevinus, if he could have found one to
his purpose, than to have left one of his manuscripts in
the volume, with the careless indifference of Yorick.
Still, however, we gladly recognise the general likeness.
between the author and the child of his fancy, and will-
ingly pardon the pencil, which, in the delicate task of
self-delineation, has softened some traits of his own
features and improved others.
Uncle Toby and his faithful squire, the most delight-
ful characters in the work, or perhaps in any other, are
drawn with such a pleasing force and discrimination,
that they more than entitle the author to a free pardon
for his literary peculations, his indecorum, and his affec-
tation; nay authorize, him to leave the court of criti-
cism not forgiven only, but applauded and rewarded as
one who has exalted and honored humanity, and im-
pressed upon his readers such a lively picture of kind-
ness and benevolence, blended with courage, gallantry,
and simplicity, that their hearts must be warmed when-
ever it is recalled to memory. Sterne, indeed, might´
boldly plead in his own behalf, that the passages which
he borrowed from others were of little value, in compa-
rison to those which are exclusively original; and that
the former might have been written by many persons,
268
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
while in his own proper line he stands alone and inimi-
table. Something of extravagance may, perhaps, attach
to Uncle Toby's favorite amusements. Yet in England,
where men think and act with little regard to ridicule
or censure of their neighbors, there is no impossibility,
perhaps no great improbability in supposing, that a
humorist might employ such a mechanical aid as my
Uncle's bowling-green, in order to encourage and assist
his imagination, in the pleasing but delusive task of
castle-building. Men have been called children of lar-
ger growth, and among the antic toys and devices with
which they are amused, the device of my Uncle, with
whose pleasures we are so much disposed to sympathize,
does not seem so unnatural upon reflection as it may
appear at first sight.
It is well known (through Dr. Ferriar's labors) that
Dr. Slop, with all his obstetrical engines, may be identi-
fied with Dr. Burton of York, who published a Treatise
of Midwifery in 1751. This person, as we have.else-
where noticed, was on bad terms with Sterne's uncle;
and though there had come strife and unkindness
between the uncle and the nephew, yet the latter seems
to have retained aversion against the enemy of the for-
mer. But Sterne, being no politician, had forgiven the
Jacobite, and only persecutes the Doctor with his rail-
lery, as a quack and a Catholic.
It is needless to dwell longer on a work so generally
known. The style employed by Sterne is fancifully
ornamented, but at the same time vigorous and mascu-
line, and full of that animation and force which can
only be derived by an intimate acquaintance with the
early English prose-writers. In the power of approach-
ing and touching the finer feelings of the heart, he has
?
LAURENCE STERNE.
269
never been excelled, if indeed he has ever been equalled ;
and may be at once recorded as one of the most affected,
and one of the most simple writers,-as one of the
greatest plagiarists, and one of the most original
geniuses, whom England has produced. Dr. Ferriar,
who seemed born to trace and detect the various mazes
through which Sterne carried on his depredations upon
ancient and dusty authors, apologizes for the rigor of
his inquest, by doing justice to those merits which were
peculiarly our author's own. We cannot better close
this article than with the sonnet in which his ingenious
inquisitor makes the amende honorable to the shade of
Yorick.
((
Sterne, for whose sake I plod through miry ways,
Of antique wit and quibbling mazes drear,
Let not thy shade malignant censure fear,
Though aught of borrowed mirth my search betrays.
Long slept that mirth in dust of ancient days,
(Erewhile to Guise or wanton Valois dear ;)
Till waked by thee in Skelton's joyous pile,
She flung on Tristram her capricious rays;
But the quick tear that checks our wondering smile,
In sudden pause or unexpected story,
Owns thy true mastery-and Le Fevre's woes,
Maria's wanderings, and the Prisoner's throes,
Fix thee conspicuous on the throne of glory."

HORACE WALPOLE.
THE Castle of Otranto is remarkable, not only for the
wild interest of the story, but as the first modern attempt
to found a tale of amusing fiction upon the basis of the
ancient romances of chivalry. The neglect and discredit
of these venerable legends had commenced so early as
the reign of Queen Elizabeth, when, as we learn from
the criticism of the times, Spenser's fairy web was
approved rather on account of the mystic and allegori-
cal interpretation, than the plain and obvious meaning
of his chivalrous pageant. The drama, which shortly.
afterwards rose into splendor, and English versions from
the innumerable novelists of Italy, supplied to the
higher class the amusement which their fathers received
from the legends of Don Belianis and the Mirror of
Knighthood; and the huge volumes, which were once.
the pastime of nobles and princes, shorn of their orna-
ments, and shrunk into abridgements, were banished to
the kitchen or nursery, or, at best, to the hall-window of
the old-fashioned country manor-house. Under Charles
II., the prevailing taste for French literature dictated
introduction of those dullest of dull folios, the
ces of Calprenede and Scuderi, works which hover
the ancient tale of chivalry and the modern
e alliance was so ill conceived, that these
tomes retained all the insufferable length and
the prose volumes of chivalry, the same

HORACE WALPOLE.
271
detailed account of reiterated and unvaried combats,
the same unnatural and extravagant turn of incident,
without the rich and sublime strokes of genius, and
vigour of imagination, which often distinguished the
carly romance; while they exhibited all the unnatural
metaphysical jargon, sentimental languor, and flat love-
intrigue of the novel, without being enlivened by its
variety of character, just traits of feeling, or acute
views of life. Such an ill-imagined species of composi-
tion retained its ground longer than might have been
expected, only because these romances were called works
of entertainment, and that there was nothing better to
supply their room. Even in the days of the Spectator,
Clelia, Cleopatra, and the Grand Cyrus, (as that precious
folio is christened by its butcherly translator,) were the
favorite closet companions of the fair sex. But this
unnatural taste began to give way early in the eighteenth
century; and, about the middle of it, was entirely super-
seded by the works of Le Sage, Richardson, Fielding,
and Smollett; so that even the very name of romance,
now so venerable in the ear of antiquaries and book-col-
lectors, was almost forgotten at the time The Castle of
Otranto made its first appearance.
The peculiar situation of Horace Walpole, the inge-
nious author of this work, was such as gave him a
decided predilection for what may be called the Gothic
style, a term which he contributed not a little to rescue.
from the bad fame into which it had fallen, being cur-
rently used before his time to express whatever was in
pointed and diametrical opposition to the rules of true
taste.
Horace Walpole, it is needless to remind the reader,
was the son of Sir Robert Walpole, that celebrated
272
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
minister, who held the reigns of government under two
successive monarchs, with a grasp so firm and uncon-
trolled, that his power seemed entwined with the rights
of the Brunswick family. Horace was born in the year
1716-17; was educated at Eton, and formed, at that
celebrated seminary, a school-boy acquaintance with the
celebrated Gray, which continued during the earlier
part of their residence together at Cambridge, so that
they became fellow-travellers by joint consent in 1739.
They disagreed and parted on the continent; the youth-
ful vivacity, and, perhaps, the aristocratic assumption
of Walpole, not agreeing with the somewhat formal
opinions and habits of the professed man of letters.'
In the reconciliation afterwards effected between them,
Walpole frankly took on himself the blame of the rup-
ture, and they continued friends until Gray's death.
1 ["At Reggio arose an unfortunate dispute, which ended in their
sudden separation; and of this dispute and separation Mr. Walpole was
afterwards content to bear the blame. He represents, as the cause of
the quarrel, that Gray was 'too serious a companion' for him. 'Gray,'
he says,
was for antiquities, &c., while I was for perpetual balls and
plays; the fault was mine.' The difference of temper here mentioned
has been already hinted at, and had probably, for a considerable time,
been preparing the mind of both parties for the crisis of a rupture.
Walpole was vain, and had early been accustomed to flattery; Gray
was no courtier, and might, on his part, have betrayed something of
discontent at being so long dependent, in his own movements, on those
of another. But for information on the immediate cause of this
quarrel, we are indebted to Mr. Mitford, who states, on what would
claim to be considered good authority, that Mr. Walpole, suspecting
Gray of having spoken ill of him to his friends in England, clandes-
tinely opened a letter of his and re-scaled it,—an injury which Mr.
Gray very properly resented. If any thing could add to the meanness
of such an action, it was the cowardly manner in which it is slurred
over in Mr. Walpole's general acknowledgement of blame, and that too,
as though he thought the world, judging by its own maxims, would
readily acquit him."-Life and Works of Gray, vol. i., p. 28.]
HORACE. WALPOLE.
273
When Walpole returned to England, he obtained a
seat in Parliament, and entered public life as the son of
a prime minister as powerful as England had known for
more than a century. When the father occupied such a
situation, his sons had necessarily their full share of that
court which is usually paid to the near connexions of
those who have the patronage of the state at their dis-
posal. To the feeling of importance inseparable from
the object of such attention, was added the early habit
of connecting and associating the interest of Sir Robert
Walpole, and even the domestic affairs of his family,
with the parties in the Royal Family of England, and
with the changes in the public affairs of Europe. It is
not therefore wonderful, that the turn of Horace Wal-
-pole's mind, which was naturally tinged with the love of
pedigree, and a value for family honors, should have
been strengthened in that bias by circumstances, which
seemed, as it were, to implicate the fate of his own house
with that of princes, and to give the shields of the Wal-
poles, Shorters, and Robsarts, from whom he descended,
an added dignity, unknown to their original owners. If
Mr. Walpole ever founded hopes of raising himself to
political eminence, and turning his family importance to
advantage in his career, the termination of his father's
power, and the personal change with which he felt it
attended, disgusted him with active life, and early con-
signed him to literary retirement. He had, indeed, a
seat in Parliament for many years; but, unless upon one
. occasion, when he vindicated the memory of his father
with great dignity and eloquence, he took no share in
the debates of the House, and not much interest in the
parties which maintained them. Indeed, in the account
which he has himself rendered us of his own views and
274
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
dispositions with respect to state affairs, he seems rather
to have been bent on influencing party spirit, and bust-
ling in public affairs, for the sake of embroilment and
intrigue, than in order to carry any particular measure,
whether important to himself, or of consequence to the
state. In the year 1758, and at the active age of forty-
one, secured from the caprices of fortune, he retired
altogether from public life, to enjoy his own pursuits
and studies in retirement. His father's care had invested
him with three good sinecure offices, so that his income,
managed with economy, which no one understood better
how to practise, was sufficient for his expense in matters
of virtu, as well as for maintaining his high rank in
society.
The subjects of Horace Walpole's studies were, in a
great measure, dictated by his habits of thinking and
feeling operating upon an animated imagination, and a
mind, acute, active, penetrating and fraught with a great
variety of miscellaneous knowledge. Travelling had
formed his taste for the fine arts; but his early predilec-
tion in favor of birth and rank connected even those
branches of study with that of Gothic history and anti-
quities. His Anecdotes of Painting and Engraving
evince many marks of his favorite pursuits; but his
Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors, and his His-
torical Doubts, we owe entirely to his pursuits as an
antiquary and genealogist. The former work evinces,
in a particular degree, Mr. Walpole's respect for birth
and rank; yet is, perhaps, ill calculated to gain much
sympathy for either. It would be difficult, by any pro-
cess or principle of subdivision, to select a list of as
many plebeian authors, containing so very few whose
genius was worthy of commemoration; but it was
HORACE WALPOLE.
275
66
always Walpole's foible to disclaim a professed pursuit
of public favor, for which, however, he earnestly
thirsted, and to hold himself forth as a privileged
author, one of the right-hand file," who did not mean
to descend into the common arena, where professional
authors contend before the public eye, but wrote merely
to gratify his own taste, by throwing away a few idle
hours on literary composition. There was much affec-
tation in this, which accordingly met the reward which
affectation usually incurs; as Walpole seems to have
suffered a good deal from the criticism which he affected
to despise, and occasionally from the neglect which he
appeared to court.
The Historical Doubts are an acute and curious exam-
ple how minute antiquarian research may shake our faith
in the facts most pointedly averred by general history.
It is remarkable also to observe, how, in defending a
system which was probably at first adopted as a mere
literary exercise, Mr. Walpole's doubts acquired, in his
own eyes, the respectability of certainties, in which he
could not brook controversy.
Mr. Walpole's domestic occupations, as well as his
studies, bore evidence of a taste for English antiquities,
which was then uncommon. He loved, as a satirist has
expressed it, "to gaze on Gothic toys through Gothic
glass;" and the villa at Strawberry Hill, which he chose
for his abode, gradually swelled into a feudal castle, by
the addition of turrets, towers, galleries, and corridors,
whose fretted roofs, carved panels, and illuminated win-
dows, were garnished with the appropriate furniture of
scutcheons, armorial bearings, shields, tilting lances, and
all the panoply of chivalry. The Gothic order of archi-
tecture is now so generally, and, indeed, indiscriminately
276
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
used, that we are rather surprised if the country-house
of a tradesman retired from business does not exhibit
lanceolated windows, divided by stone shafts, and gar-
nished by painted glass, a cupboard in the form of a ca-
thedral-stall, and a pig-house with a front borrowed
from the façade of an ancient chapel. But, in the mid-
dle of the eighteenth century, when Mr. Walpole began
to exhibit specimens of the Gothic style, and to show
how patterns, collected from cathedrals and monuments,
might be applied to chimney-pieces, ceilings, windows,
and balustrades, he did not comply with the dictates of
a prevailing fashion, but pleased his own taste, and real-
ized his own visions, in the romantic cast of the mansion
which he erected.
Mr. Walpole's lighter studies were conducted upon
the same principle which influenced his historical re-
searches, and his taste in architecture. His extensive
acquaintance with foreign literature, in which he justly
prided himself, was subordinate to his pursuits as an
English antiquary and genealogist, in which he gleaned
subjects for poetry and for romantic fiction, as well as
for historical controversy. These are studies, indeed,
proverbially dull; but it is only when they are pursued
by those whose fancies nothing can enliven. A Horace
Walpole, or a Thomas Warton, is not a mere collector
of dry and minute facts, which the general historian
passes over with disdain. He brings with him the torch
of genius, to illuminate the ruins through which he loves
to wander; nor does the classic scholar derive more in-
spiration from the pages of Virgil, than such an anti-
quary from the glowing, rich, and powerful feudal
painting of Froissart. His mind being thus stored with
information, accumulated by researches into the anti-
HORACE WALPOLE.
277
quities of the middle ages, and inspired, as he himself
informs us, by the romantic cast of his own habitation,
Mr. Walpole resolved to give the public a specimen of
the Gothic style adapted to modern literature, as he
had already exhibited its application to modern archi-
tecture.
As, in his model of a Gothic modern mansion, our au-
thor had studiously endeavored to fit to the purposes of
modern convenience or luxury, the rich, varied, and
complicated tracery and carving of the ancient cathe-
dral, so, in The Castle of Otranto, it was his object to
unite the marvellous turn of incident, and imposing
tone of chivalry, exhibited in the ancient romance, with
that accurate display of human character, and contrast
of feelings and passions, which is, or ought to be, de-
lineated in the modern novel. But Mr. Walpole, being
uncertain of the reception which a work upon so new a
plan might experience from the world, and not caring,
perhaps, to encounter the ridicule which would have at-
tended its failure, The Castle of Otranto was, in 1764,
ushered into the world, as a translation, by William
Marshall, from the Italian of Onuphrio Muralto, a sort
of anagram, or translation, of the author's own name.
It did not, however, long impose upon the critics of the
day. It was soon suspected to proceed from a more ele-
gant pen than that of any William Marshall, and, in the
second edition, Walpole disclosed the secret. In a pri-
vate letter, he gave the following account of the origin
of the composition, in which he contradicts the ordinary
assertion, that it was completed in eight days.
"9th March, 1763.
"Shall I confess to you what was the origin of this romance? I
waked one morning in the beginning of last June from a dream, of
278
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
which all I could recover was, that I had thought myself in an ancient
castle, (a very natural dream for a head filled like mine with Gothic
story,) and that on the uppermost bannister of a great staircase, I saw a
gigantic hand in armor. In the evening I sat down and began to write,
without knowing in the least what I intended to say or relate. The
work grew on my hands, and I grew fond of it. Add, that I was very
glad to think of any thing rather than politics. In short, I was so en-
grossed with my tale, which I completed in less than two months, that
one evening I wrote from the time I had drank my tea, about six
o'clock, till half an hour after one in the morning, when my hands and
fingers were so weary, that I could not hold the pen to finish the sen-
tence, but left Matilda and Isabella talking in the middle of a para-
graph."
It does not seem that the authenticity of the narrative
was at first suspected. Mr. Gray writes to Mr. Walpole,
on the 30th December, 1764 :—
"I have received The Castle of Otranto, and return you my thanks for
it. It engages our attention here, (i. e. at Cambridge,) makes some of
us cry a little; and all, in general, afraid to go to bed o' nights. We
take it for a translation; and should believe it to be a true story, if it
were not for St. Nicholas."
The friends of the author, as appears from the letter
already quoted, were probably soon permitted to peep
beneath the veil he had thought proper to assume; and,
in the second edition, it was altogether withdrawn by a
preface, in which the tendency and nature of the work
are shortly commented upon and explained. From the
following passage, translated from a letter by the author
to Madame Deffand, it would seem that he repented of
having laid aside his incognito; and sensitive to criti-
cism, like most dilettante authors, was rather more hurt
by the raillery of those who liked not his tale of chival-
ry, than gratified by the applause of his admirers.
"So they have translated my Castle of Otranto, probably in ridicule of
the author. So be it;-however, I beg you will let their raillery pass in
silence. Let the critics have their own way; they give me no uneasi-
I have not written the book for the present age, which will en-
ness.
HORACE WALPOLE.
279
dure nothing but cold common sense. I confess to you, my dear friend,
(and you will think me madder than ever,) that this is the only one of
my works with which I am myself pleased; I have given reins to my
imagination till I became on fire with the visions and feelings which it
excited. I have composed it in defiance of rules, of critics, and of phi-
losophers; and it seems to me just so much the better for that very
reason. I am even persuaded, that some time hereafter, when taste
shall resume the place which philosophy now occupies, my poor Castle
will find admirers; we have actually a few among us already, for I am
just publishing the third edition. I do not say this in order to mendi-
cate your approbation.¹ I told you from the beginning you would not
like the book,—your visions are all in a different style. I am not sorry
that the translator has given the Second Preface; the first, however,
accords best with the style of the fiction. I wished it to be believed
ancient, and almost every body was imposed upon."
If the public applause, however, was sufficiently quali-
fied by the voice of censure to alarm the feelings of the
author, the continued demand for various editions of
The Castle of Otranto, showed how high the work really
stood in popular estimation, and probably eventually re-
conciled Mr. Walpole to the taste of his own age. This
romance has been justly considered not only as the ori-
ginal and model of a peculiar species of composition, at-
tempted and successfully executed by a man of great
genius, but as one of the standard works of our lighter
literature.
Horace Walpole continued the mode of life which he
had adopted so early as 1753, until his death, unless it
may be considered as an alteration, that his sentiments
of Whiggism, which, he himself assures us, almost
amounted to Republicanism, received a shock from
the French Revolution, which he appears from its com-
1 Madame Deffand had mentioned having read The Castle of Otranto,
twice over; but she did not add a word of approbation. She blamed
the translator for giving the Second Preface, chiefly because she thought
it might commit Walpole with Voltaire.
>
280
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
mencement to have thoroughly detested. The tenor
of his life could be hardly said to suffer interruption by
his father's earldom of Orford devolving upon him when
he had reached his 74th year, by the death of his ne-
phew. He scarce assumed the title, and died a few
years after it had descended to him, 2d March, 1797, at
his house in Berkeley square.
While these sheets are passing through the press, we
have found in Miss Hawkins's very entertaining remini-
scences of her early abode at Twickenham, the following
description of the person of Horace Walpole, before
1772, giving us the most lively idea of the person and
manners of a Man of Fashion about the middle of the
last century—
"His figure was not merely tall, but more properly long and slender
to excess; his complexion, and particularly his hands, of a most un-
healthy paleness. His eyes were remarkably bright and penetrating,
very dark and lively: his voice was not strong, but his tones were ex-
tremely pleasant, and, if I may so say, highly gentlemanly. I do not
remember his common gait; he always entered a room in that style of
affected delicacy, which fashion had then made almost natural; chapeau
bras between his hands, as if he wished to compress it, or under his
arm; knees bent, and feet on tiptoe, as if afraid of a wet floor.-His
dress in visiting was most usually, in summer, when I most saw him, a
lavender suit, the waistcoat embroidered with a little silk, or of white
silk worked in the tambour, partridge silk stockings, and gold buckles,
ruffles and frill generally lace. I remember, when a child, thinking him
very much under-dressed, if at any time, except in mourning, he wore
hemmed cambric. In summer no powder, but his wig combed straight,
and showing his very smooth, pale forehead, and queued behind; in
winter, powder."
We cannot help thinking that this most respectable
lady, by whose communications respecting eminent in-
dividuals the public has been so much obliged, has been
a little too severe on the Gothic whims of the architec-
ture at Strawberry Hill. The admirers of the fine arts
HORACE WALPOLE.
281
should have forbearance for each other, when their fer-
vent admiration of a favorite pursuit leads them into
those extremes which are caviar to the multitude. And
as the ear of the architect should not be hasty to con-
demn the over-learned conceits of the musician, so the
eye of the musician should have some toleration for the
turrets and pinnacles of the fascinated builder.
It is foreign to our plan to say much of Horace Wal-
pole's individual character. His works bear evidence to
his talents; and, even striking out the horribly impres-
sive but disgusting drama of The Mysterious Mother,
and the excellent romance which we are about to ana-
lyze more critically, they must leave him the reputation
of a man of excellent taste, and certainly of being the
best letter-writer in the English language.
In private life, his temper appears to have been pre-
carious; and though expensive in indulging his own
taste, he always seems to have done so on the most
economical terms possible. He is often, in his epistolary
correspondence, harsh and unkind to Madame Deffand,
whose talents, her blindness, and her enthusiastic affec-
tion for him, claimed every indulgence from a warm-
hearted man. He is also severe and rigid towards Bent-
ley, whose taste and talents he had put into continual
requisition for the ornaments of his house.'
These are
unamiable traits of character, and they have been quoted
often, and exaggerated much. But his memory has suf-
fered most on account of his conduct towards Chatter-
ton, in which we have always thought he was perfectly
defensible. That unhappy son of genius endeavored to
¹ [Mr. Bentley, the son of the famous Doctor, and the author of “ The
Wishes." See particulars respecting him in the Memoirs of his nephew,
Mr. Cumberland.]
282
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
impose upon Walpole a few stanzas of very inferior
merit, as ancient; and sent him an equally gross and
palpable imposture under the shape of a pretended List
of Painters. Walpole's sole crime lies in not patronis-
ing at once a young man, who only appeared before him
in the character of a very inartificial impostor, though
he afterwards proved himself a gigantic one. The fate
of Chatterton lies, not at the door of Walpole, but of
the public at large, who, two years (we believe) after-
wards, were possessed of the splendid proofs of his na-
tural powers, and any one of whom was as much
called upon as Walpole to prevent the most unhappy
catastrophe.
Finally, it must be recorded to Walpole's praise, that,
though not habitually liberal, he was strictly just, and
readily parted with that portion of his income which the
necessities of the state required. He may, perhaps, have
mistaken his character when he assumes as its principal
characteristic, “disinterestedness and contempt of mo-
ney," which, he intimates, was with him less "a virtue
than a passion." But by the generous and apparently
most sincere offer to divide his whole income with Mar-
shal Conway, he showed, that if there existed in his bo-
som more love of money than perhaps he was himself
aware of, it was subjugated to the influence of the
nobler virtues and feelings.
We are now to offer a few remarks on The Castle of
Otranto, and on the class of compositions to which it
belongs, and of which it was the precursor.
It is doing injustice to Mr. Walpole's memory to al-
lege, that all which he aimed at in The Castle of Otranto,
was "the art of exciting surprise and horror;" or, in
other words, the appeal to that secret and reserved feel-
HORACE WALPOLE.
283
ing of love for the marvellous and supernatural, which
occupies a hidden corner in almost every one's bosom.
Were this all which he had attempted, the means by
which he sought to attain his purpose might, with jus-
tice, be termed both clumsy and puerile. But Mr. Wal-
pole's purpose was both more difficult of attainment, and
more important when attained. It was his object to
draw such a picture of domestic life and manners, dur-
ing the feudal times, as might actually have existed, and
to paint it checkered and agitated by the action of super-
natural machinery, such as the superstition of the period
received as matter of devout credulity. The natural
parts of the narrative are so contrived, that they asso-
ciate themselves with the marvellous occurrences; and,
by the force of that association, render those speciosa
miracula striking and impressive, though our cooler rea-
son admits their impossibility. Indeed, to produce, in a
well-cultivated mind, any portion of that surprise and
fear which are founded on supernatural events, the
frame and tenor of the whole story must be adjusted in
perfect harmony with this main-spring of the interest.
He who, in early youth, has happened to pass a solitary
night in one of the few ancient mansions which the
fashion of more modern times has left undespoiled of
their original furniture, has probably experienced, that
the gigantic and preposterous figures dimly visible in
the defaced tapestry,-the remote clang of the distant
doors which divide him from living society,-the deep
darkness which involves the high and fretted roof of the
apartment, the dimly-seen pictures of ancient knights,
renowned for their valor, and perhaps for their crimes,-
the varied and indistinct sounds which disturb the silent
desolation of a half-deserted mansion,-and, to crown
284
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
all, the feeling that carries us back to ages of feudal
power and papal superstition, join together to excite a
corresponding sensation of supernatural awe, if not of
terror. It is in such situations, when superstition be-
comes contagious, that we listen with respect, and even
with dread, to the legends which are our sport in the
garish light of sunshine, and amid the dissipating sights
and sounds of everyday life. Now, it seems to have
been Walpole's object to attain, by the minute accuracy
of a fable, sketched with singular attention to the cos-
tume of the period in which the scene was laid, that
same association, which might prepare his reader's mind
for the reception of prodigies congenial to the creed and
feelings of the actors. His feudal tyrant, his distressed
damsel, his resigned yet dignified churchman,-the Cas-
tle itself, with its feudal arrangements of dungeons,
trap-doors, oratories, and galleries, the incidents of the
trial, the chivalrous procession, and the combat ;—in
short, the scene, the performers, and action, so far as it
is natural, form the accompaniments of his spectres and
his miracles, and have the same effect on the mind of
the reader, that the appearance and drapery of such a
chamber as we have described may produce upon that
of a temporary inmate. This was a task which required
no little learning, no ordinary degree of fancy, no com-
mon portion of genius, to execute. The association of
which we have spoken is of a nature peculiarly delicate,
and subject to be broken and disarranged. It is, for
instance, almost impossible to build such a modern
Gothic structure as shall impress us with the feelings we
have endeavored to describe. It may be grand, or it
may be gloomy; it may excite magnificent or melancholy
ideas; but it must fail in bringing forth the sensation of
HORACE WALPOLE.
285
!
supernatural awe, connected with halls that have echoed
to the sounds of remote generations, and have been
pressed by the footsteps of those who have long since
passed away. Yet Horace Walpole has attained in com-
position, what, as an architect, he must have felt beyond
the power of his art. The remote and superstitious pe-
riod in which his scene is laid,—the art with which he
has furnished forth its Gothic decorations,—the sus-
tained, and, in general, the dignified tone of feudal man-
ners,―prepare us gradually for the favorable reception
of prodigies, which, though they could not really have
happened at any period, were consistent with the belief
of all mankind at that in which the action is placed. It
was, therefore, the author's object, not merely to excite
surprise and terror, by the introduction of supernatural
agency, but to wind up the feelings of his reader till
they became for a moment identified with those of a
ruder age, which
"Held each strange tale devoutly true."
The difficulty of attaining this nice accuracy of de-
lineation may be best estimated by comparing The
Castle of Otranto with the less successful efforts of later
writers; where, amid all their attempts to assume the
tone of antique chivalry, something occurs in every
chapter so decidedly incongruous, as at once reminds us
of an ill-sustained masquerade, in which ghosts, knights-
errant, magicians, and damsels gent, are all equipped in
hired dresses from the same warehouse in Tavistock
Street.
There is a remarkable particular in which Mr. Wal-
pole's steps have been departed from by the most distin-
guished of his followers.
286
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Romantic narrative is of two kinds,—that which, being
in itself possible, may be matter of belief at any period;
and that which, though held impossible by more en-
lightened ages, was yet consonant with the faith of
earlier times. The subject of The Castle of Otranto is
of the latter class. Mrs. Radcliffe, a name not to be
mentioned without the high respect due to genius, has
endeavored to effect a compromise between those diffe-
rent styles of narrative, by referring her prodigies to an
explanation founded on natural causes, in the latter
chapter of her romances. To this improvement upon
the Gothic romance, there are so many objections, that
we own ourselves inclined to prefer, as more simple and
impressive, the narrative of Walpole, which details su-
pernatural incidents as they would have been readily be-
lieved and received in the eleventh or twelfth century.
In the first place, The reader feels indignant at discover-
ing that he has been cheated into sympathy with ter-
rors, which are finally explained as having proceeded
from some very simple cause; and the interest of a se-
cond reading is entirely destroyed by his having been
admitted behind the scenes at the conclusion of the first.
Secondly, The precaution of relieving our spirits from
the influence of supposed supernatural terror, seems as
unnecessary in a work of professed fiction, as that of
the prudent Bottom, who proposed that the human face
of the representative of his lion should appear from un-
der his masque, and acquaint the audience plainly that
he was a man as other men, and nothing more than Snug
the joiner. Lastly, These substitutes for supernatural
agency are frequently to the full as improbable as the
machinery which they are introduced to explain away
pplant. The reader, who is required to admit
and
ད
HORACE WALPOLE.
287
the belief of supernatural interference, understands pre-
cisely what is demanded of him; and, if he be truly a
gentle reader, throws his mind into the attitude best
adapted to humor the deceit which is presented for his
entertainment, and grants, for the time of perusal, the
premises on which the fable depends.' But if the au-
thor voluntarily binds himself to account for all the
wondrous occurrences which he introduces, we are en-
titled to exact that the explanation shall be natural,
easy, ingenious, and complete. Every reader of such
works must remember instances, in which the explana-
tion of mysterious circumstances in the narrative has
proved equally, nay, even more incredible, than if they
had been accounted for by the agency of supernatural
beings; for the most incredulous must allow, that the
interference of such agency is more possible than that
an effect resembling it should be produced by an utterly
inadequate cause. But it is unnecessary to enlarge far-
ther on a part of the subject, which we have only men-
tioned to exculpate our author from the charge of using
machinery more clumsy than his tale from its nature re-
quired. The bold assertion of the actual existence of
phantoms and apparitions seems to us to harmonize
much more naturally with the manners of ancient times,
and to produce a more powerful effect upon the reader's
mind, than any attempt to reconcile the superstitious
credulity of feudal ages with the philosophic scepticism
of our own, by referring those prodigies to the opera-
tion of fulminating powder, combined mirrors, magic
There are instances to the contrary, however. For example, that
stern votary of severe truth, who cast aside Gulliver's Travels as con-
taining a parcel of improbable fictions.
288
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
lanterns, trap-doors, speaking-trumpets, and such-like
apparatus of German phantasmagoria.
It cannot, however, be denied, that the character of
the supernatural machinery in The Castle of Otranto is
liable to objections. Its action and interference is rather
too frequent, and presses too hard and constantly upon
the same feelings in the reader's mind, to the hazard of
diminishing the elasticity of the spring upon which it
should operate. The fund of fearful sympathy which
can be afforded by a modern reader to a tale of wonder,
is much diminished by the present habits of life and
modes of education. Our ancestors could wonder and
thrill through all the mazes of an interminable metrical
romance of fairy land, and of an enchantment, the work
perhaps of some
"Prevailing poet whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders which he sung."
But our own habits and feelings and belief are diffe-
rent, and a transient, though vivid impression, is all
that can be excited by a tale of wonder, even in the
most fanciful mind of the present day. By the too fre-
quent recurrence of his prodigies, Mr. Walpole ran,
perhaps, his greatest risk of awakening la raison froide,
that “cold common sense" which he justly deemed the
greatest enemy of the effect which he hoped to produce.
It may be added also, that the supernatural occurrences
of The Castle of Otranto are brought forward into too
strong daylight, and marked by an over degree of dis-
tinctness and accuracy of outline. A mysterious ob-
scurity seems congenial at least, if not essential, to our
ideas of disembodied spirits; and the gigantic limbs of
the ghost of Alphonso, as described by the terrified do-
HORACE WALPOLE.
289
mestics, are somewhat too distinct and corporeal to pro-
duce the feelings which their appearance is intended to
excite. This fault, however, if it be one, is more than
compensated by the high merit of many of the marvel-
lous incidents in the romance. The descent of the pic-
ture of Manfred's ancestor, although it borders on
extravagance, is finely introduced, and interrupts an
interesting dialogue with striking effect. We have
heard it observed, that the animated figure should
rather have been a statue than a picture. We greatly
doubt the justice of the criticism. The advantages of
the coloring induce us decidedly to prefer Mr. Walpole's
fiction to the proposed substitute. There are few who
have not felt, at some period of their childhood, a sort
of terror from the manner in which the eye of an an-
cient portrait appears to fix that of the spectator from
every point of view. It is, perhaps, hypercritical to re-
mark, (what, however, Walpole of all authors might
have been expected to attend to,) that the time assigned
to the action, being about the eleventh century, is rather
too early for the introduction of a full-length portrait.
The apparition of the skeleton hermit to the Prince of
Vicenza was long accounted a master-piece of the horri-
ble; but of late the valley of Jehoshaphat could hardly
supply the dry bones necessary for the exhibition of
similar spectres, so that injudicious and repeated imita-
tion has, in some degree, injured the effect of its origi-
nal model. What is more striking in The Castle of
Otranto, is the manner in which the various prodigious
appearances, bearing each upon the other, and all upon
the accomplishment of the ancient prophecy, denounc-
ing the ruin of the house of Manfred, gradually prepare
us for the grand catastrophe. The moonlight vision of
290
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Alphonso dilated to immense magnitude, the astonished
group of spectators in the front, and the shattered ruins
of the castle in the background, are briefly and sub-
limely described. We know no passage of similar
merit, unless it be the apparition of Fadzean, or Fa-
doun, in an ancient Scottish poem.¹
That part of the romance which depends upon human
feelings and agency, is conducted with the dramatic ta-
lent which afterwards was so conspicuous in The Mys-
terious Mother. The persons are indeed rather generic
than individual; but this was in a degree necessary to
a plan, calculated rather to exhibit a general view of
society and manners during the times which the au-
thor's imagination loved to contemplate, than the most
minute shades and discriminating points of particular
characters. But the actors in the romance are strik-
ingly drawn, with bold outlines becoming the age and
nature of the story. Feudal tyranny was, perhaps,
never better exemplified, than in the character of Man-
fred. He has the courage, the art, the duplicity, the
ambition, of a barbarous chieftain of the dark ages, yet
with touches of remorse and natural feeling, which
preserve some sympathy for him when his pride is
quelled and his race extinguished. The pious Monk,
and the patient Hippolita, are well contrasted with this
1 This spectre, the ghost of a follower whom he had slain upon sus-
picion of treachery, appeared to no less a person than Wallace, the
champion of Scotland, in the ancient castle of Gask-hall.-See Ellis's
Specimens, vol. i.-["In the first book of The Jerusalem of Lope de Vega,
there is an incident like a very remarkable one in the Castle of Otranto,
the picture of Norandine stalks from its panel, and addresses Saladine;
-the resemblance may be merely accidental, but if Horace Walpole
had looked at the beginning of the poem, it is the first thing which he
would have found there.”—Quarterly Review, Oct. 1817,]
HORACE WALPOLE.
291
selfish and tyrannical Prince. Theodore is the juvenile
hero of a romantic tale, and Matilda has more interest-
ing sweetness than usually belongs to its heroine.
the character of Isabella is studiously kept down, in
order to relieve that of the daughter of Manfred, few
readers are pleased with the concluding insinuation,
that she became at length the bride of Theodore. This
is in some degree a departure from the rules of chivalry;
and, however natural an occurrence in common life,
rather injures the magic illusions of romance. In other
respects, making an allowance for the extraordinary in-
cidents of a dark and tempestuous age, the story, so far
as within the course of natural events, is happily de-
tailed, its progress is uniform, its events interesting and
well combined, and the conclusion grand, tragical, and
affecting.
The style of The Castle of Otranto is pure and cor-
rect English of the earlier and more classical standard.
Mr. Walpole rejected, upon taste and principle, those
heavy though powerful auxiliaries which Dr. Johnson
imported from the Latin language, and which have since
proved to many a luckless wight, who has essayed to
use them, as unmanageable as the gauntlets of Eryx,
-et pondus et ipsa
Huc illuc vinclorum immensa volumina versat.
Neither does the purity of Mr. Walpole's language, and
the simplicity of his narrative, admit that luxuriant,
florid, and high-varnished landscape painting, with
which Mrs. Radcliffe often adorned, and not unfre-
quently encumbered, her kindred romances. Descrip-
tion, for its own sake, is scarcely once attempted in The
Castle of Otranto; and if authors would consider how
292
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
very much this restriction tends to realize narrative,
they might be tempted to abridge at least the showy
and wordy exuberance of a style fitter for poetry than
prose. It is for the dialogue that Walpole reserves his
strength; and it is remarkable how, while conducting
his mortal agents with all the art of a modern dramatist,
he adheres to the sustained tone of chivalry, which
marks the period of the action. This is not attained by
patching his narrative or dialogue with glossarial terms
or antique phraseology, but by taking care to exclude
all that can awaken modern associations. In the one
case his romance would have resembled a modern dress,
preposterously decorated with antique ornaments; in
its present shape, he has retained the form of the an-
cient armor, but not its rust and cobwebs. In illustra-
tion of what is above stated, we refer the reader to the
first interview of Manfred with the Prince of Vicenza,
where the manners and language of chivalry are finely
painted, as well as the perturbation of conscious guilt,
confusing itself in attempted exculpation, even before a
mute accuser. The characters of the inferior domestics
have been considered as not bearing a proportion suffi-
ciently dignified to the rest of the story. But this is a
point on which the author has pleaded his own cause
fully in the original Prefaces.
We have only to add, in conclusion to these desultory
remarks, that if Horace Walpole, who led the way in
this new species of literary composition, has been sur-
passed by some of his followers in diffuse brilliancy of
description, and perhaps in the art of detaining the
mind of the reader in a state of feverish and anxious
suspense, through a protracted and complicated narra-
tive, more will yet remain with him than the single
HORACE WALPOLE.
293
merit of originality and invention. The applause due
to chastity and precision of style,-to a happy combina-
tion of supernatural agency with human interest,-to a
tone of feudal manners and language, sustained by cha-
racters strongly drawn and well discriminated, and to
unity of action, producing scenes alternately of interest
and of grandeur ;-the applause, in fine, which cannot
be denied to him who can excite the passions of fear
and of pity, must be awarded to the author of The
Castle of Otranto.¹
¹ [The reader is referred to Mr. D'Israeli's Calamities of Authors for a
variety of piquant details respecting Lord Orford's literary and per-
sonal character; as also to the Quarterly Review, on his posthumous
"Memoirs of the last Ten Years of George II.," and a brilliant article in
the Edinburgh Review for January, 1834, on his "Letters to Sir Horace
Mann," edited in 1833 by the late Lord Dover. There are also various
interesting passages concerning Walpole in Byron's Letters and Diaries.
Lord B. in one place lauds him as the author of the last English Tra-
gedy, and the first English Romance.]
CLARA REEVE.
CLARA REEVE, the ingenious authoress of The Old
English Baron, was the daughter of the Reverend
William Reeve, M.A., Rector of Freston, and of Ker-
ton, in Suffolk, and perpetual Curate of Saint Nicholas.
Her grandfather was the Reverend Thomas Reeve,
Rector of Storeham Aspal, and afterwards of St. Mary
Stoke, in Ipswich, where the family had been long resi-
dent, and enjoyed the rights of free burghers. Miss
Reeve's mother's maiden name was Smithies, daughter
of
Smithies, goldsmith and jeweller to King
George I.
In a letter to a friend, Mrs. Reeve thus speaks of her
father:-"My father was an old Whig ; from him I have
learned all that I know; he was my oracle; he used to
make me read the Parliamentary debates while he
smoked his pipe after supper. I gaped and yawned
over them at the time, but, unawares to myself, they
fixed my principles once and for ever. He made me read
Rapin's History of England; the information it gave,
made amends for its dryness. I read Cato's Letters, by
Trenchard and Gordon; I read the Greek and Roman
Histories, and Plutarch's Lives;-all these at an age
when few people of either sex can read their names.”
The Reverend Mr. Reeve, himself one of a family of
eight children, had the same numerous succession ; and
it is therefore likely, that it was rather Clara's strong
natural turn for study, than any degree of exclusive
CLARA REEVE.
295
care which his partiality bestowed, that enabled her to
acquire such a stock of early information. After hist
death, his widow resided in Colchester with three of their
daughters; and it was here that Miss Clara Reeve first
became an authoress, by translating from Latin Bar-
clay's fine old romance, entitled Argenis, published in
1762, under the title of The Phoenix. It was in 1777,
five years afterwards, that she produced her first and
most distinguished work. It was published by Mr.
Dilly of the Poultry (who gave ten pounds for the
copyright) under the title of The Champion of• Virtue,
a Gothic Story. The work came to a second edition in
the succeeding year, and was then first called The Old
English Baron. The cause of the change we do not
pretend to guess; for if Fitzowen be considered as the
Old English Baron, we do not see wherefore a charac-
ter, passive in himself from beginning to end, and only
acted upon by others, should be selected to give a name
to the story. We ought not to omit to mention, that
this work is inscribed to Mrs. Brigden, the daughter of
Richardson, who is stated to have lent her assistance to
the revisal and correction of the work.
The success of The Old English Baron encouraged
Miss Reeve to devote more of her leisure hours to lite-
rary composition, and she published in succession the
following works :-The two Mentors, a Modern Story;
the Progress of Romance, through Times, Countries,
and Manners; The Exile; or Memoirs of the Count
de Cronstadt, the principal incidents of which are bor-
rowed from a novel by M. D'Arnaud; The School for
Widows, a Novel; Plans of Education, with Remarks
on the System of other Writers, in a duodecimo volume;
and The Memoirs of Sir Roger de Clarendon, a natural
296
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Son of Edward the Black Prince; with Anecdotes of
many eminent Persons of the fourteenth Century.
To these works we have to add another tale, of which
the interest turned upon supernatural appearances. Miss
Reeve informs the public, in a preface to a late edition
of The Old English Baron, that in compliance with the
suggestion of a friend, she had composed Castle Con
nor, an Irish Story, in which apparitions were intro-
duced. The manuscript, being intrusted to some care-
less or unfaithful person, fell aside, and was never
recovered.
The various novels of Clara Reeve are all marked by
excellent good sense, pure morality, and a competent
command of those qualities which constitute a good
romance. They were, generally speaking, favorably
received at the time, but none of them took the same
strong possession of the public mind as The Old Eng-
lish Baron, upon which the fame of the author may be
considered as now exclusively rested.
Miss Reeve, respected and beloved, led a retired life,
admitting no materials for biography, until 3d Decem-
ber, 1803, when she died at Ipswich, her native city, at
the advanced age of seventy-eight years. She was
buried in the churchyard of St. Stephen's, according to
her particular direction, near to the grave of her friend,
the Reverend Mr. Derby. Her brother, the Reverend
Thomas Reeve, still lives, as also her sister, Mrs. Sarah
Reeve, both advanced in life. Another brother, bred
to the navy, attained the rank of vice-admiral in that
service.
Such are the only particulars which we have been
able to collect concerning this accomplished and esti-
mable woman, and, in their simplicity, the reader may
CLARA REEVE.
· 297
remark that of her life and of her character. As critics,
it is our duty to make some farther observations, which
shall be entirely confined to her most celebrated work,
upon which her fame arose, and on which, without
meaning disparagement to her other compositions, we
conceive it entitled to rest.
The authoress has herself informed us that The Old
English Baron is the "literary offspring of The Castle
of Otranto;" and she has obliged us by pointing out
the different and more limited view which she had
adopted, of the supernatural machinery employed by
Horace Walpole. She condemns the latter for the ex-
travagance of several of his conceptions; for the gigan-
tic size of his sword and helmet; and for the violent
fictions of a walking picture, and a skeleton in a hermit's
cowl. A ghost, she contends, to be admitted as an in-
gredient in romance, must behave himself like ghosts
of sober demeanor, and subject himself to the common
rules still preserved in grange and hall, as circumscribing
beings of his description.
We must, however, notwithstanding her authority,
enter our protest against fettering the realm of shadows
by the opinions entertained of it in the world of reali-
ties. If we are to try ghosts by the ordinary rules of
humanity, we bar them of their privileges entirely. For
instance, why admit the existence of an aerial phantom,
and deny it the terrible attribute of magnifying its sta-
ture? why admit an enchanted helmet, and not a gigan-
tic one? why allow as an impressive incident the fall of
a suit of armor, thrown down, we must suppose, by no
mortal hand, and at the same time deny the same super-
natural influence of the power of producing the illusion
(for it is only represented as such) upon Manfred, which
15
298
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
gives seeming motion and life to the portrait of his
ancestor? It may be said, and it seems to be Miss
Reeve's argument, that there is a verge of probability,
which even the most violent figment must not trans-
gress; but we reply by the cross question, that if we are
once to subject our preternatural agents to the limits of
human reason, where are we to stop? We might, under
such a rule, demand of ghosts an account of the very
circuitous manner in which they are pleased to open
their communications with the living world. We might,
for example, move a quo warranto against the spectre of
the murdered Lord Lovel, for lurking about the eastern
apartment, when it might have been reasonably ex-
pected, that if he did not at once impeach his murderers
to the next magistrate, he might at least have put Fitz-
owen into the secret, and thus obtained the succession
of his son more easily than by the dubious and circui-
tous route of a single combat. If there should be an
appeal against this imputation, founded on the universal
practice of ghosts, in such circumstances, who always
act with singular obliquity in disclosing the guilt of
which they complain, the matter becomes a question of
precedent; in which view of the case, we may vindicate
Horace Walpole for the gigantic exaggeration of his
phantom, by the similar expansion of the terrific vision
of Fadoun, in Blind Harry's Life of Wallace; and we
could, were we so disposed, have paralleled his moving
picture, by the example of one with which we ourselves
had some acquaintance, which was said both to move
and to utter groans, to the great alarm of a family of
the highest respectability.
Where, then, may the reader ask, is the line to be
drawn? or what are the limits to be placed to the reader's
CLARA REEVE.
299
credulity, when those of common sense and ordinary
nature are once exceeded? The question admits only
one answer, namely, that the author himself, being in
fact the magician, shall evoke no spirits whom he is
not capable of endowing with manners and language
corresponding to their supernatural character. Thus
Shakspeare, drawing such characters as Caliban and
Ariel, gave them reality, not by appealing to actual
opinions, which his audience might entertain respecting
the possibility or impossibility of their existence, but by
investing them with such attributes as all readers and
spectators recognised as those which must have corre-
sponded to such extraordinary beings, had their existence
been possible. If he had pleased to put into language
the "squeaking and gibbering" of those disembodied.
phantoms which haunted the streets of Rome, no doubt
his wonderful imagination could have filled up the sketch,
which, marked by these two emphatic and singularly
felicitous expressions, he has left as characteristic of the
language of the dead.
In this point of view, our authoress has, with equal
judgment and accuracy, confined her flight within those
limits on which her pinions could support her; and
though we are disposed to contest her general principle,
we are willing to admit it as a wise and prudent one, so
far as applied to regulate her own composition. In no
part of The Old English Baron, or of any other of
works, does Miss Reeve show the possession of a
powerful imagination. Her dialogue is sens
and agreeable, but neither marked by hig
fancy, nor strong bursts of passion.
an ordináry fiction, of which popular
to furnish a thousand instances,

He
300
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
and a family, assembled round a Christmas log, had
little better to do than to listen to such tales. Miss
Reeve has been very felicitously cautious in showing us
no more of Lord Lovel's ghost than she needs must-he
is a silent apparition, palpable to the sight only, and
never brought forward into such broad daylight as might
have dissolved our reverence. And so far, we repeat,
the authoress has used her own power to the utmost
advantage, and gained her point by not attempting a
step beyond it. But we cannot allow that the rule
which, in her own case, has been well and wisely adopted,
ought to circumscribe a bolder and a more imaginative
writer.
In what may be called the costume, or keeping, of the
chivalrous period in which the scene of both is laid, the
language and style of Horace Walpole, together with
his intimate acquaintance with the manners of the mid-
dle ages, form an incalculable difference betwixt The
Castle of Otranto and The Old English Baron. Clara
Reeve, probably, was better acquainted with Plutarch
and Rapin, than with Froissart or Olivier de la Marche.
This is no imputation on the taste of that ingenious lady.
In her days, Macbeth was performed in a general's full
uniform, and Lord Hastings was dressed like a modern
high chamberlain going to court. Or, if she looked to
romances for her authority, those of the French school
were found introducing, under the reign of Cyrus or of
nd, or in the early republic at Rome, the senti-
d manners of the court of Louis XIV. In the
more attention to costume is demanded,
as well as players, are obliged to make
r fantastic or grotesque, to imitate the
hand and the dress on the other,

CLARA REEVE.
301
of the times in which the scene is laid. Formerly, no-
thing of this kind was either required or expected; and
it is not improbable that the manner in which Walpole
circumscribes his dialogue (in most instances) within the
stiff and stern precincts prescribed by a strict attention
to the manners and language of the times, is the first
instance of such restrictions. In The Old English
Baron, on the contrary, all parties speak and act much
in the fashion of the seventeenth century; employ the
same phrases of courtesy ; and adopt the same tone of
conversation. Baron Fitzowen, and the principal cha-
racters, talk after the fashion of country squires of that
period, and the lower personages like gaffers and gam
mers of the same era. And "were but the combat in
lists left out," or converted into a modern duel, the
whole train of incidents might, for any peculiarity to be
traced in the dialect or narration, have taken place in the
time of Charles II., or in either of the two succeeding
reigns. As it is, the story reads as if it had been tran-
scribed into the language, and remodelled according to
the ideas, of this latter period. Yet we are uncertain
whether, upon the whole, this does not rather add to,
than diminish the interest of the work;—at least it
gives an interest of a different kind, which, if it cannot
compete with that which arises out of a highly exalted
and poetical imagination, and a strict attention to the
character and manners of the middle ages, has yet this
advantage, that it reaches its point more surely, than
had a higher, more difficult, and more ambitious line of
composition been attempted.
To explain our meaning :-He that would please the
modern world, yet present the exact impression of a
tale of the middle ages, will repeatedly find that he will
302
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
be obliged, in despite of his utmost exertions, to sacrifice
the last to the first object, and eternally expose himself
to the just censure of the rigid antiquary, because he
must, to interest the readers of the present time, invest
his characters with language and sentiments unknown
to the period assigned to his story; and thus his utmost
efforts only attain a sort of composition between the
true and the fictitious,-just as the dress of Lear, as
performed on the stage, is neither that of a modern sove-
reign, nor the cerulean painting and bear-hide with which
the Britons, at the time when that monarch is supposed
to have lived, tatooed their persons, and sheltered them-
selves from cold. All this inconsistency is avoided by
adopting the style of our grandfathers and great-grand-
fathers, sufficiently antiquated to accord with the anti-
quated character of the narrative, yet copious enough.
to express all that is necessary to its interest, and to
supply that deficiency of coloring which the more an-
cient times do not afford.
It is no doubt true, that The Old English Baron,
written in the latter and less ambitious taste, is some-
times tame and tedious, not to say mean and tiresome.
The total absence of peculiar character (for every per-
son introduced is rather described as one of a genus than
as an original, discriminated, and individual person)
may have its effect in producing the tædium which
loads the story in some places. This is a general defect
in the novels of the period, and it was scarce to be ex-
pected that the amiable and accomplished authoress, in
her secluded situation, and with acquaintance of events
and characters derived from books alone, should have
rivalled those authors who gathered their knowledge of
the human heart from having, like Fielding and Smol-
CLARA REEVE.
303
lett, become acquainted, by sad experience, with each
turn of "many-colored life." Nor was it to be thought
that she should have emulated in this particular her pro-
totype Walpole, who, as a statesman, a poet, and a man
of the world, "who knew the world like a man," has
given much individual character to his sketch of Man-
fred. What we here speak of is not the deficiency in
the style and costume, but a certain creeping and low
line of narrative and sentiment; which may be best
illustrated by the grave and minute accounting into
which Sir Philip Harclay and the Baron Fitzowen enter,
-after an event so unpleasant as the judgment of Hea-
ven upon a murderer, brought about by a judicial com-
bat, and that combat occasioned by the awful and super-
natural occurrences in the eastern chamber,-where we
find the arrears of the estate gravely set off against the
education of the heir, and his early maintenance in the
Baron's family. Yet even these prolix, minute, and un-
necessary details, are precisely such as would occur in a
Similar story told by a grandsire or grandame to a circle.
assembled around a winter's fire; and while they take
from the dignity of the composition, and would there-
fore have been rejected by a writer of more exalted
imagination, do certainly add in some degree to its
reality, and bear in that respect a resemblance to the
art with which De Foe impresses on his readers the
truth of his fictions, by the insertion of many minute
and immaterial, or unnatural circumstances, which w
are led to suppose could only be recorded because they
are true. Perhaps, to be circumstantial and abundant in
minute detail, and in one word, though an unauthorized
one, to be somewhat prosy, is a secret mode of securing
a certain necessary degree of credulity from the hearers

304
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
of a ghost-story. It gives a sort of quaint antiquity to
the whole, as belonging to the times of "superstitious
elde," and those whom we have observed to excel in
oral narratives of such a nature, usually study to secure
the attention of their audience by employing this art.
At least, whether owing to this mode of telling her tale,
or to the interest of the story itself, and its appeal to
the secret reserve of superstitious feeling which main-
tains its influence in most bosoms, The Old English
Baron has always produced as strong an effect as any
story of the kind, although liable to the objections which
we have freely stated, without meaning to impeach the
talents of the amiable authoress.
Dismissing this interesting subject for the present, we
trust we may find some future opportunity to offer a
few more general remarks on the introduction of super-
natural machinery into modern works of fiction.
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
THE life of Mrs. ANN RADCLIFFE, spent in the quiet
shade of domestic privacy, and in the interchange of
familiar affections and sympathies, appears to have been
as retired and sequestered, as the fame of her writings
was brilliant and universal. The most authentic ac-
count of her birth, family, and personal appearance,
seems to be that contained in the following communica-
tion to a work of contemporary biography."
"She was" (says this writer) "born in London, in
the year 1764, [9th July ;] the daughter of William and
Ann Ward, who, though in trade, were nearly the only
persons of their two families not living in handsome, or
at least easy independence. Her paternal grandmother
was a Cheselden, the sister of the celebrated surgeon,
of whose kind regard her father had a grateful recollec-
tion, and some of whose presents, in books, I have seen.
The late Lieutenant-Colonel Cheselden, of Somerby in
Leicestershire, was, I think, another nephew of the sur-
geon. Her father's aunt, the late Mrs. Barwell, first of
Leicester, and then of Duffeld in Derbyshire, was one
of the sponsors at her baptism. Her maternal grand-
mother was Anne Oates, the sister of Dr. Samuel Jebb,
of Stratford, who was the father of Sir Richard: on
that side she was also related to Dr. Halifax, Bishop of
Gloucester, and to Dr. Halifax, Physician to the King.
Perhaps it may gratify curiosity to state farther, the
¹ [Annual Biography and Obituary, vol. viii., for 1824.]
306
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
she was descended from a near relative of the De Witts
of Holland. In some family papers which I have seen,
it is stated, that a De Witt, of the family of John and
Cornelius, came to England, under the patronage of
government, upon some design of draining the fens in
Lincolnshire, bringing with him a daughter, Amelia,
then an infant. The prosecution of the plan is suppos-
ed to have been interrupted by the rebellion, in the
time of Charles the First; but De Witt appears to have
passed the remainder of his life in a mansion near Hull,
and to have left many children, of whom Amelia was
the mother of one of Mrs. Radcliffe's ancestors.
"This admirable writer, whom I remember from
about the time of her twentieth year, was, in her youth,
of a figure exquisitely proportioned; while she resem-
bled her father, and his brother and sister, in being low
of stature. Her complexion was beautiful, as was her
whole countenance, especially her eyes, eyebrows, and
mouth. Of the faculties of her mind, let her works
speak. Her tastes were such as might be expected
from those works. To contemplate the glories of crea-
tion, but more particularly the grander features of their
display, was one of her chief delights: to listen to fine
music was another. She had also a gratification in
listening to any good verbal sounds; and would desire
to hear passages repeated from the Latin and Greek
classics; requiring, at intervals, the most literal transla-
tions that could be given, with all that was possible of
their idiom, how much soever the version might be em-
barrassed by that aim at exactness. Though her fancy
was prompt, and she was, as will readily be supposed,
qualified in many respects for conversation, she had
not the confidence and presence of mind, without which,
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
307
a person conscious of being observed, can scarcely be at
case, except in long-tried society. Yet she had not been
without some good examples of what must have been
ready conversation in more extensive circles. Besides
that a great part of her youth had been passed in the
residence of her superior relatives, she had the advan-
tage of being much loved, when a child, by the late Mr.
Bentley; to whom, on the establishment of the fabric.
known by the name of Wedgwood and Bentley's, was
appropriated the superintendence of all that related to
form and design. Mr. Wedgwood was the intelligent
man of commerce, and the able chemist; Mr. Bentley
the man of more general literature, and of taste in the
arts. One of her mother's sisters was married to Mr.
Bentley; and, during the life of her aunt, who was ac-
complished according to the moderation,'-may I say,
the wise moderation ?—of that day, the little niece was
a favorite guest at Chelsea, and afterwards at Turnham
Green, where Mr. and Mrs. Bentley resided. At their
house she saw several persons of distinction for litera-
ture; and others who, without having been so distin-
guished, were beneficial objects of attention for their
minds and their manners. Of the former class the
late Mrs. Montague, and once, I think, Mrs. Piozzi; of
the latter, Mrs. Ord. The gentleman, called Athenian
Stuart, was also a visitor there."
Thus respectably born and connected, Miss Ward, at
the age of twenty-three, acquired the name which she
has made so famous, by marrying William Radcliffe,
Esq., graduated at Oxford, and a student of law. He
renounced, however, the prosecution of his legal studies,
and became afterwards proprietor and editor of the
English Chronicle.
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LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Thus connected in a manner which must have induc-
ed her to cherish her literary powers, Mrs. Radcliffe
first came before the public as a novelist in 1789, only
two years after her marriage, and when she was twenty-
five years old. The romance, entitled The Castles of
Athlin and Dunbayne, which she then produced, gave,
however, but moderate intimation of the author's emi-
nent powers. The scene is laid in Scotland, during the
dark ages, but without any attempt to trace either the
peculiar manners or scenery of the country; and al-
though, in reading the work with that express purpose,
we can now trace some germs of that taste and talent
for the wild, romantic, and mysterious, which the au-
thoress afterwards employed with such effect, we cannot
consider it, on the whole, as by any means worthy of
her pen.
It is nevertheless curious to compare this
sketch with Mrs. Radcliffe's more esteemed productions,
since it is of consequence to the history of human genius.
to preserve its earlier efforts, that we may trace, if pos-
sible, how the oak at length germinates from the un-
marked acorn.
Mrs. Radcliffe's genius was more advantageously dis-
played in the Sicilian Romance, which appeared in
1790, and which, as we ourselves (then novel-readers of
no ordinary appetite) well recollect, attracted in a con-
siderable degree the attention of the public. This work
displays the exuberance and fertility of imagination,
which was the author's principal characteristic. Ad-
ventures heaped on adventures, in quick and brilliant
succession, with all the hair-breadth charms of escape
or capture, hurry the reader along with them, and the
imagery and scenery by which the action is relieved, are
like those of a splendid Oriental tale. Still this work
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
309
had marked traces of the defects natural to an unprac-
tised author. The scenes were inartificially connected,
and the characters hastily sketched, without any at-
tempt at individual distinctions; being cast in the
usual mould of ardent lovers, tyrannical parents, with
domestic ruffians, guards, and others, who had wept or
stormed through the chapters of romance, without
much alteration in their family habits or features, for
a quarter of a century before Mrs. Radcliffe's time.
Nevertheless, the Sicilian Romance attracted much notice
among the novel-readers of the day, as far excelling the
ordinary meagreness of stale and uninteresting incident
with which they were at that time regaled from the
Leadenhall press. Indeed, the praise may be claimed
for Mrs. Radcliffe, of having been the first to introduce
into her prose fictions a beautiful and fanciful tone of
natural description and impressive narrative, which had
hitherto been exclusively applied to poetry. Fielding,
Richardson, Smollett, even Walpole, though writing
upon an imaginative subject, are decidedly prose au-
thors. Mrs. Radcliffe has a title to be considered as the
first poetess of romantic fiction, that is, if actual rhythm
shall not be deemed essential to poetry.
The Romance of the Forest, which appeared in 1791,
placed the author at once in that rank and preeminence
in her own particular style of composition, which her
works have ever since maintained. Her fancy, in this
new effort, was more regulated, and subjected to the
fetters of a regular story. The persons, too, although
perhaps there is nothing very original in the conception,
were depicted with skill far superior to that which the
author had hitherto displayed, and the work attracted
the public attention in proportion. That of La Motte,
310
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
indeed, is sketched with particular talent, and most part
of the interest of the piece depends upon the vacillations
of a character, who, though upon the whole we may
rather term him weak and vicious, than villanous, is,
nevertheless, at every moment on the point of becoming
an agent in atrocities which his heart disapproves of.
He is the exact picture "of the needy man who has
known better days;" one who, spited at the world,
from which he has been expelled with contempt, and
condemned by circumstances to seek an asylum in a de-
solate mansion full of mysteries and horrors, avenges
himself, by playing the gloomy despot within his own
family, and tyrannizing over those who were subjected
to him only by their strong sense of duty. A more
powerful agent appears on the scene-obtains the mas-
tery over this dark but irresolute spirit, and, by alter-
nate exertion of seduction and terror, compels him to
be his agent in schemes against the virtue, and even
the life of an orphan, whom he was bound in gratitude,
as well as in honor and hospitality, to cherish and pro-
tect.
The heroine, too, wearing the usual costume of inno-
cence, purity, and simplicity, as proper to heroines as
white gowns are to the sex in general, has some pleasant
touches of originality. Her grateful affection for the
La Motte family-her reliance on their truth and honor,
when the wife had become unkind, and the father trea-
cherous towards her, is an interesting and individual
trait in her character.
But although undoubtedly the talents of Mrs. Rad-
cliffe, in the important point of drawing and finishing
the characters of her narrative, were greatly improved
since her earlier attempts, and manifested sufficient
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
311
power to raise her far above the common crowd of
novelists, this was not the department of art on which
her popularity rested. The public were chiefly aroused,
or rather fascinated, by the wonderful conduct of a
story, in which the author so successfully called out the
feelings of mystery and of awe, while chapter after chap-
ter, and incident after incident, maintained the thrilling
attraction of awakened curiosity and suspended interest.
Of these, every reader felt the force, from the sage in
his study, to the family group in middle life, which as-
sembles round the evening taper, to seek a solace from
the toils of ordinary existence by an excursion into the
regions of imagination. The tale was the more striking,
because varied and relieved by descriptions of the ruin-
ed mansion, and the forest with which it is surrounded,
under so many different points of view, now pleasing
and serene, now gloomy, now terrible-scenes which
could only have been drawn by one to whom nature
had given the eye of a painter, with the spirit of a
poet.
In 1793, Mrs. Radcliffe had the advantage of visiting
the scenery of the Rhine, and, although we are not
positive of the fact, we are strongly inclined to suppose,
that The Mysteries of Udolpho were written, or at least
corrected, after the date of this journey; for the moul-
dering castles of the robber-chivalry of Germany, situat-
ed on the wild and romantic banks of that celebrated
stream, seem to have given a bolder flight to her imagi-
nation, and a more glowing character to her coloring,
than are exhibited in The Romance of the Forest. The
scenery on the Lakes of Westmoreland, which Mrs.
Radcliffe visited about the same time, was also highly
calculated to awaken her fancy, as nature has in these
312
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
wild but beautiful regions realized the descriptions in
which this authoress loved to indulge. Her remarks
upon these countries were given to the public in 1794,
in a very well-written work, entitled, A Journey through
Holland, &c.
Much was of course expected from Mrs. Radcliffe's
next effort, and the booksellers felt themselves authoriz-
ed in offering what was then considered as an unprece-
dented sum, L.500, for The Mysteries of Udolpho. It
often happens, that a writer's previous reputation
proves the greatest enemy which, in a second attempt
upon public favor, he has to encounter. Exaggerated
expectations are excited and circulated, and criticism,
which had been seduced into former approbation by
the pleasure of surprise, now stands awakened and alert
to pounce upon every failing. Mrs. Radcliffe's popula-
rity, however, stood the test, and was heightened rather
than diminished by The Mysteries of Udolpho. The
very name was fascinating; and the public, who rushed
upon it with all the eagerness of curiosity, rose from it
with unsated appetite. When a family was numerous,
the volumes always flew, and were sometimes torn, from
hand to hand; and the complaints of those whose stu-
dies were thus interrupted, were a general tribute to
the genius of the author. Another might be found of
a different and higher description, in the dwelling of
the lonely invalid, or unregarded votary of celibacy,
who was bewitched away from a sense of solitude, of
indisposition, of the neglect of the world, or of secret
sorrow, by the potent charm of this mighty enchantress.
Perhaps the perusal of such works may, without injus-
tice, be compared with the use of opiates, baneful,
when habitually and constantly resorted to, but of
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
313
most blessed power in those moments of pain and of
languor, when the whole head is sore, and the whole
heart sick. If those who rail indiscriminately at this
species of composition, were to consider the quantity of
actual pleasure which it produces, and the much greater
proportion of real sorrow and distress which it alle-
viates, their philanthropy ought to moderate their criti-
cal pride or religious intolerance.
To return to The Mysteries of Udolpho. The author,
pursuing her own favorite bent of composition, and
again waving her wand over the world of wonder and
imagination, had judiciously used a spell of broader and
more potent command. The situation and distresses
of the heroines, have here, and in The Romance of the
Forest, a general aspect of similarity. Both are divided
from the object of their attachment by the gloomy in-
fluence of unfaithful and oppressive guardians, and both
become inhabitants of time-stricken towers, and wit-
nesses of scenes now bordering on the supernatural, and
now upon the horrible. But this general resemblance is
only such as we love to recognise in pictures which have
been painted by the same hand, and as companions for
each other. Every thing in The Mysteries of Udolpho
is on a larger and more sublime scale, than in The Ro-
mance of the Forest; the interest is of a more agitating
and tremendous nature; the scenery of a wilder and
more terrific description; the characters distinguished
by fiercer and more gigantic features. Montoni, a lofty-
souled desperado, and Captain of Condottieri, stands
beside La Motte and his Marquis, like one of Milton's
fiends beside a witch's familiar. Adeline is confined
within a ruined manor-house, but her sister heroine,
Emily, is imprisoned in a huge castle, like those of feudal
314
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
times; the one is attacked and defended by bands of
armed banditti, the other only threatened by a visit from.
constables and thief-takers. The scale of the landscape
is equally different; the quiet and limited woodland.
scenery of the one work forming a contrast with the
splendid and high-wrought descriptions of Italian moun-
tain grandeur which occur in the other.
In general, The Mysteries of Udolpho was, at its first
appearance, considered as a step beyond Mrs. Radcliffe's
former work, high as that had justly advanced her. We
entertain the same opinion in again reading them both,
even after some years' interval. Yet there were persons
of no mean judgment, to whom the simplicity of The
Romance of the Forest seemed preferable to the more
highly colored and broader style of The Mysteries of
Udolpho; and it must remain matter of opinion, whether
their preference be better founded than in the partiali-
ties of a first love, which in literature, as in life, are
often unduly predominant. With the majority of rea-
ders, the superior magnificence of landscape, and dignity
of conception of character, secured the palm for the
more recent work.
The fifth production by which Mrs. Radcliffe arrested
'the attention of the public, was fated to be her last.
The Italian, which appeared in 1797, was purchased by
the booksellers for L.800, and obtained a share of public
favor equal to any of its predecessors. Here, too, the
author had, with much judgment, taken such a point of
distance and distinction, that while employing her own
peculiar talent, and painting in the style of which she
may be considered the inventor, she cannot be charged
with repeating or copying herself. She selected the new
and powerful machinery afforded her by the Popish reli.
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
315
gion, when established in its paramount superiority, and
thereby had at her disposal, monks, spies, dungeons, the
mute obedience of the bigot, the dark and dominating
spirit of the crafty priest,-all the thunders of the
Vatican, and all the terrors of the Inquisition. This for-
tunate adoption placed in the hands of the authoress a
powerful set of agents, who were at once supplied with
means and motives for bringing forward scenes of hor-
ror; and thus a tinge of probability was thrown over
even those parts of the story, which are most inconsis-
tent with the ordinary train of human events.
Most writers of romance have been desirous to intro-
duce their narrative to the reader, in some manner which
might at once excite interest, and prepare his mind for
the species of excitation which it was the author's object
to produce. In The Italian, this has been achieved by
Mrs. Radcliffe with an uncommon degree of felicity;
nor is there any part of the romance itself which is more
striking than its impressive commencement.
A party of English travellers visit a Neapolitan
church:
"Within the shade of the portico, a person with folded arms, and
eyes directed towards the ground, was pacing behind the pillars the
whole extent of the pavement, and was apparently so engaged by his
own thoughts, as not to observe that strangers were approaching. He
turned, however, suddenly, as if startled by the sound of steps, and
then, without farther pausing, glided to a door that opened into the
church, and disappeared.
"There was something too extraordinary in the figure of this man,
and too singular in his conduct, to pass unnoticed by the visitors. He
was of a tall thin figure, bending forward from the shoulders; of a
sallow complexion, and harsh features, and had an eye which, as it
looked up from the cloak that muffled the lower part of his counte-
nance, was expressive of uncommon ferocity.
"The travellers, on entering the church, looked round for the stran-
ger, who had passed thither before them, but he was nowhere to be
316
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
seen; and, through all the shade of the long aisles, only one other per-
son appeared. This was a friar of the adjoining convent, who some-
times pointed out to strangers the objects in the church which were
most worthy of attention, and who now, with this design, approached
the party that had just entered.
"When the party had viewed the different shrines and whatever had
been judged worthy of observation, and were returning through an
obscure aisle towards the portico, they perceived the person who had
appeared upon the steps, passing towards a confessional on the left,
and, as he entered it, one of the party pointed him out to the friar, and
enquired who he was; the friar turning to look after him, did not imme-
diately reply, but, on the question being repeated, he inclined his head,
as in a kind of obeisance, and calmly replied, 'He is an assassin.'
"An assassin!' exclaimed one of the Englishman; 'an assassin,
and at liberty!'
An Italian gentleman, who was of the party, smiled at the astonish-
ment of his friend.
"He has sought sanctuary here,' replied the friar; 'within these
walls he may not be hurt.'
“Do your altars, thien, protect a murderer?' said the Englishman.
He could find shelter nowhere else,' answered the friar, meekly.
"But observe yonder confessional,' added the Italian, 'that beyond
the pillars on the left of the aisle, below a painted window. Have you
discovered it? The colors of the glass throw, instead of a light, a
shade over that part of the church, which, perhaps, prevents your dis-
tinguishing what I mean.'
"The Englishman looked whither his friend pointed, and observed a
confessional of oak, or some very dark wood, adjoining the wall, and
remarked also, that it was the same which the assassin had just entered.
It consisted of three compartments, covered with a black canopy. In
the central division was the chair of the confessor, elevated by several
steps above the pavement of the church; and on either hand was a
small closet, or box, with steps leading up to a grated partition, at
which the penitent might kneel, and, concealed from observation, pour
into the ear of the confessor, the consciousness of crimes that lay
heavy at his heart.
"You observe it?' said the Italian.
"I do,' replied the Englishman: 'it is the same which the assassin
had passed into; and I think it one of the most gloomy spots I ever
beheld; the view of it is enough to strike a criminal with despair!'
"We, in Italy, are not so apt to despair,' replied the Italian,
smilingly.
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
317
'Well, but what of this confessional?' enquired the Englishman.
'The assassin entered it.'
"He has no relation with what I am about to mention,' said the
Italian; 'but I wish you to mark the place, because some very extraor-
dinary circumstances belong to it.'
"What are they?' said the Englishman.
'It is now several years since the confession, which is connected
with them, was made at that very confessional,' added the Italian; 'the
view of it, and the sight of the assassin, with your surprise at the
liberty which is allowed him, led me to a recollection of the story.
When you return to the hotel, I will communicate it to you, if you
have no pleasanter mode of engaging your time.'
After I have taken another view of this solemn edifice,' replied
the Englishman, and particularly of the confessional you have pointed
to my notice.'
"While the Englishman glanced his eye over the high roofs, and
along the solemn perspectives of the Santa del Pianto, he perceived the
figure of the assassin stealing from the confessional across the choir,
and, shocked on again beholding him, he turned his eyes, and hastily
quitted the church.
"The friends then separated, and the Englishman, soon after return-
ing to his hotel, received the volume. He read as follows.'
This introductory passage, which, for the references
which it bears to the story, and the anxious curiosity it
excites in the reader's mind, may be compared to the
dark and vaulted gateway of an ancient castle, is fol-
lowed by a tale of corresponding mystery and terror; in
detailing which, the art of Mrs. Radcliffe, who was so
great a mistress of throwing her narrative into mystery,
affording half intimations of veiled and secret horrors,
is used perhaps to the very uttermost. And yet, though
our reason ultimately presents us with this criticism, we
believe she generally suspends her remonstrance till the
perusal is ended; and it is not until the last page is read,
and the last volume closed, that we feel ourselves dis-
posed to censure that which has so keenly interested us.
We become then at length aware, that there is no un-
1
318
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
common merit in the general contrivance of the story;
that many of the incidents are improbable, and some of
the mysteries left unexplained; yet the impression of
general delight which we have received from the peru-
sal, remains unabated, for it is founded on recollection
of the powerful emotions of wonder, curiosity, even
fear, to which we have been subjected during the cur-
rency of the narrative.
A youth of high birth and noble estates becomes
enamoured of a damsel of low fortunes, unknown race,
and all that portion of beauty and talents which belongs
to a heroine of romance. Their union is opposed by his
family, and chiefly by the pride of his mother, who calls
to her aid the real hero of the tale, her confessor, Father
Schedoni, a strongly drawn character as ever stalked
through the regions of romance, equally detestable for
the crimes he has formerly perpetrated, and those which
he is willing to commit; formidable from his talents
and energy; at once a hypocrite and a profligate, un-
feeling, unrelenting, and implacable. With the aid of
this agent, Vivaldi, the lover, is thrown into the dun-
geons of the Inquisition, while Ellena, his bride, is car-
ried by the pitiless monk to an obscure den, where, find-
ing the services of an associate likely to foil his expec-
tation, he resolves to murder her with his own hand.
Hitherto the story, or, at least, the situation, is not alto-
gether dissimilar from the Mysteries of Udolpho; but
the fine scene, where the monk, in the act of raising his
arm to murder his sleeping victim, discovers her to be
his own child, is of a new, grand, and powerful charac-
ter; and the horrors of the wretch, who, on the brink
of murder, has but just escaped from committing a crime
of yet more exaggerated horror, constitute the strongest
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
319
1
painting which has been produced by Mrs. Radcliffe's
pencil, and form a crisis well fitted to be actually embo-
died on canvass by some great master. In the prisons
of the Inquisition, the terrific Schedoni is met, counter-
plotted, and at length convicted, by the agency of a
being as wicked as himself, who had once enjoyed his
confidence. Several pauses of breathless suspense are
thrown in, during the detail of these intrigues, by which
Mrs. Radcliffe knew so well how to give interest to the
work.
On reconsidering the narrative, we indeed discover.
that many of the incidents are imperfectly explained,
and that we can distinguish points upon which the
authoress had doubtless intended to lay the foundation
of something which she afterwards forgot or omitted.
Of the first class, is the astonishment testified by the
Grand Inquisitor with such striking effect, when a strange
voice was heard, even in the awful presence of that
stern tribunal, to assume the task of interrogation pro-
per to its judges. The incident in itself is most impres-
sive. As Vivaldi is blindfolded, and bound upon the
rack, the voice of a mysterious agent, who had repeat-
edly crossed his path, and always eluded his search, is
heard to mingle in his examination, and strikes the whole
assembly with consternation.
“Who is come amongst us?' he [the Grand Inquisitor] repeated, in
a louder tone. Still no answer was returned; but again a confused
murmur sounded from the tribunal, and a general consternation seemed
to prevail. No person spoke with sufficient preeminence to be under-
stood by Vivaldi; something extraordinary appeared to be passing, and
he awaited the issue with all the patience he could command. Soon
after he heard the doors opened, and the noise of persons quitting the
chamber. A deep silence followed; but he was certain that the familiars
were still beside him, waiting to begin their work of torture."
320
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
This is all unquestionably very impressive; but no
other explanation of the intruder's character is given,
than that he is an officer of the Inquisition; a circum-
stance which may explain his being present at Vivaldi's
examination, but by no means his interference with it,
against the pleasure of the Grand Inquisitor. The latter
certainly would neither have been surprised at the pre-
sence of one of his own officials, nor overawed by his
deportment; since the one was a point of ordinary duty,
and the other must have been accounted as an imperti-
nence. It may be added also, that there is no full or
satisfactory reason assigned for the fell and unpitying
hostility of Zampari to Schedoni, and that the reasons.
which can be gathered are inadequate and trivial.
-
We may notice an instance of even greater negligence,
in the passages respecting the ruined palace of the Baron
di Cambrusca, where the imperfect tale of horror hinted
at by a peasant, the guide of Schedoni, appears to jar
upon the galled conscience of the monk, and induces the
reader to expect a train of important consequences.
Unquestionably, the ingenious authoress had meant this
half-told tale to correspond with some particulars in the
proposed developement of the story, which having been
finished more hastily, or in a different manner from what
she intended, she had, like a careless knitter, neglected
to take up her “loose stitches." It is, however, a baulk-
ing of the reader's imagination, which authors in this
department would do well to guard against. At the
same time, critics are bound in mercy to remember, how
much more easy it is to devise a complicated chain of
interest, than to disentangle it with perfect felicity.
Dryden, it is said, used to curse the inventors of fifth
acts in the drama, and romance-writers owe no blessings
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
321
*
to the memory of him who devised explanatory chap-
ters.
We have been told that in this beautiful romance, the
customs and rules of the Inquisition have been violated;
a charge more easily made than proved, and which, if
true, is of minor importance; because its code is happily
but little known to us. It is matter of more obvious
criticism, and therefore a greater error, that the scraps
of Italian language introduced to give locality to the
scene, are not happily chosen, and savor of affectation.
But if Mrs. Radcliffe did not intimately understand the
language and manners of Italy, the following extract
may prove how well she knew how to paint Italian
scenery, which she could only have seen in the pictures
of Claude or Poussin.
"These excursions sometimes led to Puzzuoli, Baia, or the woody
cliffs of Pausilippo; and as, on their return, they glided along the
moonlight bay, the melodies of Italian strains seemed to give enchant-
ment to the scenery of its shore. At this cool hour the voices of the
vine-dressers were frequently heard in trio, as they reposed, after the
labor of the day, on some pleasant promontory, under the shade of pop-
lars; or the brisk music of the dance from fishermen, on the margin of
the waves below. The boatmen rested on their oars, while their com-
pany listened to voices modulated by sensibility to finer eloquence, than
it is in the power of art alone to display; and at others, while they
observed the airy natural grace, which distinguishes the dance of the
fishermen and peasant girls of Naples. Frequently, as they glided
round a promontory, whose shaggy masses impended far over the sea,
such magic scenes of beauty unfolded, adorned by these dancing groups
on the bay beyond, as no pencil could do justice to. The deep clear
waters reflected every image of the landscape; the cliffs, branching into
wild forms, crowned with groves, whose rough foliage often spread
down their steeps in picturesque luxuriance; the ruined villa, on some
bold point, peeping through the trees; peasants' cabins hanging on the
precipices, and the dancing figures on the strand-all touched with the
silvery tint and soft shadows of moonlight. On the other hand, the
sea, trembling with a long line of radiance, and showing in the clear
322
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
V
distance the sails of vessels stealing in every direction along its surface,
presented a prospect as grand as the landscape was beautiful.”
There are other descriptive passages, which, like those
in The Mysteries of Udolpho, approach more nearly to
the style of Salvator Rosa.
The Italian was received with as much ardor as Mrs.
Radcliffe's two previous novels, and it was from no
coldness on the part of the public, that, like an actress
in full possession of applauded powers, she chose to
retreat from the stage in the blaze of her fame. After
publication of The Italian, in 1797, the public were not
favored with any more of Mrs. Radcliffe's works.
We are left in vain to conjecture the reasons, which,
for more than twenty years, condemned an imagination
so fertile, so far as the public were concerned, to sterili-
ty. The voice of unfriendly criticism, always as sure
an attendant upon merit as envy herself, may perhaps
have intimidated the gentleness of her character; or
Mrs. Radcliffe, as frequently happens, may have been
disgusted at seeing the mode of composition, which she
had brought into fashion, profaned by the host of ser-
vile imitators, who could only copy and render more
prominent her defects, without aspiring to her merits.
But so steadily did she keep her resolution, that for
more than twenty years the name of Mrs. Radcliffe was
never mentioned, unless with reference to her former
productions, and in general (so retired was the current
of her life) there was a belief that Fate had removed
her from the scene.
Notwithstanding her refraining from publication, it
is impossible to believe that an imagination so strong,
supported by such ready powers of expression, should,
have remained inactive during so long a period ; but
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
323
the manuscripts on which she was occasionally employ-
ed, have as yet been withheld from the public. We
have reason to believe, that arrangements were at one
time almost concluded between Mrs. Radcliffe and a
highly respectable publishing-house, respecting a poeti-
cal romance, but were broken off in consequence of the
author changing or delaying her intention of publica-
tion. It is to be hoped, that the world will not be ulti-
mately deprived of what undoubtedly must be the
source of much pleasure whenever it shall see the light.
The tenor of Mrs. Radcliffe's private life seems to
have been peculiarly calm and sequestered. She proba-
bly declined the sort of personal notoriety which, in
London society, usually attaches to persons of literary
merit; and, perhaps, no author whose works were so
universally read and admired, was so little personally
known even to the most active of that class of people
of distinction, who rest their peculiar pretensions to
fashion upon the selection of literary society. Her
estate was certainly not the less gracious; and it did
not disturb Mrs. Radcliffe's domestic comforts, although
many of her admirers believed, and some are not yet
undeceived, that, in consequence of brooding over the
terrors which she depicted, her reason had at length
been overturned, and that the author of The Mysteries
of Udolpho only existed as the melancholy inmate of a
private mad-house. This report was so generally spread,
and so confidently repeated in print, as well as in con-
versation, that the Editor believed it for several years,
until, greatly to his satisfaction, he learned, from good
authority, that there neither was, nor ever had been,
the most distant foundation for this unpleasing rumor.
A false report of another kind gave Mrs. Radcliffe
324
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
much concern. In Miss Seward's Correspondence,
among the literary gossip of the day, it is roundly
stated, that the Plays upon the Passions were Mrs.
Radcliffe's, and that she owned them.' Mrs. Radcliffe
was much hurt at being reported capable of borrowing
from the fame of a gifted sister; and the late Miss.
Seward would, no doubt, have suffered equally, had she
been aware of the pain she inflicted by giving currency
to a rumor so totally unfounded. The truth is, that,
residing at a distance from the metropolis, and living
upon literary intelligence as her daily food, Miss Seward
was sometimes imposed upon by those friendly caterers,
who were more anxious to supply her with the newest
intelligence, than solicitous about its accuracy.
During the last twelve years of her life, Mrs. Rad-
cliffe suffered from a spasmodic asthma, which consi-
derably affected her general health and spirits. This
chronic disorder took a more fatal turn upon the 9th of
January, 1823; and upon the 7th of February follow-
ing, terminated the life of this ingenious and amiable
lady, at her own house in London.
MRS. RADCLIFFE, as an author, has the most decided
claim to take her place among the favored few, who
have been distinguished as the founders of a class or
school. She led the way in a peculiar style of composi-
tion, affecting powerfully the mind of the reader, which
has since been attempted by many, but in which no one
has attained or approached the excellences of the ori
[See a Letter, dated May, 1799, in Miss Seward's Correspondence,
edited by Sir W. Scott.]
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
325
ginal inventor, unless perhaps the author of The Family
of Montorio.¹
The species of romance which Mrs. Radcliffe´intro-
duced, bears nearly the same relation to the novel that
the modern anomaly entitled a melodrame does to the
proper drama.
It does not appeal to the judgment by
deep delineations of human feeling, or stir the passions
by scenes of deep pathos, or awaken the fancy by trac-
ing out, with spirit and vivacity, the lighter marks of
life and manners, or excite mirth by strong representa-
tions of the ludicrous or humorous. In other words,
it attains its interest neither by the path of comedy nor
of tragedy; and yet it has, notwithstanding, a deep,
decided, and powerful effect, gained by means indepen-
dent of both-by an appeal, in one word, to the passion
of fear, whether excited by natural dangers, or by the
suggestions of superstition. The force, therefore, ‘of
the production, lies in the delineation of external inci-
dent, while the characters of the agents, like the figures
in many landscapes, are entirely subordinate to the
scenes in which they are placed; and are only distin-
guished by such outlines as make them seem appro-
priate to the rocks and trees, which have been the
artist's principal objects. The persons introduced-and
here also the correspondence holds betwixt the melo-
drame and the romantic novel-bear the features, not
of individuals, but of the class to which they belong.
A dark and tyrannical count; an aged crone of a house-
keeper, the depositary of many a family legend; a gar-
rulous waiting-maid; a gay and light-hearted valet; a
¹ [The Rev. Charles Maturin of Dublin, who died in October 1824;
and whose talents were first brought into notice by Sir W. Scott's arti-
cle on Montorio, in the Quarterly Review for May, 1810]
326
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
villain or two of all work; and a heroine, fulfilled with
all perfections, and subjected to all manner of hazards,
form the stock-in-trade of a romancer or a melo-drama-
tist; and if these personages be dressed in the proper
costume, and converse in language sufficiently appro-
priate to their stations and qualities, it is not expected
that the audience shall shake their sides at the humor
of the dialogue, or weep over its pathos.
On the other hand, it is necessary that these charac-
ters, though not delineated with individual features,
should be truly and forcibly sketched in the outline;
that their dress and general appearance should corre-
spond with and support the trick of the scene; and
that their language and demeanor should either enhance
the terrors amongst which they move, or form, as the
action may demand, a strong and vivid contrast to
them. Mrs. Radcliffe's powers of fancy were particu
larly happy in depicting such personages, in throwing
upon them and their actions just enough of that
dubious light which mystery requires, and in supplying
them with language and manners which correspond
with their situation and business upon the scene.' We
may take, as an example, the admirable description of
the monk Schedoni :
¹ ["This prelude, like the tuning of an instrument by a skilful hand,
has the effect of producing at once in the mind a tone of feeling corre-
spondent to the future story. In this, as in the former productions,
the curiosity of the reader is kept upon the stretch by mystery and won-
der. The author seems perfectly to understand that obscurity, as Burke
has asserted, is a strong ingredient in the sublime; a face shrouded in a
cowl; a narrative suddenly suspended; deep guilt half revealed; the
untold secrets of a prison-house; the terrific shape, 'if shape it might
be called that shape had none distinguishable;'-all these affect the
mind more powerfully than any regular or distinct images of danger or
of woe."-MRS. BARBAULD.]
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
327
"His figure was striking, but not so from grace; it was tall, and,
though extremely thin, his limbs were large and uncouth, and as he
stalked along, wrapt in the black garments of his order, there was some-
thing terrible in his air; something almost superhuman. His cowl,
too, as it threw a shade over the livid paleness of his face, increased its
severe character, and gave an effect to his large melancholy eye, which
approached to horror. His was not the melancholy of a sensible and
wounded heart, but apparently that of a gloomy and ferocious disposi-
tion. There was something in his physiognomy extremely singular, and
that cannot easily be defined. It bore the traces of many passions,
which seemed to have fixed the features they no longer animated. An
habitual gloom and severity prevailed over the deep lines of his coun-
tenance; and his eyes were so piercing, that they seemed to penetrate,
at a single glance, into the hearts of men, and to read their most secret
thoughts; few persons could support their scrutiny, or even endure to
meet them twice. Yet, notwithstanding all this gloom and austerity,
some rare occasions of interest had called forth a character upon his
countenance entirely different; and he could adapt himself to the tem-
pers and passions of persons whom he wished to conciliate with aston-
ishing facility, and generally with complete triumph. This monk, this
Schedoni, was the confessor and secret adviser of the Marchesa di
Vivaldi."
To draw such portraits as Schedoni's, and others.
which occur in Mrs. Radcliffe's novels, requires no mean
powers; and although they belong rather to romance
than to real life, the impression which they make upon
the imagination is scarce lessened by the sense, that
they are in some sort as fabulous as fairies or ogres.
But when the public have been surprised into a univer-
sal burst of applause, it is their custom to indemnify
themselves by a corresponding degree of censure; just
as children, when tired of admiring a new plaything,
find a fresh and distinct pleasure in breaking it to
pieces. Mrs. Radcliffe, who had afforded such general
delight to the public, was not doomed to escape the
common fate; and the criticism with which she was
assailed, was the more invidious, that it was inflicted, in
328
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
?
more than one case, by persons of genius, who followed
the same pursuit with herself. It was the cry at the
period, and has sometimes been repeated since, that the
romances of Mrs. Radcliffe, and the applause with
which they were received, were evil signs of the times,
and argued a great and increasing degradation of the
public taste, which, instead of banqueting as hereto-
fore upon scenes of passion, like those of Richardson, or
of life and manners, as in the pages of Smollett and
Fielding, was now coming back to the fare of the nur-
sery, and gorged upon the wild and improbable fictions
of an overheated imagination. There might be some
truth in this, if it were only applied to the crowd of
copyists who came forward in imitation of Mrs. Rad-
cliffe, and assumed her magic wand, without having the
power of wielding it with effect. No author can be
arraigned for the deficiencies of those who servilely
copy his style, and, following their original as the sha-
dow follows the substance, present an obscure, distort-
ed, and indistinct outline of what is in itself clear, pre-
cise, and distinct. But the inferiority of this servile.
race is much more like to put the particular style they
imitate out of fashion, than to engraft its peculiarities.
upon the public taste.
When applied to Mrs. Radcliffe herself, the tone of
criticism which we allude to will, when justly examined,
be found to rest chiefly on that depreciating spirit,
which would undermine the fair fame of an accomplished
writer, by showing that she does not possess the excel-
lences proper to a style of composition totally different
from that which she has attempted. The question is
neither, whether the romances of Mrs. Radcliffe possess
merits which her plan did not require, nay, almost ex-
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
329
cluded; nor whether hers is to be considered as a depart-
ment of fictitious composition, equal in dignity and im-
portance to those where the great ancient masters have
long preoccupied the ground. The real and only point
is, whether, considered as a separate and distinct species
of writing, that introduced by Mrs. Radcliffe possesses
merit and affords pleasure; for, these premises being
admitted, it is as unreasonable to complain of the ab-
sence of advantages foreign to her style and plan, and
proper to those of another mode of composition, as to
regret that the peach-tree does not produce grapes, or
the vine peaches. A glance upon the face of nature is,
perhaps, the best cure for this unjust and unworthy sys-
tem of criticism. We there behold, that not only each
star differs from another in glory, but that there is
spread over the face of Nature a boundless variety; and
that as a thousand different kinds of shrubs and flowers
not only have beauties independent of each other, but
are more delightful from that very circumstance than
if they were uniform, so the fields of literature admit the
same variety; and it may be said of the Muse of Fic-
tion, as well as of her sisters,
"Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet."
It may be stated, to the additional confusion of such
hypercritics as we allude to, that not only does the infi-
nite variety of human tastes require different styles of
composition for their gratification; but if there were to
be selected one particular structure of fiction, which pos-
sesses charms for the learned and unlearned, the grave
and gay, the gentleman and the clown, it would be per-
haps that of those very romances which the severity of
their criticisms seeks to depreciate. There are many
men too mercurial to be delighted by Richardson's beau-
•
330
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
1
tiful, but protracted display of the passions; and there
are some too dull to comprehend the wit of Le Sage, or
too saturnine to relish the nature and spirit of Fielding:
And yet these very individuals will with difficulty be
livorced from The Romance of the Forest, or The Mys-
teries of Udolpho; for curiosity and a lurking love of
mystery, together with a germ of superstition, are more
general ingredients in the human mind, and more widely
diffused through the mass of humanity, than either
genuine taste for the comic, or true feeling of the pathe-
tic. The unknown author of The Pursuits of Literature,
who, in respect to common tales of terror,
"boasts an English heart,
Unused at ghosts or rattling bones to start,"
acknowledges, nevertheless, the legitimate character
of Mrs. Radcliffe's art, and pays no mean tribute to
her skill. Of some sister novelists he talks with slight
regard.
((
Though all of them are ingenious ladies, yet they are too frequently
whining and frisking in novels, till our girls' heads turn wild with
impossible adventures; and now and then are tainted with democracy.
Not so the mighty magician of The Mysteries of Udolpho, bred and
nourished by the Florentine muses in their secret solitary caverns,
amid the paler shrines of Gothic superstition, and in all the dreariness
of cnchantment; a poetess whom Ariosto would with rapture have
acknowledged as,
La nudrita
Damigella Trivulzia AL SACRO SPECO.-O. F. c. xlvi."
Mrs. Radcliffe was not made acquainted with this high
compliment till long after the satire was published; and
its value was enhanced by the author's general severity
of judgment, and by his perfect acquaintance with the
manners and language of Italy, in which she had laid
her scene.¹
¹ ["Many other individuals of eminence in taste and literature might
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
331
It is farther to be observed, that the same class of
critics who ridiculed these romances as unnatural and
improbable, were disposed to detract from the genius.
of the author, on account of the supposed facility of her
task. Art or talent, they said, was not required to pro-
duce that sort of interest and emotion, which is perhaps,
after all, more strongly excited by a vulgar legend of a
village ghost, than by the high painting and labored de-
scriptions of Mrs. Radcliffe. But this criticism is not
much better founded than the former. The feelings of
suspense and awful attention which she excites are
awakened by means of springs which lie open indeed to
the first touch, but which are peculiarly liable to be
worn out by repeated pressure. The public soon, like
Macbeth, become satiated with horrors, and indifferent
to the strongest stimuli of that kind. It shows, there-
fore, the excellence and power of Mrs. Radcliffe's genius,
that she was able three times to bring back her readers
with fresh appetite to a banquet of the same descrip-
tion; while of her numerous imitators, who rang the
changes upon old castles and forests, and "antres dire,"
scarcely one attracted attention, until Mr. Lewis pub-
be adverted to, as having also expressed themselves in strong terms of
Mrs. Radcliffe's genius. Dr. Joseph Warton, the Head Master of Win-
chester School, who was then at a very advanced period of life, told
Mr. George Robinson, Mrs. Radcliffe's publisher, that happening to
take up The Mysteries of Udolpho, he was so fascinated, that he could
not go to bed until he had finished it, and that he actually sat up a
great part of the night for that purpose. Mr. Sheridan spoke of the
same production with great praise; and Mr. Fox, in a letter which he
wrote to an intimate friend at the time when Mrs. Radcliffe's works
were the subject of general conversation and remark, mentioned them
all in terms of high commendation, and entered into a particular exa-
mination and comparison of their respective merits."-MRS. BAR-
BAULD.]
332
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
lished his Monk, several years after she had resigned
her pen.
The materials of these celebrated romances, and the
means employed in conducting the narrative, are all
selected with a view to the author's primary object, of
moving the reader by ideas of impending danger, hidden
guilt, supernatural visitings,-by all that is terrible, in
short, combined with much that is wonderful. For this
purpose, her scenery is generally as gloomy as her tale,
and her personages are those at whose frown that gloom
grows darker. She has uniformly (except in her first
effort) selected for her place of action the south of
Europe, where the human passions, like the weeds of
the climate, are supposed to attain portentous growth
under the fostering sun; which abounds with ruined
monuments of antiquity, as well as the more massive
remnants of the middle ages; and where feudal tyran-
ny and Catholic superstition still continue to exercise
their sway over the slave and the bigot, and to indulge
to the haughty lord, or more haughty priest, that sort
of despotic power, the exercise of which seldom fails to
deprave the heart and disorder the judgment. These
circumstances are skilfully selected, to give probability
to events which could not, without great violation of
truth, be represented as having taken place in England.
Yet, even with the allowances which we make for
foreign minds and manners, the unterminating succes-
sion of misfortunes which press upon the heroine, strikes.
us as unnatural. She is continually struggling with the
tide of adversity, and hurried downwards by its torrent;
and if any more gay description is occasionally intro-
duced, it is only as a contrast, and not a relief, to the
melancholy and gloomy tenor of the narrative.
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
333
In working upon the sensations of natural and super-
stitious fear, Mrs. Radcliffe has made much use of ob-
scurity and suspense, the most fertile source, perhaps,
of sublime emotion; for there are few dangers that do
not become familiar to the firm mind, if they are pre-
sented to consideration as certainties, and in all their
open
and declared character; whilst, on the other hand,
the bravest have shrunk from the dark and the doubt-
ful. To break off the narrative, when it seemed at the
point of becoming most interesting-to extinguish a
lamp, just when a parchment containing some hideous
secret ought to have been read-to exhibit shadowy
forms and half-heard sounds of woe, are resources which
Mrs. Radcliffe has employed with more effect than any
other writer of romance. It must be confessed, that in
order to bring about these situations, some art or con-
trivance, on the part of the author, is rather too visible.
Her heroines voluntarily expose themselves to situations,
which in nature a lonely female would certainly have
avoided. They are too apt to choose the midnight hour
for investigating the mysteries of a deserted chamber or
secret passage, and generally are only supplied with an
expiring lamp, when about to read the most interesting
documents. The simplicity of the tale is thus somewhat
injured-it is as if we witnessed a dressing up of the
very phantom by which we are to be startled; and the
imperfection, though redeemed by many beauties, did
not escape the censure of criticism.
A principal characteristic of Mrs. Radcliffe's romances,
is the rule which the author imposed upon herself, that
all the circumstances of her narrative, however myste-
rious, and apparently superhuman, were to be accounted
for on natural principles, at the winding up of the story.
334
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
It must be allowed, that this has not been done with
uniform success, and that the author has been occasion-
ally more successful in exciting interest and apprehen-
sion, than in giving either interest or dignity of expla-
nation to the means she has made use of. Indeed, we
have already noticed, as the torment of romance-writers,
those necessary evils, the concluding chapters, when they
must unravel the skein of adventures which they have
been so industrious to perplex, and account for all the
incidents which they have been at so much pains to
render unaccountable. Were these great magicians,
who deal in the wonderful and fearful, permitted to
dismiss their spectres as they raise them, amidst the
shadowy and indistinct light so favorable to the exhibi-
tion of phantasmagoria, without compelling them into
broad daylight, the task were comparatively easy, and
the fine fragment of Sir Bertrand might have rivals in
that department. But the modern author is not per-
mitted to escape in that way. We are told of a formal
old judge before whom evidence was tendered, of the
ghost of a murdered person having declared to a wit-
ness, that the prisoner at the bar was guilty: the judge
admitted the evidence of the spirit to be excellent, but
denied his right to be heard through the mouth of
another, and ordered the spectre to be summoned into
open court. The public of the current day deal as
rigidly, in moving for a quo warranto to compel an
explanation from the story-teller; and the author must
either at once represent the knot as worthy of being
severed by supernatural aid, and bring on the stage his
actual fiend or ghost, or, like Mrs. Radcliffe, explain by
natural agency the whole marvels of his story.
We have already, in some brief remarks on The
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
335
Castle of Otranto, avowed some preference for the
more simple mode, of boldly avowing the use of super-
natural machinery. Ghosts and witches, and the whole
tenets of superstition, having once, and at no late
period, been matter of universal belief, warranted by
legal authority, it would seem no great stretch upon the
reader's credulity to require him, while reading of what
his ancestors did, to credit for the time what those an-
cestors devoutly believed in. And yet, notwithstanding
the success of Walpole and Maturin, (to whom we may
add the author of Forman,) the management of such
machinery must be acknowledged a task of a most deli-
cate nature. “There is but one step," said Bonaparte,
“betwixt the sublime and the ridiculous ;" and in an
age of universal incredulity, we must own it would
require, at the present day, the support of the highest
powers, to save the supernatural from slipping into
the ludicrous. The Incredulus odi is a formidable
objection.
There are some modern authors, indeed, who have
endeavored, ingeniously enough, to compound betwixt
ancient faith and modern incredulity. They have exhi-
bited phantoms, and narrated prophecies strangely
accomplished, without giving a defined or absolute
opinion, whether these are to be referred to superna-
tural agency, or whether the apparitions were produced
(no uncommon case) by an overheated imagination, and
the presages apparently verified by a casual, though
singular, coincidence of circumstances. This is, how-
1 ["Enthusiastic feelings of an impressive and solemn nature, occur
both in private and public life, which seem to add ocular testimony to
an intercourse betwixt earth and the world beyond it. For example,
the son who has been lately deprived of his father, feels a sudden crisis
336
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
-
ever, an evasion of the difficulty, not a solution; and
besides, it would be leading us too far from the present
subject, to consider to what point the author of a ficti-
tious narrative is bound by his charter to gratify the
curiosity of the public, and whether, as a painter of
actual life, he is not entitled to leave something in shade,
when the natural course of events conceals so many in-
cidents in total darkness. Perhaps, upon the whole, this
is the most artful mode of terminating such a tale of
wonder, as it forms the means of compounding with the
taste of two different classes of readers; those who, like
children, demand that each particular circumstance and
incident of the narrative shall be fully accounted for;
and the more imaginative class, who, resembling men
that walk for pleasure through a moonlight landscape,
are more teazed than edified by the intrusive minuteness
with which some well-meaning companion disturbs their
reveries, divesting stock and stone of the shadowy sem-
blances in which fancy had dressed them, and pertina-
ciously restored to them the ordinary forms and com-
monplace meanness of reality.¹
approach, in which he is anxious to have recourse to his sagacious
advice, or a bereaved husband earnestly desires again to behold the form
of which the grave has deprived him for ever—or, to use a darker, yet
very common instance, the wretched man who has dipt his hand in his
fellow-creature's blood, is haunted by the apprehension that the phan-
tom of the slain stands by the bedside of his murderer. In all, or any
of these cases, who shall doubt that imagination, favored by circum-
stances, has power to summon up to the organ of sight, spectres which
only exist in the minds of those by whom their apparition seems to be
witnessed ?"-SIR WALTER SCOTT's Demonology, pp. 5, 6.]
¹ ["Of this justly celebrated woman, the principal object seems to
have been to raise powerful emotions of surprise, awe, and especially
terror, by means and agents apparently supernatural. To effect this,
she places her characters, and transports her readers, amid scenes which
are calculated strongly to excite the mind, and to predispose it for spec-
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
337
It may indeed be claimed as meritorious in Mrs. Rad-
cliffe's mode of expounding her mysteries, that it is
founded in possibilities. Many situations have occurred,
highly tinctured with romantic incident and feeling, the
mysterious obscurity of which has afterwards been ex-
plained by deception and confederacy. Such have
been the impostures of superstition in all ages, and such
delusions were also practised by the members of the
Secret Tribunal, in the middle ages, and in more modern
tral illusion: Gothic castles, gloomy abbeys, subterraneous passages,
the haunts of banditti, the sobbing of the wind, and the howling of the
storm, are all employed for this purpose; and, in order that these may
have their full effect, the principal character in her romances is always
a lovely and unprotected female, encompassed with snares and sur-
rounded by villains. But that in which the works of Mrs. Radcliffe
chiefly differ from those by which they are preceded, is, that in the
Castle of Otranto and Old English Baron, the machinery is in fact super-
natural, whereas the means and agents employed by Mrs. Radcliffe are
in reality human, and such as can be, or at least are professed to be,
explained by natural events. By these means she certainly excites a
very powerful interest, as the reader meanwhile experiences the full
impression of the wonderful and terrific appearances; but there is one
defect which attends this mode of composition, and which seems indeed
to be inseparable from it. As it is the intention of the author, that the
mysteries should be afterwards cleared up, they are all mountains in
labor; and even when she is successful in explaining the marvellous
circumstances which have occurred, we feel disappointed that we should
have been so agitated by trifles. But the truth is, they never are pro-
perly explained; and the author, in order to raise strong emotions of
fear and horror in the body of the work, is tempted to go lengths, to
account for which the subsequent explanations scem utterly inadequate.
Thus, for example, after all the wonder and dismay, and terror and ex-
pectation, excited by the mysterious chamber in the castle of Udolpho,
how much are we disappointed and disgusted to find, that all this pother
has been raised by a waxen statue! In short, we may say, not only of
Mrs. Radcliffe's castles, but of her works in general, that they abound
‘in passages that lead to nothing.'"-DUNLOP's History of Fiction, vol.
üi., p. 385-6.]
338
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
times by the Rosicrucians and Illuminati, upon whose
machinations Schiller has founded the fine romance of
The Ghost-Ser. But Mrs. Radcliffe has not had re-
course to so artificial a solution. Her heroines often sus-
tain the agony of fear, and her readers that of suspense,
from incidents which, when explained, appear of an
ordinary and trivial nature; and in this we do not
greatly applaud her art. A stealthy step behind the
arras, may doubtless, in some situations, and when the
nerves are tuned to a certain pitch, have no small
influence upon the imagination; but if the conscious
listener discovers it to be only the noise made by the
cat, the solemnity of the feeling is gone, and the vision-
ary is at once angry with his senses for having been
cheated, and with his reason for having acquiesced in
the deception.' We fear that some such feeling of
disappointment and displeasure attends most readers,
when they read for the first time the unsatisfactory
solution of the mysteries of the black pall and the
wax figure, which has been adjourned from chapter to
chapter, like something suppressed, because too horrible
for the ear.
There is a separate inconvenience attending a narra-
tive where the imagination has been long kept in sus-
¹ By a singular coincidence, the late lamented author of Don Juan has
introduced this very idea into the last canto of that poem.
["The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul
As ever lurked beneath a holy hood;
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole
Forth into something much like flesh and blood
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,
And they revealed-alas! that e'er they should!
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk,
The phantom of her frolic Grace-Fitz-Fulke !"]
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
339
pense, and is at length imperfectly gratified by an ex-
planation falling short of what the reader has expected;
for, in such a case, the interest terminates on the first
reading of the volumes, and cannot, so far as it rests
upon a high degree of excitation, be recalled upon a
second perusal. A plan of narrative, happily complicat-
ed and ingeniously resolved, continues to please after
many readings; for, although the interest of eager
curiosity is no more, it is supplied by the rational plea-
sure, which admires the author's art, and traces a thou-
sand minute passages, which render the catastrophe
probable, yet escape notice in the eagerness of a first
perusal. But it is otherwise, when some inadequate
cause is assigned for a strong emotion; the reader feels
tricked, and as in the case of a child who has once seen.
the scenes of a theatre too nearly, the idea of paste-
board, cords, and pulleys, destroys for ever the illusion.
with which they were first seen from the proper point
of view. Such are the difficulties and dilemmas which
attend the path of the professed story-teller, who, while
it is expected of him that his narrative should be in-
teresting and extraordinary, is neither permitted to ex-
plain its wonders, by referring them to ordinary causes,
on account of their triteness, nor to supernatural agency,
because of its incredibility. It is no wonder that,
hemmed in by rules so strict, Mrs. Radcliffe, a mistress
of the art of exciting curiosity, has not been uniformly
fortunate in the mode of gratifying it.
The best and most admired specimen of her art is the
mysterious disappearance of Ludovico, after having un-
dertaken to watch for a night in a haunted apartment;
and the mind of the reader is finely wound up for some
strange catastrophe, by the admirable ghost-story which
340
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
he is represented as perusing to amuse his solitude, as the
scene closes upon him. Neither can it be denied, that
the explanation afforded of this mysterious incident is
as probable as romance requires, and in itself com-
pletely satisfactory. As this is perhaps the most favor-
able example of Mrs. Radcliffe's peculiar skill in compo-
sition, the incidents of the black veil and the waxen
figure may be considered as instances where the expla-
nation falls short of expectation, and disappoints the
reader entirely. On the other hand, her art is at once,
according to the classical precept, exerted and concealed
in the beautiful and impressive passage, where the Mar-
chesa is in the choir of the convent of San Nicolo, con-
triving with the atrocious Schedoni the murder of El-
lena.
·
'Avoid violence, if that be possible,' she added, immediately com-
prehending him, 'but let her die quickly! The punishment is due to
the crime.'
"The Marchesa happened, as she said this, to cast her eyes upon the
inscription over a confessional, where appeared, in black letters, these
awful words, 'GOD hears thee!' It appeared an awful warning; her
countenance changed; it had struck upon her heart. Schedoni was
too much engaged by his own thoughts to observe, or understand her
silence. She soon recovered herself; and, considering that this was a
common inscription for confessionals, disregarded what she had at first
considered as a peculiar admonition; yet some moments elapsed before
she could renew the subject.
"You were speaking of a place, father,' resumed the Marchesa—
you mentioned a-
''Ay,' muttered the confessor, still musing-'in a chamber of that
house there is- >
They
"What noise is that?' said the Marchesa, interrupting him.
listened. A few low and querulous notes of the organ sounded at a dis-
tance, and stopped again.
"What mournful music is that?' said the Marchesa, in a faltering
voice; it was touched by a fearful hand! Vespers were over long
ago?'
i
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
341
"Daughter,' said Schedoni, somewhat sternly, 'you said you had a
man's courage. Alas! you have a woman's heart.'
"Excuse me, father; I know not why I feel this agitation, but I will
command it.—That chamber?'
"In that chamber,' resumed the confessor, 'is a secret door, con-
structed long ago.'
"And for what purpose constructed?' said the fearful Marchesa.
"Pardon me, daughter; 'tis sufficient that it is there; we will
make a good use of it. Through that door-in the night—when she
sleeps'
"I comprehend you,' said the Marchesa, 'I comprehend you. But
why, you have your reasons, no doubt,—but why the necessity of a
secret door in a house which you say is so lonely-inhabited by only one
person?'
666
"A passage leads to the sea,' continued Schedoni, without replying
to the question. There, on the shore, when darkness covers it; there,
plunged amidst the waves, no stain shall hint of
"Hark!' interrupted the Marchesa, starting, 'that note again!'
"The organ sounded faintly from the choir, and paused, as before.
In the next moment, a slow chanting of voices was heard, mingling
with the rising peal, in a strain particularly melancholy and solemn.
"'Who is dead?' said the Marchesa, changing countenance: 'it is a
requiem!'
"Peace be with the departed!' exclaimed Schedoni, and crossed
himself; 'peace rest with his soul!'
"Hark! to that chant,' said the Marchesa, in a trembling voice, 'it
is a first requiem; the soul has just but quitted the body!'
They listened in silence. The Marchesa was much affected; her
complexion varied at every instant; her breathings were short and in-
terrupted, and she even shed a few tears, but they were those of de-
spair, rather than of sorrow."
Mrs. Radcliffe's power, both of language and descrip-
tion, have been justly estimated very highly. They
bear, at the same time, considerable marks of that
warm, and somewhat exuberant imagination, which
dictated her works. Some artists are distinguished by
precision and correctness of outline, others by the force
and vividness of their coloring; and it is to the latter
class that this author belongs. The landscapes of Mrs.
342
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Radcliffe are far from equal in accuracy and truth to
those of her contemporary, Mrs. Charlotte Smith, whose
sketches are so very graphical, that an artist would find
little difficulty in actually painting from them. Those
`of Mrs. Radcliffe, on the contrary, while they would
supply the most noble and vigorous ideas, for producing
a general effect, would leave the task of tracing a dis-
tinct and accurate outline to the imagination of the
painter. As her story is usually enveloped in mystery,
so there is, as it were, a haze over her landscapes, soften-
ing indeed the whole, and adding interest and dignity
to particular parts, and thereby producing every effect
which the author desired, but without communicating
any absolutely precise or individual image to the reader.
The beautiful description of the Castle of Udolpho,
upon Emily's first approach to it, is of this character. It
affords a noble subject for the pencil: but were six ar-
tists to attempt to embody it upon canvass, they would
probably produce six drawings entirely dissimilar to
each other, yet all of them equally authorized by the
printed description, which, although a long one, is so
beautiful a specimen of Mrs. Radcliffe's peculiar talents,
that we do not hesitate to insert it.
"Towards the close of the day, the road wound into a deep valley.
Mountains, whose shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost
surrounded it. To the east, a vista opened, and exhibited the Apen-
nines in their darkest horrors; and the long perspective of retiring
summits rising over each other, their ridges clothed with pines, exhi-
bited a stronger image of grandeur, than any that Emily had yet seen.
The sun had just sunk below the top of the mountains she was descend-
ing, whose long shadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping
rays, shooting through an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow
gleam the summits of the forest that hung upon the opposite steeps,
and streamed in full splendor upon the towers and battlements of a
castle that spread its extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
343
above. The splendor of these illumined objects was heightened by the
contrasted shade which involved the valley below.
"There,' said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours,
'is Udolpho.'
"Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she under-
stood to be Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting
sun,
the Gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of
dark grey stone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she
gazed, the light died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint,
which spread deeper and deeper, as the thin vapor crept up the moun-
tain, while the battlements above were still tipped with splendor.
From these, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invest-
ed with the solemn duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and sublime,
it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on
all who dared to invade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its
features became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze,
till its clustering towers were alone seen rising over the tops of the
woods, beneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to
ascend.
"The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific
images in her mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up
from under the trees. At length the carriages emerged upon a heathy
rock, and soon after reached the castle gates, where the deep tone of the
portal bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their arrival, in-
creased the fearful emotions that had assailed Emily. While they wait-
ed till the servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiously
surveyed the edifice; but the gloom that overspread it allowed her to
distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls
of the ramparts, and to know that it was vast, ancient, and dreary.
From the parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent of
the whole. The gateway before her, leading into the courts, was of
gigantic size, and was defended by two round towers, crowned by over-
hanging turrets, embattled, where, instead of banners, now waved long
grass and wild plants, that had taken root among the mouldering
stones, and which seemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled past, over the
desolation around them. The towers were united by a curtain, pierced
and embattled also, below which appeared the pointed arch of a huge
portcullis, surmounting the gates: from these, the walls of the ram-
parts extended to other towers, overlooking the precipice, whose shat-
tered outline, appearing on a gleam that lingered in the west, told of
the ravages of war.-Beyond these all was lost in the obscurity of even-
ing."
344
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS
We think it interesting to compare this splendid and
beautiful fancy-picture with the precision displayed by
the same author's pencil, when she was actually engag-
ed in copying nature, and probably the reader will be
of opinion, that Udolpho is an exquisite effect-piece,
Hardwick a striking and faithful portrait.
"Northward, beyond London, we may make one stop, after a coun-
try, not otherwise necessary to be noticed, to mention Hardwick, in
Derbyshire, a seat of the Duke of Devonshire, once the residence of the
Earl of Shrewsbury, to whom Elizabeth deputed the custody of the un-
fortunate Mary. It stands on an easy height, a few miles to the left of
the road from Mansfield to Chesterfield, and is approached through
shady lanes, which conceal the view of it, till you are on the confines
of the park. Three towers of hoary grey then rise with great majesty
among old woods, and their summits appear to be covered with the
lightly shivered fragments of battlements, which, however, are soon
discovered to be perfectly carved open work, in which the letters E. S.
frequently occur under a coronet, the initials, and the memorials of the
vanity, of Elizabeth, Countess of Shrewsbury, who built the present
edifice. Its tall features, of a most picturesque tint, were finely dis-
closed between the luxuriant woods and over the lawns of the park,
which every now and then let in a glimpse of the Derbyshire hills. The
scenery reminded us of the exquisite descriptions of Harewood.
"The deep embowering shades that veil Elfrida and those of Hard-
wick, once veiled a form as lovely as the ideal graces of the poet, and
conspired to a fate more tragical than that which Harewood witnessed.
"In front of the great gates of the castle court, the ground, adorned
by old oaks, suddenly sinks to a darkly shadowed glade, and the view
opens over the vale of Scarsdale, bounded by the wild mountains of
the Peak. Immediately to the left of the présent residence, some ruin-
ed features of the ancient one, enwreathed with the rich drapery of
ivy, give an interest to the scene, which the later, but more historical
structure, heightens and prolongs. We followed, not without emo-
tion, the walk which Mary had so often trodden, to the folding-doors
of the great hall, whose lofty grandeur, aided by silence, and seen under
the influence of a lowering sky, suited the temper of the whole scene.
The tall windows, which half subdue the light they admit, just allowed
us to distinguish the large figures in the tapestry, above the oak wains-
coting, and showed a colonnade of oak supporting a gallery along the
bottom of the hall, with a pair of gigantic elk's horns flourishing be-
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
345
tween the windows opposite to the entrance.
The scene of Mary's ar
rival, and her feelings upon entering this solemn shade, came involun-
tarily to the mind; the noise of horses' feet, and many voices from the
court; her proud, yet gentle and melancholy look, as, led by my Lord
Keeper, she passed slowly up the hall; his somewhat obsequious, yet
jealous and vigilant air, while, awed by her dignity and beauty, he re-
members the terrors of his own queen; the silence and anxiety of her
maids, and the bustle of the surrounding attendants.
"From the hall, a staircase ascends to the gallery of a small chapel,
in which the chairs and cushions used by Mary still remain, and pro-
ceeds to the first story, where only one apartment bears memorials of
her imprisonment,-the bed, tapestry, and chairs having been worked
by herself. This tapestry is richly embossed with emblematic figures,
each with its title worked above it, and, having been scrupulously pre-
served, is still entire and fresh.
"Over the chimney of an adjoining dining-room, to which, as well
as to other apartments on this floor, some modern furniture has been
added, is this motto carved in oak:-
"There is only this: To fear God, and keep his Commandments.'
So much less valuable was timber than workmanship, when this man-
sion was constructed, that, where the staircases are not of stone, they
are formed of solid oaken steps, instead of planks; such is that from
the second, or state story, to the roof, whence, on clear days, York and
Lincoln cathedrals are said to be included in the extensive prospect.
This second floor is that which gives its chief interest to the edifice.
Nearly all the apartments of it were allotted to Mary; some of them
for state purposes; and the furniture is known by other proof than its
appearance, to remain as she left it. The chief room, or that of au-
dience, is of uncommon loftiness, and strikes by its grandeur, before
the veneration and tenderness arise, which its antiquities, and the
plainly told tale of the sufferings they witnessed, excite." 1
The contrast of these two descriptions will satisfy the
reader, that Mrs. Radcliffe knew as well how to copy
nature, as when to indulge imagination. The towers.
of Udolpho are undefined, boundless, and wreathed in
mist and obscurity; the ruins of Hardwick are as fully
1 Journey through Holland and the Western Frontier of Germany,
with a Return down the Rhine. To which are added, Observations
during a Tour to the Lakes of Lancashire, Westmoreland, and Cumber-
land. By Ann Radcliffe. 4to, 1795. Page 371.
346
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
and boldly painted, but with more exactness of outline,
and perhaps less warmth and magnificence of coloring.
It is singular, that though Mrs. Radcliffe's beautiful
descriptions of foreign scenery, composed solely from
the materials afforded by travellers, collected and em-
bodied by her own genius, were marked in a particular
degree (to our thinking at least) with the characteris-
tics of fancy-portraits; yet many of her contemporaries
conceived them to be exact descriptions of scenes which
she had visited in person. One report, transmitted to
the public by the Edinburgh Review, stated, that Mr.
and Mrs. Radcliffe had visited Italy; that Mr. Rad-
cliffe had been attached to one of the British Embassies
in that country; and that it was there his gifted con-
sort imbibed the taste for picturesque scenery, for moul-
dering ruins, and for the obscure and gloomy anecdotes
which tradition relates of their former inhabitants.
This is so far a mistake, as Mrs. Radcliffe never was in
Italy; but we have already mentioned the probability
of her having availed herself of the acquaintance she
formed in 1793 with the magnificent scenery on the
banks of the Rhine, and the frowning remains of feudal
castles with which it abounds. The inaccuracy of the
reviewer is of no great consequence; but a more absurd
report found its way into print, namely, that Mrs. Rad-
cliffe, having visited the fine old Gothic mansion of
Haddon House, had insisted upon remaining a night.
there, in the course of which she had been inspired with
all that enthusiasm for Gothic residences, hidden passa-
ges, and mouldering walls, which marks her writings.
Mrs. Radcliffe, we are assured, never saw Haddon
House; and although it was a place excellently worth
her attention, and could hardly have been seen by her
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE
347
without suggesting some of those ideas in which her ima-
gination naturally revelled, yet we should suppose the
mechanical aid to invention—the recipe for fine writing
-the sleeping in a dismantled and unfurnished old
house, was likely to be rewarded with nothing but a
cold, and was an affectation of enthusiasm to which
Mrs. Radcliffe would have disdained to have recourse.
The warmth of imagination which Mrs. Radcliffe
manifests, was naturally connected with an inclination.
towards poetry, and accordingly songs, sonnets, and
pieces of fugitive verse, amuse and relieve the reader in
the course of her volumes. These are not, in this place,
the legitimate subject of criticism; but it may be
remarked, that they display more liveliness and rich-
ness of fancy, than correctness of taste or felicity of
expression. The language does not become pliant in
Mrs. Radcliffe's hands; and, unconscious of this defect,
she has attempted, nevertheless, to bend it into new
structures of verse, for which the English is not adapt-
ed. The song of the glow-worm is an experiment of
this nature. It must also be allowed, that the imagina-
tion of the author sometimes carries her on too fast,
and that if she herself formed a competent and perfect
idea of what she meant to express, she has sometimes
1 ["It ought not to be forgotten that there are many elegant pieces
of poetry interspersed through the volumes of Mrs. Radcliffe; among
which are to be distinguished as exquisitely sweet and fanciful, the
'Song to a Spirit,' and 'The Sea Nymph,' 'Down, down, a hundred
fathom deep;' they might be sung by Shakspeare's Ariel. The true
lovers of poetry are almost apt to regret its being brought in as an ac-
companiment to narrative, where it is generally neglected; for not one
in a hundred of those who read and can judge of novels are at all able
to appreciate the merits of a copy of verses, and the common reader is
always patient to get on with the story."-MRS. BARBAULD.]
348
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
failed to convey it to the reader. At other and happier
times, her poetry partakes of the rich and beautiful
coloring which distinguishes her prose composition, and
has, perhaps, the same fault, of not being in every case
quite precise in expressing the meaning of the author.
The following address to Melancholy may be fairly se-
lected as a specimen of her powers.
"Spirit of love and sorrow-hail !
Thy solemn voice from far I hear,
Mingling with evening's dying gale:
Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!
"O! at this still, this lonely hour,
Thine own sweet hour of closing day,
Awake thy lute, whose charmful power
Shall call up fancy to obey;
"To paint the wild romantic dream
That meets the poet's musing eye,
As on the bank of shadowy stream
He breathes to her the fervid sigh.
"O lonely spirit! let thy song
Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;
The minster's moonlight aisles along,
Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.
"I hear their dirges faintly swell!
Then, sink at once in silence drear,
While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell,
Dimly their gliding forms appear!
Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,
Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
As the cold moon, with trembling eye,
Darts her long beams the leaves between.
"Lead to the mountain's dusky head,
Where, far below, in shades profound,
Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread,
And sad the chimes of vesper sound.
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
349
"Or guide me where the dashing oar
Just breaks the stillness of the vale,
As slow it tracks the winding shore,
To meet the ocean's distant sail :
"To pebbly banks that Neptune laves,
With measured surges, loud and deep,
Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
And wild the winds of autumn sweep.
"There pause at midnight's spectred hour,
And list the long-resounding gale;
And catch the fleeting moonlight's power,
O'er foaming seas and distant sail."
It cannot, we think, be denied, that we have here.
beautiful ideas expressed in appropriate versification;
yet here, as in her prose compositions, the poetess is too
much busied with external objects, too anxious to de-
scribe the outward accompaniments of melancholy, to
write upon the feeling itself; and although the compa-
rison be made at the expense of a favorite author, we
cannot help contrasting the poetry we have just insert-
ed, with a song, by Fletcher, on a similar subject.
PAS. (Sings.) "Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
350
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.'
The Nice Valour.
In these last verses the reader may observe, that the
human feeling of the votary of melancholy, or rather
the pale passion itself, is predominant; that our
thoughts are of, and with, the pensive wanderer; and
that the “fountain heads and pathless groves,” like the
landscape in a portrait, are only secondary parts of the
picture. In Mrs. Radcliffe's verses, it is different. The
accessories and accompaniments of melancholy are well
described, but they call for so much of our attention,
that the feeling itself scarce solicits due regard. We
are placed among melancholy objects, but our sadness is
reflected from the scene, it is not the growth of our
own minds. Something like this may be observed in
Mrs. Radcliffe's romances, where our curiosity is too
much interested about the evolution of the story, to
permit our feelings to be acted upon by the distresses.
of the hero or heroine. We do not acknowledge them
as personal objects of our interest, and, convinced that
the authoress will extricate them from their embarrass-
ments, we are more concerned about the course of the
story, than the feelings or fate of those of whom it is
told.
But we must not take farewell of a favorite author
with a depreciating sentiment. It may be true, that
Mrs. Radcliffe rather walks in fairy-land than in the
region of realities, and that she has neither displayed
the command of the human passions, nor the insight
into the human heart, nor the observation of life and
MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
351
manners, which recommend other authors in the same
linc.' But she has taken the lead in a line of composi-
tion, appealing to those powerful and general sources
of interest, a latent sense of supernatural awe, and
curiosity concerning whatever is hidden and myste-
rious; and if she has been ever nearly approached in
this walk, which we should hesitate to affirm, it is at
least certain, that she has never been excelled or even
equalled.
We have been given to understand, we trust from
good authority, that a posthumous work of Mrs. Rad-
cliffe's is likely soon to make its appearance. Come
when it will, and contain almost what it may, it must
be an acquisition to the public of no common interest.'
¹ ["In the writings of Mrs. Radcliffe there is a considerable degree of
uniformity and mannerism, which is perhaps the case with all the pro-
ductions of a strong and original genius. Her heroines too nearly re-
semble each other, or rather they possess hardly any shade of difference.
They have all blue eyes and auburn hair-the form of cach of them has
'the airy lightness of a nymph'-they are all fond of watching the set-
ting sun, and catching the purple tints of evening, and the vivid glow
or fading splendor of the western horizon.. Unfortunately they are all
likewise early risers. I say unfortunately, for in every exigency Mrs.
Radcliffe's heroines are provided with a pencil and paper, and the sun
is never allowed to rise nor set in peace. Like Tilburina in the play,
they are 'inconsolable to the minuet in Ariadne,' and in the most dis-
tressing circumstances find time to compose sonnets to sunrise, the bat,
a sea-nymph, a lily, or a butterfly."-DUNLOP's History of Fiction, vol.
iii., p. 387.]
2 ["Gaston de Blondeville, a Romance; St. Alban's Abbey, a Metri-
cal Tale; with some Poetical Pieces: to which is prefixed a Memoir of
the Author." 4 vols. post 8vo. Lond. 1826.]
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
We must on the present, as on former occasions, com-
mence our biographical sketch of a delightful author,
with the vain regret, that we can say little of his pri-
vate life which can possibly interest the public. The
distinguished men of genius, whom, after death, our
admiration is led almost to canonize, have the lot of the
holy men, who, spending their lives in obscurity, pover-
ty, and maceration, incur contempt, and perhaps perse-
cution, to have shrines built for the protection of their
slightest relics, when once they are no more.
Like the
life of so many of those who have contributed most
largely to the harmless enjoyments of mankind, that of
Le Sage was laborious, obscure, and supported with
difficulty by the precarious reward of his literary exer-
tions.
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE was born in a village near
to the town of Vannes, in Britanny, about the year
1668. The profession of his father is not mentioned;
but as he bequeathed some property to his son, he
could not be of the very lowest rank. Unfortunately
he died early, and his son fell under the tutelage of an
uncle, so careless of one of the most sacred duties of
humanity, that he neglected alike the fortune and edu-
cation of his ward. The latter defect was in a great
measure supplied by the affection of the Père Bochard
of the order of the Jesuits, Principal of the College of
Vannes, who, interested in the talents displayed by the
young Le Sage, took pleasure in cultivating his taste for
literature. Our author, however, must have been late
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
353
in attracting Bochard's notice; for when he came to
Paris in 1693, in his twenty-fifth year, his principal ob-
ject was to prosecute his philosophical studies, with
what ultimate view does not appear.
With good-humor and liveliness, joined to youth,
and, it is said, a remarkably handsome person, Le Sage
soon felt the influence of the Parisian atmosphere, was
much engaged in society, and distinguished by an in-
trigue with a woman of rank, who shared with him, as
his biographer expresses it, her heart and fortune.
How this amour terminated we are not told, but one of
a better and more virtuous character succeeded. Le
Sage became enamored of a beautiful young woman,
the daughter of a joiner in the Rue de la Mortellerie,
married her, and, from that period, found his principal
happiness in domestic affection. By this union he had
three sons, whose fortunes we shall afterwards have oc-
casion to mention, and a daughter, whose filial piety is
said to have placed her sole occupation in contributing
to the domestic enjoyment of her celebrated parent.
Le Sage continued after his marriage to frequent the
circles of Paris, where literary men mingled as guests
upon easy terms, and appears to have acquired several
sincere and active friends, among whom the Abbé de
Lyonne entitled himself not only to the author's per-
sonal gratitude, but to that of posterity. He settled
upon Le Sage a pension of six hundred livres, and made
him, besides, many valuable presents, yet served him
much more essentially by directing his attention to
Spanish literature, which he was afterwards so singular-
ly to combine with that of his own country.'
1 So early as 1704, Le Sage understood the language so well as to give
354
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Danchel, a man of some celebrity, engaged Le Sage
in a translation of the Letters of Aristenetus, which he
caused to be printed at Chartres, (though the title bears
Rotterdam,) in 1695.
The particular circumstances of Spain had given a
strong cast of originality to the character of their lite-
rature. The close neighborhood of so many petty king-
doms, so frequently engaged in intestine wars, occa-
sioned numerous individual adventures, which could not
have taken place under any one established and extend-
ed government. The high romantic character of chi-
valry which was cherished by the natives, the vicinity
of the Moors, who had imported with them the wild,
imaginative, and splendid fictions of Araby the Blest-
the fierceness of the Spanish passions of love and venge-
ance, their thirst of honor, their unsparing cruelty,
-placed all the materials of romance under the very eye
of the author who wished to use them. If his charac-
ters were gigantic and overstrained in the conception,
the writer had his apology in the temper of the nation
where his scene was laid; if his incidents were extrava-
gant and improbable, a country in which Castilians and
Arragoneze, Spaniards and Moors, Mussulmans and
Christians, had been at war for so many ages, could
furnish historians with real events, which might counte-
nance the boldest flights of the romance. And here it
is impossible to avoid remarking, that the French, the
gayest people in Europe, have formed their stage on a
plan of declamatory eloquence, which all other nations.
have denounced as intolerable; while the Spaniard,
grave, solemn, and stately, was the first to introduce in
a translation of Avellaneda's Continuation of Don Quixote, which gave
so much offence to Cervantes.
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
355
the theatre all the bustle of lively and complicated in-
trigue ;-the flight and the escape, the mask and ladder
of ropes, closets, dark-lanterns, trap-doors, and the
whole machinery of constant and hurried action; and
that with such a profusion of invention, that the
Spanish stage forms a mine in which the dramatic.
authors of almost all other countries have wrought for
ages, and are still working, with very slight chance
either of failure or detection.
Le Sage was not slow in endeavoring to turn to his
own advantage his acquaintance with the Spanish dra-
ma. He translated from the original of Don Francisco
de Rojas, Le Traître Puni. It was not acted, but
printed in the year 1700. Another play, Don Felix de
Mendoce, he translated from Lope de Vega; but this
also remained unacted, and was not even printed, until
the author published his Théâtre, in 1739.
Le Point d'Honneur, another translation from the
Spanish, was performed at the Théâtre François, in
1702, without success. The satire turned upon the pe-
dantic punctilios formerly annexed to the discussion of
personal "dependences," as they were called, when men
quarrelled by the book, and arranged a rencontre ac-
cording to the rules of logic. This fantastic humor,
which, so early as the age of Shakspeare, and Beaumont
and Fletcher, had been successfully ridiculed on the
English stage, was probably rather too antiquated to be
the subject of satire on that of Paris, in the beginning
of the 18th century. The Point of Honor was only
twice represented.
In 1707, Don Caesar Ursin, a comedy, translated by
Le Sage from the Spanish of Calderon, was acted and
condemned at the Théâtre François. To make the au-
356
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
thor some amends, the same audience received, with the
most marked applause, the lively farce entitled Crispin
Rival de son Maître, which Garrick introduced upon
the English stage under the title of Neck or Nothing.
It is uncommon for a dramatic author to be applauded
and condemned for two different pieces in the same day;
but Le Sage's destiny was even still more whimsical.
Don Cæsar, we have said, was hissed in the city, and
Crispin applauded. At a representation before the
court, the judgment was reversed-the play was ap-
plauded, and the farce condemned without mercy.
Time has confirmed the judgment of the Parisians, and
annulled that of Versailles.
Le Sage made yet another essay on the regular stage,
with his comedy of Turcaret, in which he has painted.
the odious yet ridiculous character of a financier, risen
from the lowest order of society by tricks and usury,
prodigal of his newly acquired wealth upon a false and
extravagant mistress of quality, and refusing to contri-
bute even to relieve the extreme necessity of his wife
and near relations. As men of business, and a class so
wealthy, the financiers have always possessed interest at
court, and that interest seems to have been exerted with
success to prevent so odious a personification of their
body from appearing on the stage. The embargo was
removed by an order of Monseigneur, dated 15th Octo-
ber, 1708. While the play was yet in his portfolio, Le
Sage had an opportunity to show how little his temper
was that of a courtier. He had been pressed to read his
manuscript comedy at the Hotel de Bouillon, at the
hour of noon, but was detained till two o'clock by the
necessity of attending the decision of a lawsuit in which
he was deeply interested. When he at length appeared,
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
357
and endeavored to plead his excuse, the Duchess of
Bouillon received his apology with coldness, haughtily
remarking, he had made the company lose two hours in
waiting for his arrival.—“It is easy to make up the loss,
madam,” replied Le Sage; "I will not read my comedy,
and you will thus regain the lost time.” He left the
hotel, and could never be prevailed on to return thither.
Turcaret was acted, and was successful, in spite of the
cabal formed against it by the exertions of those con-
cerned in the finances.¹ The author, in imitation of
Molière, added a sort of dramatic criticism, in which he
defended the piece against the censures which had been
passed against it. The speakers in this critical interlude
were Don Cleofas and the Diable Boiteux. They ap-
peared on the stage as unseen spectators of the repre-
sentation of Turcaret, and spoke between the acts, like
the assistants in Ben Jonson's Every Man out of his
Humor; the tendency of the dialogue being to exult in
the author's success, and ridicule the cabal by which it
had been assailed. We learn, in the course of their
conversation, that besides all the friends of the author,
and all his friends' friends, a guard of the police was
necessary to restrain the zeal of the clerks and depend-
ents of the financial department. Asmodeus maintains
his character as a satirist, and pointing out to Don
Cleofas a violent debate betwixt the friends and enemies
1 ["The French author who, in drawing character, approached the
nearest to Molière, was perhaps Le Sage, in his Turcaret, which, how-
ever, is composed of many reminiscences from his great master. Both,
indeed, had the common defect of painting manners, not characters,
and, consequently, of producing comedies of classes, not of individuals.
But this is a defect which the French public would not even perceive;
and we are not aware that any critics of that nation have made the re-
mark."-Quarterly Review, July, 1823.]
358
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
of the piece, observes, that as it became warm, the one
party spoke worse of the piece than they thought, and
the other thought less good of it than they uttered.
Turcaret seems the only original piece which Le Sage
composed on the plan of the French regular comedy;
and though it had great poignancy of satire, the princi-
pal character on which the whole turns, is almost too
worthless and too wicked to be ridiculous, or truly
comic. Indeed Turcaret is rendered so odious, that
revenge was said to have held the pallet when the colors
were mixed; and there was an unauthorized story at one
time current, that Le Sage, deprived by a financier of at
place in the revenue, had written this dramatic satire to
be revenged upon the whole body of Maltôtiers. The
author, probably, was not without some offers of prefer-
ment, for he used to speak to his son of having refused
situations in which others became rich, but where his
conscience must have kept him poor-expressions too
vague for a biographer to found any thing upon them,
yet which seem to exclude the idea of his having held
any employment under a farmer-general of the revenues.
His connexion with the Théâtre François, on which alone
such regular pieces can be presented, was soon after
wards broken off. Le Sage had offered to them, in 1708,
a small piece, in one act, called La Tontine; it was not
acted until 1732; and though the cause is not precisely
known, it is obvious that the rejection gave much of-
fence to the author. Le Sage was also much provoked
at the airs of superiority assumed by the performers
towards the authors, and he has recorded his revenge.
by the unfavorable and ridiculous colors in which
he has represented the theatrical profession in his
romance.
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
359
The truth seems to be, that his former attempts were
unsuccessful, because they were founded upon the
Spanish plan of intrigue, in incident and situation, and
were not therefore much valued by the Parisians, whom
the excellent Molière had accustomed to pieces of cha-
racter and sentiment. Turcaret was indeed more in the
taste of the age, and was accordingly better relished;
but the scenes hang so loosely together, and the plot
possesses so little interest of any kind, that it may be
termed rather a dramatic satire than a proper comedy.
On the whole, Le Sage's failure as a comic poet will not.
excite the surprise of those who may have patience to
peruse his plays.
For the sake of connexion, we may trace Le Sage's
dramatic career to a period with the greater brevity,
that it contains but little to interest the reader. From
the service of the established National Theatre, Le Sage
transferred his pen to those minor establishments, termed
De la Foire, which did not pretend, and, indeed, were
not permitted, to offer to the public regular dramas, but
only to act vaudevilles, or small light interludes set to
music, and where the music was supposed to be the
principal attraction.
These subordinate theatres were a refinement upon the
puppet-shows and such like exhibitions, which used to
be shown during the two great Fairs of St. Laurence
and St. Germain; and it was under this color that the
manager and actors of the Foire endeavored to elude
the monopoly enjoyed by the Théâtre François, and
were alternately indulged or restricted in their privi-
leges, as they were able to find protection at court.
The sort of pieces represented at the Foire, came at
length to bear the name of the Comic Opera, of which
360
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Le Sage was the soul. He composed, either entirely, or
with the assistance of his friends, Dominique and Fuse-
lier, no less than a hundred and upwards of these inter-
ludes, farces, and light pieces, which cost little effort to
so inventive a genius, and which floated or sunk as
popular opinion willed it, never omitting any opportu-
nity which presented itself, to ridicule, parody, and
satirize the Romans, for so the actors of the regular
theatres were termed, in the cant language of the Foire.
These exertions were attended with such a degree of
profit, as, with the revenue arising from his other publi-
cations, enabled Le Sage, now the father of a family, to
maintain himself and them in a calm and modest, but
comfortable independence.
In 1721, the Comic Opera of the Foire was for a time
suppressed. An attempt was made to continue the
amusement, and elude the restriction, under different
devices. For this purpose, Francisque, the manager,
for whom Le Sage had long labored, caused pieces, com-
posed in monologue, to be acted on his stage. Le Sage
and Fuselier, late the allies of Francisque, had recourse
to another device, and acted their pieces as formerly, in
music and dialogue, but by the intervention of puppets,
instead of real actors-an idea which afterwards oc-
curred to Fielding. These rival theatres carried on their
several undertakings, in spite both of the comedians of
the Théâtre François, and of each other, and some
satirical skirmishes passed between them. In Arlequin
Deucalion, a piece in monologue, written by the cele-
brated Piron, Le Sage and his consort Fuselier are
subjected to ridicule by the following jeu de mots:
Punchinello is made to ask, "Pourquoi le fol de temps
en temps ne diroit-il pas des bonnes choses, puisque LE
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
361
SAGE de temps en temps dit de si mauvaises ?" In the
same piece, Arlequin throws a pair of pistols into the
sea, praying there might never more be word spoken
"de pistolets, de fusil, ni de FUSELIER." Such jests
break no bones, and probably discomposed our author's
temper as little as they injured his reputation. The
embargo was removed from the performances at the
Foire, in the course of about two years, and our author
resumed his ordinary labors in behalf of its theatre,
which he continued so late as the year 1738, during
which he produced three pieces, which were probably
his last dramatic efforts, as he had then attained his
seventieth year.
It has been said of Le Sage's works, that no writings
are more generally and widely known, than those of his
which are remembered, while none are so decidedly and
utterly forgotten as those which have been consigned to
neglect. All the slight dramas which we have noticed,
as forming so great and essential a part of the labors of
his life, fall under the latter class-many have never
been printed, and of those which have issued from the
press, very few are now read. Nothing can be more
slight than their texture. The whim of the day—any
remarkable accident-any popular publication, affords a
hint for the story. The airs, like those of the Beggar's
Opera, are founded on the common popular ballads and
vaudevilles, and nothing is too trivial or absurd to be
admitted into the dialogue. At the same time, there
occur touches both of wit, nature, and humor; as how
could it be otherwise in the slightest works of Le Sage?
The French critics, who are indisputably the best judges,
incline to think, judging from Turcaret, that he would
have risen to eminence, had he continued to cultivate
362
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
the regular comedy, instead of sinking into the minor
and subordinate rank of an occupation which he held in
contempt, and which he probably thought could not be
too slightly executed. Don Cleofas, in the Critique de
Turcaret, says to Asmodeus, as they survey the audience
at the Théâtre François, "La belle assemblée; que de
dames!—ASMODEE. Il y en auroit encore d'avantage,
sans les spectacles de la Foire. La plupart de femmes y
courent avec fureur. Je suis ravi de les voir dans le
gout de leurs lacquais et de leurs cochers."-Thus thought
Le Sage originally of the dignity of those labors in
which he was to spend his life, and the indifference with
which he was contented to exercise his vocation, shows
that his opinion of its importance was never enhanced.
Goldoni, in circumstances nearly similar, created a
national drama, and a taste for its beauties; but Le
Sage was to derive an undying name from works of a
different description.
We willingly leave consideration of these ephemeral
and forgotten effusions of the moment, composed for
the small theatre of the Foire, to speak of the produc-
tions which must afford delight and interest, so long as
human nature retains its present constitution. The
first of these was Le Diable Boiteux, which Le Sage
published in 1707. The title and plan of the work were
derived from the Spanish of Luez Valez de Guevara,
called El Diablo Cojuelo, and such satires on manners
as had been long before written in Spain by Cervantes
and others. But the fancy, the lightness, the spirit, the
wit, and the vivacity of the Diable Boiteux, were cn-
tirely communicated by the enchanting pen of the lively
Frenchman. The plan of the work was in the highest
degree interesting; and having, in its original concoc-
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
363
tion, at once a cast of the romantic and of the mystical,
is calculated to interest and to attract by its own merit,
as well as by the pleasing anecdotes and shrewd remarks
upon human life, of which it forms, as it were, the
frame-work and enchasing. The Mysteries of the Caba-
lists afforded a foundation for the story, which, gro-
tesque as it is, was not in those times held to exceed the
bounds of probable fiction; and the interlocutors of the
scene are so happily adapted to the subjects of their
conversation, that all they say and do has its own por-
tion of natural appropriation.
It is impossible to conceive a being more fitted to
comment upon the vices, and to ridicule the follies of
humanity, than an esprit follet like Asmodeus, who is as
much a decided creation of genius, in his way, as Ariel
or Caliban. Without possessing the darker powers and
propensities of a Fallen Angel, he presides over the vices.
and the follies, rather than the crimes of mankind—is
malicious, rather than malignant ; and his delight is to
gibe, and to scoff, and to teaze, rather than to torture;
-one of Satan's light infantry, in short, whose business.
is to goad, perplex, and disturb the ordinary train of so-
ciety, rather than to break in upon and overthrow it. This
character is maintained in all Asmodeus says and does,
with so much spirit, wit, acuteness, and playful malice,
that we never forget the fiend, even in those moments
when he is very near becoming amiable as well as enter-
taining.
Don Cleofas, to whom he makes all his diverting com-
munications, is a fiery young Spaniard, proud, high-spirit-
ed, and revengeful, and just so much of a libertine as to
fit him for the company of Asmodeus. He interests us
personally by his gallantry and generous sentiments;
364
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
f
and we are pleased with the mode in which the grateful
fiend provides for the future happiness of his liberator.
Of these two characters neither is absolutely original.
But the Devil of Guevara is a mere bottle-conjurer, who
amuses the student by tricks of legerdemain, intermixed
with strokes of satire, some of them very acute, but de-
void of the poignancy of Le Sage. Don Cleofas is a
more literal copy from the Spanish author. There is no
book in existence, in which so much of the human cha-
racter, under all its various shades and phases, is de-
scribed in so few words, as in the Diable Boiteux.
Every page, every line, bears marks of the sure tact and
accurate development of human weakness and folly,
which tempt us to think we are actually listening to a
Superior Intelligence, who sees into our minds and mo-
tives, and, in malicious sport, tears away the veil which
we endeavor to interpose betwixt these and our actions.
The satire of Le Sage is as quick and sudden as it is
poignant; his jest never is blunted by anticipation ;
ere we are aware that the bow is drawn, the shaft is
quivering in the very centre of the mark. To quote ex-
amples, would be to quote the work through almost
every page; and, accordingly, no author has afforded
a greater stock of passages, which have been generally
employed as apophthegms, or illustrations of human na-
ture and actions; and no wonder, since the force of
whole pages is often compressed in fewer words than
another author would have employed sentences. To
take the first example that comes: The fiends of Profli-
gacy and Chicane contend for possession and direction.
of a young Parisian. Pilardoc would have made him a
commis, Asmodeus a debauchee. To unite both their
views, the infernal conclave made the youth a monk,
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
365
and effected a reconciliation between their contending
brethren. “We embraced," says Asmodeus, “and have
been mortal enemies ever since." It is well observed by
the late editor of Le Sage's works, that the traits of this
kind, with which the Diable Boiteux abounds, entitle it,
much more than the Italian scenes of Gherardi, to the
title of the Grenier a Sel, conferred on the latter work
by the sanction of Boileau. That great poet, neverthe-
less, is said to have been of a different opinion. He
threatened to dismiss a valet whom he found in the act
of reading the Diable Boiteux. Whether this proceeded
from the peevishness of indisposition, under which Boi-
leau labored in 1707; whether he supposed the know-
ledge of human life, and all its chicanery, to be learned
from Le Sage's satire, was no safe accomplishment for a
domestic; or whether, finally, he had private or per-
sonal causes for condemning the work and the author, is
not now known. But the anecdote forms one example,
amongst the many, of the unjust estimation in which
men of genius are too apt to hold their contemporaries.
Besides the power of wit and satire displayed in the
Diable Boiteux, with so much brilliancy, there are pas-
sages in which the author assumes a more serious and
moral tone; he sometimes touches upon the pathetic,
and sometimes even approaches the sublime. The per-
sonification of Death is of the latter character, until we
come to the point where the author's humor breaks
forth, and where, having described one of the terrific
phantom's wings as painted with war, pestilence, fa-
mine, and shipwreck, he adorns the other with the re-
presentation of young physicians taking their degree.
To relieve the reader from the uniformity which
might otherwise have attached to the hasty and brief
366
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
sketches of what is only subjected to the eye, Le Sage
has introduced several narratives in the Spanish taste,
such as the History of the Count de Belflor, and the
novel called the Force of Friendship. Cervantes had
set the example of varying a long narrative, by the in-
troduction of such novels, or historiettes. Scarron and
others had followed the plan, but with less propriety
than Le Sage, since it must be owned, that in a work of
which the parts are so unconnected with each other, as in
the Diable Boiteux, such relief is more appropriate than
when the novel serves inartificially to interrupt the pro-
gress of a principal story.
The immediate popularity of the Diable Boiteux was
increased at the time of publication, by the general be-
lief that Le Sage, who lived so much in the world, and
was so close an observer of what passed around him,
had, under Spanish names, and with fictitious circum-
stances, recounted many Parisian anecdotes, and drawn
many characters of the court and city. Some of these
were immediately recognised. The spendthrift Dufresny
(supposed to be a descendant of Henry IV. by his grand-
mother, a female called La Belle Jardiniere d'Anet) was
recognised as the old bachelor of rank, who married his
laundress, to get rid of her claim. The story of the
German baroness, who curled her hair with the promise
of marriage made to her by an ardent but imprudent
lover, relates to a similar anecdote of the celebrated
Ninon de L'Enclos. Baron, the celebrated actor, is the
dramatic hero, who dreams that the gods had decreed
him an apotheosis, by transforming him into a stage
decoration. The celebrated Helvetius was generally
supposed to be the original of the sage Sangrado; and
doubtless other individuals of the faculty, which Le
LAIN RENE LE SAGE.
367
Sage, like Molière, persecuted with his raillery, were
also known. The satire of both authors flowed, per-
haps, more freely, that each of them enjoyed a state of
good health, which enabled them to set the faculty at
defiance, and also because the professional recompense
of physicians, on the continent, was so mean as to de-
grade their character in society, and subject them to all
the ridicule which, since the days of Juvenal, has at-
tached to learning in rags.
Besides the personal allusions which we have noticed,
there are doubtless many others in the novel, which
might be easily understood at the time; and the rage
for private scandal probably carried the spirit of apply-
ing passages in the work to existing persons and circum-
stances, much farther than the writer intended.
The popularity of the Diable Boiteux was unbounded
at its first appearance, nor has it ever since been abated.
The strongest proof of the ardor with which it was re-
ceived, was, that two young men entering the same
bookseller's shop, in which there chanced to be only one
copy of the work, contested the possession of it by fight-
ing upon the spot, and the victor having wounded his
antagonist, carried off the volume as the prize of the
field. Certainly this well-attested anecdote, to which
the popularity of Asmodeus gave occasion, deserved to
be recorded by the Demon himself. One Dancourt, also
a dramatist, who supplied his deficiencies of genius and
invention by his promptitude in seizing every topic of
popular interest, brought the subject of the Diable Boi-
teux on the stage, in two parts; the first of which ran
for thirty-five nights, the second for seventy-two.
It only remains to be said of this celebrated moral sa-
tire, that nineteen years after it had appeared in a single
368
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
volume, the author published it with augmentations,
which increased the work to two. This addition had
the usual fate of continuations, and was not, at the time,
considered as equal to the original publication; but it
would now be difficult to perceive any difference be-
tween them. The Dialogues of the Chimneys of Madrid,
which were for the first time appended to the Diable
Boiteux, in the new edition just mentioned, were more
justly censured as inferior to that celebrated work.
The personification itself is a very awkward one, and
forms a singular contrast to the unrivalled contrivance
by which Don Cleofas acquires the knowledge of the in-
terior of the dwellings of men, and even of the secrets
of their bosoms.
The three first volumes of Gil Blas de Santillane,
comprehending the life of that most excellent person,
down to his first retreat to Lirias, raised the fame of
Le Sage to the highest pitch, and secured it upon an
immovable basis. Few have ever read this charming
book without remembering, as one of the most delight-
ful occupations of their life, the time which they first
employed in the perusal; and there are few also who
do not occasionally turn back to its pages with all the
vivacity which attends the recollection of early love.
It signifies nothing at what time we have first encoun-
tered the fascination; whether in boyhood, when we
were chiefly captivated by the cavern of the robbers,
and other scenes of romance; whether in more advanc-
ed youth, but while our ignorance of the world yet con-
cealed from us the subtle and poignant satire which
lurks in so many passages of the work; whether we
were learned enough to apprehend the various allusions
to history and public matters with which it abounds, or
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
369
ignorant enough to rest contented with the more direct
course of the narration. The power of the enchanter
over us is alike absolute, under all these circumstances.
If there is any thing like truth in Gray's opinion, that
to lie upon a couch and read new novels was no bad idea
of Paradise, how would that beatitude be enhanced,
could human genius afford us another Gil Blas !
Le Sage's claim to originality, in this delightful work,
has been idly, I had almost said ungratefully, contested
by those critics, who conceive they detect a plagiarist
wherever they see a resemblance in the general subject
of a work, to one which has been before treated by an
inferior artist. It is a favorite theme of laborious dul-
ness, to trace out such coincidences; because they ap-
pear to reduce genius of the higher order to the usual
standard of humanity, and, of course, to bring the
author nearer a level with his critics. It is not the
mere outline of a story-not even the adopting some
details of a former author, which constitutes the literary
crime of plagiarism. The proprietor of the pit from
which Chantrey takes his clay, might as well pretend a
right in the figure into which it is moulded under his
plastic fingers; and the question is in both cases the
same—not so much from whom the original rude sub-
stance came, as to whom it owes that which constitutes
its real merit and excellence.
It is therefore no disparagement to Le Sage, that long
before his time there existed in other countries, and par-
ticularly in Spain, that species of fiction to which Gil
Blas may be in some respects said to belong. There
arises in every country a species of low or comic
romance, bearing somewhat the same proportion to the
grave or heroic romance, which farce bears to tragedy.
370
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Readers of all countries are not more, if indeed they are
equally delighted, with the perusal of high deeds of war
and chivalry, achieved by some hero of popular name,
than with the exploits of some determined freebooter,
who follows his illicit trade by violence, or of some
notorious sharper, who preys upon society by address
and stratagem. The lowness of such men's character,
and the baseness of their pursuits, do not prevent their
hazards, their successes, their failures, their escapes, and
their subsequent fate, from being deeply interesting, not
to the mere common people only, but to all who desire
to read a chapter in the great book of human nature.
We may use, though not in a moral sense, the oft-quot-
ed phrase of Terence, and acknowledge ourselves in-
terested in the tale, because we are men and the events
are human.
In Spain, many of their most ingenious men took
pleasure in making studies from low life, as their coun-
tryman, Murillo, found the favorite subjects of his pen-
cil among the sun-burnt gipsies, shepherds, and mule-
teers. Thus the character of the Picaro, or Adventurer,
has been long a favorite subject in Spanish fiction.
Lazarillo de Tormes had been written by Juan de Luna;
the History of Paul the Sharper, by the celebrated
Quevedo. Even Cervantes had touched upon such a
subject in the novel of Riconete and Cortadillo, in
which there are some scenes of low life drawn with all
the force of his powerful pen. But Guzman d'Alfa-
rache was the most generally known of any of the class,
and had been long since translated into most European
languages. If Gil Blas' history had a prototype
among these Spanish stories, it must have probably
been in that of Guzman; and some slight resemblance
\
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
371
may be discovered betwixt some of the incidents; for
instance, the circumstances in which Guzman is about
to marry the daughter of a wealthy Genoese, and that
of the excellent Don Raphael, in the house of Pedro de
Moyades. In like manner, the incident of that worthy
assuming the dress of a dead hermit, is anticipated by
Lazarillo de Tormes, in the second part of his History;
and probably many other resemblances, or, if the reader
pleases to call them so, plagiarisms, might be pointed
out; for as the author furnished the plots of his dra-
matic pieces very often at the expense of the Spaniards,
there is no probability that he would scruple to borrow
from their romances whatever he found suitable to his
own purpose.
There has been, indeed, an unauthenticated account
of Le Sage having obtained possession of some manu-
scripts of Cervantes', which he had used liberally, and
without acknowledgment, in the construction of his
Gil Blas. A translation of Le Sage's novels into
Spanish, bears also on the title-page the vaunt, that this
operation had restored them to the language in which
they were originally written. But the styles of Cer-
vantes and Le Sage are so essentially different, though
each in itself is masterly, that, in the absence of positive
evidence, one would as soon be induced to believe that
the Frenchman wrote Don Quixote, as that the Spaniard
composed Gil Blas. If Le Sage borrowed any thing
from Spain, excepting some general hints, such as we
have noticed, it may have been some of the detached
novels, which, as in the Diable Boiteux, are interwoven
in the history, though with less felicity than in the ear-
lier publication, where they do not interrupt the march
of any principal narrative. On the other hand, it is no
372
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
doubt wonderful, that merely by dint of acquaintance
with Spanish literature, Le Sage should have become so
perfectly intimate, as he is admitted to be on all hands,
with the Spanish customs, manners, and habits, as to
conduct his reader through four volumes without once
betraying the secret, that the work was not composed.
by a native of Spain. Indeed, it is chiefly on this won-
derful observation of costume, and national manners,
that the Spanish translator founds his reclamation of
the work, as the original property of Spain. Le Sage's
capacity of identifying himself with the child of his
imagination, in circumstances in which he himself never
was placed, though rare in the highest degree, is not
altogether singular; De Foe, in particular, possessed it
in a most extraordinary degree. It may be added, that
this strict and accurate attention to costume is confined
to externals, so far as the principal personage is concern-
ed. Gil Blas, though wearing the Golillo, Capa, and
Spada, with the most pure Castilian grace, thinks and
acts with all the vivacity of a Frenchman, and displays,
in many respects, the peculiar sentiments of one.
The last French editor of Le Sage's works thinks that
Gil Blas may have had a prototype in the humorous
but licentious History of Francion, writen by the
Sieur Moulinet de Parc. I confess I cannot see any
particular resemblance which the History of Gil Blas
has to that work, excepting that the scene of both lies
chiefly in ordinary life, as may be said of the Roman
Comique of Scarron. The whole concoction of Gil
Blas appears to me as original, in that which consti-
tutes the essence of a composition, as it is inexpressibly
delightful.
The principal character, in whose name and with
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
373
whose commentaries the story is told, is a conception
which has never been equalled in fictitious composition,
yet which seems so very real, that we cannot divest our-
selves of the opinion, that we listen to the narrative of
one who has really gone through the scenes of which he
speaks to us. Gil Blas' character has all the weak-
nesses and inequalities proper to human nature, and
which we daily recognise in ourselves and in our
acquaintance. He is not by nature such a witty
sharper as the Spaniards painted in the characters of
Paolo or Guzman, and such as Le Sage himself has em-
bodied in the subordinate sketch of Scipio, but is natu-
rally disposed towards honesty, though with a mind un-
fortunately too ductile to resist the temptations of oppor-
tunity or example. He is constitutionally timid, and
yet occasionally capable of doing brave actions; shrewd
and intelligent, but apt to be deceived by his own
vanity; with wit enough to make us laugh with him at
others, and follies enough to turn the jest frequently
against himself. Generous, good-natured, and humane,
he has virtues sufficient to make us love him, and as to
respect, it is the last thing which he asks at his reader's
hand. Gil Blas, in short, is the principal character in a
moving scene, where, though he frequently plays a sub-
ordinate part in the action, all that he lays before us ist
colored with his own opinions, remarks, and sensations.
We feel the individuality of Gil Blas alike in the cavern
of the robbers, in the episcopal palace of the Archbishop
of Grenada, in the bureau of the minister, and in all the
other various scenes through which he conducts us so
delightfully, and which are, generally speaking, very
slightly connected together, or rather no otherwise re-
lated to each other, than as they are represented to have
374
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
happened to the same man. In this point of view, the
romance is one which rests on character rather than in-
cident; but although there is no main action whatso-
ever, yet there is so much incident in the episodical nar-
ratives, that the work can never be said to linger or
hang heavy.
The son of the squire of Asturias is intrusted also
with the magic wand of the Diable Boiteux, and can
strip the gilding from human actions with the causticity
of Asmodeus himself.¹ Yet, with all this power of
satire, the moralist has so much of gentleness and good-
humor, that it may be said of Le Sage, as of Horace,
Circum præcordia ludit. All is easy and good-humor-
ed, gay, light, and lively; even the cavern of the rob-
bers is illuminated with a ray of that wit with which
Le Sage enlightens his whole narrative. It is a work
which renders the reader pleased with himself and with
mankind, where faults are placed before him in the
light of follies rather than vices, and where misfortunes
are so interwoven with the ludicrous, that we laugh in
the very act of sympathizing with them. All is render-
ed diverting-both the crimes and the retribution which
follows them. Thus, for example, Gil Blas, during his
prosperity, commits a gross act of filial undutifulness
and ingratitude; yet we feel, that the intermediation of
Master Muscada the grocer, irritating the pride of a
parvenu, was so exactly calculated to produce the effect
which it operated, that we continue to laugh with and
•
1 ["We venture to be of opinion, that there is as much useful know-
ledge in Gil Blas, if the reader be one of those who would have under-
stood the Epitaph of the Licentiate Pedro Garcias, as in any dozen
volumes of real history the country of Le Sage has yet produced."-
Quarterly Review, Sept. 1826.]
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
375
at Gil Blas, even in the sole instance in which he shows
depravity of heart. And then, the lapidation which he
undergoes at Oviedo, with the disappointment in all his
ambitious hopes of exciting the admiration of the inha-
bitants of his birth-place, is received as an expiation
completely appropriate, and suited to the offence. In
short, so strictly are the pages of Gil Blas confined to
what is amusing, that they might perhaps have been
improved by some touches of a more masculine,
stronger, and firmer line of morality.
It ought not to escape notice, that Le Sage, though,
like Cervantes, he considers the human figures which he
paints as his principal object, fails not to relieve them
by exquisite morsels of landscape, slightly touched in-
deed, but with the highest keeping, and the most mark-
ed effect. The description of the old hermit's place of
retreat may be given as an example of what we mean.
In the History of Gil Blas is also exhibited that art
of fixing the attention of the reader, and creating, as it
were, a reality even in fiction itself, not only by a strict
attention to costume and locality, but by a minuteness,
and at the same time a vivacity of narrative, compre-
hending many trifling circumstances which might be
thought to have escaped every one's memory, excepting
that of an actual eyewitness. By such a circumstantial
detail, the author has rendered us as well acquainted
with the four pavilions and corps de logis of Lirias, as if
we had ourselves dined there with Gil Blas and his
faithful follower Scipio. The well-preserved tapestry,
as old as the Moorish kingdom of Valencia, the old-
fashioned damask chairs-that furniture of so little
intrinsic value, which yet made, in its proper place, such
a respectable appearance-the dinner, the siesta-all
1
376
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
give that closing scene in the third volume such a
degree of reality, and assure us so completely of the
comfort and happiness of our pleasant companion, that
the concluding chapters, in which the hero is dismissed,
after his labors and dangers, to repose and happiness-
these very chapters, which in other novels are glanced
over as matter of course, are perhaps the most interest-
ing in the Adventures of Gil Blas. Not a doubt re-
mains on the mind of the reader concerning the con-
tinuance of the hero's rural felicity, unless he should
happen (like ourselves) to feel some private difficulty in
believing that the new cook from Valencia could ever
rival Master Joachim's excellence, particularly in the
matter of the ollapodrida, and the pig's ears marinated.
Indeed, to the honor of that author be it spoken, Le
Sage, excellent in describing scenes of all kinds, gives
such vivacity to those which interest the gastronome in
particular, that an epicure of our acquaintance used to
read certain favorite passages regularly before dinner,
with the purpose of getting an appetite like that of the
Licentiate Sedillo, and, so far as his friends could ob-
serve, the recipe was always successful.
At this happy point the Adventures of Gil Blas ori-
ginally closed; but the excessive popularity of the work
induced the author to add the fourth volume, in which
Gil Blas is again brought from his retreat, and of new
involved in the perils of a court life. Besides that the
author in some degree repeats himself-for Gil Blas'
situation under the Conde D'Olivarez is just the coun-
terpart to that which he held under the Duke of Lerma
-the Continuation has the usual fault of such works,
joins awkwardly with the original story, and is written
evidently with less vigor and originality. Its reception
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
377
from the public, according to a French critic, resembled
the admiration given to a decaying beauty, whose fea-
tures remain the same, though their freshness and bril-
liancy are abated by time.
Even after the death of Le Sage, it seemed as if his
masterpiece was to give rise to as many Continuations
as the History of Amadis.. A spurious History of Don
Alphonzo Blas de Lirias, Son of Gil Blas of Santil-
lane, pretending to be a posthumous work of the ori-
ginal author, appeared at Amsterdam, and has been since.
reprinted.
In 1717, Le Sage published a translation, or rather a
poor imitation, of Boiardo's Orlando Inamorato, which
wild and imaginative poem he has degraded into a mere
fairy tale, stripping it effectually of the magical color-
ing which it had received from the original writer. The
author intended to have committed the same violence
upon Ariosto's splendid epic, but fortunately the con-
summation of the rash attempt did not take place. The
ingenious and lively Frenchman was as completely de-
void of the rich poetical fancy of the Tuscan poet, as
the language in which he wrote was inadequate to ex-
press the beauties of the Italian original.
Le Sage found a more congenial employment in com-
piling the Adventures of the Chevalier de Beauchene, a.
brave sea-officer, or rather corsair-the Paul Jones of
that period, in the West Indian seas. He professed to
have derived the materials of this work, which waṣ
never completed, from the widow of the Chevalier, who
resided at Tours. Le Sage has well supported the cha-
racter of the frank, bold, half-civilized sailor, but appa-
rently found the task troublesome, if we may judge
from the numerous episodes which he has ingrafted on
378
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
the principal story. Probably the work did not become
popular, for though a Continuation was in some degree
promised, it never appeared. The Chevalier de Beau-
chene came out in 1732, and in the same year Le Sage
published a translation, or rather an abridgment, of the
Adventures of Guzman d'Alfarache, the most celebrat-
ed of the Spanish romances à la picaresque.
In 1734, Le Sage translated the History of Vanillo
Gonzales, called the Merry Bachelor, from the Spanish
of Vincentio Espinella.
Apparently these subordinate labors had renewed the
author's taste for original composition. The Bachelor
of Salamanca was his last work of this description; and
although we can easily descry the flatness and insipidity
which indicate the approach of age, and the decay of
the finer powers of observation and expression, we are
nevertheless ever and anon reminded of that genius
which in its vigor produced Gil Blas and the Diable
Boiteux. The Bachelor of Salamanca is, in comparison,
a failure, but such as Le Sage alone could have commit-
ted; and many passages have all that raciness which
distinguishes his happier productions. The scene, for
example, in which Carambola is employed in reading to
slumber the Member of the Council of the Indies, who.
unpitiably awakens at every instant when his reader
stops to take a mouthful of refreshment, might have
been told by Asmodeus himself. It must be owned that
the scenes laid in Mexico have little merit of any kind.
Le Sage had not the same accurate knowledge of the
manners of New Spain, which he possessed respecting
those of the mother country, and the account with
which he presents us is in proportion flat and uninte-
resting. If it be true that Le Sage, jealous, like other
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
379
old authors, of the earlier productions of his genius,
preferred this work-the child of his old age, to his
Diable Boiteux and Gil Blas, we can only say, that the
same decay which is visible in his talents, must have
also affected his taste, and that he certainly had not
invoked the assistance of the acute Asmodeus when he
formed his opinion.
After the Bachelor of Salamanca, Le Sage produced,
in 1740, his last original work, La Valise Trouvée,
which appeared anonymously in that year. His last
labors thus approached the character of those with
which he opened his career; for the Valise Trouvée
consists of a miscellaneous collection of letters upon
various subjects, resembling those of Aristenetus, trans-
lated by our author in 1695.¹
A lively Collection of Anecdotes and Witticisms, pub-
lished in 1743, closed the long labors of this excellent
author. They are told with all the animation of his own
particular humor, and we may suppose them to have
been amassed in his portfolio, with the purpose of being
one day amalgamated into a regular work, but given to
the public in their present unconnected form, when age
induced Le Sage, now in his seventy-fifth year, to lay
aside his pen.
Having thus reviewed hastily the various literary
labors of Le Sage, we have, in fact, nearly accomplished
the history of his life, which appears to have been spent
in the bosom of his family, and to have been diversified
by no incident of peculiarity unconnected with his thea-
¹ [The Valise Trouvée has been closely imitated in Mr. Moore's Two
penny Postbag; it contains a description of the tricks of booksellers in
puffing romances into notice, which shows how little some things have
altered since Le Sage wrote. 1834.]
380
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
trical and literary engagements. His taste for retire-
ment was, perhaps, increased by the infirmity of deaf-
ness, which attacked him so early as 1709, for he alludes
to it in the critical interlude on the subject of Turcaret.
Latterly, it increased so much, that he was under the
necessity of constantly using a hearing-trumpet. His
conversation was nevertheless so delightful, that when
he went to his favorite coffee-house, in the Rue Saint
Jacques, the guests formed a circle round him, nay, even
mounted upon the seats and upon the tables, in order to
catch the remarks and anecdotes which this celebrated
observer of human nature could tell in society, with the
same grace and effect with which he recorded them in
his works.
Le Sage's circumstances, though very moderate, seem
always to have been easy, and his domestic life was quiet
and happy. Its tenor was somewhat interrupted by the
taste which carried upon the stage his eldest and young-
est sons. Nothing could be more natural than that the
theatrical art should have invincible charms for the sons
of a dramatic author; but Le Sage, who had expressed
the greatest contempt and dislike of that profession,
which he had painted in the most ridiculous and odious
colors, felt great pain from his sons making choice of it,
which probably was not lessened when the eldest ob-
tained an honorable station among those very Romans
of the Théâtre François, with whom his father had
waged for so many years a satirical war. This eldest
son of Le Sage was a youth of great hopes, and a
most amiable disposition. He had been educated for
the bar. Upon embracing the profession of a comedian
he assumed the name of Montmenil, under which he be-
came distinguished for his excellence in the parts of
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
381
valets, peasants, and other characters in low comedy.
He was not less remarked for the worth of his private
character, and his talents for society; and having early
attained a situation in the Théâtre François, he mixed
with the best company in Paris. Yet his father could
not for a long time hear of Montmenil's professional
merit, or even of his private virtues, and the general
respect in which he was held, without showing evident
symptoms of great and painful emotion. At length a
reconciliation was effected betwixt them, and, passing
from displeasure to the most affectionate excess of
parental fondness, it is said Le Sage could scarce bear
to be separated from the son whose name he had hardly
permitted to be mentioned before him. The death of
Montmenil, which happened 8th September, 1743, in
consequence of a cold caught at a hunting party, was
such a blow to his father, then far advanced in life, that
it determined his total retirement from Paris, and from
the world.
The youngest son of our author also became a player,
under the name of Pittenec; and it seems he was also
a dramatic author, but made no distinguished figure in
either capacity.
On the other hand Le Sage's second son showed a
more staid character than either of his brothers, became
a student of theology, and took orders. By the patron-
age of the Queen, (wife of Louis XV.,) he became a
canon of the Cathedral of Boulogne, and had the bene-
fit of a pension. The moderate independence which he
enjoyed, enabled him, after his father had been entirely
broken down in spirits, by the death of Montmenil, to
receive both him, his sister, and his mother, under his
roof, and to provide for them during the residue of
382
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
their lives. The sister was eminent for her filial tender-
ness, and dedicated her life to the comfort of her
parents.
It was after his retreat to Boulogne, and while resid-
ing under the roof of his son the canon, that we obtain
an interesting account of Le Sage, then extremely aged,
from the pen of the Comte de Tressan, to whom the an-
cient romances of France owe the same favor which has
been rendered to those of England by the late ingenious
and excellent George Ellis. The reader will feel inte-
rested in receiving the communication in the words of
the Count himself.
-
"Paris, 20th January, 1783.
"You have requested from me some account of the
concluding period of the celebrated author of Gil Blas.
Here follow the few anecdotes which I am able to
furnish.
“In the end of the year 1745, after the battle of Fon-
tenoy, the late King having named me to serve under
the Maréchal de Richelieu, I received counter orders at
Boulogne, and remained there, commandant of the Bou-
lenois, Poitou, and Picardy.
"Having learned that Mons. Le Sage, aged upwards
of eighty years, with his wife nearly as old, resided at
Boulogne, I was early desirous of visiting them, and of
acquainting myself with their situation. I found that
they lived in family with their son, a canon of the
Cathedral of Boulogne ; and never was filial piety more
tenderly occupied than his, in cheering and supporting
the latter days of parents, who had scarce any other
resource than the moderate revenue of their son.
"The Abbé Le Sage enjoyed the highest respect at
Boulogne. His talents, his virtues, his social affections,
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
383
rendered him dear to Monseigneur de Pressy, his worthy
bishop, to his fraternity, and to the public.
"I have seen few resemblances more striking than
that of the Abbé Le Sage to his brother Mons. de Mont-
menil; he had even a portion of his talents, and of his
most agreeable qualities. No one could read verses more
agreeably. He possessed the uncommon art of that
variation of tone, and of employing those brief pauses,
which, without being actual declamation, impress on the
hearers the sentiments and the beauties of the author.
"I had known, and I regretted, Mons. Montmenil.
entertained esteem and friendship for his brother; and
the late Queen, in consequence of the account which I
had to lay before her of the Abbé Le Sage's situation,
and his narrow fortune, procured him a pension upon a
benefice.
"I had been apprized not to go to visit Mons. Le Sage
till near the approach of noon; and the feelings of that
old man made me observe, for a second time, the effect
which the state of the atmosphere produces in the
melancholy days of bodily decline.
"Mons. Le Sage awaking every morning so soon as
the sun appeared some degrees above the horizon, became
animated, acquired feeling and force, in proportion as
that planet approached the meridian; but as the sun
began to decline, the sensibility of the old man, the
light of his intellect, and the activity of his bodily
organs, began to diminish in proportion; and no sooner
had the sun descended some degrees under the horizon,
than he sunk into a lethargy, from which it was difficult
to rouse him.
"I took care only to make my visit at that period of
the day when his intellect was most clear, which was
384
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
the hour after he had dined. I could not view without
emotion the respectable old man, who preserved the
gaiety and urbanity of his better years, and sometimes
even displayed the imagination of the author of the
Diable Boiteux and of Turcaret. But one day, having
come more late than usual, I was sorry to see that his
conversation began to resemble the last homilies of the
Bishop of Grenada, and I instantly withdrew.
"Mons. Le Sage had become very deaf. I always
found him seated near a table on which lay a large hear-
ing-trumpet; that trumpet, which he sometimes snatched
up with vivacity, remained unmoved on the table, when
the nature of the visit which he received did not en-
courage him to hope for agreeable conversation. As I
commanded in the province, I had the pleasure to see
him always make use of it in conversation with me; and
it was a lesson which prepared me to sustain the petulant
activity of the hearing-trumpet of my dear and illus-
trious associate and friend Mons. de la Condamine.'
"Monsieur Le Sage died in winter 1746-7. I con-
sidered it as an honor and duty to attend his funeral,
with the principal officers under my command. His
widow survived him but a short time; and a few years
afterwards, the loss of the Abbé Le Sage became the
subject of regret to his Chapter, and the enlightened
society to which he was endeared by his virtues."
The interesting account of Monsieur de Tressan hav-
ing conducted Le Sage to an honored tomb, we have but
to add, that an epitaph, placed over his grave, expressed,
1 Mons. de la Condamine, very deaf and very importunate, was the
terror of the members of the Académie, from the vivacity with which
he urged enquiries, which could only be satisfied by the inconvenient
merlium of his hearing-trumpet.
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.
385
in indifferent poetry, the honorable truth, that he was
the friend of Virtue rather than of Fortune. Indeed
when the giddy hours of youth were passed, his conduct
seems to have been irreproachable; and if, in his works,
he has assailed vice rather with ridicule than with re-
proach, and has, at the same time, conducted his story
through scenes of pleasure and of license, his Muse has
moved with an unpolluted step, even where the path
was somewhat miry. In short, it is highly to the honor
of Le Sage, that-differing in that particular from many
of his countrymen who have moved in the same walk of
letters, he has never condescended to pander to vice by
warmth or indelicacy of description. If Voltaire, as it
is said, held the powers of Le Sage in low estimation,
such slight regard was particularly misplaced towards
one, who, without awakening one evil thought, was able,
by his agreeable fictions, to excite more lasting and more
honorable interest than the witty Lord of Ferney him-
self, even though Asmodeus sat at his elbow to aid him
in composing Candide and Zadig.
1 "Sous ce tombeau Le Sage abattu,
Par le ciseau de la Parque importune.
S'il ne fut pas ami de la Fortune,
Il fut toujours ami de la Vertu."
CHARLES JOHNSTONE.
Of the author of the Adventures of a Guinea, a satire
which, from its resemblance to the Diable Boiteux,
arranges naturally with those of the author of Gil Blas,
we can say but little.
CHARLES JOHNSTONE was an Irishman by birth, though
it is said a Scotsman by descent, and of the Annandale
family. If so, we have adopted the proper orthography,
though his name seems to have sometimes been spelt
Johnson. He received a classical education; and, being
called to the Bar, came to England to practise. John-
stone, like Le Sage-and the coincidence is a singular
one—was subject to the infirmity of deafness, an incon-
venience which naturally interfered with his professional
success;—although, by a rare union of high talents with
eloquence and profound professional skill, joined to an
almost intuitive acuteness of apprehension, we have, in
our time, seen the disadvantage splendidly surmounted.
But Johnstone possessed considerable abilities, of which
he has left at least one admirable example, in the Adven-
tures of a Guinea. His talents were of a lively and
companionable sort, and as he was much abroad in the
world, he had already, in his youth, kept such general
society with men of all descriptions, as enabled him to
trace their vices and follies with a pencil so powerful.
Chrysal is said to have been composed at the late
Lord Mount Edgecomb's, in Devonshire, during a visit
CHARLES JOHNSTONE.
387
to his lordship. About 1760, the work was announced
in the newspapers as (C
a dispassionate distinct account
of the most remarkable transactions of the present
times all over Europe." The publication immediately
followed, and, possessing at once the allurement of set-
ting forth the personal and secret history of living
characters, and that of strong expression and powerful
painting, the public attention was instantly directed to-
wards it. A second edition was called for almost imme-
diately, to which the author made several additions,
which are incorporated with the original text. But the
public avidity being still unsatisfied, the third edition,
in 1761, was augmented to four volumes.' The author,
justly thinking that it was unnecessary to bestow much
pains in dovetailing his additional matter upon the
original narrative, and conscious that no one was in-
terested in the regular transmission of Chrysal from one
hand to another, has only connected the Original Work
and the Continuation by references, which will not be
found always either accurate or intelligible,-a point
upon which he seems to have been indifferent.
After this successful effort, Mr. Johnstone published
the following obscure and forgotten works:
"The Reverie; or, a Flight to the Paradise of Fools."
2 vols. 12mo, 1762. A satire.
“The History of Arsaces, Prince of Betlis." 2 vols.
12mo, 1774. A sort of political romance.
"The Pilgrim; or, a Picture of Life." 2 vols. 12mo,
1775.
1
["Dr. Johnson told me," (1773,) says Boswell, "he did not know
who was the author of the 'Adventures of a Guinea;' but that the
bookseller had sent the first volume to him in manuscript, to have his
opinion if it should be printed; and he thought it should."--CROKER'S
Boswell, vol. ii., p. 500.]
388
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
"The History of John Juniper, Esq., alias Juniper
Jack." 3 vols. 12mo, 1781. A romance in low life.
These publications we perused long since, but remem-
ber nothing of them so accurately as to induce us to
hazard an opinion on their merits.
So late as 1782, twenty years after the appearance of
Chrysal, Mr. Johnstone went to seek fortune in India,
and had the happy chance to find it there, though not
without encountering calamity on the road. The Bril-
liant, Captain Mears, in which he embarked, was wreck-
ed off the Joanna Islands, and many lives lost. John-
stone, with the captain and some others, was saved with
difficulty.
In Bengal, Johnstone wrote much for the periodical
papers, under the signature of Oneiropolos. He became
joint-proprietor of one of the Bengal newspapers, ac-
quired considerable property, and died about the year
1800; and, as is conjectured, in the seventieth year of
his age.
Most of these facts have been transferred
from Mr. Chalmers's Biographical Dictionary.
It is only as the author of what has been termed the
Scandalous Chronicle of the time, that Johnstone's lite-
rary character attracts our notice. We have already
observed, that there is a close resemblance betwixt the
plan of Chrysal and that of the Diable Boiteux. In
both works, a Spirit, possessed of the power of reading
the thoughts, and explaining the motives of mankind, is
supposed to communicate to a mortal a real view of hu-
manity, stripping men's actions of their borrowed pre-
texts and simulated motives, and tracing their source
directly to their passions or their follies. But the
French author is more fortunate than the English, in
the medium of communication he has chosen, or rather
CHARLES JOHNSTONE.
389
borrowed, from Guevara. Asmodeus is himself a per-
sonage admirably imagined and uniformly sustained,
and who entertains the reader as completely by the dis-
play of his own character, as by that of any which he
anatomizes for the instruction of Don Cleofas. Mali-
cious as he is, the reader conceives even a kind of liking
for the Fiend, and is somewhat disconcerted with the
idea of his returning to his cabalistic bottle; nay, could
we judge of the infernal regions by this single speci-
men, we might be apt to conceive, with Sancho Panza,
that there is some good company to be found even in
hell. Chrysal, on the other hand, is a mere elementary
spirit, without feeling, passion, or peculiar character,
and who only reflects back, like a mirror, the objects
which have been presented to him, without adding to or
modifying them by any contribution of his own.
The tracing of a piece of coin into the hands of various
possessors, and giving an account of the actions and
character of each, is an ingenious medium for moral
satire, which, however, had been already employed by
Dr. Bathurst, the friend of Johnson, in the Adventures
of a Halfpenny, which form the forty-third Number of
the Adventurer, published 3d April, 1753, several years
before Chrysal.
It is chiefly in the tone of the satire that the adven-
tures of Chrysal differ from those of Le Sage's heroes.
We have compared the latter author to Horace, and
may now safely rate Charles Johnstone as a prose Juve-
nal. The Frenchman describes follies which excite our
laughter the Briton drags into light vices and crimes.
which arouse our horror and detestation. And, as we
before observed, that the scenes of Le Sage might, in a
moral point of view, be improved by an infusion of more
390
"LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
vigor and dignity of feeling, so Johnstone might have
rendered his satire more poignant, without being less
severe, by throwing more lights among his shades, and
sparing us the grossness of some of the scenes which he
reprobates. As Le Sage renders vice ludicrous, John-
stone seems to paint even folly as detestable, as well as
ridiculous. His Herald and Auctioneer are among his
lightest characters; but their determined roguery and
greediness render them hateful even while they are
comic.
It must be allowed to this caustic satirist, that the
time in which he lived called for such an unsparing and
uncompromising censor. A long course of national
peace and prosperity had brought with these blessings
their usual attendant evils-selfishness, avarice, and
gross debauchery. We are not now, perhaps, more
moral in our conduct than men were fifty or sixty years
since; but modern vice pays a tax to appearances, and
is contented to wear a mask of decorum. A Lady H-
and the Pollard Ashe, so often mentioned in Horace
Walpole's Correspondence, would not certainly dare to
insult decency in the public manner then tolerated; nor
would our wildest debauchees venture to imitate the or-
gies of Medenham Abbey, painted by Johnstone in such
horrible colors. Neither is this the bound of our im-
provement. Our public men are now under the neces-
sity of being actuated, or at least appearing to be so, by
nobler motives than their predecessors proposed to them-
selves. Sir Robert Walpole, who, after having govern-
ed so many years by the most open and avowed corrup-
☛tion, amassed for himself a more than princely fortune
out of the spoils of the state, would not now be tole-
rated. This age would not endure the splendors of
CHARLES JOHNSTONE.
391
Houghton. Our late ministers and statesmen have died,
almost without an exception, beggared and bankrupt;
a sure sign, that if they followed the dictates of ambi-
tion, they were at least free from those of avarice: and
it is plain that the path of the former may often lie
parallel with that prescribed by public virtue, while the
latter must always seduce its votary into the by-way of
private selfishness. The general corruption of the minis-
ters themselves, and their undisguised fortunes, acquired
by an avowed system of perquisites, carried, in our fa-
thers' times, a corresponding spirit of greed and rapa-
city into every department, while, at the same time, it
blinded the eyes of those who should have prevented
spoliation. If those in subordinate offices paid enor-
mous fees to their superiors, it could only be in order to
purchase the privilege for themselves of cheating the
public with impunity. And in the same manner, if com-
missaries for the army and navy filled the purses of the
commanders, they did so only that they might thereby
obtain full license to exercise every sort of pillage, at
the expense of the miserable privates. We were well
acquainted with men of credit and character, who served
in the Havannah expedition; and we have always heard
them affirm, that the infamous and horrid scenes de-
scribed in Chrysal, were not in the slightest degree ex-
aggerated. That attention to the wants, that watchful
guardianship of the rights and interests, of the private
soldier and sailor, which in our days do honor to these
services, were then totally unknown. The commanders
in each department had in their eye the amassing of
wealth, instead of the gathering of laurels, as the minis-
ter was determined to enrich himself, with indifference
to the welfare of his country; and the elder Pitt, as
392
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
well as Wolfe, were considered as characters almost
above humanity, not so much for the eloquence and
high talents of the one, or the military skill of the
other, as because they made the honor and interest of
their country their direct and principal object. They
dared, to use the classical phrase, to contemn wealth—
the statesman and soldier of the present day would, on
the contrary, not dare to propose it to himself as an ob-
ject.
The comparative improvement of our manners, as well
as of our government, is owing certainly, in a great mea-
sure, to more general diffusion of knowledge and im-
provement of taste. But it was fostered by the private
virtues and patriotism of the late venerated Monarch.
The check which his youthful frown already put upon
vice and license, is noticed in Chrysal more than once;
and the disgrace of more than one minister, in the
earlier part of his reign, was traced pretty distinctly to
their having augmented their private fortunes, by avail-
ing themselves of their political information to specu-
late in the funds. The abuses in public offices have, in
like manner, been restrained, the system of perquisites
abolished, and all means of indirect advantage inter-
dicted, as far as possible, to the servants of the public.
In the army and navy the same salutary regulations.
have been adopted; and the Commander-in-Chief has
proved himself the best friend to his family and country,
in cutting up by the roots those infectious cankers,
which gnawed our military strength, and which are so
deservedly stigmatized in the caustic pages of Chrysal.
In Johnstone's time this reform had not commenced,
and he might well have said, with such an ardent tem-
per as he seems to have possessed, Difficile est satyram
CHARLES JOHNSTONE.
393
non scribere. He has accordingly indulged his bent to
the utmost; and as most of his characters were living
persons, then easily recognized, he held the mirror to
nature, even when it reflects such horrible features.
His language is firm and energetic-his power of per-
sonifying character striking and forcible, and the per-
sons of his narrative move, breathe, and speak, in all the
freshness of life. His sentiments are, in general, those
of the bold, high-minded, and indignant censor of a
loose and corrupted age; and yet it cannot be denied,
that Johnstone, in his hatred and contempt for the more
degenerate vices, of ingratitude, avarice, and baseness
of every kind, shows but too much disposition to favor
Churchill and other libertines, who thought fit to prac-
tise open looseness of manners, because they said it was
better than hypocrisy. It is true, such vices may sub-
sist along with very noble and generous qualities; but
as all profligacy has its root in self-gratification and in-
dulgence, it is always odds that the weeds rise so fast as
to choke the slower and nobler crop.
The same indulgence to the usual freedoms of a town
life, seems to have influenced Johnstone's dislike to the
Methodists, of whose founder, Whitefield, he has drawn
a most odious and a most unjust portrait. It is not the
province of the Editor of a book of professed amuse-
ment, to vindicate the tenets of a sect which holds al-
most all amusement to be criminal; but it is necessary
to do justice to every one. The peculiar tenets of the
Methodists are, in many respects, narrow and illiberal-
they are also enthusiastical, and, acting on minds of a
certain temperament, have produced the fatal extremi-
ties of spiritual presumption or spiritual despair. But
to judge as we would desire to be judged, we must try
394
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
their doctrine, not by those points in which they differ,
but by those in which they agree with all other Chris-
tians;
and if we find that the Methodists recommend
purity of life, strictness of morals, and a regular dis-
charge of the duties of society, are they to be branded
as hypocrites because they abstain from its amuse-
ments and its gaieties? Were the number of the
Methodists to be multiplied by a hundred, there would
remain enough behind to fill the theatres and encourage
the fine arts.
Respecting the remarkable person by whom the sect
was founded, posterity has done him justice for the
calumnies with which he was persecuted during his life,
and which he bore with the enduring fortitude of a con-
fessor. The poverty in which Whitefield died, proved
his purity of heart, and refuted the charge so grossly
urged, of his taking a selfish interest in the charitable
subscriptions which his eloquence promoted so effectual-
ly. His enthusiasm for Providence uses, in accom-
plishing great ends, the imperfections as well as the
talents of his creatures-served to awaken, to a con-
sciousness of their deplorable state, thousands, to whose
apathy and ignorance a colder preacher might have
spoken in vain; and perhaps even the Church of Eng-
land herself has been less impaired by the schism, than
benefited by the effects of emulation upon her learned
clergy. In a word, if Cowper's portrait of Whitefield
has some traits of flattery, it still approaches far more
near to the original than the caricature of Johnstone :-
"He loved the world that hated him the tear
That dropped upon the Bible was sincere.
Assailed by scandal and the tongue of strife,
His only answer was a blameless life;
CHARLES JOHNSTONE.
395
And he that forged, and he that threw the dart,
Had each a brother's interest in his heart.
Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbribed,
Were followed well in him, and well transcribed.”
We think these remarks necessary to justice, in the
Preface to a work, in which this memorable individual
is so deeply charged. They can hardly be imputed to
any other motive, since those likely to be gratified by
this vindication cannot very consistently seek for it in
this place. But readers of a different description may
do well to remember, that the cant of imputing to hy-
pocrisy all pretensions to a severer scale of morals, or a
more vivid sense of religion, is as offensive to sound rea-
son and Christian philosophy, as that which attaches a
charge of guilt to matters of indifference, or to the ordi-
nary amusements of life.
We would willingly hope that several of Johnstone's
other characters, if less grossly calumniated than White-
field, are at least considerably overcharged. The first
Lord Holland was a thorough-bred statesman of that
evil period, and the Earl of Sandwich an open libertine ;
yet they also had their lighter shades of character,
although Chrysal holds them up to the unmitigated
horror of posterity. The same may be said of others;
and this exaggeration was the more easy, as Johnstone
does not pretend that the crimes imputed to those per-
sonages were all literally committed, but admits that he
invented such incidents as he judged might best corre-
spond to the idea which he had formed of their charac-
ter; thus rather shaping his facts according to a pre-
conceived opinion, than deducing his opinion from facts
which had actually taken place.
The truth is, that young, ardent, and bold, the author
396
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
•
seems to have caught fire from his own subject, to have
united credulity in belief with force of description, and
to have pushed praise too readily into panegyric, while
he exaggerated censure into reprobation. He every-
where shows himself strongly influenced by the current
tone of popular feeling; nay, unless in the case of
Wilkes, whose simulated patriotism he seems to have
suspected, his acuteness of discrimination seldom enables
him to correct public opinion. The Bill for the Natu-
ralization of the Jews had just occasioned a general
clamor, and we see Chrysal not only exposing their
commercial character in the most odious colors, but
reviving the ancient and absurd fable of their celebrat-
ing the Feast of the Passover by the immolation of
Christian infants. With the same prejudiced credulity
he swallows, without hesitation, all the wild and incon-
sistent charges which were then heaped upon the order
of the Jesuits, and which occasioned the general clamor
for their suppression.
On the other hand, because it was the fashion to re-
present the continental war, which had for its sole object
the protection of the Electorate of Hanover, as waged
in defence of the Protestant religion, Johnstone has
dressed up the selfish and atheistical Frederick of Prus-
sia in the character of the Protestant hero, and put into
his mouth a prayer adapted to the character of a self-
devoted Christian soldier, who drew his sword in the
defence of that religion which was enshrined in his
own bosom. This is so totally out of all keeping and
character, that one can scarce help thinking that the
author has written, not his own sentiments, but such
as were most likely to catch the public mind at the
time.
CHARLES JOHNSTONE.
397
But, feeling and writing under the popular impression
of the moment, Johnstone has never failed to feel and
write like a true Briton, with a sincere admiration of his
country's laws, an ardent desire for her prosperity, and
a sympathy with her interests, which more than atone
for every error and prejudice. He testifies on many
occasions his respect for the House of Brunswick, and
leaves his testimony against the proceedings first com-
menced by Wilkes, and so closely followed by imitators
of that unprincipled demagogue, for the purpose of
courting the populace by slandering the throne. It is
remarkable, that notwithstanding his zeal for King
George and the Protestant religion, the Jacobite party,
though their expiring intrigues might have furnished
some piquant anecdotes, are scarcely mentioned in
Chrysal.
A Key to the personages introduced to the reader in
Chrysal, was furnished by the author himself to Lord
Mount Edgecomb, and another to Captain Mears, with
whom he sailed to India. It is published by Mr. Wil-
liam Davis, in his collection of Bibliographical and Lite-
rary Anecdotes, with this caveat-" The author's inten-
tion was to draw general characters; therefore, in the
application of the Key, the reader must exercise his own
judgment." The Key is subjoined to the text, with a
few additional notes, illustrative of such incidents and
characters as properly belong to history or to public
life. Anecdotes of private scandal are willingly left in
the mystery in which the text has involved them; and
some instances occur, in which the obvious misrepresen-
tations of the satirist have been modified by explanation.
1
¹ [See Davis's Olio, pp. 13, 21.1
398
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
But when all exaggeration has been deducted from this
singular work, enough of truth will still remain in-
Chrysal, to incline the reader to congratulate himself,
that these scenes have passed more than half a century
before his time.
ROBERT BAGE.
ROBERT BAGE, a writer of no ordinary merit in the
department of fictitious composition, was one of that
class of men occurring in Britain alone, who unite suc-
cessfully the cultivation of letters with those mechanical-
pursuits, which, upon the continent, are considered as
incompatible with the character of an author. The pro-
fessors of letters are, in most nations, apt to form a caste
of their own, into which they may admit men educated
for the learned professions, on condition, generally
speaking, that they surrender their pretensions to the
lucrative practice of them; but from which mere
burghers, occupied in ordinary commerce, are as se-
verely excluded, as roturiers were of old from the so-
ciety of the noblesse. The case of a paper-maker or a
printer employing their own art upon their own publica-
tions, would be thought uncommon in France or Ger-
many; yet such were the stations of Bage and Richard-
son.
The Editor has been obliged by Miss Catherine Hut-
ton, daughter of Mr. Hutton of Birmingham, well known
as an ingenious and successful antiquary,' with a memoir
¹ [William Hutton, F.S.A., Edin., bookseller, Birmingham, a native
of Derby, who raised himself by industry, from a very small beginning,
to a state of affluence and respectability, died 1815, aged 92. He cm-
ployed his pen on a variety of subjects, antiquarian, statistical, poctical,
and historical.]
400
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
of the few incidents marking the life of Robert Bage,
whom a kindred genius, as well as a close commercial
intercourse, combined to unite in the bonds of strict
friendship. The communication is extremely interest-
ing, and the extracts from Bage's letters show, that
amidst the bitterness of political prejudices, the embar-
rassment of commercial affairs, and all the teazing tech-
nicalities of business, the author of Barham Downs still
maintained the good-humored gaiety of his natural tem-
per. One would almost think the author must have
drawn from his own private letter-book and correspon-
dence, the discriminating touches which mark the men
of business in his novels.
The father of Robert Bage was a paper-maker at
Darley, a hamlet on the river Derwent, adjoining the
town of Derby, and was remarkable only for having had
four wives. Robert was the son of the first, and was
born at Darley on the 29th of February, 1728. His
mother died soon after his birth; and his father, though
he retained his mill, and continued to follow his occu-
pation, removed to Derby, where his son received his
education at a common school. His attainments here,
however, were very remarkable, and such as excited the
surprise and admiration of all who knew him.
At seven
years old, he had made a proficiency in Latin. To a
knowledge of the Latin language succeeded a knowledge
of the art of making paper, which he acquired under
the tuition of his father.
At the age of twenty-three, Robert Bage married a
young woman, who possessed beauty, good sense, good
ROBERT BAGE.
401
temper, and money. It may be presumed that the first
of these was the first forgotten; the two following se-
cured his happiness in domestic life; the last aided him
in the manufacture of paper, which he commenced at
Elford, four miles from Tamworth, and conducted to
the end of his days.
Though no man was more attentive to business, and
no one in the country made paper so good of its kind,
yet the direction of a manufactory, combined with his
present literary attainments, did not satisfy the compre-
hensive mind of Robert Bage. His manufactory, under
his eye, went on with the regularity of a machine, and
left him leisure to indulge his desire of knowledge.
He acquired the French language from books alone,
without any instructor; and his familiarity with it is
evinced by his frequent, perhaps too frequent, use of it
in the Fair Syrian. Nine years after his marriage, he
studied mathematics; and, as he makes one of his cha-
racters say, and as he probably thought respecting him-
self, "He was obliged to this science for a correct
imagination, and a taste for uniformity in the common
actions of life."
In the year 1765, Bage entered into partnership with
three persons, (one of them the celebrated Dr. Darwin,)
in an extensive manufactory of iron; and, at the end
of fourteen years, when the partnership terminated, he
found himself a loser, it is believed, of fifteen hundred
pounds. The reason and philosophy of the paper-maker
might have struggled long against so considerable a
loss; the man of letters committed his cause to a better
champion-literary occupation,—the tried solace of mis-
fortune, want, and imprisonment. He wrote the novel
of Mount Henneth, in two volumes, which was sold to
402
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
Lowndes for thirty pounds, and published in 1781. The
strong mind, playful fancy, liberal sentiments, and ex-
tensive knowledge of the author, are everywhere appa-
rent; but, as he says himself, "too great praise is a bad
letter of recommendation ;" and truth, which he wor-
shipped, demands the acknowledgment, that its sins
against decorum are.manifest.
The succeeding works of Bage were, Barham Downs,
two volumes, published 1784; The Fair Syrian, two
volumes, published (about) 1787; James Wallace, three
volumes, published 1788; Man as he is, four volumes,
published 1792; Hermsprong, or Man as he is not,
three volumes, published 1796. It is, perhaps, without
a parallel in the annals of literature, that, of six diffe-
rent works, comprising a period of fifteen years, the last
should be, as it unquestionably is, the best. Several of
Bage's novels were translated into German, and pub-
lished at Frankfort.
Whoever has read Hayley's Life of Cowper will not
be sorry that an author should speak for himself, instead
of his biographer speaking for him; on this principle
are given some extracts from the letters of Robert Bage
to his friend, William Hutton. Hutton purchased near-
ly all the paper which Bage made during forty-five
years; and, though Bage's letters were letters of busi-
ness, they were written in a manner peculiarly his own,
and friendship was, more or less, interwoven in them;
for trade did not, in him, extinguish, or contract, one
finer feeling of the soul. Bage, in his ostensible charac-
ter of a paper-maker, says,-
"March 28, 1785.
"I swear to thee I am one of the most cautious men in the world
with regard to the excise; I constantly interpret against myself in
ROBERT BAGE.
403
+
doubtful points; and, if I knew a place where I was vulnerable, I
would arm it with the armor of Achilles. I have already armed myself
all over with the armor of righteousness, but that signifies nothing
with our people of excise."
“August 15, 1787.
"Oh how I wish thou wouldst spend all thy powers to write a history
of excise-with cases-showing the injustice, the inequality of clauses
in acts, and the eternal direction every new one takes towards the oppres-
sion of the subject: It might be the most useful book extant. Of
whites and blues, blue demy only can come into thy magazine, and
that at a great risk of contention with the Lords of the Exchequer; for
I know not whether I have understood the sense of people who
have seldom the good luck to understand themselves. The paper sent
is charged at the lowest price at which a sober paper-maker can live,
and drink small-beer.'
"December 10, 1788.
"Authors, especially when they have acquired a certain degree of re-
putation, should be candid, and addicted to speak good as well as evil,
of poor dumb things. The rope paper is too thin, I own; but why
abuse it from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot? If I have
eyes, it has many good qualities, and I hope the good people of Bir-
mingham may find them out. But it is too thin-I am heartily and
sincerely concerned for it: But, as I cannot make it thicker, all that I
can do is to reduce the price. Thou proposest threepence a-ream-I
agree to it. If thou really believest sixpence ought to be abated, do it.
Combine together the qualities of justice and mercy, and to their united
influence I leave thee."
((
February 23, 1789.
"The certainty that it cannot be afforded at the stipulated price,
makes me to run my rope paper too thin. Of this fault, however, I
must mend, and will mend, whether thou can'st, or can'st not mend
my price. I had rather lose some profit than sink a tolerable name into
a bad one."
"March 11, 1793.
"I make no bill-of-parcels. I do not see why I should give myself
the trouble to make thee bills-of-parcels, as thou can'st make them thy-
self; and, more especially, when it is probable thou wilt make them
more to my liking than the issues of my own pen. If the paper is be-
low the standard so far as to oblige thee to lower the price, I am willing
to assist in bearing the loss. If the quantity over-burthens thee, take
off a shilling a-bundle-or take off two; for thy disposition towards me
-I sec it with pleasure-is kindly."
404
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
•
"June 30, 1795.
"Every thing looks black and malignant upon me. Men clamoring
for wages which I cannot give-women threatening to pull down my
mill-rags raised by freight and insurance-excise-officers depriving me
of paper! Say, if thou cau'st, whether these gentlemen of the excise-
office can seize paper after it has left the maker's possession ?-after it
has been marked ?-stamped ?-signed with the officer's name ?-excise
duty paid?-Do they these things ?-Am I to hang myself?"
"June 6, 1799.
"Thou can'st not think how teazing the excise-officers are about
color. They had nearly seized a quantity of common cap paper, because
it was whitened by the frost. They have an antipathy to any thing
whiter than sackcloth."
Bage actually had paper seized by the excise-officers,
and the same paper liberated, seized again, and again
liberated. If his wisdom and integrity have been mani-
fested in the foregoing extracts, the. ignorance and folly
of these men, or of their masters, must be obvious.
A few extracts, not so immediately connected with
conduct in trade, may not be superfluous.
"I swear by Juno, dear William, that one man cannot be more de-
sirous of dealing with another than I am with thee. The chain that
connects us cannot be snapped asunder without giving me pain almost
to torture. Thou art not so sure of having found the place where
Henry the Seventh was lost, as thou mightst have been of finding El-
ford and a friend.
"I received thy pamphlet,¹ and am not sure whether I have not read
it with more pleasure than any of thy former works. It is lively, and
the reasoning just. Only remember, it is sometimes against the insti-
tutions of juries and county courts that thou hast directed thy satire,
which, I think, ought to be confined to the abuses of them. But why
abusest thou me? Did'st thou not know of Mount Henneth, and Barham
Downs, before publication? Yea, thou did'st. I think thou did'st also
of the Fair Syrian. Of what, then, dost thou accuse me? Be just.
And why dost thou call me an infidel? Do I not believe in every thing
thou sayest? And am I not impatient for thy Derby? I am such a
1 Dissertation on Juries.
ROBERT BAGE.
405
scoundrel as to grumble at paying 30 per cent ad valorem, which I really
do, and more, on my boards, as if one could do too much for one's
king and country. But I shall be rewarded when thy History of Derby
comes forth."
"Miss Hutton was the harbinger of peace and good-will from the
Reviewers. I knew she had taste and judgment; I knew also that her
encomium would go beyond the just and proper bounds; but I also be-
lieved she would not condescend to flatter without some foundation."
"Eat my breakfast quietly, thou varlet! So I do when my house.
does not smoke, or my wife scold, or the newspapers do not tickle me
into an irritation, or my men clamor for another increase of wages.
But I must get my bread by eating as little of it as possible; for my
Lord Pitt will want all I can screw of overplus. No matter. Ten
years ¹ hence, perhaps, I shall not care a farthing."
1
"Another meeting among my men! Another (the third) raising of
wages! What will all this end in? William Pitt seems playing off an-
other of his alarming manœuvres-Invasion-against the meeting of
Parliament to scare us into a quiet parting with our money."
"If thou hast been again into Wales, and hast not expired in ecstasy,
I hope to hear from thee soon. In the interim, and always and ever-
more, I am thine."
"I am afraid thy straggling mode of sending me any body's bills,
and every body's bills, will subject me often to returned ones. But I
have received good at thy hands, and shall I not receive evil? Every
thing in this finest, freest, best of all possible countries, grows worse
and worse, and why not thou?
"I looked for the anger thou talked'st of in thy last, but could not
find it; and for what wouldst thou have been angry, if thou couldst?
Turn thy wrath from me, and direct it against the winds and the fogs.
In future, I fear it will be directed against the collectors of dirty rags
in London and in Germany, where the prices have increased, are in-
creasing, and ought to be diminished'—but will not be so, because we
begin the century by not doing what we ought to do. What we shall
do at the end of it I neither know nor care.”
In October, 1800, Bage had visited Hutton at Bir-
mingham, where the latter still passed the hours of busi-
1 Bage lived eight months after the date of this letter, which was
written January 24, 1801.
406
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
ness, and had taken Bennett's Hill in his way home, to
call on Catherine Hutton, the daughter of his friend.
Both were alarmed at the alteration in Bage's counte-
nance, which exhibited evident symptoms of declining
health. They believed that they should see him no
more; and he was probably impressed with the same
idea, for, on quitting the house at Birmingham, he cor-
dially shook hands with Samuel Hutton, the grand-ne-
phew of his friend, and said, "Farewell, my dear lad,
we shall meet again in heaven.”
At home, Bage seems to have indulged the hope of
another meeting in the present world; for two months
after his letter of January, he says, in a letter to Hut-
ton, "Tell Miss Hutton that I have thought of her some
hundred times since I saw her; insomuch that I feared
I was falling in love. I do love her as much as a man
seventy-three years of age, and married, ought to love.
I like the idea of paying her a visit, and will try to
make it reality some time-but not yet." In April he
was scarcely able to write a letter. In June he was
again capable of attending to business; but in reply to
his friend, who had mentioned paying him a visit, he
said, "I should have been glad and sorry, dear Wil-
liam, to have seen thee at Tamworth." On the 1st of
September, 1801, he died.
Bage had quitted Elford, and during the last eight
years of his life he resided at Tamworth, where he end-
ed his days. His wife survived him, but is since dead.
He had three sons, one of whom died as he was ap-
proaching manhood, to the severe affliction of his father.
Charles, the eldest son, settled at Shrewsbury, where he
was the proprietor of a very extensive cotton manufac-
tory. He died in 1822, at the age of seventy. Edward,
ROBERT BAGE.
407
the younger son, was apprenticed to a surgeon and
apothecary at Tamworth, where he afterwards fol-
lowed his profession. He died many years before
his brother. Both possessed a large portion of their
father's talents, and equalled him in integrity and moral
conduct.
In his person, Robert Bage was somewhat under the
middle size, and rather slender, but well proportioned.
His complexion was fair and ruddy; his hair light and
curling; his countenance intelligent, mild, and placid.
His manners were courteous, and his mind was firm.
His integrity, his honor, his devotion to truth, were un-
deviating and incorruptible; his humanity, benevolence,
and generosity, were not less conspicuous in private life,
than they were in the principal characters in his works.
He supplied persons he never saw with money, because
he heard they were in want. He kept his servants and
his horses to old age, and both men and quadrupeds
were attached to him. He behaved to his sons with the
unremitting affection of a father; but as they grew up,
he treated them as men and equals, and allowed them
that independence of mind and conduct which he claim-
ed for himself.
On the subject of servants, Bage says, in The Fair
Syrian, "I pity those unhappy masters, who, with unre-
lenting gravity, damp the effusions of a friendly heart,
lest something too familiar for their lordly pride should
issue from a servant's lip." Of a parent, he says, in the
same work, "Instead of the iron rod of parents, he
used only the authority of mild persuasion, and culti-
vated the affections of his children by social intercourse
and unremitting tenderness." It matters not into what
mouth Robert Bage put these sentiments; they were
408
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
his own, his practice was conformable to them, and their
good effects were visible on all around him.
The following comparison between Robert Bage and
his friend William Hutton, was written by Charles
Bage, son of the former, in a letter to Catherine Hutton,
daughter of the latter, October 6, 1816.
"The contrast between your father's life and mine is curious. Both
were distinguished by great natural talents; both were mild, benevo
lent, and affectionate, qualities which were impressed on their counte-
nances; both were indignant at the wantonness of pride and power;
both were industrious, and both had a strong attachment to literature:
yet, with these resemblances, their success in life was very different;
my father never had a strong passion for wealth, and he never rose into
opulence. Your father's talents were continually excited by contact
with the busy haunts of men;' my father's were repressed by a long
residence in an unfrequented place, in which he shunned the little so-
ciety he might have had, because he could not relish the conversation
of those whose minds were less cultivated than his own. In time, such
was the effect of habit, that, although when young he was lively and
fond of company, he enjoyed nothing but his book and pen, and a pool
at quadrille with ladies. He seems, almost always, to have been fonder
of the company of ladies than of men."
6
AFTER this satisfactory account of Bage's life and
character, there remains nothing for the Editor but to
offer a few critical remarks upon his compositions.
The general object of Robert Bage's compositions, is
rather to exhibit character, than to compose a narrative;
rather to extend and infuse his own political and philo-
sophical opinions, in which a man of his character was
no doubt sincere, than merely to amuse the reader with
the wonders, or melt him with the sorrows, of a fictitious
tale. In this respect he resembled Voltaire and Diderot,
who made their most formidable assaults on the system
of religion and politics which they assailed, by embody-
ROBERT BAGE.
409
ing their objections in popular narratives. Even the
quaint, facetious, ironical style of this author seems to
be copied from the lesser political Romances of the
French school; and if Bage falls short of his prototypes
in wit, he must be allowed to exhibit, upon several oc-
casions, a rich and truly English vein of humor, which
even Voltaire does not possess.
Respecting the tendency and motive of these works,
it is not the Editor's purpose to say much. Bage ap-
pears, from his peculiar style, to have been educated a
Quaker; at least-for we may be wrong in the above
inference he has always painted the individuals of that
primitive sect of Christians in amiable colors, when they
are introduced as personages into his novels. If this
was the case, however, he appears to have wandered
from the tenets of the Friends into the wastes of scepti-
cism; and a sectary, who had reasoned himself into an
infidel, could be friend neither to the Church of Eng-
land, nor the doctrines which she teaches. His opinions.
of state affairs were perhaps a little biassed by the fre-
quent visits of the excisemen, who levied taxes on his
commodities, for the purpose of maintaining a war
which he disapproved of. It was most natural that a
person who considered tax-gatherers as extortioners,
and the soldiers, paid by the taxes, as licensed mur-
derers, should conceive the whole existing state of hu-
man affairs to be wrong; and if he was conscious of
talent, and the power of composition, he might, at the
same time, naturally fancy that he was called upon to
put it to rights. No opinion was so prevalent in France,
and none passed more current among the admirers of
French philosophy in Britain, as that the power of fram-
ing governments, and of administering them, ought to
410
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
remain with persons of literary attainments; or, in
other words, that those who can most easily and readily
write books, are therefore best qualified to govern states.
Whoever peruses the writings of the late ingenious.
Madame de Staël, will perceive that she (one of the
most remarkable women certainly of her time) lived and
died in the belief, that revolutions were to be effected,
and countries governed, by a proper succession of
clever pamphlets. A nation which has long enjoyed
the benefit of a free press, does not furnish so many
believers in the omnipotence of literary talent. Men
are aware that every case may be argued on both sides,
and seldom render their assent to any proposition merely
on account of the skill with which it is advocated, or
the art and humor with which it is illustrated. The
Editor of this work was never one of those who think
that a good cause can suffer much by free discussion ;
and though differing entirely both from his political
and theological tenets, admitted Mr. Bage's novels into
the collection which he superintended, as works of
talent and genius.
The satirical novel is a species of composition more
adapted to confirm those who hold similar opinions with
the author, by affording them a triumph at the expense
of their opponents, than to convince those who, their
minds being yet undecided, may be disposed calmly to
investigate the subject. They who are inclined to burn
an obnoxious or unpopular person in effigy, care little
how far his dress and external appearance are exag-
gerated: and, in the same way, it requires little address
in an author, to draw broad caricatures of those whom
he regards as foes, or to make specious and flattering
representations of such as he considers as friends, They
ROBERT BAGE.
411
who look on the world with an impartial eye, will
scarcely be of opinion, that Mr. Bage has seized the true
features which distinguish either the upper or lower
ranks. The highest and the lowest rank in society, are
each indeed liable to temptations peculiarly their own,
and their relative situation serves to illustrate the wis-
dom of the prayer, "Give me neither poverty nor
riches." But these peculiar propensities, we think, will
in life be found considerably different from the attri-
butes ascribed to the higher and lower classes by Mr.
Bage. In most cases, the author's great man resembles
the giant of the ancient romance of chivalry, whose evil
qualities were presumed from his superior stature, and
who was to be tilted at and cut to pieces, merely because
he stood a few inches higher than his fellow-mortals.
But the very vices and foibles of the higher classes in
modern times are of a kind different from what Bage
has frequently represented them. Men of rank, in the
present day, are too indifferent, and too indolent, to in-
dulge any of the stormy passions, and irregular but
vehement desires, which create the petty tyrant, and
perhaps, formerly animated the feudal oppressor. Their
general fault is a want of energy, or, to speak more
accurately, an apathy, which is scarcely disturbed even
by the feverish risks to which they expose their fortune,
for the sole purpose, so far as can be discerned, of enjoy-
ing some momentary excitation. Amongst the numbers,
both of rank and talent, who lie stranded upon the shores
of Spenser's Lake of Idleness, are many who only want
sufficient motives for exertion, to attract at once esteem
and admiration; and among those, whom we rather
despise than pity, a selfish apathy is the predominating
attribute.
412
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
In like manner, the habits of the lower classes, as ex-
isting in Britain, are far from affording, exclusively,
that rich fruit of virtue and generosity, which Mr. Bage's
writings would teach us to expect. On the contrary,
they are discontented, not unnaturally, with the hard-
ships of their situation, occupied too often in seizing
upon the transient enjoyments which chance throws in
their way, and open to temptations which promise to
mend their condition in life, or at least to extend the
circle of their pleasures at the expense of their morals.
Those, therefore, who weigh equally, will be disposed
to think that the state of society most favorable to vir-
tue may be most successfully sought amongst those who
neither want nor abound, who are neither sufficiently
raised above the necessity of labor and industry, to be
satiated by the ready gratification of every wild wish as
it arises, nor so much depressed below the general scale
of society, as to be exasperated by struggles against
indigence, or seduced by the violence of temptations
which that indigence renders it difficult to resist.
Though we have thus endeavored to draw a broad
line of distinction between the vices proper to the con-
ditions of the rich and the poor, the reader must be cau-
tious to understand these words in a relative sense. For
men are not rich or poor in relation to the general
amount of their means, but in proportion to their wants
and their wishes. He who can adjust his expenses within
the limits of his income, how small soever that may be,
must escape from the temptations which most easily
beset indigence; and the rich man, who makes it his
business, as it is his duty, to attend to the proper distri-
bution of his wealth, will be equally emancipated from
those to which opulence is peculiarly obnoxious.
ROBERT BAGE.
413
This misrepresentation of the different classes in
society is not the only speculative error in which Bage
has indulged during these poetic narratives. There is in
his novels a dangerous tendency to slacken the reins of
discipline upon a point, where, perhaps, of all others,
society must be benefited by their curbing restraint.
Fielding, Smollett, and other novelists, have, with very
indifferent taste, brought forward their heroes as rakes
and debauchees, and treated with great lightness those
breaches of morals, which are too commonly considered
as venial in the male sex; but Bage has extended, in
some instances, that license to the female sex, and seems
at times even to sport with the ties of marriage, which
is at once the institution of civil society most favorable
to religion and good order, and that which, in its conse-
quences, forms the most marked distinction between man
and the lower animals. All the influence which women
enjoy in society,—their right to the exercise of that
maternal care which forms the first and most indelible
species of education; the wholesome and mitigating
restraint which they possess over the passions of man-
kind; their power of protecting us when young, and
cheering us when old,—depend so entirely upon their
personal purity, and the charm which it casts around
them, that to insinuate a doubt of its real value, is wil-
fully to remove the broadest corner-stone on which civil
society rests, with all its benefits, and with all its com-
forts. It is true, we can easily conceive that a female
like Miss Ross, in Barham Downs, may fall under the
arts of a seducer, under circumstances so peculiar as to
excite great compassion; nor are we so rigid as to say,
that such a person may not be restored to society, when
her subsequent conduct shall have effaced recollection of
414
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
her error.
But she must return thither as a humble
penitent, and has no title to sue out her pardon as a
matter of right, and assume a place among the virtuous
of her sex as if she had never fallen from her proper
sphere. Her disgrace must not be considered as a trivial.
stain, which may be communicated by a husband as an
exceeding good jest to his friend and correspondent ;
there must be, not penitence and reformation alone, but
humiliation and abasement, in the recollection of her
errors. This the laws of society demand even from the
unfortunate; and to compromise farther, would open a
door to the most unbounded licentiousness. With this
fault in principle is connected an indelicacy of expres-
sion frequently occurring in Bage's novels, but which,
though a gross error in point of taste, we consider as a
matter of much less consequence than the former. It is
in some degree chastened in the present edition, and
where it exists must find such shelter as it can, under
the faulty example of earlier novelists.
Having adverted to this prominent error in Mr. Bage's
theory of morals, we are compelled to remark, that his
ideas respecting the male sex are not less inaccurate,
considered as rules of mental government, than the over-
indulgence with which he seems to regard female frailty.
Hermsprong, whom he produces as the ideal perfection
of humanity, is paraded as a man who, freed from all the
nurse and all the priest has taught, steps forward on his
path, without any religious or political restraint, as one
who derives his own rules of conduct from his own
breast, and avoids or resists all temptations of evil pas-
sions, because his reason teaches him that they are
attended with evil consequences. In the expressive
words of our moral poet, Wordsworth, he is
ROBERT BAGE.
415
A reasoning self-sufficient thing,
An intellectual all-in-all.”
But did such a man ever exist? or are we, in the fair
construction of humanity, with all its temptations, its
passions, and its frailties, entitled to expect such perfec-
tion from the mere force of practical philosophy? Let
each reader ask his own bosom, whether it were possible
for him to hold an unaltered tenor of moral and vir-
tuous conduct, did he suppose that to himself alone he
was responsible, and that his own reason, a judge so
peculiarly subject to be bribed, blinded, and imposed
upon by the sophistry with which the human mind can
gloss over those actions to which human passions so
strongly impel us, was the ultimate judge of his actions?
Let each reader ask the question at his own conscience,
and if he can honestly and conscientiously answer in the
affirmative, he is either that faultless monster which the
world never saw, or he deceives himself as grossly as
the poor devotee, who, referring his course of conduct
to the action of some supposed internal inspiration, con-
ceives himself, upon a different ground, incapable of
crime, even when he is in the very act of committing it.
We are not treating this subject theologically; the
nature of our present work excludes such serious rea-
soning. But we would remind, even in these slight
sketches, those who stand up for the self-sufficient
morality of modern philosophy, or rather sophistry, that
the experiment has long since been tried on a large
scale. Whatever may be the inferiority of the ancients
in physical science, it will scarce be denied, that in
moral science they possess all the lights which the un-
assisted Reason, now referred to as the sufficient light
of our paths, could possibly attain. Yet, when we sur-
416
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
vey what their system of Ethics did for the perfection
of the human species, we shall see that but a very few
even of the teachers themselves have left behind them
such characters as tend to do honor to their doctrines.
Some philosophers there were, who, as instructors in
morality, showed a laudable example to their followers;
and we will not invidiously enquire how far these were
supported in their self-denial, either by vanity, or the
desire of preserving consistency, or the importance an-
nexed to the founder of a sect; although the least of
these motives afford great support to temperance, even
in cases where it is not rendered easy by advanced age,
which of itself calms the more stormy passions. But
the satires of Juvenal, of Petronius, and, above all,
Lucian, show what slight effect the doctrines of Zeno,
Epictetus, Plato, Socrates, and Epicurus, produced on
their avowed followers; and how little influence the
beard of the Stoic, the sophistry of the Academician,
and the self-denied mortification of the Cynics, had
upon the sects which derived their names from these
distinguished philosophers. We shall find that these
pretended despisers of sensual pleasures shared the
worst vices of the grossest age of society, and added to
them the detestable hypocrisy of pretending, that they
were all the while guided by the laws of true wisdom
and of right reason.
If, in modern times, they who own the restraint of
philosophical discipline alone have not given way to
such grossness of conduct, it is because those principles
of religion, which they affect to despise, have impressed
on the public mind a system of moral feeling, unknown
till the general prevalence of the Christian faith; but
which, since its predominance, has so generally pervad
ROBERT BAGE.
417
ed European society, that no pretender to innovation
can directly disavow its influence, though he endeavors
to show that the same results which are recommended
from the Christian pulpit, and practised by the Chris-
tian community, might be reached by the unassisted
efforts of that human reason, to which he counsels us to
resign the sole regulation of our morals.
In short, to oppose one authority in the same depart-
ment to another, the reader is requested to compare the
character of the philosophic Square in Tom Jones, with
that of Bage's philosophical heroes; and to consider
seriously whether a system of Ethics, founding an ex-
clusive and paramount court in a man's own bosom for
the regulation of his own conduct, is likely to form a
noble, enlightened, and generous character, influencing
others by superior energy and faultless example; or
whether it is not more likely, as in the observer of the
rule of right, to regulate morals according to tempta-
tion and to convenience, and to form a selfish, sophisti-
cal hypocrite, who, with morality always in his mouth,
finds a perpetual apology for evading the practice of
abstinence, when either passion or interest solicit him to
indulgence.
We do not mean to say, that, because Bage entertain-
ed erroneous notions, he therefore acted viciously. The
history of his life, so far as known to us, indicates a
contrary course of conduct. It would seem, from his
language, as we have already said, that he had been
bred among the strict and benevolent sect of Friends ;
and if their doctrines carried him some length in specu-
lative error, he certainly could derive nothing from
them to favor laxity of morals. In his fictitious works,
the Quakers are always brought forward in an amiable
418
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
point of view; and the characters of Arnold, and parti-
cularly of Miss Carlile, are admirable pictures of the
union of talent, and even wit, with the peculiar manners
and sentiments of these interesting and primitive per-
sons. But if not vicious himself, Bage's leading princi-
ples are such as, if acted upon, would introduce vice
into society; in men of a fiercer mould, they would lead
to a very different line of conduct from his own; and,
such being the case, it was the Editor's duty to point
out the sophistry on which they are founded.
The works of Bage, abstracted from the views against
which we have endeavored to caution the reader, are of
high and decided merit. It is scarce possible to read
him without being amused, and, to a certain degree,
instructed. His whole efforts are turned to the develop-
ment of human character; and, it must be owned, he
possessed a ready key to it. The mere story of the
novels seldom possesses much interest-it is the conduct
of his personages, as thinking and speaking beings, in
which we are interested; and, contrary to the general
case, the reader is seldom or never tempted to pass over
the dialogue in order to continue the narrative. The
author deals occasionally in quick and improbable con-
versions, as in that of Sir George Osmond, from selfish-
ness and avarice, to generosity and liberality, by the
mere loveliness of virtue in his brother and his friends.
And he does not appear to have possessed much know-
ledge of that species of character which is formed by
profession or by nationality. His seamen are indiffe-
rent; his Irishmen not beyond those usually brought on
the stage; his Scotchmen still more awkward carica-
tures, and the language which he puts in their mouths,
not similar to any that has been spoken since the days
ROBERT BAGE.
419
of Babel. It is in detecting the internal workings of a
powerful understanding, like that of Paracelsus Hol-
man, that Bage's power chiefly consists; and great that
power must be, considering how much more difficult it
is to trace those varieties of character which are formed
by such working, than merely to point out such as the
mind receives from the manners and customs of the
country in which it has ripened.
A light, gay, pleasing air carries us agreeably
through Bage's novels; and when we are disposed to
be angry at seeing the worse made to appear the better
reason, we are reconciled to the author by the ease and
good-humor of his style. We did not think it proper to
reject the works of so eminent an author from this col-
lection, merely on account of speculative errors. We
have done our best to place a mark on these; and, as
we are far from being of opinion, that the youngest and
most thoughtless derive their serious opinions from pro-
ductions of this nature, we leave them for our reader's
amusement, trusting that he will remember that a good
jest is no argument; that a novelist, like the master of
a puppet-show, has his drama under his absolute autho-
rity, and shapes the events to favor his own opinions;
and that whether the Devil flies away with Punch, or
Punch strangles the Devil, forms no real argument as
to the comparative power of either one or other, but
only indicates the special pleasure of the master of the
motion.
HENRY MACKENZIE.
For the biographical part of the following memoir, we
are chiefly indebted to a short sketch of the life of our
distinguished contemporary, compiled from the most
authentic sources, and prefixed to a beautiful duodecimo
edition of The Man of Feeling, printed at Paris a few
years since. We have had the farther advantage of
correcting and enlarging the statements which it con-
tains from undoubted authority.
HENRY MACKENZIE, Esq., was born at Edinburgh, in
August, 1745, on the same day on which Prince Charles
Stuart landed in Scotland.' His father was Dr. Joshua
Mackenzie, of that city; and his mother, Margaret, the
eldest daughter of Mr. Rose, of Kilravock, of a very
ancient family in Nairnshire. After being educated at
the High-school and University of Edinburgh, Mr. Mac-
kenzie, by the advice of some friends of his father, was
articled to Mr. Inglis, of Redhall, in order to acquire a
knowledge of the business of the Exchequer, a law de-
partment in which he was likely to have fewer competi-
tors than in any other in Scotland.
To this profession, although not perfectly compatible
with that literary taste which he very early displayed,
1 ["Prince Charles Stuart landed in Scotland on the 25th of July,
1745,--but he raised his standard on the 19th of August."]
HENRY MACKENZIE.
421
Mr. Mackenzie applied with due diligence; and in 1765,
went to London to study the modes of English exche-
quer practice, which, as well as the constitution of the
court, are similar in both countries. While there, his
talents induced a friend to solicit his remaining in Lon-
don, and qualifying himself for the English bar. But
the anxious wishes of his family that he should reside
with them, and the moderation of an unambitious mind,
decided his return to Edinburgh; and here he became,
first partner, and afterwards successor to Mr. Inglis, in
the office of the Attorney for the Crown.
His professional labor, however, did not prevent his
attachment to literary pursuits. When in London he
sketched some part of his first, and very popular work,
The Man of Feeling, which was published in 1771,
without his name; and was so much a favorite with the
public, as to become, a few years after, the occasion of
a remarkable literary fraud. A young clergyman, Mr.
Eccles, of Bath, observing that this work was unaccom-
panied by an author's name, laid claim to it, transcribed
the whole in his own hand, with blottings, interlinea-
tions, and corrections; and maintained his assumed
right with such plausible pertinacity, that Messrs. Cadell
and Strachan (Mr. Mackenzie's publishers) found it ne-
cessary to undeceive the public by a formal contradic-
tion. This impostor was afterwards drowned while
bathing in the river Avon.'
In a few years after this, Mr. Mackenzie published his
Man of the World, [1773,] which seems to be intended
as a second part to The Man of Feeling. It breathes
¹ [The Gentleman's Magazine for September, 1777, gives an epitaph
on Mr. Eccles, which begins thus :
"Beneath this stone The Man of Feeling lies."]
422
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
the same tone of exquisite moral delicacy, and of refined
sensibility. In his former fiction, he imagined a hero
constantly obedient to every emotion of his moral sense.
In The Man of the World he exhibited, on the contrary,
a person rushing headlong into misery and ruin, and
spreading misery all around him, by pursuing a selfish
and sensual happiness which he expected to obtain in
defiance of the moral sense. His next production was
Julia de Roubigné, [1777,] a novel in a series of letters.
The fable is deeply interesting, and the letters are writ-
ten with great elegance and propriety of style.
In 1776, Mr. Mackenzie was married to Miss Penucl
Grant, daughter of Sir Ludovick Grant, of Grant, Bart.,
and Lady Margaret Ogilvy, by whom he has a numerous
family; the eldest of whom, Mr. Henry Joshua Mac-
kenzie, has been called to the situation of a Judge of
the Supreme Court of Session, with the unanimous ap-
probation of his profession and country.
In 1777 or 1778, a society of gentlemen' of Edin-
burgh were accustomed at their meetings to read short
essays of their composition, in the manner of the Specta-
tor, and Mr. Mackenzie being admitted a member, after
hearing several of them read, suggested the advantage
of giving greater variety to their compositions by ad-
mitting some of a lighter kind, descriptive of common
life and manners; and he exhibited some specimens of
1 [This society comprised, besides Mr. Mackenzie, and Mr. (after-
wards Lord) Craig, who was also a frequent contributor to the Mirror
and Lounger-Mr. Cullen, afterwards Lord Cullen; Mr. Macleod Ban-
natyne, afterwards Lord Bannatyne; Gcorge Hume, afterwards Lord
Wedderburn; and some others. To the periodical papers of this club,
articles were likewise contributed by Lord Hailes, Henry the Historian,
Professor Richardson of Glasgow, and Mr. David Hume, afterwards
Baron of the Exchequer.]
HENRY MACKENZIE.
423
the kind in his own writing. From this arose the
Mirror,' a well-known periodical publication, to which
Mr. Mackenzie performed the office of editor, and was
also the principal contributor. The success of the
Mirror naturally led Mr. Mackenzie and his friends to
undertake the Lounger, upon the same plan, which was
not less read and admired, and generally circulated.
2
When the Royal Society of Edinburgh was instituted,
Mr. Mackenzie became one of its most active members,
and he has occasionally enriched the volumes of its
Transactions by his valuable communications, particu-
larly by an elegant tribute to the memory of his friend
Judge Abercromby, and a memoir on German Tragedy.
He is one of the original members of the Highland
Society; and by him have been published the volumes
of their Transactions, to which he has prefixed an
account of the Institution and principal proceedings of
the Society, and an interesting account of Gaelic poetry.
In the year 1792 he was one of those literary men
who contributed some little occasional tracts to disabuse
the lower orders of the people, led astray at that time
by the prevailing frenzy of the French Revolution. In
1793 he wrote the Life of Dr. Blacklock, at the request
of his widow, prefixed to a quarto edition of that blind
poet's works. His intimacy with Blacklock gave him
an opportunity of knowing the habits of his life, the
bent of his mind, and the feelings peculiar to the priva-
tion of sight, under which that amiable and interesting
poet labored.
The literary society of Edinburgh, in the latter part
of last century, whose intimacy he enjoyed, is described
¹ Begun the 23d January, 1779; ended 27th May, 1780.
2 Begun 6th February, 1785; ended 6th January, 1787.
424
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
•
in his Life of John Home, which he read to the Royal
Society in 1812, and, as a sort of Supplement to that
Life, he then added some Critical Essays, chiefly on
Dramatic Poetry, which have not been published. He
has since contributed to the Society a curious Essay on
Dreaming, which was heard with much interest.
In 1808, Mr. Mackenzie published a complete edition
of his works, in eight volumes octavo; including a tra-
gedy, the Spanish Father, and a comedy, The White
Hypocrite, which last was once performed at the Theatre
Royal, Covent-Garden. The tragedy had never been
represented, in consequence of Mr. Garrick's opinion,
that the catastrophe was of too shocking a kind for the
modern stage; though he owned the merit of the poetry,
the force of some of the scenes, and the scope for fine
action in the character of Alphonso, the leading person
of the drama. In this edition also is given a carefully
corrected copy of the tragedy of The Prince of Tunis,
which had been represented at Edinburgh, in 1763, with
great success.¹
Among the prose compositions of Mr. Mackenzie, is a
political tract, An Account of the Proceedings of the
Parliament of 1784, which he was induced to write at
the persuasion of his old and steady friend, Mr. Dundas,
afterwards Lord Melville. It introduced him to the
countenance and regard of Mr. Pitt, who revised the
work with particular care and attention, and made seve-
ral corrections in it with his own hand.
Some years
after, Mr. Mackenzie was appointed, on the recommenda-
¹ [Mr. Mackenzie's Account of the Life and Writings of Home was
published in a separate volume, and at the same time prefixed to an
edition-"The Works of John Home, Esq., now first collected,” &c.
3 vols. 8vo. Edin. 182?.]
HENRY MACKENZIE.
425
tion of Lord Melville and the Right Hon. George Rose,
also his particular friend, to the office of Comptroller of
the Taxes for Scotland, an appointment of very consi-
derable labor and responsibility, and in discharging
which this fanciful and ingenious author has shown his
power of entering into and discussing the most dry and
complicated details, when that became a matter of
duty.
THE time, we hope, is yet distant, when speaking of
this author as of those with whom his genius ranks him,
a biographer may with delicacy trace his personal cha-
racter and peculiarities, or record the manner in which
he has discharged the duties of a citizen. When that
hour shall arrive, we trust few of his own contemporaries
will be left to mourn him; but we can anticipate the
sorrow of a later generation, when deprived of the wit
which enlivened their hours of enjoyment, the benevo-
lence which directed and encouraged their studies, and
the wisdom which instructed them in their duties to so-
ciety. It is enough to say here, that Mr. Mackenzie sur-
vives, venerable and venerated, as the last link of the
chain which connects the Scottish literature of the pre-
sent age with the period when there were giants in the
land-the days of Robertson, and Hume, and Smith,
and Home, and Clerk, and Fergusson; and that the re-
membrance of an era so interesting could not have been
intrusted to a sounder judgment, a more correct taste,
or a more tenacious memory. It is much to be wished,
that Mr. Mackenzie, taking a wider view of his earlier
years than in the Life of Home, would place on a more
permanent record some of the anecdotes and recollec-
ナ
​1
426
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
1
tions with which he delights society. We are about to
measure his capacity for the task by a singular stan-
dard, but it belongs to Mr. Mackenzie's character. He
has, we believe, shot game of every description which
Scotland contains, (deer, and probably grouse, excepted,)
on the very grounds at present occupied by the exten-
sive and splendid streets of the New Town of Edin-
burgh; has sought for hares and wild-ducks, where
there are now palaces, churches, and assembly-rooms;
and has witnessed moral revolutions as surprising as
this extraordinary change of local circumstances. These
mutations in manners and in morals have been gradual
indeed in their progress, but most important in their re-
sults, and they have been introduced into Scotland
within the last half century. Every sketch of them, or
of the circumstances by which they were produced, from
the pen of so intelligent an observer, and whose oppor-*
tunities of observation have been so extensive, would,
however slight and detached, rival in utility and amuse-
ment any work of the present time.
As an author, Mr. Mackenzie has shown talents both
for poetry and the drama. Indeed, we are of opinion,
that no man can succeed perfectly in the line of fictitious
composition, without most of the properties of a poet,
though he may be no writer of verses; but Mr. Mac-
kenzie possesses the powers of melody in addition to
those of poetical conception. He has given a beautiful
specimen of legendary poetry, in two little Highland
ballads, a style of composition which becomes fashion-
1 [See an interesting account of this work, with much of additional
information regarding Scottish characters, and manners of the period to
which it relates, from the pen of Sir Walter Scott, in the Quarterly Re-
view, No. lxxi., June, 1827.]
HENRY MACKENZIE.
427
able from time to time, on account of its simplicity and
pathos, and then is again laid aside, when worn out by
the commonplace productions of mere imitators, to whom
its approved facility offers its chief recommendation.
But it is as a Novelist that we are now called on to con-
sider our author's powers; and the universal and per-
manent popularity of his writings entitles us to rank
him among the most distinguished of his class. His
works possess the rare and invaluable property of origi-
nality, to which all other qualities are as dust in the
balance; and the sources to which he resorts to excite
our interest are rendered accessible by a path peculiarly
his own.
The reader's attention is not riveted, as in
Fielding's works, by strongly marked character, and the
lucid evolution of a well-constructed fable; or, as in
Smollett's novels, by broad and strong humor, and a de-
cisively superior knowledge of human life in all its
varieties; nor, to mention authors whom Mackenzie
more nearly resembles, does he attain the pathetic effect.
which is the object of all three, in the same manner as
Richardson, or as Sterne. An accumulation of circum-
stances, sometimes amounting to tediousness, a combina-
tion of minutely-traced events, with an ample commen-
tary on each, were thought necessary by Richardson to
excite and prepare the mind of the reader for the affect-
ing scenes which he has occasionally touched with such
force; and without denying him his due merit, it must
be allowed that he has employed preparatory volumes.
in accomplishing what has cost Mackenzie and Sterne
only a few pages, perhaps only a few sentences.
On the other hand, although the last two named au-
thors have, in particular passages, a more strong resem-
blance to each other than those formerly named, yet
428
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
there remain such essential points of difference betwixt
them, as must secure for Mackenzie the praise of origi-
nality which we have claimed for him. It is needless to
point out to the reader the difference between the gene-
ral character of their writings, or how far the chaste,
correct, almost studiously decorous manner and style of
the works of the author of The Man of Feeling, differ
from the wild wit, and intrepid contempt at once of de-
cency, and regularity of composition, which distinguish
Tristram Shandy. It is not in the general conduct.
or style of their works that they in the slightest degree
approach; nay, no two authors in the British language
can be more distinct. But even in the particular pas-
sages where both had in view to excite the reader's pa-
thetic sympathy, the modes resorted to are different.
The pathos of Sterne in some degree resembles his hu-
mor, and is seldom attained by simple means; a wild,
fanciful, beautiful flight of thought and expression is
remarkable in the former, as an extravagant, burlesque,
and ludicrous strain of conception and language charac-
terizes the latter. The celebrated passage where the
tear of the recording angel blots the profane oath of
Uncle Toby out of the register of heaven, a flight so.
poetically fanciful as to be stretched to the very verge
of extravagance, will illustrate our position. To attain
his object that is, to make us thoroughly sympathize
with the excited state of mind which betrays Uncle
Toby into the indecorous assertion which forms the
ground-work of the whole, the author calls Heaven and
Hell into the lists, and represents, in a fine poetic frenzy,
its effects on the accusing Spirit and the registering An-
gel. Let this be contrasted with the fine tale of La
Roche, in which Mackenzie has described, with such un-
HENRY MACKENZIE.
429
exampled delicacy and powerful effect, the sublime
scene of the sorrows and resignation of the bereaved fa-
ther. This also is painted reflectively; that is, the
reader's sympathy is excited by the effect produced on
one of the drama, neither angel nor devil, but a philoso-
pher, whose heart remains sensitive, though his studies
have misled his mind into the frozen regions of scepti-
cism. To say nothing of the tendency of the two pas-
sages, which will scarce, in the mind of the most un
thinking, bear any comparison, we would only remark,
that Mackenzie has given us a moral truth, Sterne a
beautiful trope; and that if the one claims the palm of
superior brilliancy of imagination, that due to nature
and accuracy of human feeling must abide with the
Scottish author.
Yet, while marking this broad and distinct difference
between these two authors, the most celebrated certain-
ly among those who are termed sentimental, it is but
fair to Sterne to add, that although Mackenzie has re-
jected his license of wit and flights of imagination, re-
trenched, in a great measure, his episodical digressions,
and altogether banished the indecency and buffoonery to
which he had too frequent recourse, still their volumes
most be accounted as belonging to the same class; and,
amongst the thousand imitators who have pursued their
path, we cannot recollect one English author who is en-
titled to the same honor. The foreign authors Ricco-
boni and Marivaux belong to the same department ; but
of the former we remember little; and the latter, though
full of the most delicate touches, often depends for ef-
fect on the turn of phrase, and the protracted embarras-
ments of artificial gallantry, more than upon the truth
and simplicity of nature. The Heloise and Emile par-
430
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
take of the insanity of their author, and are exaggerat-
ed, though most eloquent, descriptions of overwhelming
passion, rather than works of sentiment.
In future compositions, the author dropped even that
resemblance which the style of The Man of Feeling
bears, in some particulars, to the works of Sterne ; and
his country may boast, that in one instance at least, she
has produced in Mackenzie, a writer of pure musical
Addisonian prose, which retains the quality of vigor
without forfeiting that of clearness and simplicity.
We are hence led to observe, that the principal object
of Mackenzie, in all his novels, has been to reach and
sustain a tone of moral pathos, by representing the
effect of incidents, whether important or trifling, upon
the human mind, and especially on those which were
not only just, honorable, and intelligent, but so framed
as to be responsive to those finer feelings, to which ordi-
nary hearts are callous. This is the direct and professed
object of Mackenzie's first work, which is in fact no nar-
rative, but a series of successive incidents, each ren-
dered interesting by the mode in which they operate on
the feelings of Harley. The attempt had been perilous
in a meaner hand; for, sketched by a pencil less nicely
discriminating, Harley, instead of a being whom we
love, respect, sympathize with, and admire, had become
the mere Quixote of sentiment, an object of pity per-
haps, but of ridicule at the same time. Against this the
author has guarded with great skill; and while duped
and swindled in London, Harley neither loses our consi-
deration as a man of sense and spirit, nor is subjected to
that degree of contempt with which readers in general
regard the misadventures of a novice upon town, whilst
they hug themselves in their own superior knowledge
HENRY MACKENZIE.
431
of the world. Harley's spirited conduct towards an
impertinent passenger in the stage-coach, and his start
of animated indignation on listening to Edward's story,
are skilfully thrown in, to satisfy the reader that his
softness and gentleness of temper were not allied to
effeminacy; and that he dared, on suitable occasions, do
all that might become a man. We have heard that
some of Harley's feelings were taken from those of the
author himself, when, at his first entrance on the dry
and barbarous study of the municipal law, he was look-
ing back, like Blackstone, on the land of the Muses,
which he was condemned to leave behind him. It has
also been said, that the fine sketch of Miss Walton was
taken from the heiress of a family of distinction, who
ranked at that time high in the Scottish fashionable
world. But such surmises are little worth the tracing;
for we believe no original character was ever composed
by any author, without the idea having been previously
suggested by something which he had observed in
nature.
The other novels of Mr. Mackenzie, although assum-
ing a more regular and narrative form, are, like The
Man of Feeling, rather the history of effects produced
on the human mind by a series of events, than the nar-
rative of those events themselves. The villany of Sin-
dall is the tale of a heart hardened to selfishness, by
incessant and unlimited gratification of the external
senses; a contrast to that of Harley, whose mental feel-
ings have acquired such an ascendency as to render him
unfit for the ordinary business of life. The picture of
the former is so horrid, that we would be disposed to
deny its truth, did we not unhappily know, that sensual
indulgence, in the words of Burns,
432
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
•
"Hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling;"
and that there never did, and never will exist, any thing
permanently noble and excellent in a character which
was a stranger to the exercise of resolute self-denial.
The account of the victims of Sindall's arts and crimes,
particularly the early history of the Annesleys, is exqui-
sitely well drawn; and, perhaps, the scene between the
brother and sister by the pond equals any part of the
author's writings. Should the reader doubt this, he may
easily make the experiment, by putting it into the hands
of any young person of feeling and intelligence, and of
an age so early as not to have forgotten the sports and
passions of childhood.
The beautiful and tragic tale of Julia de Roubigné is
of a very different tenor from The Man of the World;
and we have good authority for thinking, that it was
written in some degree as a counterpart to the latter
work. A friend of the author, the celebrated Lord
Kames, we believe, had represented to Mr. Mackenzie, in
how many poems, plays, and novels, the distress of the
piece is made to turn upon the designing villany of some
one of the dramatis personæ. On considering his obser-
vations, the author undertook, as a task fit for his genius,
the composition of a story, in which the characters
should be all naturally virtuous, and where the calami-
ties of the catastrophe should arise, as frequently hap-
pens in actual life, not out of schemes of premeditated
villany, but from the excess and over-indulgence of pas-
sions and feelings, in themselves blameless, nay, praise-
worthy, but which, encouraged to a morbid excess, and
coming into fatal though fortuitous concourse with each
other, lead to the most disastrous consequences. Mr.
HENRY MACKENZIE.
433
Mackenzie executed his purpose; and as the plan fell in
most happily with the views of a writer, whose object
was less to describe external objects, than to read a
lesson on the human passions, he has produced one of
the most heart-wringing histories that has ever been
written. The very circumstances which palliate the
errors of the sufferers, in whose distress we interest our-
selves, point out to the reader that there is neither room
for hope, remedy, nor revenge. When a Lovelace or a
Sindall comes forth like an evil principle, the agent of
all the misery of the scene, we see a chance of their arti-
fices being detected, at least the victims have the con-
sciousness of innocence, the reader the stern hope of
vengeance. But when, as in Julia de Roubigné, the
revival of mutual affection on the part of two pure and
amiable beings, imprudently and incautiously indulged,
awakens, and not unjustly, the jealous honor of a high-
spirited husband,-when we see Julia precipitated into
misery by her preference of filial duty to early love,—
Savillon, by his faithful and tender attachment to a
deserving object,—and Montauban, by a jealous regard
to his spotless fame,-we are made aware, at the same
time, that there is no hope of aught but the most un-
happy catastrophe. The side of each sufferer is pierced
by the very staff on which he leant, and the natural
and virtuous feelings which they at first most legiti
mately indulged, precipitate them into error, crimes, re-
morse, and misery. The cruelty to which Montauban is
hurried, may, perhaps, be supposed to exempt him from
our sympathy, especially in an age when such crimes as
that of which Julia is suspected, are usually borne by
the injured parties with more equanimity than her hus-
band displays. But the irritable habits of the time, and
434
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
of his Spanish descent, must plead the apology of Mon-
tauban, as they are admitted to form that of Othello.
Perhaps, on the whole, Julia de Roubigné gives the rea-
der too much actual pain to be so generally popular as
The Man of Feeling, since we have found its superiority
to that beautiful essay on human sensibility often dis-
puted by those whose taste we are in general inclined to
defer to. The very acute feelings which the work
usually excites among the readers whose sympathies are
liable to be awakened by scenes of fictitious distress, we
are disposed to ascribe to the extreme accuracy and
truth of the sentiments, as well as to the beautiful man-
ner in which they are expressed. There are few who
have not had, at one period of life, broken ties of love
and friendship, secret disappointments of the heart, to
mourn over, and we know no book which recalls the
recollection of such more severely than Julia de
Roubigné.
-
We return to consider the key-note, as we may term
it, on which Mackenzie has formed his tales of fictitious
woe, and which we have repeatedly described to be the
illustration of the nicer and finer sensibilities of the
human breast. To attain this point, and to place it in
the strongest and most unbroken light, the author seems
to have kept the other faculties with which we know him
to be gifted, in careful subordination. The Northern
Addison, who revived the art of periodical writing, and
sketched, though with a light pencil, the follies and the
lesser vices of his time, has showed himself a master of
playful satire. The historian of the Homespun family
may place his narrative, without fear of shame, by the
side of The Vicar of Wakefield. Colonel Caustic and
Umfraville are masterly conceptions of the laudator
;
HENRY MACKENZIE,
435
temporis acti; and many personages in those papers
which Mr. Mackenzie contributed to the Mirror and
Lounger attest with what truth, spirit, and ease he could
describe, assume, and sustain a variety of characters.
The beautiful landscape-painting which he has exhi-
bited in many passages (take, for example, that where
the country-seat of the old Scottish lady and its accom-
paniments are so exquisitely delineated) assures us of the
accuracy and delicacy of his touch in delineating the
beauties of nature.
But all these powerful talents, any single one of
which might have sufficed to bring men of more bound-
ed powers into notice, have been by Mackenzie carefully
subjected to the principal object which he proposed to
himself-the delineation of the human heart. Variety
of character he has introduced sparingly, and has sel-
dom recourse to any peculiarity of incident, availing
himself generally of those which may be considered as
common property to all writers of romance.
His sense
of the beauties of nature, and his power of describing
them, are carefully kept down, to use the expression of
the artists; and like the single straggling bough, which
shades the face of his sleeping veteran, just introduced
to relieve his principal object, but not to eclipse it. It
cannot be termed an exception to this rule, though cer-
tainly a peculiarity of this author, that on all occasions
where sylvan sports can be introduced, he displays an
intimate familiarity with them, and, from personal ha-
bits, to which we have elsewhere alluded, shows a de-
light to dwell for an instant upon a favorite topic.
Lastly, the wit which sparkles in his periodical essays,
and in his private conversation, shows itself but little in
his Novels; and, although his peculiar vein of humor
436
LIVES OF THE NOVELISTS.
may be much more frequently traced, yet it is so soften-
ed down, and divested of the broad ludicrous, that it
harmonizes with the most grave and affecting parts of
the tale, and becomes, like the satire of Jaques, only a
more humorous shade of melancholy. In short, Mac-
kenzie aimed at being the historian of feeling, and has
succeeded in the object of his ambition. But as man-
kind are never contented, and as critics are certainly no
exception to a rule so general, we could wish that, with-
out losing or altering a line that our author has written,
he had condescended to give us, in addition to his stores
of sentiment,—a romance on life and manners, by which,
we are convinced, he would have twisted another branch
of laurel into his garland. However, as Sebastian ex-
presses it,
"What had been, is unknown; what is, appears."
We must be proudly satisfied with what we have re-
ceived, and happy that, in this line of composition, we
can boast a living author, of excellence like that of
Henry Mackenzie.'
[Venerable and venerated, as "the last link of the chain which con-
nected the Scottish literature of the present age, with the period when
there were giants in the land, -the days of Robertson, and Hume, and
Smith, and Home, and Clerk, and Fergusson,"-Mr. Mackenzie long
lived the ornament and pride of his native city. The moment at length
arrived when his numerous and attached friends were to be deprived of
the wit which enhanced their hours of retirement, the benevolence
which directed and encouraged their studies, and the wisdom which
instructed them in their duties to society." After having been con-
fined to his room for a considerable time by the general decay attending
old age, Mr. Mackenzie expired on the evening of Friday, the 14th of
January, 1831, in his 86th year.—Annual Biography, 1832.]
1
A. DENHAM & CO.,
PUBLISHERS AND IMPORTERS,
17 MURRAY STREET, (NEAR BROADWAY,)
NEW-YORK,
HAVE RECENTLY PUBLISHED
THE MINOR POEMS OF HOMER :
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE,
HYMNS AND EPIGRAMS;
TRANSLATED BY PARNELL, CHAPMAN, SHELLEY, CONGREVE, AND HOLE; WITH
INTRODUCTIONS BY HENRY NELSON COLERIDGE, AND A TRANSLA-
TION OF THE LIFE OF HOMER, ATTRIBUTED TO HERODOTUS.
12mo, handsomely printed on toned paper, cloth extra, beveled edges.
PRICE, $1.50.
Sent free by mail on receipt of price.
NOTICES OF THE PRESS.
From Crocker's Literary World.
It was what Mr. Burnand would call a "happy thought," to gather the
scattered translations of Homer's Minor Poems into one volume.
The
Battle of the Frogs and Mice" is a mock-heroic poem, which seems to be a
parody on the Iliad. The whole poem is full of wit, and Minerva's speech is
deliciously funny. The translation, by Parnell, is admirable. Some of the
hymns, despite their name, are very humorous-that to Mercury especially, in
which the baby-god's theft of Apollo's oxen is amusingly described.
Every admirer of Homer, and indeed of Greek literature, will welcome this
collection of ancient verse, which, whether justly attributable to Homer or not,
possesses great intrinsic interest and value. The volume is beautifully printed
and bound.
From the Home Journal.
"The Minor Poems of Homer" is a welcome volume for those who would
see more of the “blind old bard" in English guise It comprises the “Battle
of the Frogs and Mice," in Parnell's spirited version; Chapman's stately, pic-
turesque rendering of the "Hymn to Apollo:" Shelley's genial interpretation
of the humor of the Hymn to Mercury:" Congreve's version of the beautiful
"Hymn to Venus;" Hole's translation of the "Hymn to Ceres," and Chap-
man's translations of the Minor Hymns and Epigrams. These are preceded
by the "Life of Homer," attributed to Herodotus, and the various poems are
accompanied by Introductions by Henry Nelson Coleridge.
From the Baltimore Gazette.
A volume which gives us a better view of these minor works alleged to be
by the great Greek epic poet than was before attainable in any compendious
form.
From the New-York Mail.
All these are very remarkable productions, to the general reader as
to the special student, and the publication of them in these fitting translations
is an enterprise worthy of all praise. * * This volume is in thoroughly ex-
cellent shape.
From the Jewish Messenger.
The " Hymn to Venus"
The "Hymn to Mercury" is one of the most enjoyable poems of
antiquity-so gay, sprightly, sparkling with fun.
is memorable for its delicacy and loveliness.
almost uniformly good.
* The translations are
From the New-Haven Palladium.
* This is enough to show that without the classic beauties of the
pieces this would be a volume of beautiful English verses.
The hymns,
especially the longer one to Venus, and that to Apollo, are very spirited, and
in these the translations are graceful and fresh. The introductions are by
Henry Nelson Coleridge. So, as a whole, this little book contains at once
gems from Greek literature and some most excellent English poetry and
prose.
*
* *
From the Christian Union.
* These unquestionable ancient works we are glad to see recalled
in so pleasant a dress to the general reader. The translations have a quaint
and stately style, which invests the poems with an additional charm.
From the Richmond State Journal.
* The translations are all very fine, and the volume is one that every
classical scholar should have in his library-indeed, his library would be in-
complete without it.
From the Portland Transcript.
** Homer is chiefly known by his great poems, the Iliad and Odyssey,
while his Minor Poems are but little known. H. N. Coleridge says, "It is with
the Homeric Hymns as it is with many of the plays and most of the minor
pieces of Shakespeare; they are darkened by the excessive lustre of the sun-
like poetry at their side, and are esteemed the less in proportion to the splen-
dor of their imputed kindred." ** The best translations of these poems
have hitherto been scattered through several works, and the publishers have
sought, by uniting these versions in one volume, to present a convenient edi-
tion, which may be acceptable to those already acquainted with their beauties,
and serve to bring them to the notice of many who have heretofore passed
them by. They have certainly succeeded in presenting them in a very taste-
ful form, and the clear, open type, and heavy, tinted paper, show that cheap-
ness in the getting up was no part of their arrangement, but a very moderate
price for the work was.


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