MORALITY OF FICTION? OR. AN INQUIRY THE TENDENCY OF FICTITIOUS NARRATIVES, WITH OBSERVATIONS ON SOME OF THE MOST EMINENT. By H. MURRAY, \> Author of the ( Siviss Emigrant.' EDINBURGH : PRINTED BY MUNDELL AND SON, ?OR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, LONDON | AND A, CONSTABLE AND CO. AND J.ANDERSON, EDINBURGH, 1805. XB 4 P N 3451 CONTENTS. Introduction PART I. Different species ofjiction .................. 3 1. Fictions describing human life and manners ib. Biography .......................... 7 2. Reasoning fictions. , .................... 8 Philosophical ........................ 8 Moral ....... . ...................... 12 3. Fictions exhibiting examples of conduct supe- rior to those of common life ............ 17 Advantages of these .................... 18 Objections answered .......... , ....... 21 Questions respecting the mode of conducting them ....... .... ................. 28 Number of characters .............. ib. Beauty . ....................... 33 Intellectual endowments ... ......... 34 Hank and fortune .,,,,.,,......,, 35 oV.67 CONTENTS. Mode of narration 36 Poetry and prose 37 Historical fictions 38 Prolalility of the incidents 39 Olservations addressed to the Authors 42 And to the readers of fictitious compositions. . 44 PART II. Design 49 Epic poetry. 50 Homer il* Virgil 55 Milton 60 Ossian 6l Prose fictions 63 Xenophon il* Romances of Chivalry 66 French Writers offiction 72 Fenelon 73 Le Sage 75 Rousseau. 7 8 Voltaire 81 Prevot 82 Marivaux 83 Barthelemi 84 Gcnlls, . 87 CONTENTS. V English writers -Periodical. works ........ 88 Addison 89 Johnson . . 9 1 Hawkesworth 93 Richardson 94 Fielding 101 Smollet 106 Burney , 108 Moore Ill General characters of English novels Mrs. Smith 113 German writers 120 Schiller, Goethe, and Kotzelue. . . : 121 La Fontaine il. Species not included in the foregoing enumera- tion 123 Ludicrous Don Quixote <...... il. Descriptive Mrs. Raddiffe 126 Allegorical 128 . Sentimental 1 29 Nature of this kind of writing 130 Its tendency 134 Sterne 142 Mackenzie 144 Goethe ,,..,,, , , 146 n CONTENTS. Conclusion . . 4 4 . 148 Note? 151 On certain effects of RHYME in poetical com- position 163 ERRATA. Page iz./br he read the author. 31. for predominant read prominent. 105. 1. 7. after tendency read is. 167. 1. 3. from bottom <{/fcrch'altor*a 16 such a disposition is not only natural, but perfectly reasonable. It cannot be denied, that, in the conduct of life, most men are disposed, from motives of interest or vanity, to connect themselves with the prosperous, rather than the unfor- tunate. But, in regard to narratives, whether real or fictitious, where these passions have no room to operate, I conceive the case to be widely different. Here we feel rather a disposition to attach ourselves to the suffer- ing party. Even where his conduct has been deserving of reproach, we consider it as in a great measure expiated by the attendant punishment. But every generous feeling of our nature rises in arms, at the view of tri- umphant and successful villany. Far from being seduced into any admiration, we feel our detestation of it increased. No object, on the contrary, can be more interesting, than that of a virtuous man, who is bowed beneath the weight of misfortune ; and even, though the issue be fatal, our sympathy, far from diminishing, is thereby improved and heightened. What is called poetical justice,. ir may, I suspect, be required rather for the gratification of the reader's wishes, than for the improvement of his moral feelings. This purpose is to^ be accomplished by other means, which I shall afterwards endeavour to point out. Upon the whole, we may perhaps conclude, with regard both to this and to the first-men- tioned species of fiction, that every purpose for which they are intended, may be better accomplished by the biography of private life. But, in case the public taste be not suf- ficiently turned towards this species of read- ing, these works, provided they keep close to nature and truth, may not be altogether with- out their use. We come, now, to that description of fic- titious writing, which professes to instruct, by exhibiting examples of conduct, superior to those which are to be met with in ordinary life. And this appears to me to be the pur- pose for which it is best adapted, and where its place can be completely supplied by no other species of composition. On it, therefore; 1 15 shall treat at somewhat greater length than on the two former. The slightest observation may be sufficient to convince us, that man is, in many respects, an imitative being. His character, undoubt- edly, is very much formed after that of those with whom he becomes acquainted, either by reading, or by the intercourse of life. So strong is this propensity to imitation, that it will take place even in regard to persons whom he views with a good deal of indiffer- ence, provided they be continually before his eyes. But the effects must be much more striking, when they are the objects of any peculiar degree of respect and admiration. Such is then the proneness to imitation, that it does not confine itself to those qualities which are really brilliant and estimable ; but embraces their most indifferent actions, and even their very defects. In regard to the choice of associates, this, though a point of the last importance, does not properly belong to the present subject. The question is respecting the comparative merits of real and fictitious history. Now, 19 though it cannot be denied, that, in the for- mer, we may find persons possessed of great and various excellencies, yet these must al- ways be more or less mixed and imperfect. There is, therefore, the same danger which has been already noticed in a particular spe- cies of fictitious composition. The virtues and vices of the character are apt to be con- founded together ; the one throwing a sort of borrowed lustre over the other. History abounds with examples of men whahave been betrayed into follies, and even crimes, by the indiscriminate imitation of some favourite hero. It becomes desirable, therefore, that, by some other means, a higher standard of mo- ral judgment should be previously formed. It is true, such a standard may, and ought to be, formed, by the deductions of reason, and the precepts of religion. Still it has long been observed, that example possesses some advantages over these ; that it makes a livelier impression, and has. a more immediate influ- ence on the active propensities of our nature. It is desirable, that not only reason, but ima- gination and feeling, should be enlisted in the 20 cause of virtue ; that while reason guides our path, fancy should strew it with flowers. It is the office of the one to discover where vir- tue lies ; of the other to adorn, and render her pleasing and attractive. It has been asserted by an eminent philo- sopher, that man is formed capable of con- ceiving perfect ion, though not of attaining it. Yet even this, perhaps, cannot be assent-* ed to, without great reserve. I suspect, that the powers of man are every way limited ; that absolute perfection is as much beyond his conception, as his attainment. Certain it is, however, that he can form an idea of it much higher than he is able uniformly to act up to. And though his conduct cannot equal this standard, yet it will generally be found to bear some proportion to it. Hence the importance of raising the standard as high as possible ; of exhibiting characters possessed of the most brilliant virtue, and pu- rified as much as possible from every stain of imperfection. * The degree, in which a writer will succeed * See note [B] at the end of the volume. in these representations must depend both on his own genius and on the refinement . which has taken place in the moral taste of the age. If duly qualified, however, for the task he has undertaken, he can seldom fail of drawing models of conduct higher than can be found in the life of any of his contem- poraries : and this seems to be all that is required. Such, then, it w r ould appear^, are the ad- vantages which may arise from works formed upon this plan, provided they be properly conducted, and not indulged in to excess. Many persons, however, have been of a dif- ferent opinion ; and have condemned all at- tempts to exhibit characters which rise in any degree above common life. It may be proper to consider some of the arguments which have been advanced in support of this opinion. Some have thought it sufficient to observe, that no such characters were to be found in real life ; that they were ' faultless monsters, which the world ne'er saw.' This argument is evidently founded upon the idea, that the n proper office of fiction is to give a faithful re- presentation of human life ; an idea which I have examined at length, in a former part of the work. I shall only observe in addition, that, upon this supposition, the art of writing would be placed on a footing inferior to those of paint- ing and statuary. We never reproach the painter for assembling, in one, the beauties of different landscapes; nor the sculptor for drawing finer forms than were ever moulded by the hand of nature. The mere copying of real objects is obviously an inferior department of these arts ; while the other is that which has been always occupied by the great mas- ters. But, if external forms may thus be embellished at pleasure, shall the painter of mind alone be reduced to the rank of a mere imitator ? One striking difference which ex- ists between them, is completely in favour of the latter. The former are merely objects of taste, and have obviously no tendency to pro* duce any improvement on the form of the spectator. But, in the case of moral paint- ing, a man both possesses a power, and na- turally feels an impulse, to form himself to 23 some resemblance of the object which he ad* mires. It has been objected also, that such charac- ters are not capable of being rendered very interesting. There is certainly ground for this objection, in regard to some of those which have been drawn even by writers of ge- nius. The art of drawing imaginary perfect characters, like every other art, must be pro- gressive : and though many faults may be discovered in a few of the first, this affords no sufficient presumption against future at- tempts being attended with greater success. Two causes seem to have been chiefly instru- mental in occasioning the defect here com- plained of. Writers have often considered perfection too much as a negative quality. They have been more anxious to render their heroes free from blame, than distinguished for active and virtuous exertion. Now, ne- gative virtue is no doubt of great import- ance in itself. As, however, it leaves the character very incomplete, so, in narrative, the figure it makes is particularly insipid. Another cause may be, that this perfect has been represented as too entirely governed by reason. That faculty has been made, not merely as it ought to be, the ml- but the sole, principle of action ; to the entire exclusion of imagination and feel- ing. This, as man is now constituted) can- not be considered as forming the perfection of his nature ; and, in a work of this kind, it must be peculiarly ill calculated for interesting and affecting the reader. But, where the different faculties preserve their due proportions, and the situations are such, as to give them full opportunity of display- ing them selves. I cannot think that, to per- sons of just taste, the character would ap- pear insipid or uninteresting. It might tend to obviate any danger of this kind, if, while the hero is not deficient in any good quality, he should possess some one in a peculiar and eminent degree. The ..e chosen for this purpose should be such as his circumstances and situation more particularly call for. The next objection is, that characters i ed very much above the ordinary level are apt to produce despair, rather than emula- tion. Here we may observe, that it is neither to be expected, nor perhaps to be wished, that any one should study such a work with the express view of making his conduct coin- cide, in every respect, with that of its hero. A tame and pedantic character would be the natural result of such a servile imitation. It is sufficient, that he should regard his conduct with high sentiments of interest and admiration, should enter into the views by which he is guided, and be formed insensibly to the same mode of thinking and acting. Besides, we never think of requiring the mo- ralist to bring down his instructions to the level of ordinary -practice. Men must always be expected to fall somewhat short of the standard they have formed to themselves. The great danger, then is, of that standard being too low, not of its being too high. Even if some little abatement be thought ne- cessary, it ought to be general, and to ruu through the whole character. To represent a striking failure in some particular virtue, is productive of bad eflocts which have been 26 repeatedly pointed out. If, however, ac- cording to the opinion expressed above, even the delineating of absolute perfection be be- yond our reach, there will be the less occa- sion for any intentional debasement. No doubt, the perfection here delineated ought not to be of a romantic and visionary nature. It must be adapted to the actual condition of human life, and such as, in its own nature, is capable of being reduced to practice. It ought to be suited, also, to the state of society at the time, not to another, though perhaps a happier and better state. There is another observation, made by highly respectable writers, and drawn from very profound views of human nature. Pas- sive impressions grow fainter by repetition, until, at length, they almost cease to be felt. But, unless an opportunity be given of dis- playing themselves in action, there is no room for the formation of habits, which can alone constitute a virtuous character. No such opportunity is here afforded ; and thus, say these reasoners, the emotions, which will never again recur with equal force, are wast- ed without producing any lasting or benefi- cial consequences. Now, it is, in the first place, to be observed, that fiction is here precisely on the same foot- ing with any other kind of instruction, con- veyed either by books or public discourses. In these, there is no means supplied of put- ting the precepts inculcated into immediate practice ; yet daily experience proves them, on the whole, to be extremely useful. There seems no reason why the same observation should not apply to the case we are con- sidering. An habitual disposition to act con- formably to the examples held forth, will probably be formed, and be ready to manifest itself at the first favourable opportunity. Like other habits, it may continue to gain strength, after the liveliness of the first im- pression has subsided. It will seldom be ad- visable to delay instilling virtuous propensi- ties, till the very moment when their opera- tion is required. They will then, probably, find little leisure for their reception, and will be counteracted by a variety of opposite temptations. B 2 8 At the same time, I am perfectly sensible, that the observation above mentioned is far from being altogether void of foundation. It is certainly desirable, that virtuous dispo- sitions, and the active exertions to which they prompt, should not be separated by a very Jong interval. This circumstance, however, is obviously beyond the controul of an au- thor, or public instructor. The care of it must rest with the individual himself, and more particularly with those \vlro have the directio i of his studies and pursuits. One particular, that deserves to be attended to In this view, shall be mentioned in the sequel of the present essay. Such, then, appears to be the purpose which fiction is best calculated to answer. The next object is, to ascertain the man- lier in which it is to be conducted, in order to become most conducive to this purpose- On consider rig this subject, some questions naturally arise, which I shall now proceed to examine in th ?ir order. And, first, Is this perfection to be be- stowed alike, on all the characters that are 29 introduced into the story. Shall the reader be transported entirely into a new world, from which every thing coarse and turbulent is excluded. This appears to be attended with many dangers, and to be little likely even to accomplish the end at which it aims. The natural effect will be, to lead a man to look for perfection in all those whom he meets, or at least forms any intimate connection with. But, however desirable it may be that he should employ a high standard in judging of his own conduct, it is by no means equal- ly so, that he should apply a similar standard to that of his neighbours. Here he is in ge- neral disposed to be sufficiently rigid. Can- dour and moderation, as they are strongly called for by the weakness of our nature, so they are the virtues in which there is the greatest temptation to fail. Too high expect- ations from our fellow-men, necessarily lead to a disappointment, which is extremely apt to terminate in discontent and misanthropy ; dispositions than which none can be more fatal, either to our own happiness, or that of those with whom we are connected. c 3 a Works, conducted on this plan, besides being attended with these bad effects, would lye ill calculated even for attaining the ob- ject in view. The nature of our duties must vary extremely, according to the cha- racter of those with whom we live and act. The same line of conduct, which would be proper in a society of beings thus divested of human imperfect LOU. would lead to the great- est errors, if adopted in our intercourse w ith men such as they really exist. Imprudence, at least, if not something worse, must be the ine- vitable consequence of such a delusion. The only good effect which can be produced, is, in : :1 to those whose superior knowledge and opportunities afford them the means of in* /luencing and guiding the conduct of others. This is, no doubt, an important branch of ac- tive benevolence, and one which the author of such a work may, with propriety, endea- vour to inculcate on his readers. But the im* provement produced should appear to be in consequence of efforts made for that purpose, not as existing independently of them. What then are the characters to whom this 31 superior excellence is to be ascribed ? They are the leading characters, those in whom the reader takes the deepest interest, and with whom he feels disposed, as it were, to identi- fy himself. Their number ought certainly to be very small; nay, I doubt, if in its highest degree, this quality should be be- stowed on more than one. The rest may be mixed and imperfect characters, with grada- tions of good and evil, such as actually take place in real life. There may be a proprie- ty, indeed, in drawing a somewhat stronger line between the two, in exhibiting virtue in all her lustre, and vice in all her deformity ; and, where the latter predominates, in not veiling her turpitude, by any large proportion of good qualities. This, however, need take place only in the case of a few of the most predominant actors ; while the rest, forming the greater number, may be placed on a level with the generality of mankind. A distinction is also to be made between those associates whom the hero has chosen for himself, and those among whom he is thrown by unavoidable accident. The for- B4 S3 mer, without being absolutely free from faults, ought yet to possess such a degree of merit, as to render them worthy of his choice. The latter can with no propriety be raised above the ordinary standard. Our next question relates to the degree in irhich this favourite character is to be ,en- dued with the gifts of nature and fortune. And here a considerable embarrassment arises. For, on the one hand, his merit ought to be as much as possible intrinsic, and independent of outward circumstances. At the same time, to make him strikingly de- ficient in qualifications which command so much of the admiration: of mankind, would lower his character in the eyes of most readers, and would tend to throw contempt even on those moral qualities, which are held forth as objects of imitation. Between these opposite dangers, it will not be easy for the writer to conduct himself so as not to fall into one or other of them. His plan, as I conceive, must vary according to the different nature of these advantages. Most of them may be comprehended under these three : external appearance; intellectual endowments; rank and fortune. The first of these, the writers of fiction have lavished on their favourites with an un- sparing hand. The possession of these in the most superlative degree, seems to be now con- sidered as an indispensible requisite. This is, indeed,a^ry obvious andnatural way of gain- ing them the good-will ortixo reader. Yet, con- sidered in the view of its tendency > it would be difficult to discover any good effects that are likely to result from it. One thing is evident, that the greatest admiration, which any one can feel for this quality, will have no tendency to increase it in himself, or to form him to any resemblance of the person whom he admires. More im- portant consequences may indeed arise from the desire of meeting with it in another: but it does not follow that they are more ad- vantageous. The practice of forming con- nections for life, with peculiar regard to this circumstance, is, perhaps, not one which a wise man would wish very much to encou- rage, Yet, to represent a great deficiency in this particular wpuld be whimsical, and could not fail to inspire a, degree of dis- gust. Perhaps, therefore, it may be most advisable to pass over the subject in silence, and to turn the attention of the reader to* wards more valuable and lasting qualities. Nor will this deprive the narrative of any great ornament. The ideas of beR"*^? winch description attempts to convey, are always extremely faint and inadequate. If any exception be made to this rule, it must be with regard to that higher species of beauty, which consists in expression. As this generally accompanies the possession of valuable mental qualities, it may be consi- dered as, in some degree, susceptible of im- provement. In regard to intellectual endowments, the. case seems to be rather different. These are not of a nature to be passed over, nor can they be made wanting without lowering the character in the greatest degree. A weak and foolish good man could extort no appro- bation that was not mingled with contempt. He could never, at least, excite any of those . 35 sentiments which lead to imitation. Be- sides, as this is, in a great degree, an ac- quired excellence, it is proper that the reader should be prompted to use every means of improving it in himself. With this view, these attainments should appear^ in a great measure, to arise rather from well directed cultivation, than from the mere strength of natural parts. The same observations will apply, more or less, to every other kind of mental accomplishment. There remain only the goods of fortune to be considered. And though these are not to be treated with any undue contempt, yet, certainly, both his dignity and his happi- ness, ought to be represented as alike inde- pendent of them. However well qualified to discharge, with ability, the duties of the highest and most important situations, he should also be able to enjoy himself, and to act with respectability and usefulness, in a more moderate and humble sphere. He ought also to appear supporting with fortitude, and rising superior to, the greatest adversity. It will be proper, therefore; that. S6 in the course of the work, he should expe- rience various vicissitudes of fortune, which may afford an opportunity of practising those virtues that arise naturally out of every ituation. Who is to appear as the relator of the story ? the leading character, or the author himself? For the purpose which we have at present in view, I am rather disposed to pre- fer the former. A more intimate connection is thus formed between him and the reader ; the latter imbibes not only a disposition to imitate the actions described, but the very spirit from which they proceed. There seems a danger that the other mode may pro- duce an emulation tinctured with vanity ; rather a wish to have the same things told of us, than a disposition to do them. Perhaps, also, there is thus less danger of a perfect character becoming uninteresting. When a person is introduced to tell his own story, we naturally find it agreeable when his ac- tions are deserving of approbation, and pain* ful when it is otherwise. This mode of narration may be performed. 37 either by letters, or by an uniform unbrokea narrative. Where it is to be short, the lat* ter seems advisable, as more distinct and concise, and keeping the attention fixed up- on one object. In a work of great extent, however, the uniformity of such a plan would prove somewhat tiresome ; and letters, admitting of greater variety, are rather to be preferred. Is the object in question to be best attain- ed by poetical, or by prose, fictions ? In my opinion, by the latter. Poetry is cer- tainly an elegant and charming amusement; By inspiring a taste for the beauties of na- ture, by giving dignity to the character, and raising its votary above mean and degrading pleasures, it may even become subservient to important purposes of improvement. But, for influencing the active principles, for guiding our conduct in the ordinary affairs of life, it does not seem so very well fitted. It transports the reader into a higher world, in o scenes which cannot,. indeed, be viewed without admiration, but which bear little re- semblance to those in which he is destined 38 t. He will be apt to regard them as things belonging to another world, and with which he has no practical concern. It might be otherwise in the early ages of society, dur- ing that warlike and adventurous period, when fables the most extravagant were .- credited, and when the common events of life were susceptible of poetical em- bellishment. To describe these events now in the same manner would, I suspect, have rather a burlesque than a pleasing effect. In the case of political and historical fic- tions, it may be inquired, whether they ought to be altogether imaginary, or found- ed in part upon real events. The last me- thod may certainly assist that impression of reality, w hich is so necessary in order to give interest to the narrative. Yet there are cir- cumstances, which may, perhaps, be found to overbalance this advantage. It must prove a severe restraint on the fancy of the writer, who will often find it no easy task to prevent his story from clashing w ith the his- tory or tradition on which it is founded. The engrafted fiction also tends to give false 39 impressions in regard to the history. Some- times even, as will appear in the sequel, it throws over it an obscurity which is never removed. It seems, therefore, to be for the mutual advantage both of truth and fiction, that they should be kept altogether distinct ; or, if a foundation must be laid in some real events, that they should be as few, and as remote, as possible, in point of time and place. Is it proper, that narratives formed with this design should be crowded with sur- prising and improbable incidents. This has been long assumed by the writers of fiction as an indisputable privilege. Events, that in real life appear altogether incredible, are there quite in the common order of things. To conduct their hero through all the mazes of adventure ; to involve him in difficulties apparently inextricable ; to keep the reader perpetually on the rack of suspense and anxiety, are, in general, the objects chiefly aimed at by the authors of such perform- ances. The more improbable an incident is ? the more unlike common life^ the better is it 40 supposed fitted for their purpose. The ori- gin of this mode of writing is easily account- ed for. The invention of printing, and consequent diffusion of books, has given birth to a multitude of readers, who seek only for amusement, and wish to find it without trouble or thought. Works thus conducted, supply them with one which is level to the lowest capacities. How well they are adapted to the taste of this descrip- tion of readers appears plainly from the ex- traordinary avidity with which they are de- voured. No good effect seems likely to result from such a kind of reading besides the mere childish pleasure it affords. It tends to give false view r s of human lite ; to inspire fantas- tic and visionary expectations; discontent with the uniformity of common life ; and a disposition to choose the plan of conduct which leads to extraordinary adventures, ra- ther than that which true wisdom points out. A crowd of incidents will leave litile room for the display of character and, sentiment, or any higher beauties, of which this kind of writing is susceptible. Even supposing them to exist there, the attention of the* reader i likely to be too much occupied to admit of his receiving from them any deep im- pression. It is true, among probable events, the writer must make a selection of those which possess the requisite degree of dignity and interest. Not that he ought to confine him- self entirely to such as are great and striking. It must often be his object to embellish, and render interesting, the most simple scenes of ordinary life. Unity also has been regarded by the most distinguished critics as essential to every work of invention. One action must run through the whole, to which all the rest are subordi- nate. The advantage of this is not to be denied ; though I hardly think it entitled to hold the first rank among the merits of these compositions. Nor is that pleasure to be altogether ne- glected, which arises from exciting and gra- tifying the reader's curiosity. We must only take care not to make it interfere with tliose of an liigher order, nor to sacrifice to it, in any considerable degree, jprobability or the truth of nature. Having examined these questions regard- ing the manner in which narratives written with this design ought to be conducted, it may be proper to say a few words on the preparation which is requisite for the author before engaging in them. And here there seems to be a difference between this arid the generality of other literary pursuits. In these the writer ought to devote himself chiefly to the attentive study of those who have pre- ceded him in the same path. But this does not appear to me to take place with regard to fiction. When founded upon the obser- vation of real events, it may, if used with moderation, be a salutary mental food ; but not, I suspect, when founded upon other fic- tions. The merit of a man's conduct must depend upon its being adapted to his real circumstances. It is by considering these, that his duties are to be ascertained ; nor could it be of much use to represent any one acting with the most perfect propriety in sU- II tuations altogether imaginary. The know- ledge of real life, therefore, derived from ob- servation, and from history and biography, forms the best foundation for success to the writer of fiction. It is by selecting whatever is most excellent in real characters, by puri- fying and refining it from every kind of al- loy, that he is to form his portrait of ideal perfection. Besides, though the communi- cating a knowledge of human life and man- ners be not, as I have endeavoured to shew, the end at which he is principally to aim, yet it is desirable, that he should, as little as possible, convey any erroneous ideas re- specting it. The science of morals he ought to be well acquainted with, both on his own account, and with the view of regulating more cor- rectly the conduct of his hero. Religion, as it is in itself an object of the highest inte- rest, so the opportunities, which he may have of bringing it forward in the course of the narrative, impose on him an additional obli- gation to employ every means of forming just views in regard to it. 44 Certainly, in the general plan and nature! of the work, a sacred regard is to be paid to the improvement of his readers. Yet it may be proper to warn him against making that regard too scrupulous and mi- nute. Fancy must have ample range. He must become present at every scene which he describes, must enter into all the views and sentiments of the actors, must make them, as it were, his own. His mind must therefore, as much as possible, be free from any kind of restraint. Besides, the reader might be apt to revolt against his appearing as a dic- tator in matters of conduct. That instruc- tion is likely to be most effectual which ap- pears to be undesigned, and to flow from the natural impulse of taste and feeling. The most desirable object for him, therefore, would be, to form his mind to such a tone, as that it might produce spontaneously, and without effort, a work calculated to accom- plish the end at which he aims. Having done with the authors, it may be proper to say a few words to the readers of such productions. And first> it must not be imagined, that, in thus considering 1 fiction, as capable of answering some important pur- poses, it is by any means understood, that it should supersede the study of real events. The latter ought certainly to form a much greater proportion of our reading than the former. It is only by an extensive survey of these, that either a correct knowledge of human nature can be attained, or compre- hensive views formed, respecting the .course of human affairs. A few partial and de- tached facts might tend rather to mislead than to inform. But, in regard to characters ex- hibited as models for imitation, a much smaller number may be perfectly sufficient. Excessive indulgence in this kind of reading, tends, indeed, to counteract its effects, by deadening those sentiments of interest and ad- miration which it at first excited. In con- sequence of impressions being made too often, the mind becomes gradually callous to them. There are none, perhaps, \vlio discover in their conduct less, both of the good and bad .effects which fiction produces, than those who inake it their daily food. It seems to occasion^ 46 then only a lamentable waste of time and corruption of taste. It follows, as a natural consequence, from the above observation, that there is no kind of reading in which a nicer selection is to be made. The doom, so justly denounced by Horace against poetical mediocrity, seems to be here equally well merited. He who wishes to inquire after important facts, must often content himself with a very dry ac- count of them. In works of reasoning, too, stile is but a secondary consideration. But works of fancy, which are not well executed, seem to have no claim whatever on the pub- lic attention. I am aware, that the general practice is very different, and that there is no department of literature, in which the public are willing to put up with such pal- try performances The cause undoubtedly is, that they are resorted to as an amusement by a multitude of persons devoid of taste, and who cannot submit to the labour of thinking. The rule, however, does not the less hold good in regard to those whose minds are better cultivated, and whose time 47 is too valuable to be wasted on productions altogether insignificant. It is an important inquiry, at what age the perusal of these works maybe made with the greatest advantage. This will probably appear to be that which immediately pre- cedes and follows the entrance upon active life. Then it is that those habits are formed which generally continue through life with- out any great variation. Impressions made at an earlier period would be, in a great mea- sure, effaced by the more interesting objects which then present themselves. At an after period they would come too late. These remarks, however, by no means apply to fiction in general, but only to that which is successfully conducted on the principles above explained. This is the time of life, when every thing of doubtful or dangerous tendency is to be most carefully avoided : and, if read at all, to be reserved until the attain- ment of a more advanced age and greater maturity of judgment. PART II. HAVING thus endeavoured to discover the ends which may be answered by fiction, and the manner in which it is to be conducted, in order to accomplish those ends, I shall now make a few remarks on such works of this kind as have attracted the greatest share of the attention of mankind. Considering these chiefly in the view of their tendency, I shall offer, at the same time, occasional re- marks on their merit as literary productions. Fictions may be divided into narrative and dramatic. Although many parts of the above inquiry will apply equally to both, yet it was composed chiefly with a view to the former. To these I now mean to confine myself entirely. Fictitious narrative may be written either in poetry or prose. Allowing the superiority of the former in several respects, there have yet appeared reasons for thinking, that the c latter may be more efficacious in a practical point of view. As epic poems, however, may also be considered in this light, I shall begin with noticing a few of the most emi- nent. HOMER. Homer has long been universally regarded, at once as the father and the prince of epic poetry. In force of genius, and variety of invention, he has scarcely been equalled, and certainly never surpassed. It would be improper, however, to consider his produc- tions as altogether fictitious. Poetry is the history of early ages. It is then the only mode of transmitting to posterity the deeds of those who have distinguished themselves by their wisdom or valour. Many causes, however, concur in altering its truth, and blending it with a large proportion of fiction. Among these we may mention the slender means which the narrator possesses of ascer- taining facts, the desire he feels of embellish- ing his poem, with the love of the marvel- 51 lous, and implicit credulity which he is sute to find in his hearers. He will often, also, be actuated by a wish to raise the character of his native country, and of some patron, perhaps, by whom he is honoured and pro- tected. In general, therefore, only the out- line of the story is true, and the rest eithefr entirely produced, or, at least, greatly alter- ed and embellished, by the poet's invention. There seems to be little doubt of these re- marks applying, in all their extent, to the writings of Homer. We have every reason, indeed, to think, both that the war of Troy was undertaken and carried on for .many years by the -combined forces of Greece, and that the armies on both sides were commanded by chiefs bearing the -same names with the heroes of the Iliad* Many minute incidents also may, in all likelihood, have been handed down by tra- dition, and woven into the story. But, as we have no standard by which to distin- guish these from the others which were of the poet's own invention, the whole must re- main enveloped in the cloud of obscurity, c 2 52 But though Homer does not, strictly speaking, deserve much credit as a histo- rian, yet, in a department nearly allied to it, his merits must be fully admitted. He has painted to the life, the manners of that rude and barbarous age in which he lived. This is a circumstance, which, independent of their poetical merit, must render his works extremely valuable. They answer in so far to the first species of fiction above enumer- ated. According to the view, indeed, which is there given, fiction cannot be considered as the best mode of communicating such in- formation. In the absence, however, of au- thentic narrative, it may with propriety be resorted to. Now, we have no other records of that age, nor perhaps of any state of society exactly resembling it. "While, therefore, these productions derive their chief interest from their poetical merit, they are very important also in an historical point of .view. The Iliad has been often considered as a moral poem, designed to illustrate the bad effects of immoderate anger. Nay, some 53 critics of considerable eminence have gone? so far as to suppose this to be the first and great aim of the author in writing it. This,' however, is now generally rejected as an ab- surd and unnatural supposition. And I doubt if there be any passage from which it can be inferred, that Homer ever thought of his poem in that light. He states, indeed, the anger of Achilles as the subject of the Iliad, but gives no hint of any lessons to be drawn from it. His only reflect ion is, ' Aio$ &TeA2T<> /3otA)jj the will of Jovewas performed/ On a closer examination, indeed, we shall find it to be for the honour of Homer, that he should not be suspected of any such in- tention. Supposing him to have entertained it, nothing can be imagined more unskilfully executed. All the calamities occasioned by the anger of Achilles fall upon others, and none upon himself; nay, it seems to have rendered his character more conspicuous than ever. This is evidently the direct re- verse of what was required, in order to give a moral to the poem. As little does Homer appear to have aimed at exhibiting a model of perfect virtue in. the character of his hero. If he displays some good qualities, as courage, generosity,, and the enthusiasm of friendship, he pre- sents, at the same time, a complete picture of ungovernable passion and brutal ferocity. Indeed, it is remarkable, that,, notwithstand- ing the visible partiality of Homer for his own countrymen, he has placed the superi- ority, in point of humanity, and even of true magnanimity, decidedly on the opposite side. Possibly, in this, he did no more than follow the truth of history ; and the Trojans, situ- ated in a more fertile climate, may have at- tained, at that time, to a higher degree of ci- vilization and refinement than their Grecian neighbours. The Odyssey is a less sublime, less poeti- cal, performance than the Iliad, but is per- haps more pleasing and instructive. It gives a more various and intimate view of the manners of the age ; and, though Ulys- ses cannot be considered as a faultless model, lie certainly approaches much nearer to it than the hero of the Iliad, 55 VIRGIL. From the writings of Homer, we now turn to those of his illustrious rival. The j^Eneid was not, like the Iliad and Odyssey, pro- duced in a barbarous age, but in one of high comparative civilization and refinement. Before making any direct observations upon this poem, it may be proper to consider some circumstances of the times in which it was produced. Letters, at Rome, W 7 ere not of native growth. That city, become the mistress of the world, arid drawing from every different province the luxuries it afforded, imported from Greece the elegant luxuries of science and literature. Hence her greatest poets are to be considered as imitators of Grecian mo- dels. They were not, however, tame or slavish imitators. Though frequently bring- ing forward the same ideas, they express them in a manner peculiar to themselves. If they yield to their masters in invention, in simplicity, in fancy, they surpass them in digniiy and correctness. These observations apply, in a peculiar mariner, to the ^Eneid. Perhaps no work ever united such exalted genius, with so small a portion of originality. Virgil sterns to have aimed at transfusing into his own language the beauties of Homer, separated from his faults ; and he has in part succeed- ed. He has retrenched his languors, his re- petitions, his tiresome digressions ; and, to his lofty and irregular flights, has substituted an uniform and well supported majesty. It cannot be said, that he has discovered stronger pathetic powers ; but he has cer- tainly exerted them much oflener. In regard to manners, the ^Eneid is far from being of equal value. Virgil was na- turally disposed, by historical truth, as well as by his devotion to Homer, to make these the same as in the Iliad and Odyssey. But, to the polished age for which he wrote, the coarseness and ferocity of those times would have been extremely disgusting. These, therefore, he was frequently obliged to soften ; so that his work exhibits not the manners of any one age, but of several blended together. 57 In general, his representations are not co- pied, either from personal observation, or from any source of information, of which we are not equally possessed. In an historical view, therefore, the ^Eneid has little or no claim to regard. Its interest must rest en- tirely on its poetical merit ; which forms, it must be owned, a very ample foundation. The critics have been at great pains to ex- tract a moral out of Virgil as well as Ho- mer ; not, in my opinion, with much better success. That which they have fixed upon, so far as I recollect, is the beneficial effects of piety to the gods. But, unless from his own frequent declarations, we could hard- ly discover ./Eneas to possess this virtue in any peculiar degree. Nor does it appear to have contributed much to the advance- ment of his fortunes. The favour which he enjoyed above, is evidently owing chiefly to his high extraction ; and the protection of Jupiter granted, not to his own merit, but to the beauty and tears of a favourite daughter. Upon the whole, we may safely conclude > that both Homer and Virgil had this object c4 58 very little, if at all, in view. This, if the observations formerly made on that subject be just, can hardly be considered as a blemish in their writings. But if Virgil has advanced no claim to merit in these two respects, he has aimed a! making his poem answer the third description of fictitious productions. /Eneas was evi- dently designed for a perfect character. The view of the poet in this was, perhaps, not so much to promote the moral improve- ment of his readers, as to give an additional ornament to his poem. Whatever it was, it has been by na means successful. He seems to have considered perfection too much as a negative quality, and as connected with an insensible and unimpassioned turn of mind. Did virtue consist merely in doing no harm, ./Eneas might have some claim to it. In so far as it requires just feeling and active exertion, he does not seem to have very much. The drawing of characters, indeed, is generally allowed to be the poinfc in which Virgil has most completely failed. Considering the high powers which, in other respects, he has displayed, we can hardly suppose this to have proceeded from want of genius. Perhaps the same circumstances which have been noticed as affecting the manners of the poem, may have operated here also. Virgil copied not from nature, but from Homer. The characters, however, of that writer would have ill suited the re- fined taste which prevailed in his time. He preserved, therefore, the mere skeleton of Homer's characters, without any attempt at filling it up. This is extremely apt to be the case, where fiction is built, in this man- ner, upon other fictions. The filial piety, however, of ^Eneas, forms one trait, which relieves a little the insipid uniformity of his character. One circumstance, both in Homer and Virgil, which seems deserving of notice, is the frequent introduction of supernatural be- ings in a visible and bodily form. There is no action of any importance in which these do not perform a conspicuous part. Their favour seems to be regarded as an higher dis- tinction than any personal merit whatever *o * Sec Note [C at the end of the volume, 1 C5 60 Into this Homer was naturally led by the spirit of the times, which regarded these ap- pearances as no way uncommon or unnatural. Virgil has here, as in many other particulars, trod in the footsteps of Homer. I cannot agree with Lord Kaimes, in looking upon this circumstance as a blemish ; since it has given occasion to the most sublime passages which occur in both of these poets.* But if it has improved them in a poetical, it certainly has not in a moral, point of view. The divine personages are still less fit than the human, to be held up as models for imitation. They seem, indeed, to consider their Deity as absolving them from every moral obligation, and as a licence to commit, without blame, every species of enormity. MILTON. The Paradise Lost differs from both these poems in one respect ; that whereas superna- tural beings are there only occasional and * 11.1,528,530. XIII, 15, 30. XX, 56,65. Virg; Gcor. I, 338, 33*. JRn, VIII, 698, 706. 61 auxiliary, they are here the leading and principal agents. This circumstance lias probably, not a little, contributed to make sublimity so strongly the characteristic of Milton's genius. At the same time, it ren- ders his poem not very well fitted for con- veying any practical impression. So far, however, as human beings are introduced, his subject not only admitted of, but re- quired, the representation of perfect charac- ters ; and this he has performed in a man- ner which must charm every reader of tase. He was necessarily confined, indeed, to a very narrow sphere. The only virtues which our first parents could have an oppor- tunity of practising were piety and conjugal affection ; of which last^ in particular, Mil- ton has given the finest picture imaginable. OSSIAN. Most of the other epic poems have been formed, with a few variations, after the mo- del of Homer and Virgil. Those of Ossian must be- excepted ; productions highly in- 62 Cresting, both in a poetical, and in an his- torical, point of view. Much controversy has been maintained respecting their authen- ticity. As poetry, they are equally charm- ing, whatever opinion we may adopt on this subject. When considered, however, as throwing light upon the history of manners, it becomes very important to ascertain how far they are really the production of the age to which they are ascribed. It seems now to be generally admitted, that some originals exist, but that they have received many additions and embellishments from the hand of the translator. In consequence of late in- quiries, there appears to be a fair prospect of this much contested point being brought to a satisfactory issue. Such being the case, any farther observations on the subject would at present be premature. Epic poety has, for a long time past, been much on the decline. If some not unsuccess- ful attempts have of late been made to revive it, this, I think, may be imputed rather to imitation, and a taste for novelty, than to its being really adapted to the spirit of the 63 limes. I know not if this decline be a cir- cumstance much to be regretted. War and battles, the favourite employment of rude na- tions, form its chief theme, and the only one, perhaps, for which it is perfectly adapted. But, unless in particular circumstances, the spirit which these breathe, is not that which it is most desirable to cultivate. The master- pieces which have been already produced, may be sufficient to gratify our taste for this species of poetry ; and the attention of man- kind may now be turned, with advantage, towards more pacific and useful achieve- ments. XENOPHON. The first work of fiction (of any length at least), which we find written in prose, is the Cyropa^dia of Xenophon. It is the first also, that appears to have been composed with a view to instruction. It belongs to the third description of fictitious narratives^ which has been noticed as by far the most effectual for this purpose. Its object is to- 04 exhibit a perfect model of what a sovereign prince ought to be, and of the conduct which lie ought to follow, both in peace and war. The author was, perhaps, the most amiable and accomplished character of his age. Deeply impressed with that pure and su- blime morality, which was taught in the school of Socrates and Plato ; distinguished both as a statesman and commander; and having, in the latter capacity, rendered the most important services to his country ; he was, doubtless, every way qualified for such an undertaking. It has, accordingly, been universally regarded as one of the most ele- gant, pleasing, and instructive works that have ever appeared. It is not to be regarded, however, as a work of mere fiction. The outlines of the story were undoubtedly true, as well as all those facts which were not inconsistent with the author's design. But there may be great reason to doubt, if the character of the real Cyrus bore much resemblance to that of Xenophon's hero. It is hardly consist- ent with the general tenor of history, to sup- 65 pose, that any one in his circumstances should be much distinguished for the vir- tues of mildness and humanity. I ain afraid, that the view which Herodotus gives of him, though less agreeable, is more conformable to truth. At least this part therefore, of the Cyropasdia, may, in all probability, be considered as fictitious. The style is distinguished by that manly simplicity, which commonly appears in the writings of men of business, who are more intent upon thiaigs, than orr the mode of ex- pressing them. It has more elegance and sweetness, however, than such writers gener- ally possess. Throughout the whole is vi- sible an anxiety to communicate instruction, and to bring it down to the level of the meanest capacities. Xenophon has also fol- lowed very much that familiar and collo- quial style, of which the example had been set by his illustrious master. Notwithstanding, however, the great ex- cellence of this performance, it must be owned to be less susceptible than formerly of application to practice. This has been 66 owing chiefly to the great change which has taken place in the manners and political state of society. It is written, too, chiefly with a view to warfare and conquest. That part which relates to the arts of peace, is both shorter, and, in my opinion, . of less value. Bad effects have also arisen from the blending of truth with fiction, and our having no means of distinguishing the one from the other. Hence we are left very much in the dark with regard to an impor- tant part of. history, on which he could pro- bably have given very correct information. HOMANCES OF CHIVALRY. From the time of Xenophon, during a long series of ages, no other composition of this kind occurs, till we come to the romances of chivalry. In order to estimate duly the na- ture of these performances, it may be proper to take a short view of those circumstances in the state of society which gave rise to them. Europe, during the dark ages, was divided into an immense number of little 6T principalities; in each of which, some chief- tain or baron held an absolute, arid almost independent sway. The barbarity of those times gives reason to suspect, that many acts of violence would be committed by these nobles, both on those who were under their jurisdiction, and on their immediate neigh~ bours. These, it is probable, were for a long time carried on with impunity. As soon, however, as the first rays of light began to dawn, and to introduce ideas of justice and humanity, the more virtuous and better in- structed part of the society became shocked at these outrages. They were naturally prompted, by the warlike spkit which then prevailed, to undertake the task of redressing and punishing them. The reputation which the knight derived from the first achieve- ments, would lead him to embrace every op- portunity of repeating them ; and even, when none occurred at home, to sally forth in quest of similar adventures. They would thus become, in time, his favourite and al- most constant employment. This disposition is not confined altogether 63 f o the period we are speaking of. The knights errant of modern times correspond with the Hercules and Theseus, the heroes and demigods of Greece. Perhaps, if we were better acquainted with the early history of other nations, we might be able to trace in them the operation of similar principles* There is, however, a very great difference observable between the effects of this dispo- sition in Greece, and in modern Europe. In the former it appears only in a few detached individuals ; while, in the latter, it was gra- dually formed into a regular and splendid system. This may probably be ascribed to the great number of nobility, who, in every part of Europe, were devoted to the profes- sion of arms. Of these chivalry offered a tempting path to all such as were animated by the spirit of enterprise, or the desire of distinction. As glory was a leading motive in these exploits, it was natural to wish for some means of recording them. An abundance of narratives were accordingly written, and were probably one great means of kindling 69 and keeping alive the spirit of chivalry. These were partly in poetry, and partly in prose ; of which the first were probably the most ancient ; the latter are superior in merit, and gave a j uster view of the manners of the times. Like the poems of Homer, they had all some truth for their foundation. But the same causes which rendered his so replete with fiction, took place here in a still great- er degree. Little or no intercourse was maintained between the different states : the adventurer, therefore, on his return from dis- tant countries, found it easy to impose the most improbable tales on his credulous and admiring friends. The poets, and romance writers, to whom the care of recording his actions was entrusted, were generally in- mates of his family, and fed by his bounty ; so that they were no way disposed to be spar- ing of their flattery. The establishment of Christianity formed a bar against the introduction of the heathen mythology. Yet supernatural beings of some kind were necessary as an embellish- ment, and in accommodation to the super- 70 stitious spirit of the age. The place of the ancient deities was supplied by giants and enchanters, beings generally of a hostile and malignant nature. It was obviously the in- terest of the warrior to represent his enemies in this light, which at once increased the glory of victory, and diminished the shame of defeat. These works possess an honourable dis- tinction over Homer, in the higher spirit of morality which they breathe. The true knight was brave, gentle, courteous, inca- pable of any thing base or dishonourable ; ever ready to undertake the cause of those who were suffering under tyranny and in- justice. Chastity also, or, at least, constan- cy to one object, though not perhaps very generally practised, was requisite for at- taining the highest honours of knighthood. Most of these qualities were, in a manner, implied by the nature of their profession^ which was entered upon for the purpose of punishing the guilty, and relieving the op- pressed. Probably, also, notwithstanding the very corrupted state of religion during* 71 those ages, some portion of them was owing to the influence of Christian morality. The church of Rome had, it is true, invented va- rious pernicious modes of eluding its obliga- tion. Still she was careful not to lose sight of it altogether. Her wealth arid influence arose chiefly from indulgences, penances, and atonements, which could not have been productive, without a consciousness of guilt on the part of her votaries. It was her in- terest, therefore, to keep in view some of the leading principles of morality ; nor was she disposed, as some sects have been, to vilify and depreciate it* But if the romance writers possess, in this respect, some superiority over Homer, in, point of genius they are far inferior, and have never, therefore,, been held in nearly the same estimation. Their merit seems, indeed, to have been rather under-rated ; partly from the great extravagance of their fictions, and partly from the ridicule thrown on them by the celebrated novel of Cervan- tes. The specimen, which has lately been laid before us by Mr. Southey, is not only 72 interesting by the views which it gives of manners, but possesses a very respectable share of literary merit. With that simpli- city which is the great charm of those early writings, it unites considerable descriptive and pathetic powers. On the foundation of these romances, Ariosto has raised his poem of Orlando Fu- rioso ; a strange, wild, heterogeneous, pro- duction ; displaying, however, great rich- ness of fancy, and brilliancy of description, together with a very considerable portion of wit and humour. Its extreme licentiousness, however, detracts considerably from its me- rit in a moral point of view. We proceed now to consider those prose fictions which have appeared in Europe, 15 nee the period of the revival of learning. These have been confined chiefly to France and England. We shall begin with notic- ing some of the most remarkable which have appeared in the former country. FENELON. The first that seems deserving of no- tice is Telemachus, the production of the amiable Fenelon. This work, like the Cy- ropaedia of Xenophon, was composed chief- ly with a view to the instruction of its readers. It does not proceed, however, up-, on the same plan. Telemachus is oftener held forth as a warning than as an example. This the author might find convenient as a delicate mode of pointing out the faults of his royal pupil, and warning him of the de* ference which he owed to his preceptor. But it renders the work in some respects less adapted to general use. The reader is some- times in danger of sharing the errors of Te- kmachus; and, like him, of regarding with aversion the severity of Mentor. On other occasions, his misconduct is such as to ren- der his character less interesting, and, conse- quently, the narrative less agreeable. The first part, where nothing of this kind occurs, is by much the most original and pleasing, 74 Upon the whole, the chief merit of Telema- chus consists in the spirit which breathes throughout, and particularly in the reflec- tions with which it is interspersed. Reflec- tions, indeed, are rather out of place in a work of this nature : but these are so extremely beau- tiful, and come with such propriety from the mouth of Mentor, that they may w r ell claim an exemption from the general rule. As a work of genius, Telemachus is en- titled to a very high rank. It is not, like the Cyropaedia, a mere prose narrative. Though not written in verse, the style and sentiments are altogether poetical ; so that it occupies a sort of middle place between the two species of composition. The style is pure, copious, flowing, rather defective in order and precision, but bearing everywhere marks of the richest and most beautiful ima- gination. This character applies particularly to the two or three first books. The warlike scenes at the conclusion w r ere not so well suited to his genius ; and he has there trod rather too closely in the footsteps of Homer and Virgil. The immediate object \vliich Fenelon pro- posed to himself in this undertaking, was disappointed by the untimely death of the young prince, whose education he superin- tended. It has not, however, on that ac- count, been a fruitless labour. There can be no doubt of its having had a great and beneficial effect on the general spirit of the age. To it, perhaps, we may in some de- gree ascribe that humanity, and that con- cern for the welfare of their people, by which the sovereigns of Europe, during the eighteenth century, w r ere so honourably dis- tinguished.* LE SAGE. From Fenelon, we pass to one who has written in a different style, but with no less success ; to Le Sage, the great painter of hu- man life. The view of it given in his Gil Bias, is the most comprehensive that has appeared in this, or perhaps any other kind * Gentz, Etat dc 1'Europc, Soulavi:. D2 76 of writing. Probably, indeed, such know- ledge may be better acquired from the bio- graphy of private life, than from works of fiction. The former, however, has not, till of late, obtained much of the public attention. It may be better, therefore, that, in its ab- sence, we should have recourse to the latter, provided they be able and well conducted, than in such an important branch of know- ledge, be left entirely to personal observation. Besides, in the affairs of nations, fabulous, has generally preceded, and prepared the way for authentic, history. The case is per- haps the same with biography ; for which these narratives, besides their immediate use, may be the means of gradually introducing a taste. Gil Bias is not free from those defects to which such compositions are liable. It is rather a satire upon human nature, than a just representation of it. The portrait, though bearing, no doubt, a striking resem- blance to the original, is yet very strongly caricatured. There is a circumstance, in- deed, which may make it appear more so to 77 us, than it really is. The scene of action is laid in Spain, and a correct view is given throughout of the manners of that ignorant and degraded people. Hence there may be at least local truth in the views which it ex- hibits, of the corruption of justice, of the extreme laziness and profligacy of the grandees, and of professional pedantry, pre- sumption, and unskilfulness. The plan which Le Sage has adopted, of leading his hero successively through the different scenes of life, enables him to in- clude a wider range of information, than can be found in any other work. The character also, or rather want of character, in Gil Bias, is very judiciously adapted to his design. Had there been, in this, any tiling peculiar and striking, it would have turned towards the hero too much of that attention, which the author wished to fix upon the world in general. He has composed it, therefore, like the generality of characters in real life, of yielding and flexible materials, which readi- ly take an impression from the objects with which ho is conversant. D 3 78 There are no characters in Gil Bias which can be safely proposed as patterns of con- duct. The hero himself is not very exem- plary ; and his favourite companions, Fa- bricius, Scipio, and others, are all rogues. In this respect, it appears to fall even be-* neath the standard of real life* ROUSSEAU. We turn now to a singular and cele- brated production, the Nouveile Heloise.- High powers of genius, an exquisite and ex- treme sensibility, together with, an eccentric and visionary turn of mind, are conspicuous throughout this, as well as the other writings of Rousseau. He himself admits it to have great faults in the eye of a reader of taste ; but it has several, of which, probably, he was not awarje. There is too much philoso- phy, and too little nature ; rather a labour- ed analysis of passion, than the simple ex- pression of it. The letters do not vary in their tone, according to the different persons from whom they proceed ; but are uniformly written in the same imperious and dogmatic 79 tone, which marks his general style. Ycl-J when forgetting philosophy, he resigns him- self to feeling, he certainly does often rise to a very high degree of eloquence and beauty. The most interesting part of the work ap- pears to me to be that which immediately follows St. Preux's return to his native coun- try ; and the letter in which he describes that return, the very finest of the whole. Rousseau has, in his Memoirs, given a full account of the circumstances which led to the composition of this romance. Tired of Paris, he withdrew to a small country- house at some distance from it. Hence he excluded, as much as possible, all visitors, in order to give himself up entirely to his taste for solitude, and visionary enjoyments. Here he describes himself as seized with the most violent propensity to love ; but, de- prived, by age and situation, of any object on which to fix it. In this condition he had one resource left, of a nature extremely well suited to his character. He created an ima- ginary mistress, adorned with every charm which could be supplied by his glowing D4 80 fancy. At length he went so far as to com* mence a correspondence with her, the letters on both sides being, of course, written by himself. These on a review, pleased him so much, as to give rise to the design of pub- lishing them. But how appear as the au- thor of a work so different from those which preceded it, so opposite to those severe and stern maxims, which he had formerly incul- cated ? No art is more common than that of finding reasons to justify what inclination leads to ; nor is there any with which Rous- seau appears to be better acquainted. He soon persuaded himself that there were cir- cumstances in the manners of the times, which would render the Heloise preferable lo works conducted with a stricter regard io morality. He urges, that the disorder of which it presents an example, is of a different, and less criminal nature, than ihat which had then become general through- out France. His object is therefore to sub- mit ute the one for the other. But it is sure- ly a hazardous mode of inspiring any nation with new virtues, to begin by depriving them 81 of those they already possess. There is an evident danger of their at once retaining the old vices, and adopting the new. He urges also, that the lower the standard is brought down, the more chance there is of its becom- ing the object of imitation. This point has been discussed already in a former part of the work. Every one, I think, must allow, that Rousseau's standard is, in one instance at least, brought rather too low. I would not, however, be understood to deny, that improvement may be drawn from some parts of the Heloise, particularly to- wards the conclusion. Still it is, on the whole, a dangerous performance, and one which it can hardly be thought safe to put into the hands of youthful readers. VOLTAIRE. Voltaire, who attempted every thing, has also composed romances. They are written very much in that extravagant oriental style, which seem to have been rendered fashion- able in France by the success of the Arabian D 5 82 Nights Entertainment. He has carried it, however, to a still greater excess than in these tales. The history, the manners, the mythology, of all ages and nations, are jumbled together. Nothing can be ima- gined more entirely devoid of nature or pro- bability. His view appears to have been not merely the amusement of his readers, but chiefly the propagation of certain opinions, not always of the best and most useful kind ; and, indeed, it is difficult to conceive how. truth could be at all promoted by fictions so extrava- gant. Besides false philosophy, they abound also with licentious morality. It must be owned, however, that they are frequently enlivened by those sallies of wit and gaiety, which render the general writings of this au- thor so amusing. PREVOT. It would be improper here not to mention Prevot, though he does not appear to have attained the same celebrity in this country 4 83 as in France. This writer excels in a lively and natural mode of narration, which makes it difficult to believe that the events which he relates are not real. He possesses, also, very great pathetic powers. These appear parti- cularly in the story of Manon L'Escaut; nothing can be more affecting than the con- clusion of that little work. His chief fault is the want of connection, and the desultory and unconnected manner in which the events succeed each other. And as there is little appearance of design in their structure, so there is as little in their tendency. He seems to have written what- ever occurred to him, without much regard to either of these circumstances. MARIVAUX. The peculiar talent of Marivaux, is that of penetrating into the inmost recesses of the human heart, and laying open those secret motives, unperceived often by ourselves, which guide many of our actions. This is a, talent in which the French writers have si surpassed those of most other nations. It may no doubt be the means of giving men a better knowledge botli of their own character, and that of their neighbours. Yet I know not whether these researches may not be- come too minute ; or whether there be not something ungenerous in prying so closely into, the little weaknesses of our nature. The habit of tracing good, or at least indifferent actions, to mean and unworthy motives, is apt to induce doubts as to the very existence of virtue and dignity of character. Marianne, however, the best of his productions, is not only very interesting, but, on the whole, of a good tendency. BARTHELEMI. Works of fiction, in general, do not re- quire, or, at least, do not afford, an opportu- nity of displaying much of that knowledge which is derived from books. We have now, however, to notice one, for the execu- tion of which, the most profound and exten- sive learning was requisite. 85 An universal desire prevails, to inquire in- to the private history and character of those men who have risen to any high distinction in public life. No narratives are surer of success than these, even when but indiffer- ently executed. A disposition somewhat si- milar is felt in regard to those nations which have acted a conspicuous part on the great theatre of the world. And it is felt still more strongly, when these nations are very ancient ; when the picture has contracted that vener- able shade which time throws over it. But, among the different nations of antiquity, Greece holds a high pre-eminence, both in arts and in military glory. Hence a natural wish to become acquainted with the manners, the domestic habits, the pleasures, and em- ployments, with which life was diversified, during those ages, to which we are accus- tomed to look up with such profound vener- ation. The narratives, however, which have been handed down to us from thence, are al- inost all on historical and political subjects, with only slight and incidental notices of any other. They afford, therefore, no full gratification for this natural curiosity. It was probably the consideration of these cir- cumstances which led Barthelemi to the composition of his Travels of Anacharsis* The undertaking was arduous. To collect the information, consisting frequently of mere hints, scattered through an immense multitude of volumes, to form this into a re- gular and complete system, to. weave it into the form of an amusing and interesting nar- rative, required a rare assemblage of talents. These Barthelemi has certainly shewn him- self to be very eminently possessed of. He discovers a perfect knowledge of the subject, united with a warmth and eloquence of style, which are extremely pleasing. We feel our- selves transported, as it were, into classic ground ; we become the contemporaries of the heroes and sages who adorned that il- lustrious period. Perhaps it might have been better had he confined himself more to the delineation of ancient manners. Historical details are not advantageously introduced, since they must want that distinctness which arises from the observance of local and chro- 8T nological order. The long dissertations on the constitution and government of particu- lar states, might, perhaps, more agreeably, and more consistently, with the design, have been thrown into the form of narrative and dialogue, The manners, too, have not alto- gether preserved their ancient simplicity, but are a good deal modernized, and, if I may use the expression, Frenchified. Upon the whole, however, it is an admirable perform- ance, and perfectly deserving of the high re- putation it has attained, GEN^IS. This list of French writers may be pro- perly concluded by Madame de Genlis, who has produced several works of fiction, in which amusement and instruction are ele- gantly combined. Most of them were de- signed for the use of children, whose education formed the chief employment of that ingenious lady. The style is therefore studiously adapted to their comprehension . They may be of use, however, not merely 88 to children, but also to those who have the superintendance of their education. Every observation which they contain on this sub- ject is entitled to respect, as being the result of long and careful experience. The Tales of the Castle are introduced in the course of a continued dialogue, which contains reflections upon each successive tale. This is certainly preferable to a moral, as hav- ing a much better chance of being read. It may be of ad vantage in teaching young people habits of thinking, which are always useful, though better exercised upon real occurrences. The only objection which I would make to these narratives, is, that the design of in- structing is rather too visible. The precep- tress appears too plainly in every page. This, as was formerly observed, is a danger to be guarded against by those who write with the same laudable intentions as Madame de Genlis. From France we turn now to our own country. The first fictions produced here, that seem deserving of notice, are those which made their appearance in periodical 89 publications. This mode of writing* was in- troduced about the beginning of the last cen- tury, by a society of men of the most distin- guished abilities, with the view of diffusing knowledge and just views of human life, among the more illiterate part of their coun- trymen. Being addressed to this class of readers, it was necessary that the instruction should be communicated in an agreeable and attractive form. Fictitious narratives, there- fore, have always been deemed an essential requisite in such an undertaking. ADDISON. Among these writers, the pre-eminence seems to be justly due to Addison. His papers form the chief ornament of the Spectators, Guard- ians, and Tatlers, the first, and still perhaps the best , of periodical works. In his narratives, we discover, united, a careful observation of human nature, wit the most elegant arid pleasing, and an entire freedom from every kind of coarseness and ill-nature. It would ap- pear from the manner in which he repeatedly 90 expresses himself, that many of his portraits are drawn from real life, and that the names only are changed. This is no doubt an ad- vantage, now especially that it cannot be followed by any invidious effects. His great object seems to be the laying hold of such as are marked by amusing eccentricities, espe- cially where these are united with genuine worth and goodness. Such, in a peculiar degree, afford scope for that delicate ard good . humoured satire in which he excels. Of these characters, the most striking, and the most exquisitely drawn, is that of Sir Roger de Coverley. He is the old English country gentleman, full of goodness and sim- plicity, and without any of the roughness and coarseness, which were usually attendant on that mode of life. Every one is interest- ed and delighted by this character. His harmless singularities, while they amuse, serve only to attach us the more strongly to him. Yet it may be difficult to say, how far morality is likely to derive advant- age from the exhibition of such a por- trait. It may certainly inspire a love of 91 goodness, but not, I suspect, much wish to imitate it. So mortifying to human pride is even the most delicate kind of ridicule, that though our regard may be no way lessened for the person who is the object of it, yet we would not, on any account, risk the becom- ing ourselves that object. This is a charac- ter, therefore, which w f e love, without wish-* ing to resemble. JOHNSON. About half a century after, Johnson, treading in the footsteps of Addison, under- took the Rambler, a w r ork similar in design, though very differently executed. He pos- sessed nothing of the wit, the ease, or the graces, of his predecessor. His familiar nar- ratives representing common life and English manners, are therefore heavy and uninterest- ing. These subjects were not well suited to his genius, nor could they be well managed by so bulky and unwieldy a style. But he has succeeded admirably in those which require the delineation of foreign manners^ 92 and of oriental splendour ; as in Seged, Morad, Anningait and Ajut, to which we may add Rasselas. In these w r e find a richness of in g-inn+ion, together with a pomp and mag- nificence of language, hardly to be paral- leled. The fictions of Johnson are of the second order, and have generally some maxim, which they are designed to inculcate. His great object seems to be to impress his read- ers with a deep persuasion of the vanity and wretchedness of human life. Here, per- haps, he has gone too far. Doubtless, the writer would be to blame, who should repre- sent life as the scene of perpetual and un- clouded gaity. And as this is the side of the picture which men in general love too much to contemplate, it may often be im- portant to fix their eyes on its darker shades. Yet here also excess may be hurtful, and may tend to produce that habitual unhappiness, which is closely connected with the indul- gence of discontent and malignant passions* HAWKESWORLH. The merits of Hawkesworth cannot, in a general view, be put in competition with those of his two predecessors . In the particular department, however, of which we are speak- ing, he is little inferior to either. The sto- ries interspersed form the chief ornament of the Adventurer. They display, indeed, nei- ther the wit of Addison, nor the magnifi- cence of Johnson ; but they excel both in exciting that interest which arises from a chain of well connected incidents. Hilario and Flavilla are superior, in this respect, to any thing we find, either in the Spectator or Rambler. This author shews also great knowledge of the town, though chiefly, it must be owned, of the most profligate and dissolute part of it. Hence many of the pic- tures which his work presents are not of a kind with which it is desirable that the youthful mind should become familiar. They may be taken, indeed, as warnings, and were probably so intended by the au- 94 tlior. Warnings, however, are better afford- ed by real, than by fictitious occurrences ; and when vices are thus minutely described, there is a danger of the principle of conta- gion beginning to operate. With regard to the Mirror and Lounger, this department in those papers is chiefly distinguished by the contributions of Mr. Mackenzie. For particular- reasons, how r ever, I shall reserve, till a future occasion, my ob- servations on the writings of this gentleman. RICHARDSON. From the little narratives interspersed in periodical productions, we now proceed to those on a greater scale, which constitute an entire work by themselves. Richardson, of course, stands foremost on this list. Before his time, there seems to have been nothing of any note, with the exception of a few in- decent and scandalous chronicles. And as he w r as first in time, so he seems still to hold rather the first rank in the general estimation. His merit,, however, is not equally acknow- 95 ledged by all. He is a writer highly origi- nal, abounding both with beauties arid de- fects ; and as either of these happen most to strike the mind of the reader, different opi- nions are formed. Hence there may be a peculiar difficulty in giving such an opinion as may satisfy every description of readers. Richardson's compositions approach very nearly to the dramatic form. No opportu- nity is lost of engaging his personages in dia- logues which he is seldom in haste to termi- nate. The little narrative which occurs, serves chiefly as a cement to bind these to- gether ; and the style even of it very nearly resembles that of common conversation. The argumentative discussions, though fre- quent, are by no means those in which he shines most. He wanted those comprehen- sive views, and those habits of thinking, which were necessary to render them interest- ing and instructive. His wit, too, though by no means devoid of merit, does not, on the whole, appear to me very lively or natural. But his grand power is certainly in the carry- ing on of pathetic and impassioned scenes. 9(J Those at the conclusion of Clarissa are per- haps unequalled in point of tragic effect. Richardson possesses, in an eminent degree, that first requisite of dramatic writing, the power of identifying himself, as it were, with the speaker, of making him utter, in the cold language of a spectator, buttha which flows naturally from the passion lr> which he is inspired. The epistolary form which he has used, excels the meredramatic in the opportunity it affords of describing tones and gestures, in which he excels equally as in the language by which they are accompanied . The particular in which Richardson is most deficient, is his style. It is strikingly de- void at once of ease, elegance, and dignity. It very much resembles what is usual among females in that rank of life in which, pre- vious to commencing author, he was accus- tomed to move. This has been well account- ed for by Mrs. Barbauld, from his intimacy with female society, and female letter writ- ing. I know not how far, even in this view, it can be considered as a favourable speci- men. 3 -97 Jfeut whatever opinion may be formed as to the execution of Richardson's novels, there can be no doubt of their design being the best and most laudable that can be ima- gined. None, it is probable, were ever un- dertaken from purer motives. Should we suppose this circumstance to have contri- buted, in any considerable degree, to their success, the supposition could hot certainly be considered as injurious to the public taste. Grand ison belongs to the third order of fictions, its hero being evidently designed for the model of a character as perfect as poss- ible. Xenephcn, as we have seen, had long before Endeavoured to delineate that of a so- vereign prince ; but this is perhaps the first instance of a similar attempt in private life. It is drawn at great length, with much la- bour, and evidently with the most anxious desire of rendering it useful and the object of imitation. It has not, however, been exempted from the charges which are usu- ally brought against such characters. It has been complained of as not very interest* ing, and as not forming the most attractive E object oven in the work to which it belongs. Grandison seems rather formal and devoid of animation : his conduct is somewhat too entirely governed by reason. In his anxiety to draw a correct model of vir- tuous conduct, Richardson seems to have forgot how necessary it was to present it under a pleasing aspect, to interest the ima- gination and feelings in its favour. This last is the proper province of fancy ; and liowever perfectly a writer may fulfil the former part of his task, if, at the same time, lie fails in the latter, his work, far from being of a good tendency, will be the very reverse. We are far, liowever, from insinuat- ing that Richardson's failure is such as to render this remark in any degree appli- cable. Objections of a different kind may perhaps be stated, such as apply in ge- neral to the heroes of modern novels, most of whom have been formed after the mo- del of Grandison. He is not engaged in any sphere of public or professional useful- ness. His time and attention are almost en- tirely engrossed by the two rival fair ones to 4 99 whom he is the object of so passionate an attachment. At the same time, the charac- ter is certainly on the whole possessed of a high degree of excellence, and is perhaps en- titled to a preference over any other which fiction has hitherto exhibited ; nor can it be doubted, that the intimate acquaintance formed with it in the course of so long a work, must have a favourable influence on the moral feelings of the reader. Clarissa is designed as a moral romance, and seems liable to all the objections former- ly stated against that kind of composition. In the character of Lovelace, the most un- principled depravity is united with some very captivating and seductive qualities. Even w r hen his crimes are at their height, the writer is careful to throw over them some softening shades, which may prevent him from forfeiting entirely the good opinion of the reader. Nor does the catastrophe which overtakes him in the end seem to have a very close connection with the crimes of which he has been guilty. Had he suffered from in- ternal remorse, or from the general indigna- tion of mankind, these would have been pro- E2 100 for and natural punishments. But tlie 'be- ing killed in a duel, besides the kind of sanction afforded to that practice, can hard- ly be considered otherwise than as an acci* dental occurrence. The strongest moral impression made by this work, is that derived from the exalted and saintlike purity of the character of Cla- rissa, and the unparalleled depth of distress in which she is involved* No proof can be more striking how little prosperity is neces- sary to render a character interesting. This Is doubtless the circumstance which renders our sympathy with Clarissa so much deeper than we have ever felt for Sir Charles Grandi- son ; though it must be owned that Richard- son seems more successful in drawing female characters than those of his own sex. Pamela affords an example of steadiness and virtue in a very trying situation, and amid dangers to which young females in her rank of life are not unfrequently exposed. To such, therefore, should it fall into their hands, it may afford often a very useful les- son. I cannot approve however of the re- gard which this conduct receives in a mar- lor riage with her rich and profligate master. This tends to raise expectations which must commonly prove delusive ; and it encourages the propensity so common among the vul- gar, to regard a rise in point of rank as an exaltation to the summit of human felicity. Both in Pamela and Clarissa, a number of indelicate scenes are introduced, and are de- scribed with a minuteness of detail which - does not tend very much to the edification of the reader. FIELDING, The contemporary and rival of Richard- son, was a writer certainly of very extraordi- nary genius. Exquisite wit, an intimate know- ledge of human nature, and a lively repre- sentation of manners, are conspicuous throughout all his productions. He excels also in the structure of his fable, and in the art of keeping alive the curiosity of the reader. The chief faults in his manner of writing are, pedantry and ostentation of learning, mixed with a good deal of affecta- E3 102 lion. Nor can we approve those long di- gressions introduced with the view of dis- playing his own knowledge, and defending his work from the assaults of criticism. Whatever merit these may possess in them- selves, they are here greatly out of place ; as tending to dissipate that impression of reality, which it ought to be the great object of the writer to keep up. The novels of Fielding are generally al- lowed to be in some respects exceptionable ; nevertheless there runs through them a very noble and beautiful vein of morality. Be- nevolence, generosity, disinterestedness, are strongly inculcated throughout. Several perfect characters are even introduced; as Allworthy in Tom Jones, and Harrison in Amelia. Yet though these be extremely well drawn, they are not likely to become, in any great degree, the objects of imitation. They are men advanced in life ; tliey are not the leading characters, nor those into whose views and sentiments the reader is disposed to enter with the greatest interest. Fielding is blamable chiefly in the 103 racier of his heroes, where lie has united" many agreeable and truly estimable qualities, with a very considerable degree of profligacy. There is great danger, therefore, that, in the minds of youthful readers, the two may be confounded together, and the latter seem thus excusable, and even graceful. The same objection does not apply to his hero- ines, though their character does not con- tain any thing Very marked of interesting. We except Amelia, who affords an admir- able picture of sweetness and conjugal af- fection. Joseph Andrews, his first production, con- tains the history of a young man in the lowest rank of life. Fielding, like Richard- son, seems to have begun there, and to have gradually ascended. With the exception of some indecent passages, it seems to be, upon the whole, unexceptionable, and even of a good tendency. There is little or nothing in the conduct of Joseph, which might not be recommended to the imitation of any one who is placed in the same circumstances. I disapprove, however, in the same manner,. E4 and for the same reasons, as in Pamela , of the hacknied incident of a discovery of noble birth and consequent removal into a different station. Had the two lovers been settled respectably and comfortably in their original station, the effect would, in my opi- nion, have been better, and even more agree- able to a reader of correct taste. It is in Tom Jones that both the strength- of Fielding's genius and his moral defects are most strikingly conspicuous. The character of the hero abounds with ge* nerosity and other amiable qualities, but tends at the same time to represent these as connected with thoughtlessness and irregular- ity of conduct ; an idea already too com- mon, and which has been the ruin of thou^ sands. That such a character does not un- frequently occur in real life, can be no suf- ficient reason for introducing it here, and for embellishing it in a manner which must captivate every youthful reader. The species of reformation which takes place at the end, a common tribute to virtue on these occa- sions, cannot compensate for the course of 105 conduct which has been uniformly perse- vered in through the rest of the story ; nor will any one acquainted with the power of habit be very sanguine as to its continuance. The character of Blin"I 3 too, is no less excep- tionable than that of his opponent. Its evi- dent tendency to represent regularity and prudence as intimately connected with de- ceit and malignity. Booth seems to be formed nearly after the model of his predecessor Tom Jones, though he does not act so distinguished a part. The most interesting object in this pleasing novel is Amelia herself. In the representation^ of manners, particu- larly in the dramatic part, I believe the writer will always be found to excel most in re- gard to those classes of men with whom he has been most in the habit of conversing, This will not give us any very high idea of Fielding's companions. Innkeepers, rogues, and female demireps, are the characters with whom he seems most completely at home. A just picture of fashionable life was reserved for the pens of our female novelists, 106 SMOLLET. Smollei is still coarser than Fielding, and does not possess the same intimate knowledge of the human heart. As a painter of man- ners, however, he is little, if at all, inferior. He excels particularly in those of seamen, chiefly, no doubt, from having been once engaged in that profession himself. But his most striking talent seems to be humour, the exhibition of odd and eccentric charac- ters. Of these he has assembled, in Hum- phrey Clinker, the most ludicrous and amusing collection that is anywhere to be found. In a moral view r , Smollet is inferior to Fielding. The vices of his heroes are at least as great, without the same good quali- ties to counterbalance them. We meet nothing of that refined generosity, and those just sentiments, at least, of moral conduct, which Fielding's heroes discover. Indeed, Smollet, in regard to his, seems to make hardly any distinction between their best 107 and their worst actions ; both are related in the same animated and approving manner. Roderick Random is generally supposed tor contain only an embellished narrative of his own adventures. The character of the hero, therefore, is naturally supposed to resemble* his own ; high spirited, irritable, and vin- dictive ; not devoid of a certain rough gene- rosity and good humour., but destitute of any fixed principles, and readily yielding to every temptation which chance throws in his way. There is more real life and business in this novel than are commonly to be met,, with. It does not, indeed, always present these under the most favourable aspect, but is deeply tinged with those irritable and sa- tirical habits which appear to have strongly predominated in the mind of the writer. Peregrine Pickle presents us with nearly the same features, only that the humour is broader, and the manners still coarser and more licentious. Humphrey Ciiriker contains less incident^ and is therefore not quite so attractive to the bulk of readers. But it possesses, 103 more genuine merit, as being that in which Smollet has most completely displayed his talent for the ludicrous delineation of charac- ter. Bramble is supposed to be a picture of himself in more advanced life, after his spi- rit was lowered, and his temper soured by age and infirmity. He discovers, however, a view of worth and benevolence, which did not appear in his youthful predecessors. In Tabitha malignity and ill-temper are very properly represented under a ridiculous and disgusting aspect. The tendency of the whole is nearly unexceptionable. BURNEY. Proceeding in the order of nine, we come now to the purer and more elegant perform- ances of Miss Burney* The distinguishing excellence of this lady is, as might be ex- pected, a perfect acquaintance with what- ever relates to the character and peculiar cir- cumstances of her own sex. She excels particularly in describing the feelings of a young lady at her first entrance into the 109 ; the hopes,, the fears, the little em- barrassments, which agitate her mind at this interesting crisis. Nothing can exceed the picture of these which is given in Eveli- na. The venial errors into which she is be- trayed by youth and inexperience, with the disastrous consequences which threaten to ensue, are described in a manner the most lively and natural. The correct view which, is given of the habits prevalent in the fashion- able circles, must be useful both to those who are destined to move in them, and to such as wish to form a general estimate of the reigning manners. It is only to be regretted that she should have occasionally given way to a somewhat mean species of buffoonery, from which the elegant taste she has else- where displayed, might have been expected to preserve her. In the Brangton family the awkward at- tempts frequently made by the trading part of society to copy the manners of fashion- able life are very happily ridiculed. Per- haps, however, this part of the work may tend to increase that horror of vulgarity, and no that disposition to sigh after the abodes of elegance and fashion, to which young ladies, at the age of Evelina, are of themselves in ge- neral sufficiently inclined. Cecilia is more varied in incident, but of a* somewhat more romantic and extravagant cast. Many of the characters, too, are a good deal mitres. In Harrel, however, is given an admirable picture of the thoughtless and unfeeling man of pleasure, and in the Del- villes, of family pride, shewing itself under various aspects, according to the different age and disposition of each. Camilla discovers a vein of good sense, and of accommodation to the actual circum- stances of society, which is rarely found in compositions of this kind. Sir Hugh Ty~ rold is a complete original, and admirably drawn. He may almost be placed by the side of Sir Roger de Coverley . Notwithstanding the just views of human life which abound in the writings of this lady, it may be observed, that their ground- work does not essentially differ from the ge- nerality of similar performances. How fax Ill this is to be considered as matter of praise or censure, we shall presently have occasion to examine. MOORE. Dr. Moore has given an admirable picture of the manners of young men of fashion, and of the various follies to which they are liable. With them, his former habits of life had led him very much to associate. The portraits of this writer appear to me juster, more free from exaggeration and caricature, than those of any other that has yet been mentioned. This may probably be ascribed to his great knowledge of the world, and to that good sense which, rather than any brilliancy of parts, seems to have formed the predominant feature in his character. Zeluco is a singular and somewhat whim- sical performance. Fiction affords an op- portunity of representing, not better only, but also worse characters than are to be found in real life ; and the representation may not be altogether without its use. The 112 picture is strongly drawn ; yet Zclaco does not appear to me to be the best of Dr. Moore's productions, nor that which affords most scope for the display of his peculiar excellencies. This place I would assign to Edward, a work abounding with knowledge of the world, and lively delineation of cha- racter. That of its hero, too, is such as en- ables it to hold a respectable rank among the third order of fictions. Mordaunt is exceptionable in the charac- ter of its hero, which is that of a dissolute- man of fashion, entirely devoid of principle, and with almost no good qualities except, wit and good nature. Yet, by means of these, united with a large fortune and a handsome person, he becomes the complete fine gentle- man, the envy of one sex v and the admira- tion of the other. This is evidently holding, oat a very dangerous and seductive example. As a picture of manners, this novel is very inferior to Edward ; yet some parts, parti- cularly towards the conclusion, possess great jfnerit in this respect, 113 GENERAL CHARACTER OF ENGLISH NO* VELS. The English writers whom we have now surveyed, with the exception of Richardson, rest their merit chiefly on the representa- tion of life and manners. But this can- not be said of the more ordinary novels, which are poured forth in such multi- tudes, and read with such eager avidity. Works so extensively circulated, and which form the principal, if not the sole, reading of a great variety of persons, can hardly fail to have a considerable influence on national manners. It may be proper, there- fore, to spend some time in examining the materials of which they are composed, and whether or not their tendency be favour-* able to the public improvement. My judg- ment on this subject will be formed chiefly from those of Mrs. Smith, the only writer among this numerous class with whom I can boast any intimate acquaintance. The following may be given as a general outline 114 of i lie manner in which these works arc con- ducted. A young gentleman and lady, paragons of beauty and excellence, meet accidentally with each other. Both are instantly seized with the most violent passion, over which reason possesses no kind of controul. The lover throws himself at the feet of his mis- tress, or, by expressive gestures, makes a sufficiently evident declaration of his sen- timents. She, on her part, is equally enamoured, but is withheld by modesty, and by the necessity of lengthening out the story, from making an immediate con- fession. This is at last obtained ; but, if the affair, as in ordinary cases, were to end here, the reader might have reason to com- plain of the scanty amusement afforded him. Obstacles must therefore be raised : inhu- man parents, and detested rivals, must unite in opposing the completion of the lovers' fe- licity. Embarrassments arising from want of fortune are generally resorted to as the means of placing an insuperable bar to their 115 union. On a sudden, however, these are re- moved ; wealth nWs in from unexpected sources ; friends are reconciled ; rivals are killed or discarded ; the tw^o parties are married ; upon which the scene closes, there being nothing more to be done or said. The first thing that strikes us here is the perfection with which the leading characters are uniformly invested. So far as this cir- cumstance operates, I have no doubt of its effects being on the whole beneficial. At the same time, it must be owned to be rather a vague and visionary kind of perfection, not very applicable to the purposes of active life. The accomplishments of person and manner form generally its most prominent features ; any higher qualities appear only occasional- ly, and as appendages. The characters are drawn chiefly from that class of society which, raised above the necessity of follow- ing a profession for subsistence, is at the same time excluded from any concern in public affairs. It is seldom, therefore, that they are engaged in any active or useful em- ployment; this, I believe, would rather b& 116 considered as a disqualifying circumstance. They are represented as having nothing to do, and sauntering from one place to an- other in search of amusement. This observation does not apply in the same degree to female character?, who, by nature and custom, are confined to the scenes of domestic life and social intercourse. It is only one part of their life, however, which enters into these compositions, and not that in which they have the most important duties to perform. The instruction conveyed by them must therefore be at least very limitecL The next circumstance to which we may advert, is their besng so exclusively occupied by the passion of love. There seems no rea- son, indeed, why it should be excluded. Considering the force of this passion ,. and the intimate and lasting connection to which it leads, its due regulation cannot be consider- ed as a matter of indifference. Still it must be allowed to occupy, in these narratives, a space out of all proportion greater than what really belongs to it. It has been doubted also, whether, in other respects, the 117 direction which they tend to give it be just or useful. It is of importance that this passion should be pure, and should be confined within the limits prescribed by virtue, and by a regard to the welfare of society. And here the nar- ratives in question seem liable to little objec* lion. When compared with those which preceded them., and more particularly with those which, during the last twenty or thirty years, have issued from the French press, they seem entitled even to considerable praise. In the latter point of view, indeed, it may be doubted, whether their merit be not diminish- ed by the too frequent introduction of this pas- sion. When it becomes, as these works tend to make it, not the occasional, but the great and constant, business of life, it must be more difficult to fix it constantly on any one object. The next point is, that the lover should be well directed in the choice of this object. From the perusal of these works he will na- turally be led to seek one possessed of every imaginable degree of perfection* but there 118 are several dangers with which such a dis- position is attended. For, as was formerly observed, though it be very desirable that a man should aim at this quality in himself, it is by no means equally so that he should re- quire it from others. Allowance must here be made for that imperfection which will ever adhere to humanity. The nature of this perfection, too, consisting chiefly in beauty and superficial accomplishments, will be apt to draw off the attention from more lasting and valuable qualities. That ardour of passion, by which the lover invests his mistress with every perfection, and transforms her even into an object of adoration, can hardly be accompanied with any great de- gree of judgment and discrimination. Ac- cordingly his love is generally sudden, form- ed at first sight, without any of the caution and deliberation requisite in a choice that involves so deeply the happiness of his fu- ture life. Another circumstance, no less character- istic of the narratives in question, is that multitude of improbable incidents, unex- 119 pected meetings, and unhoped for deliver- ances, with which they are crowded* Up- on these, perhaps, rests chieiiy their popu- larity, and their wide circulation among the tasteless and illiterate. This subject has al- ready been treated at some length ; nor did there then appear to be any reason to ap- prove of the practice. It tends to inspire a man with false views of human lite, vision- ary expectations, and discontent with the real occurrences of his lot. Though the pleasure it affords is of a very low order, yet none is more apt, when much indulged in, to engross the mind entirely. It tends thus to take away all sensibility to higher beauties, as well as all disposition to apply to severer and more arduous studies. These observations are not meant to apply peculiarly to the writings of Mrs. Smith, but in general to that class of which they are the most eminent. As it might be going too far, to proscribe this kind of reading en- tirely, a few of her's may, with propriety be recommended to such as wish to form some acquaintance with it. They possess all the requisites of this kind of writing in a con- siderable, though none perhaps in a very high, degree. They are always interesting and amusing, and, except in the particulars above mentioned, completely unexception* able. From our own country, we may now cast our eyes for a moment towards Germany. That country, long distinguished for heavy industry, and productive only of literary drudges, has of late exerted an extraordi- nary activity in every direction. Works of imagination have been produced in great profusion, and have excited, in a consider- able degree, the admiration of all Europe. Nor is this admiration altogether unmerited ; though they are by no means correct, either in point of taste or morals. lil general, they display force and wildness of genius ; a deep tincture of ferocity; a disposition to trample upon established opinions, and to carry every sentiment to the utmost possible de- gree of extravagance and excess. Their morality is of a very extraordinary nature. 121 We have already had occasion to observe the dangerous effect of great faults appear- ing in a character which, on the whole, com- mands admiration. This, though extreme- ly common, takes place elsewhere through mere accident or inclination. Here it is done systematically. Some virtue is drawn in the most interesting and attractive form, with the express view of recommending a vice, or even a crime, with which it is united in the same character. This, perhaps, often arises less from any criminal design of per- verting the public morals, than from that undistinguishing rage for novelty, which actuates every department of German litera- ture. The most eminent in this style of writing are, Schiller, Gothe, and Kotzebue. Al- though all the three have written novels, yet their reputation rests almost entirely on their dramatic performances. We must except the Werter of Gothe, which, for reasons that will appear hereafter, I do not mean at pre- sent to notice. The best of the German novelists is La 122 Fontaine. He is certainly an interesting writer. With considerable knowledge of human nature, he unites strong pathetic powers. These appear particularly in Clara Duplessis, the best of his performances which I have read. There occurs often, however, a mixture of the serious and ludicrous, in the same character, which is rather unplea- sant. We do not relish seeing ridicule thrown on those whom we have viewed with admiration ; nor those, at whom we have been laughing, on a sudcjen converted into heroes. Neither does he always keep free of extravagance and affectation. His works discover, in general, an amiable turn of mind, and seem to be written with very good intentions. It is only to be regretted that he should have adopted, in common with most of his countrymen, that mode of think- ing which represents virtue as the com- panion of ignorance and rudeness ; an opi- nion, by no means well founded ; and the prevalence of which has of late been attend- ed with very hurtful effects. 4 123 The works on which observations have now been made, are all reducible, more or less, to the three descriptions formerly enu- merated. There are other species, however, which, though they could not with pro- priety be introduced then, are not to be pass- ed over entirely. The principal may be comprehended under the four heads of Lu- dicrous, Descriptive, Allegorical, and Senti- mental. LUDICROUS. DOtf QUIXOTE. The taste for ridicule is a very general one, and implanted in our nature, no doubt, for wise purposes. It does not, indeed, seem very properly employed against vice, or against errors of reasoning on important sub- jects. Its use is to guard against those little follies and improprieties, which, without be- ing criminal, tend to render the character less respectable and agreeable. Fictions, which aim at the representation of manners, generally exhibit their characters in a ludi- crous point of view. This, though it render F 2 124 them more amusing, lessens their value as just pictures of life. But there are works in which ridicule is the sole and ultimate ob- ject. These, however, are chiefly dramatic. I know only of one very eminent narrative fiction which comes under this description. This, the reader, it is probable, will imme- diately conjecture to be that of Don Quix- ote. Chivalry, as we have seen, w r as, in itself, a beneficent institution, and a step towards the civilization of modern Europe. As soon, however, as the sovereign, on the one hand, and the people on the other, acquired an in- fluence superior to that of the nobles, and found it for their mutual interest to establish a regular administration of justice, the ope- ration of this principle became no longer ne- cessary. It had come, in process of time, to be very much abused. The people often suffered more from their defenders than from those against whom they had taken arms. The improving reason, too, of the age, began to revolt against the multitude of incredible tales with which its records were 125 loaded. Chivalry became thus a fit subject for ridicule ; and, at this juncture, appeared the work in question, from the pen of one of the greatest geniuses of the age. We are here presented with an instance of that species of partial madness, which occurs not unfrequently in real life. A worthy man, in other respects of a sound judgment, has his head so turned by read- ing books of chivalry, that he sees nothing in nature but castles and palaces, giants and enchanters. Into these he transforms every thing he meets with; and the author has very happily chosen .the meanest objects of common life for the subject of this metamor- phosis. The striking contrasts which are thus produced, the monstrous mistakes and ludicrous distresses of the hero, are painted in so lively a manner, as to render this the most laughable performance perhaps that the wit of man ever produced. No work was ever productive of such great and decicive effects on the manners of the age. Not that it can be considered as the sole, or even the principal, cause of the F3 decline of chivalry : but it certainly acce- lerated and formed the epoch of its final downfal. DESCRIPTIVE. MRS. RADCLIFFE.- The next we shall notice are those which may be termed Descriptive romances. This name, I think, may be properly given to those of Mrs. Radclifte, one of the most original and powerful writers of the present age. These do not tend to fulfil any of the practical purposes above mentioned. They are to be considered chiefly as poetry, and in many pails, as the very finest of poetry. She appears, indeed, to excel less in the mi- nute detail of natural scenery, than in grand and comprehensive views of it; and with these she has blended a peculiar vein of senti- ment, which greatly heightens their charm. It may be doubted, indeed, whether works of this kind, especially such as, like hers, rest very much upon incident, be well suited to frequent and long descriptions. Perhaps she does not always choose the best 127 time for introducing them, when there is a pause in the action ; but sometimes thrusts them in, when the reader is intent upon something altogether different. Certain it is, that, by ordinary readers, who have in view only the gratification of curiosity, they are looked upon rather as a blemish. This writer also excels greatly in the repre- sentation of fierce and terrible characters ; not the internal workings of these characters, but the picturesque appearance which they ex- hibit in the eye of a spectator. Nor must we omit the talent she so strikingly possesses^ of conjuring up scenes of horror. The plea- sure, indeed, which this affords, though natu- ral, is not of a very high order ; and, till her time, was confined chiefly to the nursery. Nor is it of a very improving nature, but, on the contrary, tends rather to weaken the mind, and make it liable to superstitious apprehensions. But it is impassible not to admire her power of raising this impression to its utmost height, and of combining the circumstances best calculated to produce it. In those parts where she goes over similar ESS ground with other writers of the same cle- scription, she does not rise very much above mediocrity. It is in those paths which she has traced out for herself, that the superiori- ty of her genius chiefly appears. ALLEGORICAL. Another kind is that which goes by the name of Allegory. Here some qualities of mind are personified, and are introduced as the principal or sole actors in the story. Its aim is generally to communicate a know- ledge of abstract or moral truths to such as would not willingly bave read a formal trea- tise on the subject. In this view it may be of some use ; yet I am afraid little attention is to be expected to any thing beyond the mere story. Nor is this likely to be very interesting. We cannot take any deep con- cern in the adventures of an abstract idea ; whenever the name of any of the actors is mentioned, we are reminded that he could not possibly have any real existence. Hence these compositions rest their merit chiefly on 129 the poetical and descriptive passages. Tlie most elegant and instructive that I re- member to have seen, is the Vision of Mirza in the Spectator. In countries where a severe restraint is laid on the liberty of speech and writing, the al- legory is used as a vehicle of bold truths, which could not have been safely expressed in any other form. This is probably the cause of its being so favourite a mode of com- position among the oriental nations. There is not, in this case, the same reason to ap- prehend inattention on the part of the reader. Being excluded from any other means of ac- quiring information on the subject, he will naturally exert all his ingenuity in order to discover the concealed meaning. It is much to be regretted, when truth can find no other way of coming into the world ; when such, however, is the case, it may be necessary and useful to have recourse to this. SENTIMENTAL. The last description of fictitious composi* F 5 ISO tions which I shall mention, are those de- signed to be the vehicle of Sentiment. This is a kind of writing hardly known till about the middle of the last century, and perhaps may be considered as a new modification of thought which has been unfolded in the pro- gress of refinement. On no subject are the opinions of men more divided : while by some it is regarded with the most profound and exclusive admiration, and by others with an equal degree of aversion and contempt. In this state of things, it seems desirable, therefore, that an attempt were made to form something like a candid estimate of its me- rits. The subject is attended with peculiar difficulties ; both from being new, and from those various and evanescent shades, which cannot be easily laid hold of, or subjected to any kind of analysis. The following very im- perfect sketch may be of some use in the ab- sence of any other ; and may possibly be the means of prompting some one, better quali- fied, to give a complete and masterly view Of the subject. The first question is 3 to what faculty of 131 the mind iliis principle is to be referred* With the reasoning and the active powers, it does not appear to have much connection. Imagination, when highly refined, may en- ter, in some degree, into its composition. But feeling is evidently the part of our na- ture to which it is most closely allied, and the pathetic ever its favourite theme. Yet these alone cannot constitute sentimental writing, since they were to be found long before it had any existence. It seems to con- sist chiefly in tlic delineation of certain mi- nute and delicate sensations, which were be- fore untelt, or at least unnoticed. The authors in question do not profess to address themselves to the bulk of mankind, but only to a select few, whose minds are in unison with their own. They delight, therefore, in a peculiar kind of obscurity, and in the employment of a mystical lan- guage, understood only by the adepts. Many of the ideas deing new, new forms of expression must be adopted* Frequently even words cannot be found to sentiments so highly refined. In this 132 after the writer has gone on as far as Ian- guage can carry him, he stops, and a bknk is left, Avhich the reader must fill up for him- self. Hence these works, to such as do not find a key to them in their own minds, ap- pear wholly absurd and unintelligible ; and hence, too, an unusual exultation in those who can decypher the secret characters which are thus hid from vulgar eyes. Nothing is more remarkable in sentimental works than the rambling manner in which they are written, the want of all apparent order and connection, and the frequent break- ing off from one subject to another widely remote from it. Unity and consistency, else- where thought so essential, are here totally neglected. The writers having dismissed reason, and taken feeling for their sole guide, seem to think themselves absolved from any rules which the former may prescribe. We may observe, however, that the want of or- der is not altogether so great as at first sight appears. The ideas are connected, not in- deed in the ordinary manner, but by cer- tain secret links, not discernible by common 133 readers. Of these links the most general seem to be, either the resemblance, or the contrast, of the sentiments which they tend to inspire. This habit of mind is generally accom- panied by a cast of melancholy ; not a gloomy and severe melancholy, but of that gentle and pleasing kind which, by those who are acquainted with it, is preferred to the most exuberant sallies of mirth. Some degree of this disposition, by the slow suc- cession of ideas which it produces, seems favourable both to strength and delicacy of sentiment. These authors delight greatly in minute observations upon human nature. A similar tendency has been observed to exist in cer- tain French writers, who, in this particular, excel those of most other nations. There is a striking difference, however, between the two, in the manner of gratifying this pro- pensity. The scrutiny of the latter is of a malignant nature, and consists in laying open those mean and bad motives, which a man would not willingly own to the world, nor 131 even to himself. The object of the former, on the contrary, is to draw forth the amiable propensities which lie concealed under an unpromising outward appearance. Even where they attack failings, there is nothing coarse or insulting in their raillery : it is fre- quently such as even its object could listen to without pain. Having thus endeavoured to trace some of the characteristics of this kind of writing, the more difficult and important question re- mains as to its tendency. With the view of ascertaining this, I shall first consider the particulars in which it appears to be benefi- cial, and then proceed to those on which it may be necessary to pronounce an opposite sentence. One merit which it has always claimed, is that of promoting benevolence. This is the favourite virtue, w r hose praises are found in every page. It has been stigmatized, indeed, as rather an indolent kind of sympathy, not much to be depended on when any vigorous exertion is required. For this charge there 135 may be some foundation; yet it must, at the same time, be considered, that the age in which these compositsons have been most read and admired, has also been, beyond any other, the age of active benevolence. It seems natural, therefore, to suppose, that they have at least exerted no unfavourable influence. This virtue seems to be the ge- nuine fruit of sensibility, a disposition which they have an evident tendency to cultivate. At the same time, they must be allowed to have given it some very erroneous directions, which it may be proper briefly to notice. Too much of this sensibility seems to have been lavished on the inanimate and irration- al part of the creation. This, to a certain degree, is both natural and amiable. Inani- mate objects excite often the liveliest emo- tions, by reminding us of former scenes of friendship and happiness. The brute crea- tion too, being capable of enjoyment and suffering, has a claim on man for humanity, and even for some share of attachment. But it is no doubt preposterous, that these should become the principal objects of his affection^ 136 to the exclusion of such as have a more true and natural claim to it. Sterne is accused by Lord Orford of having paid more regard to a dead ass than to a living mother ; and somewhat of this tendency may be discover- ed in most of those writers which have been formed after his model. The votary of sentiment is also often found to bestow too great a share of his be- nevolence on himself. There is a selfish, as well as a social sensibility ; and, when this is the case, we cannot wonder that the form- er should sometimes predominate. It is fos- tered by that minute attention to his own feelings, which forms one of his favourite employments. The idea also of having powers of perception denied to others, must naturally tend to make him become a great person in his own eyes. This habit of mind, indeed, of itself, places a certain distance between him and the rest of mankind. He finds few with whom he can enter into free and intimate communication. He is hurt by expressions and actions, which proceeded from no bad 137 intention, and would not have produced the same effect on any other person. This is a danger, indeed, attendant on every species of superior refinement, either in sentiment or manners. It might appear too much to require the possessor of this superiority to resign it, with the mere view of placing himself on a level with the generality of mankind. But he ought to guard carefully against being led by it into any misinter- pretation of the conduct of others ; and where an action is done without any design of giv- ing offence, to make allowance for any want of delicacy in the manner of doing it. Another advantage to be derived from this mode of writing, is that of promoting purity of mind, of opening sources of elegant plea- sure, and inspiring disgust for coarse and degrading indulgencies. That this is its natural effect can hardly, I think, be dis- puted. It has been represented even as tending to produce it in too great a de- gree ; though, 1 confess, there does not ap- pear to me much to be apprehended from 138 this quarter. A more serious objection is drawn from the opposite habits in which some writers of this description have in- dulged. We can never sufficiently repro- bate a practice, \\hich thus tends to counter- act the natural influence of refinement in purifying the manners. But I think it evi- dent i here, by a forced and unnatural association, made to throw a \vil over what is completely contrary to its own nature. This fault has, accordingly, been avoided, by all those writers who, to ge- nius, have united a correct and elegant taste. This taste of mind seems also to be conge- nial with the finest devotional feelings. Of this a beautiful illustration is given by Mac- kenzie, in the story of La Roche. Such being the advantages which may be derived from these writings, their demerits, a more painful subject, come next under re and these must be allowed not to be of a trivial nature. For while feeling is thus refined, even to a feverish excess, other powers, w hose culti- vation is no less essential to human happiness, 139 are suffered to lie waste. Our judgment here is to be formed chiefly from what we observe in those characters which arc drawn as mo- dels of the most refined sensibility. Now these do not in general seem to take much delight in the exercise of their intellectual faculties. This is an operation in which we rarely find them engaged, and commonly, indeed, stigmatized as frigid and unfeeling. Their judgments are formed generally at once, by a sort of intuition. The continual agitation of their feelings, and that desultory mode of thinking, in which they delight, form habits the very reverse of those which lead to the discovery of truth. In general, their only test of the soundness of opinions is the impression which these happen to make upon their feelings. Yet, though thus slightly formed, they are adhered to more tenaciously, than if they had been the fruit of the longest and most profound medi* tation. Should any ordinary friend attempt to oppose argument to these convictions, his observations are generally received with con-* 140 tempt, as indicating the absence of all sensi- bility and refinement. This mode of writing- has also insinuated itself where it might least be expected, into some of the philosophical productions of the age. To a certain extent, it may prove an ornament, and may have the effect of ren- dering them more agreeable and attractive. But where it becomes the predominant fea- ture, it commonly gives birth to fantastic and visionary theories, which serve no purpose but that of misleading the mind of the read- er. Nor are the persons above alluded to more inclined to the exercise of their active than of their rational powers. Sensation, not action, is their natural state. They are go- verned chiefly by occasional and transient impulses, and incapable of that regular and consistent system of conduct which can alone render a man respectable and useful. They are too open to impression, too easily and quickly moved, like the reed shaken by every breeze. An unfitness for the affairs of common life, indeed, is assumed, and even 141 boasted of, as one of their peculiar charac- teristics. If this be an excellence, it is one to which they have an undoubted claim. And when we consider that action is not only indipensable, but that its due regulation may be justly regarded as the prime constituent of human excellence, this must certainly ap- pear to be a very serious objection. I would, by no means, however, be under- stood to insinuate, that feeling cannot be cul- tivated and refined without injury to the in- tellectual and active powers. The particu- lars that deserve to be approved of in this habit of mind, are probably capable of be- ing separated from the attendant defects. These last seem to arise only from its tak- ing an erroneous direction, or gaining too great an ascendency. At the same time, these defects are certainly to be found more or less in these writings which receive the name of sentimental ; a circumstance which should put the reader on his guard against a too liberal indulgence in them. 3 142 STERNE. Having finished this discussion, which has extended to an unexpected length, we pro- ceen now to notice some of those who have excelled most in this kind of writing. And here, of course, we begin with Sterne. Yet of an author concerning whom so much has been said, it is difficult to say any thing new, and still more to say any thing that will give general satisfaction. That his writings abound with passages of the most exquisite interest will never be denied by any one qualified to understand or appreciate them. Originality he possesses in an eminent de- gree, being the creator of a mode of writing al- most wholly his own. The way had no doubt been prepared by the degree of refinement to which the age had previously attained. But his being the first to strike out this new path evinces an uncommon strengtli of ge- nius. He is distinguished also by wit, and by a very intimate knowledge of human nature. 143 The former, indeed, has been shewn, in many instances, not to be genuine, but collected from out of certain obsolete and long for- gotton performances.* Nor is he very deli- cate in his choice. A great proportion of Tristram Shandy, in particular, is filled with the lowest and most disgusting buffoonery* It seems not an improbable conjecture, that the feeling and pathetic passages only are the natural product of his own mind, and the rest introduced with the view of suiting his work to the taste of a number of readers, who would have been insensible to more refined beauties. The Sentimental journey bears marks of an improved taste, and is nearly free from this kind of dross. Its example seems to shew, that sentiment may be grafted, with at least equal advantage, upon real, as upon imaginary, incidents. Of the tendency of Sterne's writings, it is needless to say much, as most of the above observations will be found to apply to them, * Ftrriar's Illustrations of Sterne* 144 Indecency is a fault peculiar to himself, and in which he has been followed by few of his successors. This propensity appears chiefly in those parts where he aims at wit. It seems to be a fault for which Sterne is in- dividually accountable, and not to have any natural connection with that mode of writ- ing of which he was the author. MACKENZIE. We frequently find, in poetry, that a writ-' er of great and irregular genius is succeeded by another, distinguished by correct and ele- gant taste. This is strikingly exemplified in Homer and Virgil, Dryden and Pope. A relation somewhat similar seems to exist be- tween Mackenzie and Sterne. The former, coming later, has not of course the same claim to originality, but is certainly prefer- able in point of taste and selection. If he be inferior to Sterne in wit and in knowledge of the human heart, in pathetic powers he is fully his equal. He excels particularly in minute imagery, and the affecting detail 145 of little incidents. Nor is bis manner of writing quite so rambling and irregular. The narratives, which are carried on in a re- gular and connected manner, are, I think, those in which he succeeds most completely. We may notice in particular the stories of Atkins and Monfort, in the Man of Feeling, and of La Roche and Venoni, in the Mirror. This writer is honourably distinguished by the avoiding of every thing offensive to purity and morality, and by an uniform ad- herence to the cause of virtue and religion. The feelings introduced are almost always correct and amiable. There is only one point of view in which the tendency of his writings may perhaps be objected to. They seem to contain something peculiarly ener- vating and unfavourable to active exertion. That interesting languor, which breathes throughout, prompts rather to an indulgence in, what may be termed, the luxury of mus- ing, than to the discharge of the duties of active life. J1U GOETHE. This mode of writing was, in Britain, evi- dently the result of a highly refined and po- lished state of society. It is remarkable, however, that it has since been a favourite one with other nations, at the first opening of their literary career. Of this several in- stances might be adduced ; but none can be more striking than that which is afforded by Germany. Sentiment, which was here con- fined to a comparatively small number, seems there to have spread through the whole na- tion, with a degree of enthusiasm of which we have no conception. It is not, however, preserved altogether in its original purity, but is mingled with a large infusion of bar- barism. The effects of this mixture have been noticed in the general observations formerly made upon German writers. Out of these, my subject now leads me to select Goethe, the well known author of the Sor- rows of Werter. The rival of Schiller in dramatic performances ? he is less daring and 147 but seems to be superior in pathos and beauty of genius. His extravagance, too, does not go to sucli a height, though he retains still a very ample share. He differs iii several respects also from his English mo- dels. His stile does not possess the same elegance and delicacy, but is rather distin- guished by force, vehemence, and even wild- ness. He does not seem to delight, like them, in minute observations upon human nature, but discovers more of a poetical cast, and a livelier sensibility to the beauties of nature. Nor does he shew any of that gay and play- ful disposition, in which they frequently in- dulge ; but is deeply serious and melancholy throughout. Of the tendency of this work, it is impos- sible to speak in terms of approbation. It is free, indeed, from the indecency of Sterne, nor does it, like some other German produc- tions, contain any direct attack upon moral or religious principle. As to the grand ob- jection of its encouraging suicide, this may not appear an example which is likely to meet with many imitators. Yet as there G 2 148 are certainly situations which expose men to some temptation of this kind , it may doubtless be productive of occasional bad consequences. More danger, however, is, in my opinion, to be apprehended from the example which it sets of ungovernable passion, impatience of restraint, and contempt for all rational and consistent plans of conduct. Nor is there much display of benevolence in any part, either of the conduct or sentiments of the hero. His sensibility, however exquisite and beautiful, is chiefly engrossed, either by him- self, or by the object of that unbounded pas- sion, which seems to have absorbed entirely all his faculties. There are, no doubt, many compositions of great merit, which have not been included in this enumeration. But it has probably ex- tended to as great a length as the nature of the subject required. Where this, too, did not seem indispensably to demand it, the in- troduction of living authors has been gener- ally avoided. What has l)een said may be sufficient to illustrate the mode of juclg- 149 ing that has been adopted ; which, if the reader approves, he may easily apply to any other work, on which he is desirous of forming an opinion. c,<3 NOTES. Note [A] referred to in page 9 These may perhaps be justified, even supposing us to form an unfavourable opinion of this mode of writing in general. The works, against which they are directed, were written with great ability, and were addressed to a class of readers, who would not have attended to any other mode of refutation. It became necessary, therefore, to combat them with their own weapons, without inquiring very minutely how far those weapons were lawful. Note [B] referred to in page 2O. I am happy to observe, that the opinion here advan- ced, appears to coincide nearly with that of the three moft distinguished critics of the laft age. Of this the reader may become sensible by perusing the following quotations. In producing them, my intention, certainly, is not to rest its proof upon any authority, however eminent. But they G4 152 may be of use in obviating any prejudices that exist against it ; and the bringing together the opinions of three such distinguished writers on the same subject, can- not fail to assist the reader in forming a correct judgment with regard to it. The first, which is from Lord Kaimes, gives a very profound and philosophical view of the manner in which example operates in forming the character. * One feeling there is that merits a deliberate view, for it 3 singularity as well as utility. Whether to call it an emotion or a passion, seems uncertain : the former it can scarce be, because it involves desire : the latter it can scarce be, because it has no object. But this feeling, and its nature, will be best understood from example:. A single act of gratitude prodticeth in the spectator or reader, not only love or esteem for the author, but also a separate feeling, being a vague feeling of gratitude with- out an object ; a feeling, however, that dispose? the spec- tator or reader to acts of gratitude, more than upon an ordinary occasion. 1 his feeling is overlooked by writers upon ethics ; but a man may be convinced of its reality, by attentively watching his own heart when he thinks warmly of any signal act of gratitude : he will be con- scious of thefeelii^ as distinct from the esteem or admir- ation he has for the grateful person. The feeling is singular in the following respect, that it is accompanied with a desire to perform act: of gratitude, without having any object ; though in that state, the mind, wonderfully bent on an object, neglects no opportunity to vent it:elf : 153 any act of kindness or good-will that would pass unre- garded upon another occasion, is greedily seized ; and the- vague feeling is converted into a real passion of gratitude : in ?uch a ttate. favours are returned double. * In like manner, a courageous action produceth in a spectator the passion of admiration directed to the author : and beside this well-known passion, a separate feeling is raijed in the spectator, which may be called an emotion cf courage ; because, while under its influence, he is consci- ous of a boldness and intrepidity beyond what is usual, and longs for proper objects upon which to exert thi; emotion. Spumantemque dari, pecora inter inertia, votis Gptat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leoncm. JEneid. iv. 158* Non altramente il tauro, oue V irriti Gelo o amor con stimoli pungenti, Horribilmente mugge, e co' muggiti Gli spirti in se rLueglia, e Tire ardenti : E'l corno aguzza a i tronchi, e par cli' inuiti Con vani colpi a la battaglia i venti. Tasso, canto J, st. 55, So full of valour that they smote the air For breathing in their faces. Tempest, act 4. sc. 4, c The emotions raised by music, independent of words, must be all of this nature: courage routed by martial G 5 154 muiic performed upon instruments without a voice, can*, not be directed to any object ; nor can grief or pity, raided by melancholy music of the same kind, have an object. ' For another example, let us figure some grand and heroic action, highly agreeable to the spectator ; be:ide veneration for the author, the spectator feels in himself an unusual dignity of character, which disposeth him to- great and noble actions : and herein chiefly consists the. extreme delight every one hath in the histories of con* qutrors and heroes. * This singular feeling, which may be termed tic. symfa*. ihetic emotion ofvittue, resembles, in one respect, the well, known appetites that lead to the propagation and preserv- ation of the species. The appetites of hunger, thirst, and animal love, arise in the mind before they are directed to any object ; and in no case whatever is the mind more so- licitous for a proper object, than when under the influ- ence of any of these appetites. ' The feeling I have endeavoured to unfold, may well be termed the sympathetic emotion of virtue ; for it is raised in a spectator, or in a reader, by virtuous actions of every kind, and by no other sort. When we contemplate a virtuous action, which fails not to prompt our love for the authrr, our propensity at the same time, to such actions, is eo much enlivened, as to become, for a time, an actual emotion. But no man hath a propensity to vice as such : on the contrary, a wicked deed disgusts him, and makes him ab- hcir the author ; and this abhorrence is a strong antidote 155 again. t vice, as long as any impression remains of tile wicked action. ' In a rcugh road, a halt to view a fine country is refresh- ing ; and here a delightful prospect opens upon us. Tt i, indeed, wonderful to ob.erte what incitements there are to virtue in the human frame : justice is perceived to he our duty ; and it is guarded hy natural punishments, from which the guilty never escape : to perform noble and ge- nerous actions, a warm sense of their dignity and superior excellence is a most efficacious incitement.* And to leave virtue in no quarter unsupported, here is unfolded an admirable contrivance, by which good example com- mands the heart, and adds to virtue the force of habit. We approve every virtuous action, and bestow our affec- tion on the author ; but if virtuous actions produced no other effect upon us, good example would not have great influence ; the sympathetic emotion under consideration bestows upon good example the utmost influence, by prompting us to imitate what we admire. This singular emotion will readily find an object to exert itself upon ; and, at any rate, it never exists without producing some effect , because virtuous emotions of that sort, are, in some degree, an exerche of virtue ; they are a mental exercise at least, if they appear not externally. And every exercise of virtue, internal and external, Jeads t0 habit ; for a disposition or propensity of the mind, like a * See Essays on morality and Natural Religion, Part x. essay, ii. ch, 4, G 6- 156 limb of the body becomes stronger by exercise. Proper means, at the same time, being ever at hand to raise this sympathetic emotion, its frequent reiteration may, in a good measure, supply the want of a more complete ex- ercise. Thus, by proper discipline, every person may acquire a settled habit of virtue : intercourse with men of worth, histories of generous and disinterested actions, and frequent meditation upon them, keep the sympathe- tic emotion in constant exercise, which, by degrees, in- troduceth a habit, and confirms the authority of virtue. With respect to education in particular, what a spacious and commodious avenue to the heart of a young person is here opened !' Elements of Criticism^ chap. ii. sect. 4. In another passage, he applies this doctrine to fiction. ' Having assigned the means by which fiction commands our passions, what only remains for accomplishing our present task, is to assign the final cause. I have already mentioned, that fiction, by means of language, has the command of our sympathy for the good of others. By the same means our sympathy may also be raised for our own good. In the fourth section of the present chapter, it is observed, that examples both of virtue and of vice raise virtuous emotions ; which becoming stronger by exercise, tend to make us virtuous by habit, as well as by principle. I now further observe, that examples confined to real events are not so frequent, as without other means, to pro- duce a habit of virtue : if they be, they are not recorded by historians. It therefore shews great wisdom, to form us in such a manner, as to be susceptible of the same im- 157 pruvement from fable that we receive from genuine Iiie- tory. By that contrivance, examples to improve us in virtue may be multiplied without end ; no other sort of discipline contributes more to make virtue habitual, and no other sort is EO agreeable in the application/ The next shall be from Johnson : ' These familiar histories may perhaps be made of greater use than the solemnities of professed morality, and convey the knowledge of vice and virtue with more efiicacy than axioms and definitions. Eut if the power cf example is so great, as to take possession of the memory by a kind of violence, and produce effects almost with- out the intervention of the will, care ought to be taken that, when the choice is unrestrained, the best examples only should be exhibited ; and that which is likely to ope- rate so strongly should not be mischievous or uncertain in its effects. 4 The chief advantages which these fictions have over real life is, that their authors are at liberty, though not to invent, yet to select objects, and to call from the mass of mankind those individuals upon which the attention ought most to be employed ; as a diamond, though it cannot be made, may be polished by art, and placed in such a situation, as to display that lustre which before was buried among common stones. * It is justly considered as the greatest excellency of art s to imitate nature ; but it it necessary to distinguish those parts of nature which are most proper for imitation: greater care is still required in representing life, which is 158 so often discoloured by passion, or deformed by wicked- ness. If the world be promiscuously described, I cannot ;ee of what use it can be to read the account ; or why it may not be as safe to turn the eye immediately upon mankind, as upon a mirror which shews all that pre- sents itself without discrimination. * It is therefore Hot a sufficient vindication of a charac- ter, that it is drawn as it appears; for many characters ought never to be drawn ; nor of .a narrative, that the train of events is agreeable to observation and experience ; for that observation which is called knowledge of the world, will be found much more frequently to make men cunning than good. The purpose of these writings is, surely, not only to shew mankind, but to provide that they may be seen hereafter with the less hazard ; to teach the. means of avoiding the snares which are laid by treachery for innocence, without infusing any wish for that superiority with which the betrayer flatters his vani- ty ; to give the power of counteracting fraud without the temptation to practise it ; to initiate youth by mock en- counters in the art of necessary defence, and to increase prudence without impairing virtue. ' Many writers, for the sake of following nature, so mingle good and bad qualities in their principal person- ages, that they are both principally conspicuous ; and as we accompany them through their adventures with de- light, and are led by degrees to interest ourselves in their favour, we lose the abhorrence of their fault?, because they do not hinder our pleasure, or, perhaps, regard them with some kindness, for being united with so much merit. 1 There have bten men indeed splendidly wicked, whose endowments threw a brightness on their crimes, and* whom scarce any villainy made perfectly detestable, be- cause they could never be wholly divested of their excel- lencies : but such have been in all ages the great cor- rupters of the world ; and their remembrance ought no more to be preserved, than the art of murdering without pain. ' Some have advanced, without due attention to the con- sequences of this notion, that certain virtues have their correspondent faults, and therefore to exhibit either a- part is to deviate from probability. Thus men are observed by Swift to be grateful in the same degree as they are resentful. This principle, with others of the same kind, supposes man to act from a brute impulse, and pursue a certain degree of inclination, without any choice c the object : for, otherwise, though it should be allow- ed that gratitude and resentment arise from the same constitution of the passions, it follows not that they will be equally indulged, when rea on is consulted ; and un- less that consequence be admitted, this sagacious maxim becomes an empty sound, without any relation to prac- tice or to life. * Nor is it evident that even the first motions to these effects are always in the same proportion ; for pride, which produces quickness of resentment, will frequently* obstruct gratitude, by an unwillingness to admit that in- feriority which obligation necessarily implies ; and it is surely very unlikely, that he who cannot think he re* cjeives a favour, will ever acknowledge it. 160 * It is of the utmost importance to mankind, that posi- tions of this tendency should be laid open and confuted; for while men consider good and evil as springing from the same road, they will spare the one for the sake of the other; and in judging, if not of others, at least of themselves, \villbe apt to estimate their virtues by their vkes. To this fatal error, all those will contribute, who confound the colours of right and wrong, and instead of helping to settle their boundaries, mix them with so much art, that no common mind is capable to disunite them. ' la narratives where historical veracity has no place, I cannot discover why there should not be exhibited the most perfect idea of virtue ; of virtue not angelical, nor above probability ; for what \ve cannot credit we shall never imitate ; but of the highest and purest kind that humanity can reach ^ which, when exercifed in such trials as the various revolutions of things shall bring upon it, may, by conquering some calamities, and enduring others, teach us what we may hope, and what we can-perform. Vice, for vice is necessary to be shewn, should always disgust, nor should the graces of gaiety, or the dignity of courage, be so united with it, as to reconcile it to the niind. Wherever it appears, it should raise hatred by the malignity of its practices, and contempt by the meanness of its stratagems: for while it is supported by either parts or spirit, it will be seldom heartily abhored. The Roman tyrant was content to be hated, if he was but feared ; and there are thousands of the readers of ro- mances willing to be thought wicked, if they may be a!- 161 lowed to be wits. It is therefore to be always inculcat- ed, that virtue is the highest proof of a superior under- standing, and the only solid basis of greatness ; and that vice 13 the natural consequence of narrow thoughts ; that it begins in mistake, and ends in ignominy.' Dr. Blair has also expressed an opinion of the utility which may be derived from this mode of writing, though he does not, perhaps, discover altogether the same discri- mination as to the manner in which this may be effected. * Fictitious histories might be employed for very use ful purposes. They furnish one of the best channels for conveying instruction, for painting human life and manners, for shewing the errors into which we are be- trayed by our passions, for rendering virtue amiable, and vice odious. The effect of well- contrived storks towards accomplishing these purposes, is stronger than any effect that can be produced by simple and naked instruction; and hence we find, that the wi est men in all ages haye more or less employed fables and fictions, as the vehicles of knowledge. These have ever been the basis of Epic and Dramatic poetry. It is not, there- fore, the nature of this sort of writing considered in it self, but the faulty manner of its execution that can ex- pose it to any contempt, 1 Note [c] referred to in page 59. Ihe great actions performed by the heroes of tire Iliad are generally by means of extraordinary assistance from some of the powers above, A striking instance of the same thing occurs at the close of the eighth book of the ./Eneid, where Virgil gives a description of the battle of Actiufn. This, we may observe, was designed as a di- rect piece of flattery to Augustus. By what means then does he obtain this victory, and with it the empire of the word ? Is it by some splendid and unparalleled display of wisdom and valour ? No : It is Apollo, who bends his bow from on high. Omnis co terrore Egyptus et Indi, Omnis Arabs, omnes vertere terga Sabei, ON CERTAIN EFFECTS OF RHYME IN POETICAL COMPOSITION. RHYME is a practice which has at ones been very generally adopted by the poets , and condemned by the critics, of modern times. By its enemies it has been loaded with every kind of abuse, and but feebly de- fended even by its warmest advocates. It is not meant to enter here into any discussion of its general merits. I shall confine myself to cne charge which has been generally con- sidered as wholly unanswerable. Rhyme is supposed to be altogether unmeaning, and to afford no pleasure but that which arises from the mere jingle of similar endings. Upon closer examination, however, we shall perhaps find, that this charge is unfounded..; 164 and that rhyme possesses, in fact, a great variety of expression. Lord Kaimes, so far as I know, "was the first writer \vlio look notice of the expression of rhyme, After treating, at some length, on this subject,* he concludes its natural ef- fect to he that of giving to the verse a mo- derate degree of liveliness and gaiety. Mr. Stewart 5 1 on the other hand, has observed, that it sometimes tends to produce a melan- choly impression. These remarks, however opposite, appear to me to be both well- founded, arid applicable to different circum- stances, according to the following general law. c Rhymes which follow each other in quick succession, inspire cheerfulness and gaiety : a great interval between them, on the con- trary, tends to produce a sedate, serious, and even melancholy impression. The degree in which these effects are produced, is in proportion to the greatness or smalhiess of the interval.' * Elements of Criticism, Vol. II. p. 169 176. f Philosophy of the Human Mind, Note, p. 301. 4to edit. 1G5 1. My first example shall be one employ- ed by Lord Kaimes. Oh ! the pleasing, pleasing anguish, When we love, and when we languish: Pleasure courting, Charms transporting, Fancy viewing, Joys ensuing. Oh! the pleasing, pleasing anguish, Here the two lines at the beginning being short, and having their rhymes contiguous, tend rather to produce an enlivening effect. The very short lines succeeding, produce it in the utmost possible degree. But the last, of which the rhyme is connected with others that are very remote, causes a sudden transi- tion to a quite opposite tone of sentiment. 2. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Here the two rhymes, way, me, immedi- ately following each other, and both connect- 166 f-J with others at a considerable distance, produce, at the close, a deep impression of solemnity, which renders this stanza admira- bly fitted for elegiac composition. 3. In epic poetry the chief requisite is dignity, which occupies a middle place be- tween gaiety and melancholy. The couplet used in English heroic verse, is observed by Lord Kaimes, to partake too much of the former quality Notwithstanding the length of the line, the rhymes appear still to come too close to each other. This appears parti- cularly where sublimity is aimed at ; where, by the frequency of the rhymes, the passage is split into a multitude of little divisions, which prevent any grand effect from being produced. Thus : This seals thy suit, and this fulfils thy vbws He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows ; Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod, The stamp of fate,, and sanction of the God. High heaven, with trembling, the dread signal took, And all Olympus to the centre shook. 167 With this compare the following : Him the Almighty power Hurl'd headlong flaming from the ethereal sky> With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition, there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms! Jt was probably from a secret perception of this, that Milton was led to prefer blank verse ; not merely, as Johnson supposes, be- cause he found it easier. 4. A singular mode of obviating this dis- advantage has been adopted by the Italian poets. Their stanza consists of eight lines ; the six first of which rhyme to each other alternately, and the two last in succession ; as in the following : Quivi da precursor! a noi vien detto Ch'alto d'arme havean sentito E viste insegne, e indicii, onde ban sospetto Che sia vicino essercito infinite 1 08 Non pensier, non color, non cangia aspetto Non muta voce il signor nostro ardito Ben die molti vi sian ch'al fero aviso Tingan di bianca pallidezza il viso. Here the first six are of the nature of the elegiac, while the two concluding lines form a heroic couplet. The opposite qualities of these counteract each other, and bring the verse, on the whole, pretty nearly to a due medium. If the former composes the great- er part of the stanza, the latter occupies the most conspicuous place. I doubt, however, if this variation of the rhymes have in other respects a very happy effect in narrative poetry. 5. Spencer, who formed himself rather too closely upon the Italian school, has used a stanza of nearly the same length. The disposition of the rhymes, however, is differ- ent. Though several follow each other in succession, yet none of these stand by them- selves, so as to form a couplet, but have al- ways some others with which it is connected. 169 This circumstance, with the alexandrine at the close, prevents them from having any -enlivening effect. This structure * of the stanza has, I suspect, had a great influence in occasioning that languor, which, notwith- standing the merit of the poetry, every one -feels in reading the Fairy Queen. Thomson has, with great taste, selected this -stanza for his Castle of Indolence. From it I shall extract the following fine specimen. I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ; You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shews her brightening face* You cannot bar my frequent foot to trace Her lawns and groves by living stream at eve. Let health my limbs and finer fibres brave, And their toys to the great children leave. Of Fancy, Reason, Virtue, nought can me be- reave. Nor can we blame the choice which Beattie has made of it for the Minstrel. H 170 6. 1 cannot help wondering that Milton should have employed the same verse in two poems of so opposite a nature as the Allegro and Penseroso. That which he has chosen is rather too gay even for the Allegro, in which there is no mirth, but merely the cheerfulness of a sedate and contemplative mind. But in the Penseroso there is a de- cided contrast between the sentiment and the measure, of which every one must be sens- ible in the following passage, otherwise ex- tremely beautiful. Sometime walking, not unseen, On the dry smooth-shaven green $ To behold the wand'ring moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray, Through the heav'n's wide pathless way 5 And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. It would be easy to extend these remarks to a much greater length. What has been said, however, may be sufficient to explain 171 the general principle, which the reader, if he chooses, will find little difficulty in applying to any other species of verse. These observ- ations are not certainly of any great import* ance ; yet, if well founded, they may be of some use in leading the poet to choose the measure best adapted to the nature of his subject, 173 Lately published, ly the same Author, and may be had of Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, London, in one Volume 12mo, Price 4s. in Boards, SWISS EMIGRANTS, A TALE. c This is an interesting, affecting, and in- structive tale ; replete with good sense, and good morals. The narrative is ably written, the language is good, and the sentiments are unexceptionable.' ANTIJACOBINREV./^. 1804. c The spectacle which this little volume presents is the most affecting that it is possible to conceive. It assumes, indeed, the humble designation of a tale, but it is a tale in which more genuine morality maybe learned, than H 3 174 in some of the most voluminous systems of ethics. Though simple, it is natural, and deeply interesting ; far more so, indeed, than thousands in which every art has been ex- hausted for attaining this object. No man possessed of common feeling will peruse this volume, without having the nobler propensi- sities of his nature strengthened and refin- ed ; for it breathes the real spirit of patriot- ism, domestic virtue, and rational religion. ' N. BRITISH MAG. & REV. Aug. 1804. c THE object of this well-told tale is at once to set forth the happiness which may be de- rived from the practice of beneficence in an humble and obscure sphere, and to exhibit a moving picture of the misery of which war is productive.' MONTHLY REV. July, I8Q4L U. C. BERKELEY