_OLD NOVELS THAT ARE GOOD._
At the top of the ladder of literature is poetry, to which only a few
succeed in climbing. Next is the essay, a large comfortable niche cut
in the side of the rock of ages, which is never crowded, and so is all
the more grateful to those who frequent it. And down at the bottom is
the novel, which we all read.
Novels are read for various reasons, which are not often truthfully set
down by the professional critic. Truth, however, is always best, and no
one need be ashamed of it.
Most of us read novels for the same reason that we go to the
theatre--for amusement. We want to get away from the weary commonplace
things about us, and get some refreshment by dipping into another
world. Perhaps our social world is narrow; but in a good novel we may
move in the best society. Possibly we are ambitious, and wish to read
of the things we would like to have if we could. Reading about them is
next best to having them. Or possibly our world is so unexciting and
dreary that we need the excitement of an exciting novel to keep us from
dying of decay. Excitement is a good thing, really necessary to life,
however bad it may be when carried to extremes. Some people become
feverish in their chase for excitement and in their constant reading of
exciting novels; but we must not condemn the healthy for the excesses
of the mentally sick.
The excitement afforded by novels is of several different kinds. There
is the excitement of love and passion--perhaps the most deeply grained
sentiment of the human heart, and apparently the most necessary to
health of the heart, especially in these days when our spontaneous
emotions are constantly being repressed. Then there is the excitement
of travel and adventure. Finally we have the novel of intellectual
piquancy, the book full of epigrams and smart sayings such as Oscar
Wilde might have written. The novel of love and passion may be
the lascivious and dirty book, or sin equally by being the weakly
sentimental Sunday school story. The abuse of the novel of travel and
adventure is the cheap dime novel, or the high-priced dime novel called
the historical romance. And the extreme of the epigrammatic story is
the snobby smart novel, which tends to make prigs of us. This last
novel is largely a modern development.
In any of these lines a novel is good if it gives us real men and
women, acting naturally and truly, and is written with sufficient
rapidity and lightness. The great sin in a novel is ignorance of human
nature; and the next sin is dullness. Either is fatal.
The oldest examples of modern fiction are two great collections of
tavern tales--Boccaccio’s Decameron and the Arabian Nights. These
stories were told to amuse; because they amused those who listened to
them, they have well succeeded in amusing English readers for several
hundred years since. The Decameron is largely a series of stories of
love and passion. They are many of them exceedingly amusing even to
the modern reader; but according to modern standards so many of them
are actually indecent that a translation of this book is hardly to be
obtained in a respectable bookstore, and should never be allowed in the
hands of a person under twenty-five.
For the young the great book of exciting adventure is the Arabian
Nights. All the indecent stories have been omitted in the modern
translations, and the excitement stops short of the point at which
it can do any serious harm in over-stimulation. The best story to
begin with is that of Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp--a story every
one ought to be familiar with; and next to that the series of tales
of the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor. After reading these, turn
to Poe’s clever “Thousand-and-Second Tale of Scheherezade,” which
closely follows the adventures of Sinbad, but bases every wonder on a
scientific fact stated in a note. This modern tale of wonder is much
more marvellous than the imaginary wonder stories of the ancients,
though its wonders are in reality strict truths. Mr. H. G. Wells, the
modern novelist, has followed out the same line successfully in his
pseudo-scientific stories. By comparative study of this kind one will
find fresh interest in an old book.
The Decameron and the Arabian Nights are not properly novels, but
rather collections of short stories. The oldest readable novel is Don
Quixote. It is an excellent book to read aloud in a mixed company, and
is still as funny as any modern book. Don Quixote is a gentleman of
kind heart and a certain innate refinement, in spite of the crack in
his brain and his tilting at windmills. Sancho Panza is the thoroughly
practical, faithful clown; and Sancho Panza’s mule and Don Quixote’s
warhorse are characters in themselves. The book was written as a satire
on chivalry; but its humanity has made it live long since the death of
knight-errantry. Gulliver, too, was a satire, but now we read it merely
as an amusing story; and Fielding’s Joseph Andrews was commenced as a
satire on Richardson’s Pamela, but became so interesting as a story
that even in its own day readers forgot all about the parody.
Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress was written in the seventeenth century, by
a tinker, in prison; and it is a distinctly religious book. But even
the non-religious will admit that it is a good human story. Intended
originally as an allegory, we read it now for its own story interest.
Along with the Arabian Nights young people should, without exception,
read Robinson Crusoe. Nearly every one has read it; but there are
parts of it that will bear reading again and again and many times. The
introduction may be skipped; but beginning with Crusoe’s shipwreck on
the island we are deeply fascinated by all he does to care for himself
and find some amusement. He is an intensely practical man, and never
gets sentimental, because he is always at work, a good thing for some
of us moderns who are inclined to bemoan our lot. For about a hundred
pages this account of the life on the island continues, but when Crusoe
is rescued the interest grows less, and we may very well omit the last
half of the book.
The first modern novel was begun by Richardson somewhat over a hundred
and fifty years ago as a book of instruction on correct letter writing.
Richardson was a printer fifty years old. In his youth he had often
helped young ladies write love letters. So it was thought he could
write a good book of model letters. He put a story into them to make
them more lifelike and interesting, and the story turned out to be the
beginning of modern fiction as an established form of literature, for
the good novels that had gone before had not led the way for others as
Richardson’s books did.
All Richardson’s novels are written in the form of letters, and to
modern readers are decidedly tedious.
Clarissa Harlowe is the best of them; but it is much too long, and
often dull. Clarissa is beset by Lovelace, spirited away, made to
quarrel with her family, and outwardly compromised in every possible
fashion; but through it all she maintains her maiden purity, and
finally compels the man to marry her. We would like her better if she
were a little more human and spontaneous--in short, if she had been a
little more of a sinner.
But there is one novel of that day and time which is first rate reading
even to-day, and that is Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones. Fielding was a
rake and a joker. He started as a novelist by making fun of the good
Richardson. But his characters are certainly natural, even if a little
spicy. Tom came into the world in an irregular way, and led a very
irregular life. He is by no means a model for the young, and Fielding
tells of his sins in a way that to-day would be considered positively
indecent. And yet we cannot help liking Tom, and he comes out all right
at the end. Sophia Western forgives him for his faults, and loves and
marries him. Old Squire Western is one of the most famous characters
in the book, and a mixture of shrewdness, drollery, roughness and
good-heartedness he certainly is.
Other books of this period which have been often spoken of are
Smollett’s Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, and Humphrey Clinker, and
Stern’s Tristram Shandy; but they are a little tedious to the modern
reader, and like Richardson’s novels must probably be left on the
library shelves.
The last of the good novels of this period is Goldsmith’s Vicar
of Wakefield. The perfect simplicity of this story is its eternal
recommendation. The Vicar is a simple-minded man, and somebody is
always “doing him” or his simple son or his vain wife and daughters.
We cannot help liking the old man for his unquenchable cheerfulness
under all misfortunes, and the women, though old-fashioned, are not yet
out of date in their feminine weaknesses. It is the very shortest of
old-time novels. Some may not like so very simple a story, but if one
has a sense of sly humour, the Vicar will be found good reading.
There is also a French novel of this period which deserves to be read
much more than it is. It is hard to tell just why it has somehow fallen
into obscurity, unless it is the fact that it is French, and as unlike
any other French novel as possible. It is Le Sage’s Gil Blas, and the
scene is Spain. Gil is not unlike Tom Jones, though more of a wanderer,
and goes from one adventure to another. Though some of his experiences
are risqué, not one of them is offensive or even approaching indecency.
The most innocent person will not be offended by anything in Gil Blas,
for evidently Le Sage was a pure-minded man. The adventures are both
exciting and amusing; and there is a fine string of them.
There is nothing subtle about the old-time novels. They are excellent
amusing stories, and that is all. Originally no more than tavern yarns,
they have lived because they give us real men and women, and tell the
truth about human nature. They are not very refined, and there is
nothing aristocratic about them. They come from the people, and have
something of the vulgarity of the people about them. But time has
softened away the objectionable points. While we may be offended by
present-day vulgarity, we probably will not even recognize that of a
former age.