completeness on the application of Gulliver's Travels. The satire
gathered strength and bitterness in its progress, until the limits of
horror were reached in the voyage to the Houyhnhnms. This portion of
the work cannot be considered to apply universally. Man does not here
perceive a truthful reflection of himself. The Houyhnhnms, beings
endowed with reason, but undisturbed and untempted by the passions or
struggles of earthly existence, are not brutes, and are not to be
compared with men. The Yahoos, in their total depravity, are not human;
they represent, and that with a terrible truthfulness, the condition
into which men may fall when their animal instincts and baser passions
are allowed to subvert their reason and their noble qualities. The more
a man suffers his better nature to yield to his lower, the more he
resembles the detestable Yahoo. In this sense alone, the satire applies
generally to mankind; but it applies with peculiar point to some
characteristics of Swift's time. In reading the following passage, it
is impossible not to be reminded of the treatment of Sir Robert Walpole
by his former flatterers and sycophants when his power seemed at an
end:
Some curious _Houyhnhnms_ observe that in most herds there was a
sort of ruling _Yahoo_, * * * who was always more deformed in body
and mischievous in disposition than any of the rest; that this
leader had usually a favorite as like himself as he could get,
whose employment was to lick his master's feet * * * and drive the
female Yahoos to his kennel; for which he was now and then rewarded
with a piece of ass's flesh. This favorite is hated by the whole
herd, and, therefore, to protect himself, keeps always near the
person of his leader. He usually continues in office till a worse
can be found; but the very moment he is discarded, his successor,
at the head of all the _Yahoos_ in that district, young and old,
male and female, come in a body, and * * * (defile) him from head
to foot.
But Swift, in his denunciation of men under the form of the Yahoos,
disclosed the narrowness of his own misanthropy. When Gulliver has
returned from his last voyage, with a mind which had dwelt on the
beastliness and vice of the human race as it existed in the land of the
Houyhnhnms, his warped judgment is unable to discern in his countrymen
any attributes but those which they seem to share with the Yahoos:--
My wife and family received me with great surprise and joy, because
they concluded me certainly dead; but I must freely confess the sight
of them filled me only with hatred, disgust, and contempt; and the
more, by reflecting on the near alliance I had to them. * * * As soon
as I entered the house, my wife took me in her arms and kissed me;
at which, having not been used to the touch of that odious animal
for so many years, I fell into a swoon for almost an hour. At the
time I am writing, it is five years since my last return to England:
during the first year, I could not endure my wife or children in my
presence; the very smell of them was intolerable, much less could I
suffer them to eat in the same room. To this hour they dare not
presume to touch my bread, or drink out of the same cup; neither
was I ever able to let one of them take me by the hand.
Thus Swift himself, from the vividness with which he realized, and the
intensity with which he hated, the vices and failings of humanity, was
unable to duly appreciate the good, which, in some measure, always
accompanies the evil.
It was the habit of the great Dean to utter the witticisms which caused
the continual delight or terror of all who approached him with the most
stern composure. Such was the manner of the "Travels." The solemn and
circumstantial narrative style, imitated from the old English explorers
added verisimilitude to the incidents and point to the sarcasm.
Trifles, personal to the traveller and of no consequence to the course
of the story, gave an appearance of truth to the whole work. Thus
Gulliver keeps the reader informed of the most minute details
interesting to himself. "I took part of a small house in the Old Jewry;
and being advised to alter my condition, I married Mrs. Mary Burton,
second daughter to Mr. Edmund Burton, hosier, in Newgate Street, with
whom I received four hundred pounds for a portion." In the same way he
informs us carefully that the date of his sailing on the first voyage
was May 4, 1699, from Bristol, and the storm which destroyed the ship
arose when in the latitude of 30 degrees 2 minutes south. In a work of
fiction only such events are expected as have a direct bearing upon the
development of the plot, and when immaterial details are introduced,
the reader is likely to be impressed with their truth. In this way the
personality of Gulliver is kept up, and he remains, through whatever
strange scenes he passes, the same honest, blunt English sailor.
Yet more remarkable is the skill of the author in maintaining the
probability of the allegory. When living among the Lilliputians,
Gulliver insensibly adopts their ideas of size. He admires as much as
they the prowess of the horseman who clears his shoe at a single leap.
When the committee of the Lilliputian king examine Gulliver's pockets,
they describe his handkerchief as a "great piece of coarse cloth, large
enough to be a foot-cloth to your majesty's chief room of state"; his
purse is "a net, almost large enough for a fisherman," containing
"several massy pieces of yellow metal, which, if they be real gold,
must be of immense value." The same almost mathematical accuracy of
proportion is kept up in the visit to Brobdingnag, and on Gulliver's
return to his native country he experiences as much trouble in
reaccustoming his mind to the ordinary standard as he had met with in
adopting that of pigmies or giants. There was a country clergyman
living in Ireland, who declared there were some things in Gulliver's
Travels he could not quite believe. His difficulty probably occurred in
the "Voyage to the Houyhnhnms." In the latter part of the work Swift
allowed the fiction to yield to the exigencies of the satire. So long
as we can imagine the existence of giants and pigmies, it is easy to
realize all the circumstances connected with Gulliver's existence among
them, but it is impossible to feel the same sense of reality in regard
to horses who live in houses they could not build, and who eat oats
they could not harvest.[154]
The general desire for reform is not more clearly to be seen in Acts of
Parliament than in the works of Swift and Addison. The earlier part of
the century was marked by a strong realization of evil, and by a
constantly growing inclination to suppress it. The first condition is
illustrated by the fierce satire of "Gulliver's Travels," the second
by the earnest admonitions of the _Spectator_. The two great authors
make a striking contrast. Swift, misanthropic, miserable, bitter;
Addison, happy, loving mankind, admired alike by ally and opponent,
Swift, dying mad; Addison, calm, conscious, employing his last moments
to ask pardon of one he had offended. The same contrast is in their
works. Swift dwelt and gloated on the evil about him, exposed it in
more than its own deformity, and left his reader to reflect on his own
degradation. Addison, to whom that evil was almost equally apparent,
but who turned from its contemplation with horror, exerted all his
talents to correct it. "The great and only end of these speculations,"
he tells the reader of the _Spectator_, "is to banish vice and
ignorance out of the territories of Great Britain."
With solemn reproof and delicate raillery, Addison urged women to lay
aside coarseness and folly, and preached against the licentiousness,
swearing, gambling, duelling, and drunkenness of the men. He attacked
with both argument and ridicule the idea so prevalent since the
Restoration, that vice was necessarily associated with pleasure and
elegance, virtue with Puritanism and vulgarity. To teach people to be
witty without being indecent, gay without being vicious, such was the
object of Addison. As M. Taine says, he made morality fashionable. To
do this he exposed the folly and ugliness of vice. But he did more. He
held up to the public view characters who exemplified his teachings,
and were calculated to attract imitation. In the creation and
delineation of these characters he unconsciously began the English
novel.
We should look in vain in the pages of Fielding, of Scott, or of George
Eliot, for a more perfect sketch of character than that of Sir Roger
de Coverley. And the minor personages are little less delicately and
naturally drawn. There is the Bachelor of the Inner-Temple, "an
excellent critick," to whom "the time of the play is his hour of
business"; Sir Andrew Freeport, the typical merchant; Captain Sentry,
"a gentleman of great courage, good understanding, but invincible
modesty"; Will Honeycomb, "an honest, worthy man where women are not
concerned"; the clergyman, who has ceased to have "interests in this
world, as one who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and
conceives hope from his decays and infirmities." "These are my ordinary
companions," says the _Spectator_, whom we soon learn to know very well
too.
Addison's knowledge of human nature, and his skill in delineating it in
single touches, place him in the front rank of writers of fiction,
notwithstanding the limit of his contributions to this department of
literature. In a few words we are made to see and know the Quaker who
reproves the insolent captain on the stage-coach: "Thy mirth, friend,
savoureth of folly; thou art a person of a light mind; thy drum is a
type of thee, it soundeth because it is empty." There is nothing
wanting to the reader's perfect acquaintance with Will Wimble, the poor
relation. All who know Worcestershire, says the _Spectator_, "are very
well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger." His fame has
spread from Worcestershire throughout the English-speaking world, where
he has been loved and admired for more than a hundred and fifty years.
Sir Roger de Coverley is not to be described by any pen but that of
Addison. He exhibits, joined to a perfect simplicity, the qualities of
a just, honest, useful man, and delightful companion. Our acquaintance
with him is a personal one. We know how he appears at his
country-house, surrounded by admiring tenants and servants, and how he
occupies himself in London, and whom he meets there. We know his
ancestry, the extent and management of his estate, his long standing
love affair with the beautiful widow, all his thoughts, opinions, and
surroundings. All who read about Sir Roger remember him with affection.
Addison dwelt with tenderness on every detail regarding him, and
finally described Sir Roger's death to prevent any less reverential pen
from trifling with his hero.
Previous to the publication of the papers of the _Spectator_ relating
to Sir Roger de Coverley, there had been no attempt at what is a
necessary constituent of the modern novel--the study of character.
There had been the romance and the allegory. There had been the short
love story. But with Addison, nature becomes the subject of fiction,
and the novel is begun.
In a review of the remarkable life of Daniel Defoe, he appears to us
under the varied aspects of a tradesman, a pamphleteer, a politician, a
novelist, and, through it all, a reformer. It is in his character as a
novelist that he is now known, and that he is to be considered here.
But there are few among the millions to whom "Robinson Crusoe" has
brought pleasure, who know that the composition of that work was only
one event in a long life of ceaseless labor, political and literary,
and that its author's fame among his contemporaries was assured
independently of it. Defoe's career was so full that both his chief
biographers[155] have found three large volumes to be necessary to do
it justice. And yet it was not until near the end of that busy life,
when the author was fifty-eight years old, feeling the approach of age
and infirmity, and looking about for means to provide for a large
family, that he added the writing of novels to his multifarious
occupations.
There is probably no writer with whose works his life and personality
are more intimately connected. It is impossible to consider the one
separate from the other. Defoe began to write novels as a tradesman, as
a literary hack, and as a reformer. Being dependent on his pen for his
bread, he wrote what was likely to bring in the most immediate return.
He calculated exactly the value and quality of his wares. He gave to
his fictions the same moral object which inspired his own life. His
novels followed naturally on his other labors, and partook of their
character. It was his custom, on the death of any celebrated person, to
write his life immediately, and to send it to the world while public
interest was still fresh. But being often unable to obtain complete or
authentic information concerning the subject of his biography, he
supplemented facts and rumors by plausible inventions. Fiction entered
into his biographies, just as biography afterward entered into his
novels. But in writing the lives of real individuals Defoe recognized
the necessity of impressing his reader with a sense of the truth and
exactitude of the narrative. This effect he attained by the use of a
literary faculty which he possessed in a degree unequalled by any other
writer--that of circumstantial invention. By the multiplication of
small, unimportant details, each one of which is carefully dwelt upon,
and by the insertion of uninteresting personal incidents and moral
reflections, seeming true from their very dulness, he gave to his work
a remarkable verisimilitude. He did not even issue the book under his
own name, but invented an authorship which would attract attention and
credibility. Thus the "History of Charles XII" was announced on the
title-page as "written by a Scot's gentleman in the Swedish service";
and the "Life of Count Patkul" was "written by a Lutheran minister who
assisted him in his last home, and faithfully translated out of a High
Dutch manuscript."[156] The same characteristics appear in all Defoe's
works. He invents freely, giving the most elaborate details to support
his assertions, and attains to an extraordinary degree the art of
"lying like truth." In the "Journal of the Plague Year," Defoe assumed
with his accustomed ease and skill the character of a plain, blunt
London shopkeeper. He described with such apparent accuracy the
observations of a man who had lived in the scene of that terrible
calamity, giving curious incidents, anecdotes, statistics, after so
methodical a manner, that it was long before any doubts were cast on
the authenticity of the journal. It was a work of imagination, but so
matter-of-fact, that it is difficult to believe the author had any
imagination, and that he had not actually witnessed every occurrence he
so calmly related. It is the same with the "Memoirs of a Cavalier." The
civil wars are described by a young officer who took part in them, who
gives a detailed account of his own opinions, his wardrobe, his horse,
his lodgings. Lord Chatham quoted these memoirs as the true account of
an eye-witness. From writing the life of a well known individual, Defoe
had advanced to writing the life of a fictitious person placed amidst
historical scenes. His next step was to write the life of a fictitious
person amidst fictitious scenes.[157]
The "Journal of the Plague Year" had been issued to satisfy a popular
interest excited by the appearance of the plague in France and the
consequent fear of it in England. A similar public demand occasioned
the composition of "Robinson Crusoe." A sailor named Alexander Selkirk
had been "marooned" on the uninhabited island of Juan Fernandez, and
after living there alone for more than four years, had been taken off
by the same captain who had abandoned him. The interest taken in
England in the narrative of this event revealed to Defoe's acute mind a
great literary opportunity. But if he was indebted to the adventure of
Selkirk for the fundamental idea of his novel, he was not the less
original. Never has a greater individuality been given to a fictitious
character, or a more vivid impression of life and reality to the
circumstances surrounding him. The combination of ingenuity and
simplicity which distinguishes the work, has, for a century and a half,
had a peculiar fascination for children, and has awakened the wonder
and admiration of men. There are three works of English fiction of
imperishable interest, all of which have attained in a high degree the
quality of reality, and have charmed alike all classes and ages. In the
allegory of "The Pilgrim's Progress," the sense of reality was produced
by the intense realization of the subject by the author, unassisted by
any literary device. In "Gulliver's Travels" the effect was attained by
a skilful observation of exact proportions, added to a circumstantial
and personal method of narration, which Swift probably owed in some
measure to Defoe. If the reader can accept the possible existence of
pigmies and giants, his credulity is put to no further strain. Defoe
had no difficulty of the supernatural to overcome. He had a power
almost as great as that of Bunyan of identifying himself with his hero;
and he surpassed Swift in the power of circumstantial invention.
The story of "Robinson Crusoe" is too intimately known to require
comment. His over-mastering desire to go to sea, his being cast up by
the breakers on the island, his endless labors, and the resolute
determination which overcame them, his dangers, fears, and the
consolation of religion, the foot-print on the sand, the companionship
with Friday, and the final release, are recollections of our childhood
too familiar to be dwelt upon. But in this very familiarity with
Robinson himself, in the brightness and endurance of our idea of him,
in our acquaintance with the inmost workings of his mind and heart, is
contained the evidence that Defoe not only wrote a novel of adventure,
as he had intended, but that he wrote also a novel of character.
If the author of "Robinson Crusoe" could realize so thoroughly the
difficulties and expedients of a man living on a desert island, he
could deal yet more easily with the adventures and shifts of thieves
and abandoned women which formed the subject of his other tales. In
these minor works, now little known, Defoe displayed equal talents, but
did not attain equal results. The enduring interest which must ever
attach to the central idea of "Robinson Crusoe" the complete isolation
of the man--gave that work a very exceptional claim to the attention of
posterity. But it had other merits, which are not apparent in the same
perfection in Defoe's lesser novels. Its design was single and
concentrated, its chief character natural and strongly marked, its
plot coherent and complete. Moll Flanders and Colonel Jack are indeed
well-drawn and real persons, and the design of the works which bear
their names is clear, but in both cases the plot is merely a series of
independent adventures, and the characters themselves could not, from
their nature, long attract the attention of readers. "Colonel Jack,"
"Captain Singleton," "Moll Flanders," and "Roxana," have been
surpassed, and are neglected. "Robinson Crusoe" is, of its kind,
perfect, and therefore enduring.
But the works of Defoe have a historical, almost equal to their
literary, interest. Whoever would attain a correct idea of the
condition of the lower classes in the earlier part of the eighteenth
century, should consult "Moll Flanders" and "Colonel Jack," as much as
the "Newgate Calendar," and histories of crime and labor. What the
author has described, he had seen.
Defoe was throughout his life a reformer; a large proportion of the
many pamphlets and occasional writings which fell from his pen have for
their object the reformation or exposure of some abuse. Yet a large
number of his fictitious characters are thieves and harlots. The
criminal classes occupied the public mind in the first half of the
eighteenth century to a remarkable degree, and Defoe was not mistaken
in thinking that novels concerning those classes would interest and
sell. He knew that the public taste was low, and his business was to
cater to public taste. He said, in "More Reformation":[158]
Let this describe the nation's character.
One man reads Milton, forty Rochester;
The cause is plain, the temper of the time.
One wrote the lewd, the other the sublime.
To satisfy the forty who read Rochester, Defoe described the lives and
occupations of pirates, pickpockets, highwaymen, and women of abandoned
character. The title-pages of some of these novels cannot with decency
be quoted, and the novels themselves are filled with criminal and
licentious scenes. But the reforming inclination of Defoe himself, and
that which we find in the general literature of the time, induced him
to turn these scenes into a moral account. Moll Flanders is a low,
cunning, thoroughly bad woman, and her life is placed quite bare before
the reader. Yet Defoe asserts that the book is designed to teach a good
lesson.[159] "There is not a superlative villain brought upon the
stage, but either he is brought to an unhappy end, or brought to be a
penitent. There is not an ill thing mentioned, but it is condemned even
in the relation; nor a virtuous, just thing, but it carries its praise
along with it. * * * Upon this foundation the book is recommended to
the reader, as a work from every part of which something may be
learned, and some just and religious inference is drawn." Defoe,
thoroughly a man of his time, thought he could put the coarsest and
most vicious matter before his reader, and reasonably expect him to
profit by the moral, without being hurt by contact with the vice. "All
possible care," he says, "has been taken to give no lewd ideas, no
immodest turns in the dressing up of this story. * * * To this purpose
some of the vicious part of her life, which could not be modestly told,
is quite left out, and several other parts very much shortened. What is
left, 'tis hoped will not offend the chastest reader, or the modestest
hearer." To any one acquainted with "Moll Flanders" this seems a
strange statement. It exhibits the standard of the age. Mrs. Behn said
almost the same thing about her novels and plays. To make up for the
low, vicious life unrolled before us, it is not enough that Moll at
last "grew rich, lived honest, and died penitent."
The aim of "Roxana, or the Fortunate Mistress," like that of "Moll
Flanders," is to describe the gradual corruption of a woman, who is
influenced by some conscientious scruples and misgivings, but the
heroine is placed in a higher station of life. We have a curious
commentary on the times in comparing the body of the work with the
preface. "Roxana" is among the coarsest records of vice in English
fiction. But yet it is to impart moral instruction. "In the manner she
has told the story it is evident she does not insist upon her
justification in any part of it; much less does she recommend her
conduct, or, indeed, any part of it, except her repentance, to our
imitation. On the contrary, she makes frequent excursions, in a just
censuring and condemning her own practice. How often does she reproach
herself in the most passionate manner, and guide us to make just
reflections in the like cases?" The modern reader is astonished to find
"that all imaginable care has been taken to keep clear of indecencies
and immodest expressions; and, it is hoped, you will find nothing to
prompt a vicious mind, but everywhere much to discourage and expose
it."
Defoe is much more successful in teaching a moral lesson in "Colonel
Jack." The aim of this novel is to describe the course of a street-boy
who takes to thieving before he knows that it is not a legitimate
business, and who being possessed naturally of a good character is
brought to repentance and reform when subjected to better influences.
Defoe's preface has great significance when we consider the deplorable
condition of the lower classes and no better idea can be gained of the
usual fate of the children of the poor than is afforded by this novel.
Here is room for just and copious observations on the blessings and
advantages of a sober and well-governed education, and the ruin of
so many thousands of all ranks in this Nation for want of it; here
also we may see how much public schools and charities might be
improved, to prevent the destruction of so many unhappy children,
as, in this town, are every year bred up for the executioner.
The miserable condition of multitudes of youth, many of whose
natural tempers are docible, and would lead them to learn the best
things, rather than the worst, is truly deplorable, and is
abundantly seen in the history of this man's childhood; where,
though circumstances formed him by necessity to be a thief,
surprising rectitude of principles remained with him, and made him
early abhor the worst part of his trade, and at length to forsake
the whole of it. Had he come into the world with the advantage of a
virtuous education, and been instructed how to improve the generous
principles he had in him, what a figure might he not have made,
either as a man or a Christian.
The promise of the preface is fulfilled. The whole work is a protest
against the neglect of the education and training of the youth of the
lower classes; and the life of Colonel Jack would be apt to have a good
effect on youthful readers of the time. In Chapter X, when Jack has
risen by his industry and humanity from being a slave on a Virginia
plantation to the rank of an overseer, and finally to that of an
independent planter, he makes a long digression to rejoice in his
change of condition and character:
It was an inexpressible joy to me, that I was now like to be not
only a man, but an honest man; and it yielded me a greater
pleasure, that I was ransomed from being a vagabond, a thief, and a
criminal, as I had been from a child, than that I was delivered
from slavery, and the wretched state of a Virginia sold servant; I
had notion enough in my mind of the hardship of the servant or
slave, because I had felt it, and worked through it; I remembered
it as a state of labour and servitude, hardship and suffering. But
the other shocked my very nature, chilled my blood, and turned the
very soul within me; the thought of it was like reflections upon
hell and the damned spirits; it struck me with horror, it was
odious and frightful to look back on, and it gave me a kind of fit,
a convulsion or nervous disorder, that was very uneasy to me.
These reflections remind us of the self-communings of Bunyan in "Grace
Abounding in the Chief of Sinners." They express the feelings of
remorse and the longings for a better state arising in the mind of a
rough but conscientious man. They are the promptings of a strong moral
nature, and illustrate those national qualities which brought about the
reforms which distinguish the latter half of the eighteenth century.
Colonel Jack took advantage of every opportunity for improvement. When
a vagabond in Scotland, he learned with infinite pains to read and
write. When a planter in Virginia, he took for his schoolmaster a
transported felon, who knew Latin. This spirit of self-advancement by
patient labor, by invincible resolution, is the spirit of Defoe's
writings; it is the English characteristic which has raised the nation
to all its prosperity and greatness.
When "Robinson Crusoe" had attained celebrity, Defoe claimed that it
was an allegory of his own life. A parallel might easily be drawn
between the isolation of the solitary sailor on his island, and that
of the persecuted author in the heart of a great city. All the world,
and particularly his literary brethren, had been against Defoe. Pope
had put him into the "Dunciad," Swift had spoken of him as "the fellow
who was pilloried, I forget his name," He had known oppression and
poverty, the pillory and the prison. He has left us his own view of the
aim of "Robinson Crusoe."[160] "Here is invincible patience recommended
under the worst of misery; indefatigable application and undaunted
resolution under the greatest and most discouraging circumstances." And
such is the moral of Defoe's own life.
Mrs. Heywood had written a number of stories[161] resembling, in the
licentiousness of their character and the flimsiness of their
construction, the novels of Mrs. Behn. Toward the end of her life she
wrote "Miss Betsey Thoughtless," which is believed to have suggested to
Miss Burney some of the incidents in "Evelina." This novel was
exceedingly popular, and had some merit, considering the period of its
composition. It is among the earliest specimens of a domestic novel;
the plot has interest, and the characters are life-like. It
illustrates, if any illustration were needed, the prevailing absence of
any elevated view, either of love, or of the relations between men and
women. The book is made up of easy seductions and licentious talk, and
represents its youthful characters as very familiar with dissolute
scenes and thoughts.
[Footnote 151: "Julius Cæsar," Act. I, sc. 2. Quoted in Scott's "Life
of Swift." For Swift, see also "Life" by Sheridan, by Roscoe, and by
Forster.]
[Footnote 152: "Life of Swift."]
[Footnote 153: Sir W. Scott. "Life of Swift."]
[Footnote 154: See "Life of Swift," by Scott.]
[Footnote 155: Wilson "Life of Defoe." Lee, "Life of Defoe."]
[Footnote 156: See "Daniel Defoe," by William Minto, p. 135. American
edition.]
[Footnote 157: William Minto, "Life of Defoe," p. 134:--"From writing
biographies with real names attached to them, it was but a short step
to writing biographies with fictitious names."]
[Footnote 158: "Memoir of Defoe," William Hazlitt, p. 30.]
[Footnote 159: See the preface to "Moll Flanders."]
[Footnote 160: Preface to the "Serious Reflections of Robinson
Crusoe."]
[Footnote 161: "Love in Excess," "The British Recluse," "The Injured
Husband," "Jenny and Jemmy Bessamy," "The Fortunate Foundling."]
III.
Samuel Richardson might have stood for Hogarth's "Industrious
Apprentice." When a printer's boy, young Samuel stole from his hours
of rest and relaxation the time to improve his mind. He was careful not
to tire himself by sitting up too late at night over his books, and
purchased his own candles, so that his master, who called him the
"pillar of his house," might suffer no injury from his servant's
improvement.[162] Thus Richardson persevered in the path of virtue,
until, like the "Industrious Apprentice," himself, he married his
master's daughter, succeeded to his business, and lived happy and
respected, surrounded by all the blessings which should fall to the lot
of the truly good.
"I was not fond of play, as other boys," says the author of "Pamela";
"my school-fellows used to call me _Serious_ and _Gravity_; and five of
them particularly, delighted to single me out, either for a walk, or at
their fathers' houses, or at mine, to tell them stories, as they
phrased it. Some I told them from my reading, as true; others from my
head, as mere invention; of which they would be most fond. * * * _All
my stories carried with them, I am bold to say, an useful moral._"[163]
In such a manner, and with such an intention, Richardson began his
career as a novelist.
The life of the stout, vain little printer was already well advanced,
his fortune was assured, and he was surrounded by a group of
affectionate relatives and admiring female friends, when he was asked
by a publisher to write "a little book of familiar letters on the
useful concerns in common life." While thinking over this proposal, be
recollected a story once told him of a young servant-girl, whose honor
was long attempted by a dissolute master, and who, by her resolute
chastity, finally conquered his vicious intentions, and was rewarded
by honorable marriage with her thwarted seducer. And then it occurred
to Richardson, that this story, "if written in an easy and natural
manner, suitable to the simplicity of it, might possibly introduce a
new species of writing, that might possibly turn young people into a
course of reading different from the pomp and parade of romance
writing, and, dismissing the improbable and marvellous, with which
novels generally abound, might tend to promote the cause of religion
and virtue." Such was the origin of a novel destined to make a new era
in English fiction. It is evident that Richardson placed before himself
two aims: to promote the cause of religion and virtue, and to introduce
a new species of writing, and in both he succeeded.
The name, "Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded," sounds like a tract, and
"Pamela" is, indeed, a very long tract. The contrast is curious between
the moral object of the work and its contents. In the preface we are
told that "Pamela" is to inculcate religion and morality in an easy and
agreeable manner; it is to make vice odious, to make virtue truly
lovely, and to give practical examples, "worthy to be followed, in the
most critical cases, by the modest virgin, the chaste bride, and the
obliging wife." Moreover, all this is to be done, "without raising a
single idea throughout the whole, that shall shock the exactest
purity." Yet, "Pamela" contains not a few scenes likely to inflame the
imagination, and its subject, kept continually before the reader's
mind, is the licentious pursuit of a young girl. This story would not
now do for a tract. But it answered the purpose very well in the
eighteenth century. Richardson had no fear his book would give the
youthful reader any new knowledge of evil, or that the long account of
Pamela's attempted seduction would shock the "exactest purity" of his
time. He simply described the dangers to which every attractive young
woman was more or less subject by the prevailing looseness of morals,
while, by the pathetic and resolute resistance of Pamela's chastity, he
undoubtedly enlisted the sympathies of his reader on the side of
virtue. The perusal of the book was recommended by Dr. Sherlock from
the pulpit. One critic declared that it would do more good than twenty
volumes of sermons; another, that if all other books were to be burnt,
"Pamela" and the Bible should be preserved. A gentleman said that he
would give it to his son as soon as he could read, that he might have
an early impression of virtue.[164]
The moral of "Pamela" was virtue rewarded. That of "Clarissa,"
Richardson's second novel, was virtue triumphant, even in disgrace and
ruin. The heroine, to escape the tyranny of her parents who wished to
force her into a marriage she abhors, throws herself on the protection
of a lover, the famous Lovelace, who, failing to seduce her by any
other means, lures her into a brothel, and there violates her person
while she is rendered insensible by opiates. Lovelace offers to make
reparation for his crime by marriage, but in refusing this offer, and
in dying of a broken heart, Clarissa carries out the moral of the
story.
Richardson was blamed for making the libertine hero, Lovelace, more
attractive than was consistent with moral effect. And to remedy this
mistake, he undertook in "Sir Charles Grandison," his last novel, to
draw the portrait of a man of _true honor_; "acting uniformly well
through a variety of trying scenes, because all his actions are
regulated by one steady principle: a man of religion and virtue; of
liveliness and spirit; accomplished and agreeable; happy in himself,
and a blessing to others." Sir Charles then is not a man, but a model.
"Pamela" and "Clarissa" remained virtuous through temptation and trial.
But Grandison is a good man because he has no inducement to be
otherwise. He can afford to be generous, because he is rich; he can
afford to decline a duel, his reputation for skill in swordsmanship is
so well established that he runs no danger of being called a coward; he
is free from licentiousness, because his passions are under perfect
control. The name of Sir Charles Grandison has passed into a proverb,
and its mention calls up to the mind a man of the most dignified
deportment, of the most delicate consideration for women, and of the
most elaborate manners. But it must be remembered that in Sir Charles,
our author drew the portrait of what a gentleman should be, and not of
what a gentleman was. Even the most punctilious men of the time did
not, like Grandison, hesitate to visit a sick person, because it would
involve travelling on Sunday; nor did they, as he, refuse to have their
horses' tails docked, because nature had humanely given those tails as
a protection against flies. The Grandisonian manners are not to be
taken as a picture of contemporary fashion. Richardson was unacquainted
with aristocratic habits, and his high-flown love scenes were purely
ideal. When he goes into high life, said Chesterfield, "he mistakes the
modes." Not long before Sir Charles was making his formal and courtly
addresses to Miss Byron, Walpole had written to George Montagu: "'Tis
no little inducement to wish myself in France, that I hear gallantry is
not left off there; that you may be polite, and not be thought awkward
for it. You know the pretty men of the age in England use the women
with no more deference than they do their coach horses." Such was the
state of things which the example of Sir Charles Grandison was intended
to remedy.
The moral design is an important element in Richardson's novels, but
the extraordinary popularity of these works was owing to other causes.
Richardson had known how to move his reader's heart, and how to give to
his characters a deep personal interest. He had attempted to introduce
"a new species of writing," and public enthusiasm testified to his
success. Colly Cibber read "Clarissa" before its publication, and was
wrought up into a high state of excitement by the story. "What a
piteous, d----d, disgraceful pickle you have placed her in!" he wrote
to Richardson. "For God's sake, send me the sequel, or--I don't know
what to say! * * * My girls are all on fire and fright to know what can
possibly have become of her." And when he heard that Clarissa was to
have a miserable end, he wrote the author: "God d----n him, if she
should."[165] Mrs. Pilkington was not less distressed: "Spare her
virgin purity, dear sir, spare it! Consider if this wounds both Mr.
Cibber and me (_who neither of us set up for immaculate chastity_),
what must it do with those who possess that inestimable treasure?"[166]
Miss Fielding, the sister of the novelist of that name, thus described,
in a letter to its author, her feelings on reading "Clarissa": "When I
read of her, I am all sensation; my heart glows. I am overwhelmed; my
only vent is tears." One Thomas Turner, who kept a village shop in
Sussex, thus recorded in his diary the impression produced upon him by
the death of Clarissa: "Oh, may the Supreme Being give me grace to
lead my life in such a manner as my exit may in some measure be like
that divine creature's."[167] Johnson was an enthusiastic admirer of
Richardson. Dr. Young looked upon him as an "instrument of Providence."
Ladies at Ranelagh held up "Pamela," to show that they had the famous
book.[168] Nor was this interest confined to the last century. "When I
was in India," said Macaulay to Thackeray, "I passed one hot season at
the hills, and there were the governor-general, and the secretary of
government, and the commander-in-chief, and their wives. I had "Clarissa"
with me, and as soon as they began to read, the whole station was in a
passion of excitement about Miss Harlowe and her misfortunes, and her
scoundrelly Lovelace. The governor's wife seized the book, and the
secretary waited for it, and the chief justice could not read it for
tears!" Macaulay "acted the whole scene," adds Thackeray; "he paced up
and down the Athenæum library; I dare say he could have spoken pages
of the book."[169] But admiration of Richardson was still greater among
foreigners. The novels were translated into French, Dutch, and German,
and the enthusiasm they excited may be imagined from the warmth of
Diderot's eulogy: "I yet remember with delight the first time ('Clarissa')
came into my hands. I was in the country. How deliciously was I affected!
At every moment I saw my happiness abridged by a page. I then experienced
the same sensations those feel who have long lived with one they love,
and are on the point of separation. At the close of the work I seemed to
remain deserted. * * * Oh, Richardson! thou singular genius in my eyes!
thou shalt form my reading at all times. If, forced by sharp necessity,
my friend falls into indigence; if the mediocrity of my fortune is not
sufficient to bestow on my children the necessary cares for their
education, I will sell my books,--but thou shalt remain! Yes, thou shalt
rest in the _same class_ with Moses, Homer, Euripides, and Sophocles, to
be read alternately."[170]
What was the secret by which the stout little printer excited such
enthusiasm and won such eulogy? How did he appeal to natures so
different as the worldly Lord Chesterfield, the country shopkeeper, and
the impassioned Diderot? Richardson was the first novelist to stir the
heart and to move the passions, and his power was the more striking
that it was new. His study of human nature had begun early in life. "I
was not more than thirteen," he says, "when three young women, unknown
to each other, having an high opinion of my taciturnity, revealed to me
their love secrets, in order to induce me to give them copies to write
after, or correct, for answers to their lovers' letters. * * * I have
been directed to chide, and even repulse, when an offence was either
taken or given, at the very time when the heart of the chider or
repulser was open before me, overflowing with esteem and affection; and
the fair repulser, dreading to be taken at her word, directed _this_
word, or _that_ expression, to be softened or changed. One, highly
gratified with her lover's fervor and vows of everlasting love, has
said, when I have asked her direction, _I cannot tell you what to
write; but_ (her heart on her lips) _you cannot write too
kindly_."[171] With such an apprenticeship, Richardson had come to
possess a very delicate perception of character, and especially of
female character. There was a certain effeminacy in his own nature
which made him understand women better than men. His best creations are
Pamela and Clarissa. Lovelace and Grandison are drawn from the outside;
they are less real and natural. But Richardson leads his reader into
the inmost recesses of his heroines' hearts. He is at home in
describing the fears, the trials, and the final childlike rejoicings of
Pamela. He attains to a high tragic effect in the death of Clarissa, a
scene which Sir James Mackintosh ranked with Hume's description of the
death of Mary Stuart. In this power to touch the heart and to move the
passions of his reader lay the charm of Richardson's writing. But to
paint perfection, rather than to study nature, was his object in "Sir
Charles Grandison," and therefore that novel was less powerful in the
author's day, and is less interesting in ours than "Pamela" and
"Clarissa." We no longer need the example of the pompous Sir Charles to
dissuade us from indecent language and drunkenness in a lady's
drawing-room, and we can only laugh at the studied propriety of his
faultless intercourse with Miss Byron:
He kissed my hand with fervor, dropped down on one knee; again
kissed it--You have laid me, madam, under everlasting obligation;
and will you permit me before I rise--loveliest of women, will you
permit me to beg an early day?--
He clasped me in his; arms with an ardor--that displeased me not on
reflection. But at the time startled me. He then thanked me again
on one knee. I held out the hand he had not in his, with intent to
raise him; for I could not speak. He received it as a token of
favor; kissed it with ardor; arose; _again_ pressed my cheeks with
his lips. I was too much surprised to repulse him with anger; but
was he not too free? Am I a prude, my dear?
Restrain, check me, madam, whenever I seem to trespass on your
goodness. Yet how shall I forbear to wish you to hasten the day
that shall make you wholly mine? You will the rather allow me to
wish it, as you will then be more than ever your own mistress;
though you have always been generously left to a discretion that
never was more deservedly trusted to. Your will, madam, will ever
comprehend mine.
The verisimilitude of Richardson's novels, which is made so striking by
his feminine attention to detail, may seem destroyed to modern readers
by the apparent improbability of the narrative itself. It appears
strange that young girls like Pamela or Clarissa should be so entirely
in the power of their seducers, that incidents should be repeated with
impunity which the existence of a police force would seem to make
impossible. But the reader whose sense of probability is shocked by the
unpunished and uninterrupted villanies of Mr. B. and of Lovelace, can
find evidence of the security with which such crimes could be committed
by the rich and influential in the Newgate calendar. The forcible
detention in his own house, by Lord Baltimore, of a young girl, his
atrocious treatment of her, and his escape from punishment, are
incidents in real life not more remarkable than the fictions of the
novelist.
Sir Walter Scott lamented, early in the present century, the neglect
into which the works of Richardson had fallen. That neglect has not
since been diminished, for obvious reasons. "Surely, sir," said Erskine
to Johnson, "Richardson is very tedious." "Why, sir," was the
lexicographer's reply, "if you were to read Richardson for the story,
your impatience would be so much fretted that you would hang yourself,
but you must read him for the sentiment, and consider the story as only
giving occasion to the sentiment." But the reader of today will agree
with Erskine in thinking that Richardson is tedious. We have so many
good novels which do not require the attention and labor exacted by
him. We live so fast that we cannot spare the time for so much
sentiment. These novels, like the elaborate embroideries of the last
century, belong to a period when life was less full, and books less
abundant. Samuel Richardson will take his place among the great authors
who are much admired and little read, whose works every educated person
should have heard of, but upon which very few would like to be
examined.
With Richardson's novels English fiction took a long step forward; but
it made a still greater advance in the hands of Henry Fielding. The
latter was peculiarly well fitted by his talents and experience to
carry the novel to a high position of importance and artistic merit. He
united a considerable dramatic, and a great narrative power with an
exuberant wit and an extensive knowledge of men. Allied to a noble
family, but oppressed by poverty, Fielding mingled during his life with
all classes of society. The Hon. George Lyttleton was his friend and
protector, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu was his cousin. On the other hand,
his poverty and improvidence constantly kept him, as Lady Mary put it,
"raking in the lowest rinks of vice and misery." Richardson, who always
denounced Fielding's works as "wretchedly low and dirty," said
sneeringly: "his brawls, his jars, his jails, his spunging-houses are
all drawn from what he has seen and known." But in this ungenerous
sneer lay a substantial compliment. Fielding did describe what he had
seen and known, and the variety of his experience gave him a breadth
and power in describing human nature which the confined life of
Richardson could not afford. The two novelists cannot be fairly
compared, nor should they be considered as rivals. They pursued
different methods, and aimed at opposite effects. Each has a high place
in English literature, which the greatness of the other cannot depress.
Richardson is best able to make his reader weep, and Fielding to make
him laugh.
Fielding was a tall, handsome fellow, so full of life and spirits that
"his happy disposition," to quote Lady Mary, "made him forget every
evil when he was before a venison-pastry, or over a flask of
champagne." This rollicking, careless joyousness is the tone of his
books. Whether taken to a prison, an inn, or a lady's boudoir, whether
watching the breaking of heads, the blackening of eyes, or the making
of love, the reader is always kept smiling.
Fielding is often censured by moralists for the coarseness of his
novels. But had he not been coarse he would not have been true. He
described life as it was in the eighteenth century, as he had seen it
in the ups and downs of a checkered career. His characters were taken
from the higher ranks and the lower. He placed the house, the
amusements, the habits of a country gentleman before the reader with
the faithfulness of a man who had hunted, feasted, and got drunk with
country-gentlemen. He described the miserable prisons of his time as he
only could who had mingled with their degraded inmates, and had exerted
his power as a police magistrate to break up the gangs of ruffians who
infested the streets. Thus Fielding's novels have a high historical, as
well as a literary value. Mr. Lecky has testified to their importance
in a reconstruction of the past by placing "Amelia" among his
authorities. Squire Allworthy, Squire Western, Tom Jones, Parson Adams,
are characters to be studied by whoever would understand social life in
the eighteenth century. The lovely Sophia, the modest Fanny, and above
all Amelia, whom Thackeray considered "the most charming character in
English fiction," are portraits in the gallery of history.[172]
As Fielding set out to describe truth and nature as he saw them, the
reader must put away his notions of refinement and delicacy. He must be
prepared to be entertained by blows, licentious assaults, a tub of
hog's blood thrown by a clergyman, coarse practical jokes, foul talk,
all put before him without disguise or circumlocution. As he follows
Parson Adams, Joseph, and Fanny in their journey, he must always be
ready for a fight. Here is a specimen:
"The captain * * * drew forth his hanger as Adams approached him,
and was levelling a blow at his head which would probably have
silenced the preacher forever, had not Joseph in that instant
lifted up a certain huge stone pot of the chamber with one hand,
which six beaux could not have lifted with both, and discharged it,
together with the contents, full in the captain's face. The
uplifted hanger dropped from his hand, and he fell prostrate on the
floor with a lumpish noise, and his half-pence rattled in his
pocket: the red liquor which his veins contained, and the white
liquor which the pot contained, ran in one stream down his face and
his clothes. Nor had Adams quite escaped, some of the water having
in its passage shed its honors on his head, and begun to trickle
down the wrinkles, or rather furrows, of his cheeks; when one of
the servants snatching a mop out of a pail of water, which had
already done its duty in washing the house, pushed it in the
parson's face; yet could he not bear him down; for the parson
wresting the mop from the fellow with one hand, with the other
brought his enemy as low as the earth."[173]
To obtain any adequate idea of the range of Fielding's pictures of
human nature, the reader must consult the novels themselves. Propriety
forbids the insertion here of quotations which could convey an
impression of the happy dissoluteness of Tom Jones, the brutal
coarseness of Squire Western, or the scenes of unblushing license which
pervade the novels of Henry Fielding. But a sample of the witty, jovial
tone which has made these novels so popular may be of interest to
readers who are not inclined to open "Tom Jones" itself. The following
scene was occasioned by the appearance of Molly Seagrim in church, in
unaccustomed and ostentatious finery, and is described in the Homeric
style, which Fielding sometimes adopted with such humorous effect.
As a vast herd of cows in a rich farmer's yard, if, while they are
milked, they hear their calves at a distance, lamenting the robbery
which is then committing, roar and bellow: so roared forth the
Somersetshire mob an halloloo, made up of almost as many squalls,
screams, and other different sounds, as there were persons, or
indeed passions, among them. Some were inspired by rage, others
alarmed by fear, and others had nothing in theirs heads but the
love of fun; but chiefly Envy, the sister of Satan and his constant
companion, rushed among the crowd and blew up the fury of the
women; who no sooner came up to Molly than they pelted her with
dirt and rubbish.
Molly, having endeavored in vain to make a handsome retreat, faced
about; and laying hold of ragged Bess, who advanced in the front
of the enemy, she at one blow felled her to the ground. The whole
army of the enemy (though near a hundred in number), seeing the
fate of their general, gave back many paces, and retired beyond a
new dug grave; for the church-yard was the field of battle, where
there was to be a funeral that very evening. Molly pursued her
victory, and catching up a skull which lay on the side of the
grave, discharged it with such fury, that having hit a tailor on
the head, the two skulls sent equally forth a hollow sound at their
meeting, and the tailor took presently measure of his length on the
ground, where the skulls lay side by side, and it was doubtful
which was the more valuable of the two. Molly, then taking a thigh
bone in her hand, fell in among the flying ranks, and dealing her
blows with great liberality on either side, overthrew the carcass
of many a mighty hero and heroine. Recount, O muse, the names of
those who fell on this fatal day. First Jemmy Tweedle felt on his
hinder head the direful bone. Him the pleasant banks of sweetly
winding Stour had nourished, where he first learnt the vocal art,
with which, wandering up and down at wakes and fairs, he cheered
the rural nymphs and swains, when upon the green they interweaved
the sprightly dance; while he himself stood fiddling and jumping to
his own music. How little now avails his fiddle! He thumps the
verdant floor with his carcass. Next old Echepole, the sow-gelder,
received a blow in his forehead from our Amazonian heroine, and
immediately fell to the ground. He was a swinging fat fellow, and
fell with almost as much noise as a house. His tobacco-box dropt at
the same time from his pocket, which Molly took up as lawful
spoils. Then Kate of the Mill tumbled unfortunately over a
tombstone, which catching hold of her ungartered stocking, inverted
the order of nature, and gave her heels the superiority to her
head. Betty Pippin, with young Roger her lover, fell both to the
ground; where, O Perverse Fate! she salutes the earth, and he the
sky.[174]
Fielding had shown more than any predecessor the possibilities of
fiction in the study of character and the illustration of manners, and
to the art of the narrator, he had added that of the dramatist. The
falling of the rug in Molly Seagrim's bedroom[175] is one of the
happiest incidents ever devised, and no doubt suggested to Sheridan the
falling of the screen in the "School for Scandal." But the chief
distinction of Fielding lies in his having carried the novel to a high
point as a work of art. It was the opinion of Coleridge that the
"Oedipus Tyrannus," "The Alchemist," and "Tom Jones," were the three
most perfect plots ever planned.[176] It is to this excellence of
plot--the subordination of each minor circumstance to the general aim,
the skill with which all events are made to lead up to the final
dénouement--that Fielding, if any one, deserves the title of the
founder of the English novel. But to give this title to any individual
is a manifest injustice. The novel was developed, not created; and in
that development many minds took part. Short love stories had been made
familiar in England by the Italian writers. Such, also, had been
produced by Mrs. Behn, Mrs. Manley, and Mrs. Heywood. Defoe had written
novels of adventure, in one of which, at least, is found the
combination of a character well drawn and a plot well executed. In the
number of his characters and the complication of his plot, Richardson
had surpassed Defoe. It is the merit of Fielding to have combined in a
far greater degree than those who had gone before the characteristic
qualities of the novel. In others we see the promise, in him the
fulfilment.
And this was in no respect the result of an accident. Fielding looked
upon his first work as a new attempt in English literature. "Joseph
Andrews" was first intended to be merely a satire on "Pamela." But study
and reflection on the nature of his work determined Fielding to produce
a "prose epic." "The epic as well as the drama," he said in the preface,
"is divided into tragedy and comedy." Now, he continued, "when any kind
of writing contains all the other parts (of the epic), such as fable,
action, characters, sentiments, and diction, and is deficient in metre
only; it seems, I think, reasonable to refer it to the epic." Such, too,
was the opinion of the Chevalier Bunsen. "The romance of modern times,"
he says in his preface to "Soll und Haben" * * * "represents the latest
_stadium_ of the epic. Every romance is intended, or ought to be, a new
Iliad or Odyssey; in other words, a poetic representation of a course of
events consistent with the highest laws of moral government, whether it
delineate the general history of a people, or narrate the fortunes of a
chosen hero. * * * The excellence of a romance, like that of an epic or
a drama, lies in the apprehension and truthful exhibition of the course
of human things."[177] Lord Byron expressed his opinion that Fielding
had realized this view of the nature of the novel by calling him the
prose Homer of human nature.
Fielding's novels are now considered unfit for general perusal. In
considering the coarseness and immorality of a writer, the intention and
the result must be separated. That Fielding's works are coarse, and that
they contain scenes and characters of a dissolute nature, is neither to
be denied nor to be regretted. If they were more pure, they would be
less valuable from a historical point of view; less true to nature, and
therefore less artistic. That the author's intention was far from the
production of works with an evil tendency, is evident. He was careful
to say in the preface to "Joseph Andrews": "It may be objected to me
that I have against my own rules introduced vices, and of a very black
kind, in this work. To which I shall answer first, that it is very
difficult to pursue a series of human actions, and keep clear from them.
Secondly, that the vices to be found here are rather the accidental
consequences of some human frailty or foible, than causes habitually
existing in the mind. Thirdly, that they are never set forth as the
objects of ridicule, but detestation. Fourthly, that they are never
the principal figure at that time on the scene; and lastly, they never
produce the intended evil." And again, still more strongly, Fielding
claims the merit of purity and moral effect for "Tom Jones," "I hope
my reader will be convinced, at his very entrance on this work, that
he will find, in the whole course of it, nothing prejudicial to the
cause of religion and virtue; nothing inconsistent with the strictest
rules of decency, nor which can offend the chastest eye in the perusal.
On the contrary, I declare, that to recommend goodness and innocence
hath been my sincere endeavor in this history. * * * Besides displaying
that beauty of virtue which may attract the admiration of mankind, I have
attempted to engage a stronger motive to human action in her favor, by
convincing men that their true interest directs them to a pursuit of her.
For this purpose I have shown, that no acquisitions of guilt can
compensate the loss of that solid inward comfort of mind, which is the
sure companion of innocence and virtue; nor can in the least balance the
evil of that horror and anxiety which, in their room, guilt introduced
into our bosoms."
Thus, it is evident, that Fielding had no desire to write what might be
harmful. The contrast between his promise and his fulfilment is simply
an illustration of the standard of his time. His novels are coarse to a
degree which may nullify their merits in the eyes of some readers of
the present day, and may unfit them for the perusal of very young
people. But this is simply because the standard in such matters has
changed, and not because the novels were purposely made dissolute.
Their coarseness was adapted to the lack of refinement in thought and
speech characteristic of that time. Fielding wished to "laugh mankind
out of their follies and vices." In his coarseness there is always an
open, frank laughter. There is none of that veiled pruriency which
lurks underneath the more conventionally expressed, but really vicious
sentiments that are to be found in too many novels of our own day.
The novel was well defined in character and well established in
popularity when Smollett entered the field so well occupied by
Richardson and Fielding. On this account his works have a less
important place in the history of fiction than those of his
predecessors. While he added greatly to the store of fictitious
writing, he developed no new ideas concerning it. Fielding had
announced at the outset of his career as a novelist that he had taken
Cervantes as a prototype, and the influence of the great Spanish writer
is plainly visible in "Joseph Andrews." But in the literary workmanship
of his two later novels, Fielding's entire originality is undeniable.
Smollett, however, is plainly an imitator of Le Sage. He did not aim at
that artistic construction of plot, which is Fielding's chief merit.
The novel, in his hands, became rather a series of adventures, linked
together by their occurrence to the same individuals. "A novel," he
said, "is a large, diffused picture, comprehending the characters of
life, disposed in different groups, and exhibited in various attitudes,
for the purposes of a uniform plan and general occurrence, to which
every individual figure is subservient. But this plan cannot be
executed with propriety, probability, or success, without a principal
personage to attract the attention, unite the incidents, unwind the
clue of the labyrinth, and at last close the scene by virtue of his
importance."[178] But Smollett presents the "different groups" and
"various attitudes" of his "diffused picture" with a luxuriance of
imagination, a fidelity to nature, and an exuberance of broad humor
which inspire interest even when they occasion disgust. If he added
nothing new to the novel from a purely literary point of view, his
works have an exceptional historical value.
His life was well adapted to educate him as an observer and student of
human nature. Of a good Scotch family, but obliged by poverty to rely
on his own efforts for a living, he mixed familiarly with varied
classes of men. As a surgeon in London, he came in contact with the
middle and lower ranks of the city, from which many of his best
characters are taken. As surgeon's mate on board a man-of-war, he
obtained that acquaintance with a seafaring life which was afterward
turned to such excellent account.
Of Smollett's works, "Humphrey Clinker" is the most humorous, "Roderick
Random" the simplest and most natural, "Perigrine Pickle," the most
elaborate and brilliant. The reader is conducted from adventure to
adventure with an unfailing interest, sustained by the distinctness of
the picture and the brightness of the coloring. The characters met with
are natural and well studied. Trunnion, Hatchway, Pipes, Lieutenant
Bowling, and Jack Rattlin are all distinctly seamen, and yet each has a
marked individuality of his own. Matthew Bramble and Winifred Jenkins
are among the best-drawn and most entertaining of fictitious
personages. Smollett's humor is usually of the broadest and most
elementary kind. It consists largely of hard blows, _a-propos_
knockdowns, and practical jokes. More than any novelist, he illustrates
the coarseness of his time. His pages are filled with cruelties and
blackguardism. Many of his principal characters are dissolute without
enjoyment, and brutal without good nature. Modern taste is shocked by
the succession of repulsive scenes and degrading representations of
vice which are often intended to amuse, and always to entertain. But it
is because life in the eighteenth century had so many repulsive
features, that the novels of the time often repel the modern reader,
There is nothing strained or uncommon in the experiences of Miss
Williams while in prison:
There I saw nothing but rage, anguish, and impiety; and heard
nothing but groans, curses, and blasphemy. In the midst of this
hellish crew, I was subjected in the tyranny of a barbarian, who
imposed upon me tasks that I could not possibly perform, and then
punished my incapacity with the utmost rigor and inhumanity. I was
often whipped into a swoon, and lashed out of it, during which
miserable intervals I was robbed by my fellow-prisoners of every
thing about me, even to my cap, shoes, and stockings; I was not
only destitute of necessaries, but even of food, so that my
wretchedness was extreme. Not one of my acquaintance, to whom I
imparted my situation, would grant me the least succor or regard,
on pretence of my being committed for theft; and my landlord
refused to part with some of my own clothes, which I sent for,
because I was indebted to him for a week's lodging. Overwhelmed
with calamity, I grew desperate, and resolved to put an end to my
grievances and life together; for this purpose I got up in the
middle of the night, when I thought everybody around me asleep, and
fixing one end of my handkerchief to a large hook in the ceiling
that supported the scales on which the hemp is weighed, I stood
upon a chair, and making a noose on the other end, put my neck into
it with an intention to hang myself; but before I could adjust the
knot, I was surprised and prevented by two women who had been awake
all the while, and suspected my design. In the morning my attempt
was published among the prisoners, and punished with thirty
stripes, the pain of which co-operating with my disappointment and
disgrace, bereft me of my senses, and threw me into an ecstasy of
madness, during which I tore the flesh from my bones with my teeth,
and dashed my head against the pavement.[179]
While Smollett mingled such scenes of misery with coarse adventures and
coarse humor, he is yet always true to nature and always picturesque.
He keeps the reader's attention even when he offends his taste. He
impaired the literary merit of "Perigrine Pickle," but at the same time
added to its dissolute character and its immediate popularity by the
forced insertion of the licentious "Memoirs of a Lady of Quality." Now
a serious blemish, these memoirs formed at the time an added attraction
to the book. They were eagerly read as the authentic account of Lady
Vane, a notorious woman of rank, and were furnished to Smollett by
herself, in the hope, fully gratified, that her infamous career might
be known to future generations.[180]
That the standard of public taste was rising, would appear from the
fact that in the second edition of "Perigrine Pickle," Smollett found
it advisable to "reform the manners and correct the expression" of the
first; but when "he flatters himself that he has expunged every
adventure, phrase, and insinuation that could be construed by the most
delicate reader into a trespass upon the rules of decorum," he does not
give a high idea of the standard of the "most delicate reader." But
Smollett has left an account of his own views regarding the moral
effect of the pictures of vice and degradation which his works contain,
and that account is a striking statement of contemporary feeling upon
the subject:
The same principle by which we rejoice at the remuneration of
merit, will teach us to relish the disgrace and discomfiture of
vice, which is always an example of extensive use and influence,
because it leaves a deep impression of terror upon the minds of
those who were not confirmed in the pursuit of morality and virtue,
and, while the balance wavers, enables the right scale to
preponderate. * * * The impulses of fear, which is the most violent
and interesting of all the passions, remain longer than any other
upon the memory; and for one that is allured to virtue by the
contemplation of that peace and happiness which it bestows, an
hundred are deterred from the practice of vice, by the infamy and
punishment to which it is liable from the laws and regulations of
mankind. Let me not, therefore, be condemned for having chosen my
principal character from the purlieus of treachery and fraud, when
I declare that my purpose is to set him up as a beacon for the
benefit of the inexperienced and the unwary, who, from the perusal
of these memoirs, may learn to avoid the manifold snares with which
they are continually surrounded in the paths of life; while those
who hesitate on the brink of iniquity may he terrified from
plunging into that irremediable gulph, by surveying the deplorable
fate of Ferdinand Count Fathom.[181]
This passage illustrates with remarkable fidelity the attitude, not
only of Smollett, but of the other novelists and the general public of
the first half of the eighteenth century, toward vice and crime. The
consciousness of evil and the desire for reformation were prominent
features of the time. But to deter men from wrong-doing, fear was the
only recognized agent. There was absolutely no feeling of philanthropy.
There was no effort to prevent crime through the education or
regulation of the lower classes; there was no attempt to reform the
criminal when convicted. The public fear of the criminal classes was
expressed in the cruel and ineffective code which punished almost every
offense with death. The corruptions which pervaded the administration
of justice made it almost impossible to punish the wealthy and
influential. When Smollett declared that the miserable fate of Count
Fathom would deter his reader from similar courses by a fear of similar
punishment, when Defoe urged the moral usefulness of "Moll Flanders"
and "Roxana," the two novelists simply expressed the general feeling
that the sight of a malefactor hanging on the gallows was the most
effective recommendation to virtue. In the same spirit in which justice
exposed the offender in the stocks to public view, the novelist
described his careers of vice ending in misery, and Hogarth conducted
his Idle Apprentice from stage to stage till Tyburn Hill is reached.
The same moral end is always in view, but the lesson is illustrated by
the ugliness of vice, and not by the beauty of virtue. In our time we
have reason to be thankful for a criminal legislation tempered by mercy
and philanthropy. We have attained, too, a standard of taste and of
humanity which has banished the degrading exhibitions of public
punishments, which has largely done away with coarseness and brutality,
and has added much to the happiness of life. In fiction, the writer who
wishes to serve a moral purpose attains his end by the more agreeable
method of holding up examples of merit to be imitated, rather than of
vice to be shunned.
But when the great novelists of the eighteenth century were writing,
the standard of taste was extremely low. The author knew that he was
keeping his reader in bad company, and was supplying his mind with
coarse ideas, but he believed that he might do this without offense.
Defoe thought that "Moll Flanders" would not "offend the chastest
reader or the modestest hearer"; Richardson, that the prolonged effort
to seduce Pamela could be described "without raising a single idea
throughout the whole that shall shock the exactest purity"; Fielding,
that there was nothing in "Tom Jones" which "could offend the chastest
eye in the perusal." Nor, as concerned their own time, were they
mistaken. They clearly understood the distinction between coarseness
and immorality. The young women who read "Tom Jones" with enthusiasm
were not less moral than the women who now avoid it, they were only
less refined. They did not think vice less reprehensible, but were more
accustomed to the sight of it, and therefore less easily offended by
its description.
While the novels of which we have been speaking were making their first
appearance, there lived in Kent a charming young lady who went by the
name of "the celebrated Miss Talbot." She had attained this distinction
by her great cultivation. She had studied astronomy and geography, was
"mistress of French and Italian," and knew a little Latin. When she was
only twenty years of age, the Dean of Canterbury spoke of her with high
admiration. Her acquaintance was eagerly sought by accomplished young
ladies, and by none more successfully than "the learned" Miss Carter.
Both of these girls read the novels of the day, and fortunately
recorded some of their opinions in the letters which passed between
them.[182] "I want much to know," wrote Miss Talbot, "whether you have
yet condescended to read 'Joseph Andrews.'" "I must thank you," replied
Miss Carter, "for the perfectly agreeable entertainment I have met in
reading 'Joseph Andrews.' It contains such a surprising variety of
nature, wit, morality, and good sense, as is scarcely to be met with in
any one composition, and there is such a spirit of benevolence through
the whole, as, I think renders it peculiarly charming," Some years
later the Bishop of Gloucester came to visit Miss Talbot's family, and
read "Amelia," the young lady wrote, while he was nursing his cold by
the fireside. Miss Carter replied that "in favor of the bishop's cold,
his reading 'Amelia' in silence may be tolerated, but I am somewhat
scandalized that, since he did not read it to you, you did not read it
yourself." "The more I read 'Tom Jones,'" wrote Miss Talbot, "the more
I detest him, and admire Clarissa Harlowe,--yet there are in it things
that must touch and please every good heart, and probe to the quick
many a bad one, and humor that it is impossible not to laugh at." "I am
sorry," replied Miss Carter, "to find you so outrageous about poor Tom
Jones; he is no doubt an imperfect, but not a detestable character,
with all that honesty, good-nature, and generosity." Miss Talbot, in a
later letter, said that she had once heard a lady piously say to her
son that she wished with all her heart he was like Tom Jones.[183] In
1747 "Clarissa" was read aloud at the palace of the Bishop of Oxford,
Miss Talbot's uncle. "As for us," she wrote, "we lived quite happy the
whole time we were reading it, and we made that time as long as we
could, too, for we only read it _en famille_, at set hours, and all the
rest of the day we talked of it. One can scarcely persuade one's self
that they are not real characters and living people." Even "Roderick
Random" made part of the young ladies' reading. "It is a very strange
and a very low book," commented the Bishop's celebrated niece, "though
not without some characters in it, and, I believe, some very just,
though very wretched descriptions."
[Footnote 162: Mrs. Barbauld's "Life of Richardson," vol. 1, p. 42.
Scott's "Life of Richardson."]
[Footnote 163: Mrs. Barbauld's "Life of Richardson," vol. 1, p. 37.]
[Footnote 164: _Edinburgh Review._ Oct., 1804. Scott's "Life of
Richardson," note.]
[Footnote 165: Richardson's correspondence, 1748.]
[Footnote 166: Richardson's correspondence. Forsyth's "Novels and
Novelists," p. 251.]
[Footnote 167: See the interesting "Glimpses of Our Ancestors," by
Charles Fleet, p. 33.]
[Footnote 168: Mrs. Barbauld's "Life of Richardson."]
[Footnote 169: W.M. Thackeray, "Nil Nisi Bonum", _Cornhill Mag._, No. 1.]
[Footnote 170: D'Israeli's "Curiosities of Literature," art.
"Richardson."]
[Footnote 171: Mrs. Barbauld's "Life of Richardson," vol. I, p. 40.
Scott's "Life of Richardson."]
[Footnote 172: The reader may find some curious examples of the
fidelity with which Fielding portrayed contemporary character and
manners in comparing passages in "Tom Jones," with "Glimpses of our
Ancestors," by Charles Fleet, pp. 38, 39, _et passim_.]
[Footnote 173: "Joseph Andrews," book III, chap. 9.]
[Footnote 174: "Tom Jones," book iv, ch. 8.]
[Footnote 175: Samuel Rogers, "Table Talk," p. 227.]
[Footnote 176: Coleridge, "Table Talk," p. 339, vol. 2, London, 1835.]
[Footnote 177: Preface to "Debit and Credit" ("Soll und Haben"), by
Gustav Freitag.]
[Footnote 178: "Adventures of Count Fathom," letter of dedication.]
[Footnote 179: "Roderick Random," chap. xxiii.]
[Footnote 180: 'The wife of William, second Viscount Vane, "was the too
celebrated Lady Vane; first married to Lord William Hamilton, and
secondly to Lord Vane; who has given her own extraordinary and
disreputable adventures to the world in Smollett's novel of 'Perigrine
Pickle,' under the title of 'Memoirs of a Lady of Quality.'"--Walpole
to Mann, Nov 23, 1743. "The troops continue going to Flanders, but
slowly enough. Lady Vane has taken a trip thither after a cousin of
Lord Berkeley, who is as simple about her as her own husband is, and
has written to Mr. Knight at Paris to furnish her with what money she
wants. He says she is vastly to blame, for he was trying to get her a
divorce from Lord Vane, and then would have married her himself. Her
adventures are worthy to be bound up with those of my good
sister-in-law, the German Princess, and Moll Flanders."--Walpole to
Mann, June 14, 1742.]
[Footnote 181: "Adventures of Count Fathom," letter of dedication.]
[Footnote 182: "The Carter and Talbot Correspondence," Ed. by Rev.
Montagu Pennington, 1809.]
[Footnote 183: See "The Carter and Talbot Correspondences."]