his hero as easily as, with a stroke of the pen, he can endow him with
fifty thousand a year, or bestow upon him every virtue under heaven.
Neither has he any difficulty in making him the finest dancer in
England, or giving him such marvellous skill with the small-sword that
he can avoid the sin of duelling by instantaneously disarming his most
formidable opponents. The real question is, whether he can animate this
conglomerate of all conceivable virtues with a real human soul, set him
before us as a living and breathing reality, and make us feel that, if
we had known him, we too should have been ready to swell the full chorus
of admiration. It is rather more difficult to convey the impression
which a perusal of his correspondence and conversation leaves upon an
unprejudiced mind. Does Sir Charles, when we come to know him
intimately--for, with the ample materials provided, we really seem to
know him--fairly support the amazing burden thrown upon him? Do we feel
a certain disappointment when we meet the man whom all ladies love, and
in whom every gentleman confesses a superior nature.
Two anecdotes about Sir Charles may suggest the answer. Voltaire, we
know, ridiculed the proud English, who with the same scissors cut off
the heads of their kings and the tails of their horses. To this last
weakness Sir Charles was superior. His horses, says Miss Byron, 'are not
docked; their tails are only tied up when they are on the road.' She
would wish to find some fault with him, but as she forcibly says, 'if he
be of opinion that the tails of these noble animals are not only a
natural ornament, but of real use to defend them from the vexatious
insects that in summer are so apt to annoy them, how far from a
dispraise is this humane consideration!' The other anecdote is of a
different kind. When Sir Charles goes to church he does not, like some
other gentlemen, bow low to the ladies of his acquaintance, and then to
others of the gentry. No! 'Sir Charles had first other devoirs to pay.
He paid us his second compliments.' From these two exemplary actions we
must infer his whole character. It should have been inscribed on his
tombstone, 'He would not dock his horses' tails.' That is the most
trifling details of his conduct are regulated on the most serious
considerations. He is one of those solemn beings who can't shave
themselves without implicitly asserting a great moral principle. He
finds sermons in his horses' tails; he could give an excellent reason
for the quantity of lace on his coat, which was due, it seems, to a
sentiment of filial reverence; and he could not fix his hour for dinner
without an eye to the reformation of society. In short, he was a prig of
the first water; self-conscious to the last degree; and so crammed with
little moral aphorisms that they drop out of his mouth whenever he opens
his lips. And then his religion is in admirable keeping. It is
intimately connected with the excellence of his deportment; and is, in
fact, merely the application of the laws of good society to the loftiest
sphere of human duty. He pays his second compliments to his lady, and
his first to the object of his adoration. He very properly gives the
precedence to the being he professes to adore. As he carries his
solemnity into the pettiest trifles of life, so he considers religious
duties to be simply the most important part of social etiquette. He
would shrink from blasphemy even more than from keeping on his hat in
the presence of ladies; but the respect which he owes in one case is of
the same order with that due in the other: it is only a degree more
important.
We feel, indeed, a certain affection for Sir Charles Grandison. He is
pompous and ceremonious to an insufferable degree; but there is really
some truth in his sister's assertion, that his is the most delicate of
human minds; through the cumbrous formalities of his century there
shines a certain quickness and sensibility; he even condescends to be
lively after a stately fashion, and to indulge in a little 'raillying,'
only guarding himself rather too carefully against unbecoming levity.
Indeed, though a man of the world at the present day would be as much
astonished at his elaborate manners as at his laced coat and sword, he
would admit that Sir Charles was by no means wanting in tact; his talk
is weighted with more elaborate formulæ than we care to employ, but it
is good vigorous conversation in the main, and, if rather overlaid with
sermonising, can at times be really amusing. His religion is not of a
very exalted character; he rises to no sublime heights of emotion, and
would simply be puzzled by the fervours or the doubts of a more modern
generation. In short, it seems to be compounded of common-sense and a
regard for decorum--and those are not bad things in their way, though
not the highest. He is not a very ardent reformer; he doubts whether the
poor should be taught to read, and is very clear that everyone should be
made to know his station; but still he talks with sense and moderation,
and even gets so far as to suggest the necessity of reformatories. He is
not very romantic, and displays an amount of self-command in judicially
settling the claims of the various ladies who are anxious to marry him,
which is almost comic; he is perfectly ready to marry the Italian lady,
if she can surmount her religious scruples, though he is in love with
Miss Byron; and his mind is evidently in a pleasing state of
equilibrium, so that he will be happy with either dear charmer. Indeed,
for so chivalric a gentleman, his view of love and marriage is far less
enthusiastic than we should now require. One of his benevolent actions,
which throws all his admirers into fits of eulogy, is to provide one of
his uncles with a wife. The gentleman is a peer, but has hitherto been
of disreputable life. The lady, though of good family and education, is
above thirty, and her family have lost their estate. The match of
convenience which Sir Charles patches up between them has obvious
prudential recommendations; and of course it turns out admirably. But
one is rather puzzled to know what special merits Sir Charles can claim
for bringing it to pass.
Such a hero as this may be worthy and respectable, but is not a very
exalted ideal. Neither do his circumstances increase our interest. It
would be rather a curious subject of inquiry why it should be so
impossible to make a virtuous hero interesting in fiction. In real life,
the men who do heroic actions are certainly more attractive than the
villains. Domestic affection, patriotism, piety, and other good
qualities are pleasant to contemplate in the world; why should they be
so often an unspeakable bore in novels? Principally, no doubt, because
our conception of a perfect man is apt to bring the negative qualities
into too great prominence; we are asked to admire men because they have
not passions--not because they overcome them. But there are further
difficulties; for example, in a novel it is generally so easy to see
what is wrong and what is right--the right-hand path branches off so
decidedly from the left, that we give a man little credit for making the
proper choice. Still more is it difficult to let us sufficiently into a
man's interior to let us see the struggle and the self-sacrifice which
ought to stir our sympathies. We witness the victories, but it is hard
to make us feel the cost at which they are won. Now, Richardson has, as
we shall directly remark, overcome this difficulty to a great extent in
Clarissa; but in Sir Charles Grandison he has entirely shirked it; he
has made everything too plain and easy for his hero. 'I think I could be
a good woman,' says Becky Sharp, 'if I had five thousand a year,'--and
the history of Sir Charles Grandison might have suggested the remark. To
be young, handsome, healthy, active, with a fine estate and a grand old
house; to be able, by your eloquence, to send a sinner into a fit (as
Sir Charles did once); to be the object of a devoted passion from three
or four amiable, accomplished, and beautiful women--each of whom has a
fine fortune, and only begs you to throw your handkerchief towards her,
whilst she promises to bear no grudge if you throw it to her
neighbour--all these are favourable conditions for virtue--especially if
you mean the virtues of being hospitable, generous, a good landlord and
husband, and in every walk of life thoroughly gentlemanlike in your
behaviour. But the whole design is rather too much in accordance with
the device in enabling Sir Charles to avoid duels by having a marvellous
trick of disarming his adversaries. 'What on earth is the use of my
fighting with you,' says King Padella to Prince Giglio, 'if you have got
a fairy sword and a fairy horse?' And what merit is there in winning the
battle of life, when you have every single circumstance in your favour?
We are more attracted by Fielding's rather questionable hero, Captain
Booth, though he does get into a sponging-house, and is anything but a
strict moralist, than by this prosperous young Sir Charles, rich with
every gift the gods can give him, and of whom the most we can say is
that the possession of all those gifts, if it has made him rather
pompous and self-conscious, has not made him close-fisted or
hard-hearted. Sir Charles, then, represents a rather carnal ideal; he
suggest to us those well-fed, almost beefy and corpulent angels, whom
the contemporary school of painters sometimes portray. No doubt they are
angels, for they have wings and are seated in the clouds; but there is
nothing ethereal in their whole nature. We have no love for asceticism;
but a few hours on the column of St. Simon Stylites, or a temporary diet
of locusts and wild honey, might have purified Sir Charles's exuberant
self-satisfaction. For all this, he is not without a certain solid
merit, and the persons by whom he is surrounded--on whom we have not
space to dwell--have a large share of the vivacity which amuses us in
the real men and women of their time. Their talk may not be equal to
that in Boswell's 'Johnson;' but it is animated and amusing, and they
compose a gallery of portraits which would look well in a solid
red-brick mansion of the Georgian era.
We must, however, leave Sir Charles, to say a few words upon that which
is Richardson's real masterpiece, and which, in spite of a full share of
the defects apparent in 'Grandison,' will always command the admiration
of persons who have courage enough to get through eight volumes of
correspondence. The characters of the little world in which the reader
will pass his time are in some cases the same who reappear in
'Grandison.' The lively Lady G. in the last is merely a new version of
Miss Howe in the former. Clarissa herself is Miss Byron under altered
circumstances, and receives from her friends the same shower of
superlatives, whenever they have occasion to touch upon her merits.
Richardson's ideal lady is not at first sight more prepossessing than
his gentleman. After Clarissa's death, her friend Miss Howe writes a
glowing panegyric on her character. It will be enough to give the
distribution of her time. To rest it seems she allotted six hours only.
Her first three morning hours were devoted to study and to writing those
terribly voluminous letters which, as one would have thought, must have
consumed a still longer period. Two hours more were given to domestic
management; for, as Miss Howe explains, 'she was a perfect mistress of
the four principal rules of arithmetic.' Five hours were spent in music,
drawing, and needlework, this last especially, and in conversation with
the venerable parson of the parish. Two hours she devoted to breakfast
and dinner; and as it was hard to restrict herself to this allowance,
she occasionally gave one hour more to dinner-time conversation. One
hour more was spent in visiting the neighbouring poor, and the remaining
four hours to supper and conversation. These periods, it seems, were not
fixed for every day; for she kept a kind of running account, and
permitted herself to have an occasional holiday by drawing upon the
reserved fund of the four hours for supper.
Setting aside the fearfully systematic nature of this arrangement--the
stern determination to live by rule and system--it must be admitted that
Miss Harlowe was what in outworn phrase was called a very 'superior'
person. She would have made an excellent housekeeper, or even a
respectable governess. We feel a certain gratitude to her for devoting
four hours to supper; and, indeed, Richardson's characters are always
well cared for in the victualling department. They always take their
solid three meals, with a liberal intercalation of dishes of tea and
chocolate. Miss Harlowe, we must add, knew Latin, although her
quotations of classical authors are generally taken from translations.
Her successor, Miss Byron, was not allowed this accomplishment,
Richardson's doubts of its suitability to ladies having apparently
gathered strength in the interval. Notwithstanding this one audacious
excursion into the regions of manly knowledge, Miss Harlowe appears to
us as, in the main, a healthy, sensible country girl, with sound sense,
the highest respect for decorum, and an exaggerated regard for
constituted, especially paternal, authority. We cannot expect, from her,
any of the outbreaks against the laws of society customary with George
Sand's heroines. If she had changed places with Maggie Tulliver, she
would have accepted the society of the 'Mill on the Floss' with perfect
contentment, respected all the family of aunts and uncles, and never
repined against the tyranny of her brother Tom. She would have been
conscious of no vague imaginative yearnings, nor have beaten herself
against the narrow bars of stolid custom. She would have laid up a vast
store of linen, and walked thankfully in the path chalked out for her.
Certainly she would never have run away with Mr. Stephen Guest without
tyranny of a much more tangible kind than that which acts only through
the finer spiritual tissues. When Clarissa went off with Lovelace, it
was not because she had unsatisfied aspirations after a higher order of
life, but because she had been locked up in her room, as a solitary
prisoner, and her family had tried to force her into marriage with a man
whom she had excellent reasons for hating and despising. The worst point
about Clarissa is one which was keenly noticed by Johnson. There is
always something, he said, which she prefers to truth. She is a little
too anxious to keep up appearances, and we desire to see more of the
natural woman.
Yet the long tragedy in which Clarissa is the victim is not the less
affecting because the torments are of an intelligible kind, and require
no highly-strung sensibility to give them keenness. The heroine is first
bullied and then deserted by her family, cut off from the friends who
have a desire to help her, and handed over to the power of an
unscrupulous libertine. When she dies of a broken heart, the most
callous and prosaic of readers must feel that it is the only release
possible for her. And in the gradual development of his plot, the slow
accumulation of horrors upon the head of a virtuous victim, Richardson
shows the power which places him in the front rank of novelists, and
finds precisely the field in which his method is most effective and its
drawbacks least annoying. In the first place, in spite of his enormous
prolixity, the interest is throughout concentrated upon one figure. In
'Sir Charles Grandison' there are episodes meant to illustrate the
virtues of the 'next-to-divine man' which have nothing to do with the
main narrative. In 'Clarissa' every subordinate plot--and they
abound--bears immediately upon the central action of the story, and
produces a constant alternation of hope and foreboding. The last
volumes, indeed, are dragged out in a way which is injurious in several
respects. Clarissa, to use Charles II.'s expression about himself, takes
an unconscionable time about dying. But until the climax is reached, we
see the clouds steadily gathering, and yet with an increasing hope that
they may be suddenly cleared up. The only English novel which produces a
similar effect, and impresses us with the sense of an inexorable fate,
slowly but steadily approaching, is the 'Bride of Lammermoor'--in some
respects the best and most artistic of Scott's novels. Superior as is
Scott's art in certain directions, we scarcely feel the same interest in
his chief characters, though there is the same unity of construction. We
cannot feel for the Master of Ravenswood the sympathy which Clarissa
extorts. For in Clarissa's profound distress we lose sight of the
narrow round of respectabilities in which her earlier life is passed;
the petty pompousness, the intense propriety which annoy us in 'Sir
Charles Grandison' disappear or become pathetic. When people are dying
of broken hearts we forget their little absurdities of costume. A more
powerful note is sounded, and the little superficial absurdities are
forgotten. We laugh at the first feminine description of her dress--a
Brussels-lace cap, with sky-blue ribbon, pale crimson-coloured paduasoy,
with cuffs embroidered in a running pattern of violets and their leaves;
but we are more disposed to cry (if many novels have not exhausted all
our powers of weeping) when we come to the final scene. 'One faded cheek
rested upon the good woman's bosom, the kindly warmth of which had
overspread it with a faint but charming flush; the other paler and
hollow, as if already iced over by death. Her hands, white as the lily,
with her meandering veins more transparently blue than ever I had seen
even hers, hanging lifelessly, one before her, the other grasped by the
right hand of the kindly widow, whose tears bedewed the sweet face which
her motherly bosom supported, though unfelt by the fair sleeper; and
either insensibly to the good woman, or what she would not disturb her
to wipe off or to change her posture. Her aspect was sweetly calm and
serene; and though she started now and then, yet her sleep seemed easy;
her breath indeed short and quick, but tolerably free, and not like that
of a dying person.' Allowing for the queer grammar, this is surely a
touching and simple picture. The epistolary method, though it has its
dangers, lends itself well to heighten our interest. Where the object is
rather to appeal to our sympathies than to give elaborate analyses of
character, or complicated narratives of incident, it is as well to let
the persons speak for themselves. A hero cannot conveniently say, like
Sir Charles Grandison, 'See how virtuous and brave and modest I am;' nor
is it easy to make a story clear when it has to be broken up and
distributed amongst people speaking from different points of view; it is
hard to make the testimonies of the different witnesses fit into each
other neatly. But a cry of agony can come from no other quarter so
effectively as from the sufferer's own mouth. 'Clarissa Harlowe' is in
fact one long lamentation, passing gradually from a tone of indignant
complaint to one of despair, and rising at the end to Christian
resignation. So prolonged a performance in every key of human misery is
indeed painful from its monotony; and we may admit that a limited
selection from the correspondence, passing through more rapid
gradations, would be more effective. We might be spared some of the
elaborate speculations upon various phases of the affair which pass away
without any permanent effect. Richardson seems to be scarcely content
even with drawing his characters as large as life; he wishes to apply a
magnifying-glass. Yet, even in this incessant repetition there is a
certain element of power. We are forced to drain every drop in the cup,
and to appreciate every ingredient which adds bitterness to its flavour.
We are annoyed and wearied at times; but as we read we not only wonder
at the number of variations performed upon one tune, but feel that he
has succeeded in thoroughly forcing upon our minds, by incessant
hammering, the impression which he desires to produce. If the blows are
not all very powerful, each blow tells. There is something impressive in
the intensity of purpose which keeps one end in view through so
elaborate a process, and the skill which forms such a multitudinous
variety of parts into one artistic whole. The proportions of this
gigantic growth are preserved with a skill which would be singular even
in the normal scale; a respect in which most giants, whether human or
literary, are apt to break down.