At all events this hero is powerful and formidable; and if at this

period we collect in our mind the scattered features of the faces which

the novel-writers have made pass before us, we will feel ourselves

transported into a half-barbarous world, and to a race whose energy must

terrify or revolt all our gentleness. Now let us open a more literal

copyist of life: they are doubtless all such, and declare--Fielding

amongst them--that if they imagine a feature, it is because they have

seen it; but Smollett has this advantage, that, being mediocre, he

chalks out the figures tamely, prosaically, without transforming them by

the illumination of genius: the joviality of Fielding and the rigor of

Richardson are not there to light up or ennoble the pictures. Let us

observe carefully Smollett's manners; let us listen to the confessions

of this imitator of Le Sage, who reproaches that author with being gay,

and jesting with the mishaps of his hero. He says: "The disgraces of Gil

Blas are, for the most part, such as rather excite mirth than

compassion: he himself laughs at them, and his transitions from distress

to happiness, or at least ease, are so sudden that neither the reader

has time to pity him, nor himself to be acquainted with affliction. This

conduct... prevents that generous indignation which ought to animate the

reader against the sordid and vicious disposition of the world. I have

attempted to represent modest merit struggling with every difficulty to

which a friendless orphan is exposed from his own want of experience as

well as from the selfishness, envy, malice, and base indifference of

mankind."[812] We hear no longer merely showers of blows, but also knife

and sword thrusts, as well as pistol shots. In such a world, when a girl

goes out she runs the risk of coming back a woman; and when a man goes

out, he runs the risk of not coming back at all. The women bury their

nails in the faces of the men; the well-bred gentlemen, like Peregrine

Pickle, whip other gentlemen soundly, Having deceived a husband, who

refuses to demand satisfaction, Peregrine calls his two servants, "and

ordered them to duck him in the canal."[813] Misrepresented by a curate,

whom he has horsewhipped, he gets an innkeeper "to rain a shower of

blows upon his (the parson's) carcase," who also "laid hold of one of

his ears with his teeth, and bit it unmercifully."[814] I could quote

from memory a score more of outrages begun or completed. Savage insults;

broken jaws, men on the ground beaten with sticks, the churlish sourness

of conversations, the coarse brutality of jests, give an idea of a pack

of bull-dogs eager to fight each other, who, when they begin to get

lively, still amuse themselves by tearing away pieces of flesh. A

Frenchman can hardly endure the story of "Roderick Random," or rather

that of Smollett, when he is on board a man-of-war. He is pressed, that

is to say, carried off by force, knocked down, attacked with "cudgels

and drawn cutlasses, pinioned like a malefactor," and rolled on board,

covered with blood, before the sailors, who laugh at his wounds; and one

of them, "seeing my hair clotted together with blood, as it were, into

distinct cords, took notice that my bows were manned with the red ropes,

instead of my side."[815] Roderick "desired one of his fellow-captives,

who was unfettered, to take a handkerchief out of his pocket, and tie it

round his head to stop the bleeding; he (the fellow) pulled out my

handkerchief, 'tis true, but sold it before my face to a bum-boat woman

for a quart of gin." Captain Oakum declares he will have no more sick in

his ship, ordered them to be brought on the quarterdeck, commanded that

some should receive a round dozen; some spitting blood, others fainting

from weakness, whilst not a few became delirious; many died, and of the

sixty-one sick, only a dozen remained alive.[816] To get into this dark,

suffocating hospital, swarming with vermin, it is necessary to creep

under the close hammocks, and forcibly separate them with the shoulders,

before the doctor can reach his patients. Read the story of Miss

Williams, a wealthy young girl, of good family, reduced to become a

prostitute, robbed, hungry, sick, shivering, strolling about the streets

in the long winter nights, amongst "a number of naked wretches reduced

to rags and filth, huddled together like swine, in the corner of a dark

alley," who depend "upon the addresses of the lowest class, and are fain

to allay the rage of hunger and cold with gin; degenerate into a brutal

insensibility, rot and die upon a dunghill."[817] She was thrown into

Bridewell, where, she says, "in the midst of a hellish crew I was

subjected to the tyranny of a barbarian, who imposed upon me tasks that

I could not possibly perform, and then punished my incapacity with the

utmost rigour 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 everything 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." One night she tried to hang herself.

Two of her fellow-prisoners, who watched her, prevented her. "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 ectasy of

madness, during which I tore the flesh from my bones with my teeth, and

dashed my head against the pavement."[818] In vain we turn our eyes on

the hero of the novel, Roderick Random, to repose a little after such a

spectacle. He is sensual and coarse, like Fielding's heroes, but not

good and jovial as these. Pride and resentment are the two principal

points in his character. The generous wine of Fielding, in Smollett's

hands becomes common brandy. His heroes are selfish; they revenge

themselves barbarously. Roderick oppresses the faithful Strap, and ends

by marrying him to a prostitute. Peregrine Pickle attacks by a most

brutal and cowardly plot the honor of a young girl, whom he wants to

marry, and who is the sister of his best friend. We get to hate his

rancorous, concentrated, obstinate character, which is at once that of

an absolute king accustomed to please himself at the expense of others'

happiness, and that of a boor with only the varnish of education. We

should be uneasy at living near him; he is good for nothing but to shock

or tyrannize over others. We avoid him as we would a dangerous beast;

the sudden rush of animal passion and the force of his firm will are so

overpowering in him, that when he fails he becomes outrageous. He draws

his sword against an innkeeper; he must bleed him, grows mad.

Everything, even to his generosities, is spoilt by pride; all, even to

his gayeties, is clouded by harshness. Peregrine's amusements are

barbarous, and those of Smollett are after the same style. He

exaggerates caricature; he thinks to amuse us by showing up mouths

gaping to the ears, and noses half a foot long; he magnifies a national

prejudice or a professional trick until it absorbs the whole character;

he jumbles together the most repulsive oddities--a Lieutenant Lismahago

half roasted by Red Indians; old jacktars who pass their life in

shouting and travestying all sorts of ideas into their nautical jargon;

old maids as ugly as monkeys, as fleshless as skeletons, and as sour as

vinegar; eccentric people steeped in pedantry, hypochondria,

misanthropy, and silence. Far from sketching them slightly, as Le Sage

does in "Gil Bias," he brings into prominent relief each disagreeable

feature, overloads it with details, without considering whether they are

too numerous, without recognizing that they are excessive, without

feeling that they are odious, without perceiving that they are

disgusting. The public whom he addresses is on a level with his energy

and his coarseness; and in order to move such nerves, a writer cannot

strike too hard.[819]

But, at the same time, to civilize this barbarity and to control this

violence, a faculty appears, common to all, authors and public: serious

reflection intent to observe character. Their eyes are turned toward the

inner man. They note exactly the individual peculiarities, and stamp

them with such a precise mark that their personage becomes a type, which

cannot be forgotten. They are psychologists. The title of a comedy of

old Ben Jonson's "Every Man in his Humour," indicates how old and

national this taste is amongst them. Smollett writes a whole novel,

"Humphrey Clinker," on this idea. There is no action in it; the book is

a collection of letters written during a tour in Scotland and England.

Each of the travellers, after his bent of mind, judges variously of the

same objects. A generous, grumbling old gentleman, who employs his spare

time by thinking himself ill, a crabbed old maid in search of a husband;

a lady's maid, simple and vain, who bravely bungles her spelling; a

series of eccentric people, who one after another bring their oddities

on the scene--such are the characters: the pleasure of the reader

consists in recognizing their humor in their style, in foreseeing their

follies, in perceiving the thread which pulls each of their motions, in

verifying the connection between their ideas and their actions. When we

push this study of human peculiarities to excess we will come upon the

origin of Sterne's talent.

Section VII.--Laurence Sterne

Let us figure to ourselves a man who goes on a journey, with a pair of

marvellously magnifying spectacles on his eyes. A hair on his hand, a

speck on a table-cloth, a fold of a moving garment, will interest him:

at this rate he will not go very far; he will go six steps in a day, and

will not quit his room. So Sterne writes four volumes to record the

birth of his hero. He perceives the infinitely little, and describes the

imperceptible. A man parts his hair on one side; this, according to

Sterne, depends on his whole character, which is of a piece with that of

his father, his mother, his uncle, and his whole ancestry; it depends on

the structure of his brain, which depends on the circumstances of his

conception and his birth, and these on the hobbies of his parents, the

humor of the moment, the talk of the preceding hour, the difficulties of

the parson, a cut thumb, twenty knots made on a bag; I know not how many

things besides. The six or eight volumes of "Tristram Shandy" are

employed in summing them up; for the smallest and dullest incident, a

sneeze, a badly shaven beard, drags after it an inextricable network of

inter-involved causes, which from above, below, right and left, by

invisible prolongations and ramifications, sink into the depths of a

character and in the remote vistas of events. Instead of extracting,

like the novel-writers, the principal root, Sterne, with marvellous

devices and success, devotes himself to drawing out the tangled skein of

numberless threads, which are sinuously immersed and dispersed, so as to

suck in from all sides the sap and the life. Slender, intertwined,

buried as they are, he finds them; he extricates them without breaking,

brings them to the light; and there, where we fancied but a stalk, we

see with wonder the underground mass and vegetation of the multiplied

fibres and fibrils, by which the visible plant grows and is supported.

This is truly a strange talent, made up of blindness and insight, which

resembles those diseases of the retina in which the over-excited nerve

becomes at once dull and penetrating, incapable of seeing what the most

ordinary eyes perceive, capable of observing what the most piercing

sight misses. In fact, Sterne is a sickly and eccentric humorist, a

clergyman and a libertine, a fiddler and a philosopher, who preferred

"whining over a dead ass to relieving a living mother,"[820] selfish in

act, selfish in word, who in everything takes a contrary view of himself

and of others. His book is like a great storehouse of articles of _vertu_,

where curiosities of all ages, kinds, and countries lie jumbled in a

heap; forms of excommunication, medical consultations, passages of

unknown or imaginary authors, scraps of scholastic erudition, strings of

absurd histories, dissertations, addresses to the reader. His pen leads

him; he has neither sequence nor plan; nay, when he lights upon anything

orderly, he purposely contorts it; with a kick he sends the pile of

folios next to him over the history he has commenced, and dances on the

top of them. He delights in disappointing us, in sending us astray by

interruptions and delays.[821] Gravity displeases him, he treats it as a

hypocrite: to his liking folly is better, and he paints himself in

Yorick. In a well-constituted mind ideas march one after another, with

uniform motion or acceleration; in this odd brain they jump about like a

rout of masks at a carnival, in troops, each dragging his neighbor by

the feet, head, coat, amidst the most general and unforeseen hubbub. All

his little lopped phrases are somersaults; we pant as we read. The tone

is never for two minutes the same; laughter comes, then the beginning of

emotion, then scandal, then wonder, then sensibility, then laughter

again. The mischievous joker pulls and entangles the threads of all our

feelings, and makes us go higher, thither, in a whimsical manner, like

puppets. Amongst these various threads there are two which he pulls more

willingly than the rest. Like all men who have nerves, he is subject to

sensibility; not that he is really kindly and tender-hearted; on the

contrary, his life is that of an egotist; but on certain days he must

needs weep, and he makes us weep with him. He is moved on behalf of a

captive bird, of a poor ass, which, accustomed to blows, "looked up

pensive," and seemed to say, "Don't thrash me with it (the halter); but

if you will, you may."[822] He will write a couple of pages on the

attitude of this donkey, and Priam at the feet of Achilles was not more

touching. Thus in a silence, in an oath, in the most trifling domestic

action, he hits upon exquisite refinements and little heroisms, a

variety of charming flowers, invisible to everybody else, which grow in

the dust of the driest road. One day Uncle Toby, the invalided captain,

catches, after "infinite attempts," a big buzzing fly, who has cruelly

tormented him all dinner-time; he gets up, crosses the room on his

suffering leg, and opening the window, cries: "Go, poor devil, get thee

gone; why should I hurt thee? This world surely is wide enough to hold

both thee and me."[823] This womanish sensibility is too fine to be

described; we should have to give a whole story--that of Lefèvre, for

instance--that the perfume might be inhaled; this perfume evaporates as

soon as we touch it, and is like the weak fleeting odor of flowers,

brought for one moment into a sick-chamber. What still more increases

this sad sweetness is the contrast of the free and easy waggeries which,

like a hedge of nettles, encircle them on all sides. Sterne, like all

men whose mechanism is over-excited, has odd desires. He loves the nude,

not from a feeling of the beautiful, and in the manner of painters, not

from sensuality and frankness like Fielding, not from a search after

pleasure like Dorat, Boufflers, and all those refined epicures, who at

that time were rhyming and enjoying themselves in France. If he goes

into dirty places, it is because they are forbidden and not frequented.

What he seeks there is singularity and scandal. The allurement of this

forbidden fruit is not the fruit, but the prohibition; for he bites by

preference where the fruit is half rotten or worm-eaten. That an

epicurean delights in detailing the pretty sins of a pretty woman is

nothing wonderful; but that a novelist takes pleasure in watching the

bedroom of a musty, fusty old couple, in observing the consequences of

the fall of a burning chestnut in a pair of breeches,[824] in detailing

the questions of Mrs. Wadman on the consequences of wounds in the

groin,[825] can only be explained by the aberration of a perverted

fancy, which finds its amusement in repugnant ideas, as spoiled palates

are pleased by the pungent flavor of decayed cheese.[826] Thus, to read

Sterne we should wait for days when we are in a peculiar kind of humor,

days of spleen, rain, or when through nervous irritation we are

disgusted with rationality. In fact his characters are as unreasonable

as himself. He sees in man nothing but fancy, and what he calls the

hobby-horse--Uncle Toby's taste for fortifications, Mr. Shandy's fancy

for oratorical tirades and philosophical systems. This hobby-horse,

according to him, is like a wart, so small at first that we hardly

perceive it, and only when it is in a strong light; but it gradually

increases, becomes covered with hairs, grows red, and buds out all

around: its possessor, who is pleased with and admires it, nourishes it,

until at last it is changed into a vast wen, and the whole face

disappears under the invasion of the parasite excrescence. No one has

equalled Sterne in the history of these human hypertrophies; he puts

down the seed, feeds it gradually, makes the propagating threads creep

round about, shows the little veins and microscopic arteries which

inosculate within, counts the palpitations of the blood which passes

through them, explains their changes of color and increase of bulk.

Psychological observation attains here one of its extreme developments.

A far advanced art is necessary to describe, beyond the confines of

regularity and health, the exception or the degeneration; and the

English novel is completed here by adding to the representation of form

the picture of malformations.

Section VIII.--Oliver Goldsmith

The moment approaches when purified manners will, by purifying the

novel, give it its final impress and character. Of the two great

tendencies manifested by it, native brutality and intense reflection,

one at last conquers the other; when literature became severe it

expelled from fiction the coarseness of Smollett and the indecencies of

Sterne; and the novel, in every respect moral, before falling into the

most prudish hands of Miss Burney, passes into the noble hands of

Goldsmith. His "Vicar of Wakefield" is "a prose idyl," somewhat spoilt

by phrases too rhetorical, but at bottom as homely as a Flemish picture.

Observe in Terburg's or Mieris's paintings a woman at market or a

burgomaster emptying his long glass of beer: the faces are vulgar, the

ingenuousness is comical, the cookery occupies the place of honor; yet

these good folks are so peaceful, so contented with their small ordinary

happiness, that we envy them. The impression left by Goldsmith's book is

pretty much the same. The excellent Dr. Primrose is a country clergyman,

the whole of whose adventures have for a long time consisted in

"migrations from the blue bed to the brown." He has cousins, "even to

the fortieth remove," who come to eat his dinner and sometimes to borrow

a pair of boots. His wife, who has all the education of the time, is a

perfect cook, can almost read, excels in pickling and preserving, and at

dinner gives the history of every dish. His daughters aspire to

elegance, and even "make a wash for the face over the fire." His son

Moses gets cheated at the fair, and sells a colt for a gross of green

spectacles. Dr. Primrose himself writes pamphlets, which no one buys,

against second marriages of the clergy; writes beforehand in his wife's

epitaph, though she was still living, that she was "the only wife of Dr.

Primrose," and by way of encouragement, places this piece of eloquence

in an elegant frame over the chimney-piece. But the household continues

the even tenor of its way; the daughters and the mother slightly

domineer over the father of the family; he lets them do so, because he

is an easy-going man; now and again fires off an innocent jest, and

busies himself in his new farm, with his two horses, wall-eyed

Blackberry and the other without a tail: "nothing could exceed the

neatness of my enclosures, the elms and hedge-rows appearing with

inexpressible beauty ... Our little habitation was situated at the foot

of a sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a

prattling river before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green....

(It) consisted but of one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave

it an air of great snugness: the walls on the inside were nicely

whitewashed.... Though the same room served us for parlour and kitchen,

that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost

neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers, being well scoured, and all

disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved,

and did not want richer furniture."[827] They make hay all together, sit

under the honeysuckle to drink a bottle of gooseberry wine; the girls

sing, the two little ones read; and the parents "would stroll down the

sloping field, that was embellished with blue bells and centaury": "But

let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life, and Moses, gives us a

good song. What thanks do we not owe to heaven for thus bestowing

tranquillity, health, and competence! I think myself happier now than

the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such fireside, nor such

pleasant faces about it."[828]

Such is moral happiness. Their misfortune is no less moral. The poor

vicar has lost his fortune, and, removing to a small living, turns

farmer. The squire of the neighborhood seduces and carries off his

eldest daughter; his house takes fire; his arm was burnt in a terrible

manner in saving his two little children. He is put in prison for debt,

amongst wretches and rogues, who swear and blaspheme, in a vile

atmosphere, sleeping on straw, feeling that his illness increases,

foreseeing that his family will soon be without bread, learning that his

daughter is dying. Yet he does not give way: he remains a priest and the

head of a family, prescribes to each of them his duty; encourages,

consoles, provides for, orders, preaches to the prisoners, endures their

coarse jests, reforms them; establishes in the prison useful work, and

"institutes fines for punishment and rewards for industry." It is not

hardness of heart nor a morose temperament which gives him strength; he

has the most paternal soul, the most sociable, humane, open to gentle

emotions and familiar tenderness. He says: "I have no resentment now;

and though he (the squire) has taken from me what I held dearer than all

his treasures, though he has wrung my heart (for I am sick almost to

fainting, very sick, my fellow-prisoner), yet that shall never inspire

me with vengeance.... If this (my) submission can do him any pleasure,

let him know, that if I have done him any injury, I am sorry for it....

I should detest my own heart, if I saw either pride or resentment

lurking there. On the contrary, as my oppressor has been once my

parishioner, I hope one day to present him up an unpolluted soul at the

eternal tribunal."[829] But the hard-hearted squire haughtily repulses

the noble application of the vicar, and in addition causes his second

daughter to be carried off, and the eldest son to be thrown into prison

under a false accusation of murder. At this moment all the affections of

the father are wounded, all his consolations lost, all his hopes ruined.

"His heart weeps to behold" all this misery, he was going to curse the

cause of it all; but soon, returning to his profession and his duty, he

thinks how he will prepare to fit his son and himself for eternity, and

by way of being useful to as many people as he can, he wishes at the

same time to exhort his fellow-prisoners. He "made an effort to rise on

the straw, but wanted strength, and was able only to recline against the

wall; my son and his mother supported me on either side."[830] In this

condition he speaks, and his sermon, contrasting with his condition, is

the more moving. It is a dissertation in the English style, made up of

close reasoning, seeking only to establish that "Providence has given to

the wretched two advantages over the happy in this life," greater

felicity in dying; and in heaven all that superiority of pleasure which

arises from contrasted enjoyments.[831] We see the sources of this

virtue, born of Christianity and natural kindness, but long nourished by

inner reflection. Meditation, which usually produces only phrases,

results with Dr. Primrose in actions. Verily reason has here taken the

helm, and it has taken it without oppressing other feelings; a rare and

eloquent spectacle, which, uniting and harmonizing in one character the

best features of the manners and morals of that time and country,

creates an admiration and love for pious and orderly, domestic and

disciplined, laborious and rural life. Protestant and English virtue has

not a more approved and amiable exemplar. Religious, affectionate,

rational, the Vicar unites predilections which seemed irreconcilable; a

clergyman, a farmer, a head of a family, he enhances those characters

which appeared fit only for comic or homely parts.

Section IX.--Samuel Johnson

We now come upon a strange character, the most esteemed of his time, a

sort of literary dictator. Richardson was his friend, and gave him

essays for his paper; Goldsmith, with an artless vanity, admires him,

whilst suffering to be continually outshone by him; Miss Burney imitates

his style, and reveres him as a father. Gibbon the historian, Reynolds

the painter, Garrick the actor, Burke the orator, Sir William Jones the

Orientalist, come to his club to converse with him. Lord Chesterfield,

who had lost his favor, vainly tried to regain it, by proposing to

assign to him, on every word in the language, the authority of a

dictator.[832] Boswell dogs his steps, sets down his opinions, and at

night fills quartos with them. His criticism becomes law; men crowd to

hear him talk; he is the arbiter of style. Let us transport in

imagination this ruler of mind, Dr. Samuel Johnson, into France, among

the pretty drawing-rooms, full of elegant philosophers and epicurean

manners; the violence of the contrast will mark better than all argument

the bent and predilections of the English mind.

There appears then before us a man whose "person was large, robust,

approaching to the gigantic, and grown unwieldy from corpulency,"[833]

with a gloomy and unpolished air, "his countenance disfigured by the

king's evil," and blinking with one of his eyes, "in a full suit of

plain brown clothes," and with not overclean linen, suffering from

morbid melancholy since his birth, and moreover a hypochondriac.[834] In

company he would sometimes retire to a window or corner of a room, and

mutter a Latin verse or a prayer.[835] At other times, in a recess, he

would roll his head, sway his body backward and forward, stretch out and

then convulsively draw back his leg. His biographer relates that it "was

his constant anxious care to go out or in at a door or passage,... so as

that either his right or his left foot should constantly make the first

actual movement; ... when he had neglected or gone wrong in this sort of

magical movement, I have seen him go back again, put himself in the

proper posture to begin the ceremony, and having gone through it, walk

briskly on and join his companion."[836] People are sitting at table,

when suddenly, in a moment of abstraction, he stoops, and clenching hold

of the foot of a lady, draws off her shoe.[837] Hardly is the dinner

served when he darts on the food; "his looks seemed rivetted to his

plate; nor would he, unless when in very high company, say one word, or

even pay the least attention to what was said by others; (he) indulged

with such intenseness, that, while in the act of eating, the veins of

his forehead swelled, and generally a strong perspiration was

visible."[838] If by chance the hare was high, or the pie had been made

with rancid butter, he no longer ate, but devoured. When at last his

appetite was satisfied, and he consented to speak, he disputed, shouted,

made a sparring-match of his conversation, triumphed no matter how, laid

down his opinion dogmatically, and ill-treated those whom he was

refuting. "Sir, I perceive you are a vile Whig."[839] "My dear lady (to

Mrs. Thrale), talk no more of this; nonsense can be defended but by

nonsense."[840] "One thing I know, which you don't seem to know, that

you are very uncivil."[841] In the intervals of articulating he made

various sounds with his mouth, sometimes as if ruminating,... sometimes

giving a half whistle, sometimes making his tongue play backwards from

the roof of his mouth, as if clucking like a hen.... Generally, when he

had concluded a period, in the course of a dispute,... he used to blow

out his breath like a whale,[842] and swallow several cups of tea.

Then in a low voice, cautiously, men would ask Garrick or Boswell the

history and habits of this strange being. He had lived like a cynic and

an eccentric, having passed his youth reading miscellaneously,

especially Latin folios, even those least known, such as Macrobius; he

had found on a shelf in his father's shop the Latin works of Petrarch,

whilst he was looking for apples, and had read them;[843] "he published

proposals for printing by subscription the Latin poems of

Politian."[844] At twenty-five he had married for love a woman of about

fifty, "very fat, with swelled cheeks, of a florid red, produced by

thick painting, flaring and fantastic in her dress,"[845] and who had

children as old as himself. Having come to London to earn his bread,

some people, seeing his convulsive grimaces, took him for an idiot;

others, seeing his robust frame, advised him to buy a porter's

knot.[846] For thirty years he worked like a hack for the publishers,

whom he used to thrash when they became impertinent;[847] always shabby,

having once fasted two days;[848] content when he could dine on "a cut

of meat for sixpence, and bread for a penny";[849] having written

"Rasselas" in eight nights, to pay for his mother's funeral. Now

pensioned[850] by the king, freed from his daily labors, he gave way to

his natural indolence, lying in bed often till midday and after. He is

visited at that hour. We mount the stairs of a gloomy house on the north

side of Fleet Street, the busy quarter of London, in a narrow and

obscure court; and as we enter, we hear the scoldings of four old women

and an old quack doctor, poor penniless creatures, bad in health and in

disposition, whom he has rescued, whom he supports, who vex or insult

him. We ask for the Doctor, a negro opens the door; we gather round the

master's bed: there are always many distinguished people at his levee,

including even ladies. Thus surrounded, "he declaims, then went to

dinner at a tavern, where he commonly stays late,"[851] talks all the

evening, goes out to enjoy in the streets the London mud and fog, picks

up a friend to talk again, and is busy pronouncing oracles and

maintaining his opinion till four in the morning.

Whereupon we ask if it is the freedom of his opinions which is

fascinating. His friends answer, that there is no more indomitable

partisan of order. He is called the Hercules of Toryism. From infancy he

detested the Whigs, and he never spoke of them but as public

malefactors. He insults them even in his Dictionary. He exalts Charles

II and James II as two of the best kings who have ever reigned.[852] He

justifies the arbitrary taxes which Government presumes to levy on the

Americans.[853] He declares that "Whigism is a negation of all

principle";[854] that "the first Whig was the devil";[855] that "the

Crown has not power enough";[856] that "mankind are happier in a state

of inequality and subordination."[857] Frenchmen of the present time,

admirers of the "Contrat Social," soon feel, on reading or hearing all

this, that they are no longer in France. And what must they feel when, a

few moments later, the Doctor says: "I think him (Rousseau) one of the

worst of men; a rascal who ought to be hunted out of society, as he has

been. ... I would sooner sign a sentence for his transportation, than

that of any felon who has gone from the Old Bailey these many years.

Yes, I should like to have him work in the plantations."[858]....

It seems that in England people do not like philosophical innovators.

Let us see if Voltaire will be treated better: "It is difficult to

settle the proportion of iniquity between them (Rousseau and

Voltaire)."[859] In good sooth, this is clear. But can we not look for

truth outside an Established Church? No; "no honest man could be a

Deist; for no man could be so after a fair examination of the proofs of

Christianity."[860] Here is a peremptory Christian; there are scarcely

any in France so decisive. Moreover, he is an Anglican, with a passion

for the hierarchy, an admirer of established order, an enemy of

Dissenters. We see him bow to an archbishop with peculiar

veneration.[861] We hear him reprove one of his friends "for saying

grace without mention of the name of our Lord Jesus Christ."[862] If we

speak to him of a Quakers' meeting, and of a woman preaching, he will

tell us that "a woman preaching is like a dog's walking on his hind

legs; it is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at

all."[863] He is a Conservative, and does not fear being considered

antiquated. He went at one o'clock in the morning into St. John's

Church, Clerkenwell, to interrogate a tormented spirit, which had

promised to "give a token of her presence there by a knock upon her

coffin."[864] If we look at Boswell's life of him, we will find there

fervent prayers, examinations of conscience, and rules of conduct.

Amidst prejudices and ridicule he has a deep conviction, an active

faith, a severe moral piety. He is a Christian from his heart and

conscience, reason and practice. The thought of God, the fear of the

last judgment, engross and reform him. He said one day to Garrick: "I'll

come no more behind your scenes, David, for the silk stockings and white

bosoms of your actresses excite my amorous propensities." He reproaches

himself with his indolence, implores God's pardon, is humble, has

scruples. All this is very strange. We ask men what can please them in

this grumbling bear, with the manners of a beadle and the inclinations

of a constable? They answer, that in London people are less exacting

than in Paris, as to manners and politeness; that in England they allow

energy to be rude and virtue odd; that they put up with a combative

conversation; that public opinion is all on the side of the constitution

and Christianity; and that society was right to take for its master a

man who, by his style and precepts, best suited its bent.

We now send for his books, and after an hour we observe, that whatever

the work be, tragedy or dictionary, biography or essay, he always writes

in the same style. "Dr. Johnson," Goldsmith said one day to him, "if you

were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like whales."[865] In

fact, his phraseology rolls ever in solemn and majestic periods, in

which every substantive marches ceremoniously, accompanied by its

epithet; grand, pompous words peal like an organ; every proposition is

set forth balanced by a proposition of equal length; thought is

developed with the compassed regularity and official splendor of a

procession. Classical prose attains its perfection in him, as classical

poetry in Pope. Art cannot be more finished, or nature more forced. No

one has confined ideas in more strait compartments; none has given

stronger relief to dissertation and proof; none has imposed more

despotically on story and dialogue the forms of argumentation and

violent declamation; none has more generally mutilated the flowing

liberty of conversation and life by antitheses and technical words. It

is the completion and the excess, the triumph and the tyranny of

oratorical style.[866] We understand now that an oratorical age would

recognize him as a master, and attribute to him in eloquence the mastery

which it attributed to Pope in verse.

We wish to know what ideas have made him popular. Here the astonishment

of a Frenchman redoubles. We vainly turn over the pages of his

Dictionary, his eight volumes of essays, his many volumes of

biographies, his numberless articles, his conversation so carefully

collected; we yawn. His truths are too true; we already know his

precepts by heart. We learn from him that life is short, and we ought to

improve the few moments granted to us;[867] that a mother ought not to

bring up her son as a fop; that a man ought to repent of his faults, and

yet avoid superstition; that in everything we ought to be active, and

not hurried. We thank him for these sage counsels, but we mutter to

ourselves that we could have done very well without them. We should like

to know who could have been the lovers of ennui who have bought up

thirteen thousand copies of his works. We then remember that sermons are

liked in England, and that these essays are sermons. We discover that

men of reflection do not need bold or striking ideas, but palpable and

profitable truths. They desire to be furnished with a useful provision

of authentic examples on man and his existence, and demand nothing more.

No matter if the idea is vulgar; meat and bread are vulgar too, and are

no less good. They wish to be taught the kinds and degrees of happiness

and unhappiness, the varieties and results of character and condition,

the advantages and inconveniences of town and country, knowledge and

ignorance, wealth and moderate circumstances, because they are moralists

and utilitarians; because they look in a book for the knowledge to turn

them from folly, and motives to confirm them in uprightness; because

they cultivate in themselves sense, that is common, practical reason. A

little fiction, a few portraits, the least amount of amusement, will

suffice to adorn it. This substantial food only needs a very simple

seasoning. It is not the novelty of the dishes, nor dainty cookery, but

solidity and wholesomeness, which they seek. For this reason essays are

Johnson's national food. It is because they are insipid and dull for

Frenchmen that they suit the taste of an Englishman. We understand now

why they take for a favorite the respectable, the tiresome Dr. Samuel

Johnson.

Section X.--William Hogarth

I would fain bring together all these features, see these figures; only

colors and forms complete an idea; in order to know, we must see. Let us

go to the picture-gallery. Hogarth, the national painter, the friend of

Fielding, the contemporary of Johnson, the exact imitator of manners,

will show us the outward, as these authors have shown us the inward.

We enter these great galleries of art. Painting is a noble thing! It

embellishes all, even vice. On the four walls, under transparent and

brilliant glass, the torsos rise, flesh palpitates, the blood's warm

current circulates under the veined skin, speaking likenesses stand out

in the light; it seems that the ugly, the vulgar, the odious, have

disappeared from the world. I no more criticise characters; I have done

with moral rules. I am no longer tempted to approve or to hate. A man

here is but a smudge of color, at most a handful of muscles; I know no

longer if he be a murderer.

Life, the happy, complete, overflowing display, the expansion of natural

and corporal powers; this from all sides floods and rejoices our eyes.

Our limbs instinctively move by contagious imitation of movements and

forms. Before these lions of Rubens, whose deep growls rise like thunder

to the mouth of the cave, before these colossal writhing torsos, these

snouts which grope about skulls, the animal within us quivers through

sympathy, and it seems as if we were about to emit from our chests a

roar to equal their own.

What though art has degenerated even among Frenchmen, epigrammatists,

the bepowdered abbés of the eighteenth century, it is art still. Beauty

is gone, elegance remains. These pretty arch faces, these slender

waspish waists, these delicate arms buried in a nest of lace, these

careless wanderings among thickets and warbling fountains, these gallant

dreams in a lofty chamber festooned with garlands, all this refined and

coquettish society is charming. The artist, then as always, gathers the

flowers of things, and cares not for the rest.

But what was Hogarth's aim? who ever saw such a painter? Is he a

painter? Others make us wish to see what they represent; he makes us

wish not to see it.

Is there anything more agreeable to paint than a drunken debauch by

night? the jolly, careless faces; the rich light, drowned in shadows

which flicker over rumpled garments and weighed-down bodies. With

Hogarth, on the other hand, what figures! Wickedness, stupidity, all the

vile poison of the vilest human passions, drops and distils from them.

One is shaking on his legs as he stands, sick, whilst a hiccup half

opens his belching lips; another howls hoarsely, like a wretched cur;

another, with bald and broken head, patched up in places, falls forward

on his chest, with the smile of a sick idiot. We turn over the leaves of

Hogarth's works, and the train of odious or bestial faces appears to be

inexhaustible; features distorted or deformed, foreheads lumpy or puffed

out with perspiring flesh; hideous grins distended by ferocious

laughter: one has had his nose bitten off; the next, one-eyed,

square-headed, spotted over with bleeding warts, whose red face looks

redder under the dazzling white wig, smokes silently, full of rancor and

spleen; another, an old man with a crutch, scarlet and bloated, his chin

falling on his breast, gazes with the fixed and starting eyes of a crab.

Hogarth shows the beast in man, and worse, a mad and murderous, a feeble

or enraged beast. Look at this murderer standing over the body of his

butchered mistress, with squinting eyes, distorted mouth, grinding his

teeth at the thought of the blood which stains and denounces him; or

this ruined gambler, who has torn off his wig and kerchief, and is

crying on his knees, with closed teeth, and fist raised against heaven.

Look again at this madhouse: the dirty idiot, with muddy face, filthy

hair, stained claws, who thinks he is playing on the violin, and has a

sheet of music for a cap; the religious madman, who writhes convulsively

on his straw, with clasped hands, feeling the claws of the devil in his

bowels; the naked and haggard raving lunatic whom they are chaining up,

and who is tearing out his flesh with his nails. Detestable Yahoos who

presume to usurp the blessed light of heaven, in what brain can you have

arisen, and why did a painter sully our eyes with your picture?

It is because his eyes were English, and because the senses in England

are barbarous. Let us leave our repugnance behind us, and look at things

as Englishmen do, not from without, but from within. The whole current

of public thought tends here towards observation of the soul, and

painting is dragged along with literature in the same course. Forget

then the forms, they are but lines; the body is here only to translate

the mind.[868] This twisted nose, these pimples on a vinous cheek, these

stupefied gestures of a drowsy brute, these wrinkled features, these

degraded forms, only make the character, the trade, the whim, the habit

stand out more clearly. The artist shows us no longer limbs and heads,

but debauchery, drunkenness, brutality, hatred, despair, all the

diseases and deformities of these too harsh and unbending wills, the mad

menagerie of all the passions. Not that he lets them loose; this rude,

dogmatic, and Christian citizen handles more vigorously than any of his

brethren the heavy club of morality. He is a beef-eating policeman

charged with instructing and correcting drunken pugilists. From such a

man to such men ceremony would be superfluous. At the bottom of every

cage where he imprisons a vice, he writes its name and adds the

condemnation pronounced by Scripture; he displays that vice in its

ugliness, buries it in its filth, drags it to its punishment, so that

there is no conscience so perverted as not to recognize it, none so

hardened as not to be horrified at it.

Let us look well, these are lessons which bear fruit. This one is

against gin: on a step, in the open street, lies a drunken woman, half

naked, with hanging breasts, scrofulous legs; she smiles idiotically,

and her child, which she lets fall on the pavement, breaks its skull.

Underneath, a pale skeleton, with closed eyes, sinks down with a glass

in his hand. Round about, dissipation and frenzy drive the tattered

spectres one against another. A wretch who has hung himself sways to and

fro in a garret. Gravediggers are putting a naked woman into a coffin. A

starveling is gnawing a bare bone side by side with a dog. By his side

little girls are drinking with one another, and a young woman is making

her suckling swallow gin. A madman pitchforks his child, and raises it

aloft; he dances and laughs, and the mother sees it.

Another picture and lesson, this time against cruelty. A young murderer

has been hung, and is being dissected. He is there, on a table, and the

lecturer calmly points out with his wand the places where the students

are to work. At this sign the dissectors cut the flesh and pull. One is

at the feet; the second man of science, a sardonic old butcher, seizes a

knife with a hand that looks as if it would do its duty, and thrusts the

other hand into the entrails, which, lower down, are being taken out to

be put into a bucket. The last medical student takes out the eye, and

the distorted mouth seems to howl under his hand. Meanwhile a dog seizes

the heart, which is trailing on the ground; thigh-bones and skull boil,

by way of concert, in a copper; and the doctors around coolly exchange

surgical jokes on the subject which, piecemeal, is passing away under

their scalpels.

Frenchmen will say that such lessons are good for barbarians, and that

they only half like these official or lay preachers, De Foe, Hogarth,

Smollett, Richardson, Johnson, and the rest. I reply that moralists are

useful, and that these have changed a state of barbarism into one of

civilization.

[Footnote 735: See his dull poems, amongst others "Jure divino," a poem

in twelve books, in defence of every man's birthright by nature.]

[Footnote 736: Compare another story of an apparition, Edgar Poe's

"Case of M. Waldemar." The American is a suffering artist; De Foe a

citizen, who has common-sense.]

[Footnote 737: De Foe's Works, 20 vols. 1819-21. "The Life and Adventures

of Robinson Crusoe," I. ch. IV. 65.]

[Footnote 738: "Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe," I. ch. IV. 76.]

[Footnote 739: "Robinson Crusoe," ch. IV. 79.]

[Footnote 740: Ibid. 80.]

[Footnote 741: Ibid. ch. XI. 184.]

[Footnote 742: "Robinson Crusoe," 187, Ps. 1. 15.]

[Footnote 743: Heb. XIII. 5.]

[Footnote 744: "Robinson Crusoe," ch. VIII. 134.]

[Footnote 745: Ibid. ch. VIII. 133.]

[Footnote 746: 1709, 1711, 1713.]

[Footnote 747: 1741. The translator has consulted the tenth edition, 1775,

4 vols.]

[Footnote 748: "To be sure I did nothing but curt'sy and cry, and was all

in confusion at his goodness."

"I was so confounded at these words, you might have beat me down with a

feather.... So, like a fool, I was ready to cry, and went away curt'sying,

and blushing, I am sure, up to the ears."]

[Footnote 749: Pamela, vol. 1. Letter X.]

[Footnote 750: Ibid.]

[Footnote 751: Ibid. Letter XXVII.]

[Footnote 752: "I dare not tell a wilful lie."]

[Footnote 753: "Pamela," I. Letter XXV.]

[Footnote 754: Ibid. Letter to Mr. Williams, I. 208.]

[Footnote 755: "Pamela," I. 290.]

[Footnote 756: Ibid. II. 167.]

[Footnote 757: Ibid. II. 78.]

[Footnote 758: Ibid. II. 148.]

[Footnote 759: Ibid. II. 194.]

[Footnote 760: Ibid. II. 62.]

[Footnote 761: "Pamela," II. 62.]

[Footnote 762: Ibid. II. 63.]

[Footnote 763: Ibid.]

[Footnote 764: See in "Pamela" the characters of Squire B. and Lady

Davers.]

[Footnote 765: "Clarissa Harlowe," 4th ed. 1751, 7 vols. I, 92.]

[Footnote 766: Ibid. I. 105.]

[Footnote 767: "Clarissa Harlowe," I. Letter XX. 125.]

[Footnote 768: Ibid. I. Letter XXXIX. 253.]

[Footnote 769: Ibid. I. Letter XLII. 278.]

[Footnote 770: "Clarissa Harlowe," I. Letter XLIII. 295.]

[Footnote 771: Ibid. I. Letter XLV. 308.]

[Footnote 772: Ibid. I. Letter XLV. 309.]

[Footnote 773: Ibid. Letter XXXIV. 223.]

[Footnote 774: Ibid. II. Letter XLIII. 315.]

[Footnote 775: "Clarissa Harlowe," I. Letter XII. 65.]

[Footnote 776: Ibid. III. Letter XVIII. 89.]

[Footnote 777: Ibid. VII. Letter XXXVIII. 122.]

[Footnote 778: See the Mémoirs of the Marshal de Richelieu.]

[Footnote 779: "Clarissa Harlowe," II. Letter XXXIX. 294.]

[Footnote 780: Ibid, IV, XXXIII. 232.]

[Footnote 781: See ("Clarissa Harlowe," vol. VII. Letter XLIX.) among

other things her last will.]

[Footnote 782: She makes out statistics and a classification of

Lovelace's merits and faults, with subdivisions and numbers. Take an

example of this positive and practical English logic: "That such a

husband might unsettle me in all my own principles, and hazard my future

hopes. That he has a very immoral character to women. That knowing this,

it is a high degree of impurity to think of joining in wedlock with such

a man." She keeps all her writings, her memorandums, summaries or

analyses of her own letters.]

[Footnote 783: "Swearing is a most unmanly vice, and cursing as poor and

low a one, since it proclaims the profligate's want of power and his

wickedness at the same time; for could such a one punish as he speaks, he

would be a fiend."--Vol. II. Letter XXXVIII. 282.]

[Footnote 784: The contrary is the case with the heroines of George Sand's

novels.]

[Footnote 785: See "Sir Charles Grandison," 7 vols. 1811, III. Letter XVI.

142: "He received the letters, standing up, bowing; and kissed the papers

with an air of gallantry, that I thought greatly became him."]

[Footnote 786: "Sir Charles Grandison," VI. Letter XXXI. 236.]

[Footnote 787: Ibid. VI. Letter XXXIII. 252.]

[Footnote 788: Ibid. VI. Letter LII. 358.]

[Footnote 789: Ibid. VI. Letter XXXI. 233.]

[Footnote 790: "Sir Charles Grandison," VII. Letter LXI. 336.]

[Footnote 791: A selfish and misanthropical cynic in Molière's

"École des Femmes."--Tr.]

[Footnote 792: Clarissa and Pamela employ too many.]

[Footnote 793: In "Novels and Novelists," by W. Forsyth, 1871, it is

said, ch. VII: "To me, I confess, 'Clarissa Harlowe' is an unpleasant,

not to say odious book.... If any book deserved the charge of sickly

sentimentality, it is this; and that it should have once been so widely

popular, and thought admirably adapted to instruct young women in

lessons of virtue and religion, shows a strange and perverted state of

the public taste, not to say public morals." Mrs. Oliphant, in her

"Historical Sketches of the Reign of George Second," 1869, says of the

same novel (II. X. 264): "Richardson was a respectable tradesman,... a

good printer,... a comfortable soul,... never owing a guinea nor

transgressing a rule of morality; and yet so much a poet, that he has

added at least one character (Clarissa Harlowe) to the inheritance of

the world, of which Shakespeare need not have been ashamed--the most

celestial thing, the highest effort of his generation."--Tr.]

[Footnote 794: "Lady Montague's Letters," ed. Lord Wharncliffe, 2d ed.

3 vols. 1837; Letter to the Countess of Bute, III. 120.]

[Footnote 795: Roscoe's "Life of Fielding," p. XXV.]

[Footnote 796: "The Adventures of Joseph Andrews," bk. I. ch. XII.]

[Footnote 797: Ibid. I. ch. XVIII.]

[Footnote 798: "History of a Foundling," bk. V. ch. II.]

[Footnote 799: "History of a Foundling," bk. VI. ch. X.]

[Footnote 800: Ibid. bk. VI. ch. X.]

[Footnote 801: Blifil.]

[Footnote 802: "History of a Foundling," XVI. ch. II.]

[Footnote 803: Ibid, XVIII. ch. IX.]

[Footnote 804: Ibid, XVIII. ch. XII.]

[Footnote 805: Last chapter of the "History of a Foundling."]

[Footnote 806: Preface to "Joseph Andrews."]

[Footnote 807: "Jonathan Wild."]

[Footnote 808: Amelia is the perfect English wife, an excellent cook, so

devoted as to pardon her husband his accidental infidelities, always

looking forward to the accoucheur. She says ever (bk. IV. ch. VI.), "Dear

Billy, though my understanding be much inferior to yours." She is

excessively modest, always blushing and tender. Bagillard having written

her some love-letters, she throws them away, and says (bk. III. ch. IX.):

"I would not have such a letter in my possession for the universe; I

thought my eyes contaminated with reading it."]

[Footnote 809: "Amelia," bk. II. ch. VIII.]

[Footnote 810: Ibid. bk. III. ch. I.]

[Footnote 811: Ibid, bk. III. ch. II.]

[Footnote 812: Preface to "Roderick Random."]

[Footnote 813: "Peregrine Pickle," ch. LX.]

[Footnote 814: "Peregrine Pickle," ch. XXIX.]

[Footnote 815: Ibid. ch. XXIV.]

[Footnote 816: Ibid. ch. XXVII.]

[Footnote 817: Ibid. ch. XXIII.]

[Footnote 818: "Peregrine Pickle," ch. XXIII.]

[Footnote 819: In "Novels and Novelists," by W. Forsyth, the author

says, ch. V. 159: "What is the character of most of these books (novels)

which were to correct follies and regulate morality? Of a great many of

them, and especially those of Fielding and Smollett, the prevailing

features are grossness and licentiousness. Love degenerates into a mere

animal passion.... The language of the characters abounds in oaths and

gross expressions.... The heroines allow themselves to take part in

conversations which no modest woman would have heard without a blush.

And yet these novels were the delight of a bygone generation, and were

greedily devoured by women as well as men. Are we therefore to conclude

that our great-great-grandmothers... were less chaste and moral than

their female posterity? I answer, certainly not; but we must infer that

they were inferior to them in delicacy and refinement. They were

accustomed to hear a spade called a spade, and words which would shock

the more fastidious ear in the reign of Queen Victoria were then in

common and daily use."--Tr.]

[Footnote 820: Byron's Works, ed. Moore, 17 vols. 1832; "Life," III. 127,

note.]

[Footnote 821: There is a distinct trace of a spirit similar to that

which is here sketched, in a select few of the English writers.

Pultcck's "Peter Wilkins the Flying Man," Amory's "Life of John Buncle,"

and Southey's "Doctor," are instances of this. Rabelais is probably their

prototype.--Tr.]

[Footnote 822: Sterne's Works, 7 vols. 1783, 3; "The Life and Opinions

of Tristram Shandy," VII. ch. XXXII.]

[Footnote 823: "Tristram Shandy," I, 2. ch. XII.]

[Footnote 824: "Tristram Shandy," 2, IV. ch. XXVII.]

[Footnote 825: Ibid. 3, IX. ch. XX.]

[Footnote 826: Sterne, Goldsmith, Burke, Sheridan Moore, have a tone

of their own, which comes from their blood, or from their proximate or

distant parentage--the Irish tone. So Hume, Robertson, Smollett, Scott,

Burns, Beattie, Reid, D. Stewart, and others, have the Scottish tone. In

the Irish or Celtic tone we find an excess of chivalry, sensuality,

expansion; in short, a mind less equally balanced, more sympathetic and

less practical. The Scotsman, on the other hand, is an Englishman, either

slightly refined or narrowed, because he has suffered more and fasted

more.]

[Footnote 827: "The Vicar of Wakefield," ch. IV.]

[Footnote 828: Ibid. ch. XVII.]

[Footnote 829: "The Vicar of Wakefield," ch. XXVIII.]

[Footnote 830: Ibid. ch. XXVIII.]

[Footnote 831: Ibid. ch. XXIX.]

[Footnote 832: See, in Boswell's "Life of Johnson," ed. Croker, 1853,

ch. XI. p. 85, Chesterfield's complimentary paper on Johnson's

Dictionary, printed in the "World."]

[Footnote 833: Boswell's "Life of Johnson," ed. Croker, ch. XXX. 269.]

[Footnote 834: Ibid. ch. III. 14 and 15.]

[Footnote 835: Ibid. ch. XVIII. 165, n. 4.]

[Footnote 836: Boswell's "Life of Johnson," ch. XVIII. 166.]

[Footnote 837: Ibid. ch. XLVIII. 439, n. 3.]

[Footnote 838: Ibid. ch. XVII. 159.]

[Footnote 839: Ibid. ch. XXVI. 236.]

[Footnote 840: Ibid. ch. XXII. 201.]

[Footnote 841: Ibid. ch. XLVIII. 628.]

[Footnote 842: Ibid. ch. XVIII. 166.]

[Footnote 843: Ibid. ch. II. 12.]

[Footnote 844: Ibid. ch. IV. 22.]

[Footnote 845: Ibid. ch. IV. 26.]

[Footnote 846: Boswell's "Life of Johnson," ch. V. 28, note 2.]

[Footnote 847: Ibid. ch. VII. 46.]

[Footnote 848: Ibid. ch. XVII. 159.]

[Footnote 849: Ibid. ch. V. 28.]

[Footnote 850: He had formerly put in his Dictionary the following

definition of the word pension: "Pension: an allowance made to any one

without an equivalent. In England it is generally understood to mean

pay given to a state-hireling for treason to his country." This drew of

course afterward all the sarcasms of his adversaries upon himself.]

[Footnote 851: Boswell's "Life," ch. XXIV. 216.]

[Footnote 852: Ibid. ch. XLIX. 444.]

[Footnote 853: Ibid. ch. XLVIII. 435.]

[Footnote 854: Ibid. ch. XVI. 148.]

[Footnote 855: Ibid. ch. LXVI. 606.]

[Footnote 856: Boswell's "Life." ch. XXVI. 236.]

[Footnote 857: Ibid. ch. XXVIII. 252.]

[Footnote 858: Ibid. ch. XIX. 175.]

[Footnote 859: Ibid. ch. XIX. 176.]

[Footnote 860: Ibid. ch. XIX. 174.]

[Footnote 861: Ibid. ch. LXXV. 723.]

[Footnote 862: Ibid. ch. XXIV. 218.]

[Footnote 863: Ibid. ch. XVII. 157.]

[Footnote 864: Ibid. ch. XV. 138, note 3.]

[Footnote 865: Boswell's "Life," ch. XXVIII. 256.]

[Footnote 866: Here is a celebrated phrase, which will give some idea of

his style (Boswell's "Journal," ch. XLIII. 381): "We are now treading

that illustrious island, which was once the luminary of the Caledonian

regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits

of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from

all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavoured, and would

be foolish if it were possible.... Far from me and from my friends be

such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over

any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That

man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon

the plain of Marathon or whose piety would not grow warmer among the

ruins of Iona."]

[Footnote 867: "Rambler," 108, 109, 110, 111.]

[Footnote 868: When a character is strongly marked in the living face,

it may be considered as an index to the mind, to express which with any

degree of justness in painting, requires the utmost efforts of a great

master.--"Analysis of Beauty."]

INDEX

_The Roman Numerals Refer to the Volumes.--The Arabic Figures to the Pages

of Each Volume._

Abelard, I. 158, 160

Addison, Joseph, II. 265, 292, 300, see footnote 539, 311;

his life and writings, 327; III. 83,

95, 259, 272, 2.80, 306

Adholm, I. 64, 69, 185

Agriculture, improvement in, in sixteenth

century, I. 172; in the nineteenth,

III. 43, 168

Akenside, Mark, III. 36

Alcuin, I. 64, 70

Alexander VI, Pope, II. 5

Alexandrian philosophy, I. 21, 22

Alfred the Great, I. 64, 69

Alison, Sir Archibald, III. 44

Amory, Thomas, II. see footnote 438

Angelo, Michael, I. 183, 366; III. 27

Anglo-Saxon poetry, I. 53 seq.

Ann of Cleaves, I. 186

Anselm, I. 76

Anthology the, I. 209, 240

Arbuthnot, Dr. John, II. see footnote 689, see footnote 691

Architecture, Norman, I. 75, 127; the

Tudor style, 174

Ariosto, I. 185, 222; II. 236

Aristocracy British, in the nineteenth

century, III. 169 seq.

Arkwright, Sir Richard, II. 320

Armada, the I. 173, 279

Arnold, Dr. Thomas, III. 100, 178

Arthur and Merlin, romance of, I. 77

Ascham, Roger, I. 181, 246; II. 3

Athelstan, I. 36, 54

Augier, Emile, III. 208

Austen, Jane, III. 85

Bacon, Francis, Lord, I. 245, 255-263; II.

34, 39; III. 268 seq. 284

Bacon, Roger, I. 161

Bain, Alexander, III. 185

Bakewell, Robert, II. 320

Bale, John, I. 186

Balzac, Honoré de, I. 3; III. 215, 254

Barclay, Alexander, I. 165

Barclay, John, II. 292

Barclay, Robert, I. 58

Barrow, Isaac, II. 292, see footnote 524, see footnote 526,

see footnote 527, see footnote 537

Baxter, Richard, I. 268; II. 56, 292

Bayly's (Lewis) Practice of Piety, II. 62

Beattie, Tames, II. see footnote 826; III. 36

Beauclerk, Henry, I. 76

Beaumont, Francis, I. 291, 307-317; II.

41, see footnote 60, 100

Becket, Thomas à, I. 97

Beckford, W., III. 77

Bede, the Venerable, I. 64

Bedford, Duke of (John Russell), II. 310

Beethovan, Lewis van, III. 87

Behn, Mrs. Aphra, II. 157, 254

Bell, Currer. See Brontë, Charlotte

Bénoit de Sainte-Maure, I. 76

Bentham, Jeremy, II. 320

Bently, Richard, II. 303

Beowolf, an Anglo-Saxon epic poem, I.

49-53

Béranger, II. 11; III. 287

Berkeley, Bishop, II. 303

Berkley, Sir Charles, II. 141

Berners, Lord, I. 186

Best, Paul, II. 50

Bible, English. See Wiclif, Tyndale

Blackmore, Sir Richard, II. 224

Blount, Edward, I. 192

Boccaccio, I. 126, 132; II. 266

Bodley, Sir Thomas, I. 246

Boethius, I. 64-67

Boileau, II. 144, 184, 224, 262, 284; III. 7,

4, 345

Boleyn, Ann, I. 276

Bolingbroke, Lord (Henry St. John), II.

275, 303, see footnote 654, see footnote 670, see footnote 673; III. 8

Bonner, Edmund, II. 33

Borde, Andrew, I. 186

Borgia, Cæsar, II. 5, 6

Borgia, Lucretia, I. 182; II. 5

Bossu (or Lebossu), II. 224

Bossuet, I. 18; II. 233, see footnote 542; III. 25, 306

Boswell, James, II. 444 , see footnote 846, see footnote 851

Bourchier. See Berners

Boyle, the Hon. Robert, II. 303

Bridaine, Father, II. 298

Britons, ancient, I. 38

Brontë, Charlotte (Currer Bell), III. 85,

100, 185

Browne, Sir Thomas, I. 245, 246, 252; II.

34, 39

Browning, Mrs., III. 100, 185

Brunanburh, Athelstan's victory at, celebrated

in Saxon song, I. 54

Buckingham, Duke of (John Sheffield),

II. 153, 180, 184

Buckle, Henry Thomas, III. 154 seq., 176

Bulwer, Sir Henry Lytton, III. 85, 185

Bunyan, John, II. 58, see footnote 94, 133

Burke, Edmund, II. see footnote 536, 317, see footnote 570, 444; III.

286, 306

Burleigh, Lord (William Cecil), I. 273;

III. 286

Burnet, Bishop, II. 202

Burney, Francisca (Madame D'Arblay),

II. see footnote 508, 320, 444; III. 275

Burns, Robert, II. see footnote 434, see footnote 826; Sketch of his life

and works, III. 48-65

Burton, Robert, I. 175, 248-252; II. 34, see footnote 68, 100

Busby, Dr. Richard, II. 256

Bute, Lord, II. 273, 310

Butler, Bishop, II. 320

Butler, Samuel, II. 137, 303

Byng, Admiral, II. 310

Byron, Lord, III. 11; his life and works,

102-151

Cædmon, hymns of, I. 57, 61; his metrical

paraphrase of parts of the Bible,

61-64, 185

Calamy, Edmund, II. 58

Calderon, I. 161, 279; II. 155

Calvin, John, II. see footnote 9, 45, see footnote 534

Camden, William, I. 246

Campbell, Thomas, III. 76, 112

Carew, Thomas, I. 238

Carlyle, Thomas, I. 6; III. 100, 176; style

and mind, 308 seq.; vocation, 327 seq.;

philosophy, morality, and criticism,

336 seq.; conception of history, 348

Carteret, John (Earl Granville), II. 311

Castlereagh, Lord, I. 319

Catherine, St., play of, I. 76

Cellini, Benvenuto, I. 26, 114, 184

Cervantes, I. 100, 151, 222; II. 410

Chalmers, George, I. 72

Chandos, Duke of (John Brydges), III. 8

Chapman, George, I. 330

Charles of Orleans, I. 84, 158

Charles I of England, III. 276

Charles II and his court, II. 140

Chateaubriand, I. 4; II. 346

Chatham. See Pitt

Chaucer, I. 106, 126, 157; II. 265

Chesterfield, Lord, II. 278, see footnote 497, 444; III. 15

Chevy Chase, ballad of, I. 125

Chillingworth, William, I. 245; II. 35, 38,

300

Christianity, introduction of, into Britain,

I. 56, 63 seq.

Chroniclers, French, I. 83

Chroniclers, Saxon, I. 68

Cibber, Colley, III. 8, 17

Cimbrians, the, I. 41

Clarendon, Lord Chancellor (Edward

Hyde), I. 245; II. 140

Clarke, Dr. John, II. 289, 301

Classic spirit in Europe, its origin and

nature, II. 170

Classical authors translated, I. 180, 190

Clive, Lord, III. 272

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, III. 73

Collier, Jeremy, II. 225, 256

Collins, William, III. 37

Colman, George, II. 220

Comedy-writers, English, II. 188

Comines, Philippe de, I. 124

Commerce in sixteenth century, I. 172;

III. 165 seq.

Comte, Auguste, III. 362

Condillac, Stephen-Bonnot de, III. 333,

363

Congreve, William, II. 188, see footnote 466, see footnote 508

Conybeare, J. J., I. 54 seq.

Corbet, Bishop, II. 35

Corneille, II. 224, 236

Cotton, Sir Robert, I. 246

Court pageantries in the sixteenth century,

I. 176, 177

Coventry, Sir John, II. 142

Coverdale, Miles, II. 20

Cowley, Abraham, I. 242-244; II. 34, 71

Cowper, William, III. 67-73

Crabbe, George, III. 71, 112

Cranmer, Archbishop, II. 15, 23

Crashaw, Richard, II. 34

Criticism and History, III. 267 seq.

Cromwell, Oliver, I. 6; II. 35, 50; III.

276, 319, 351

Crowne, John, II. 157

Curll, Edmund, III. 18

Daniel, Samuel, I. 246

Dante, I. 135, 158, 161; II. 110; III. 335

Darwin, Charles, I. 13

Davie, Adam, I. 93

Davies, Sir John, II. 34

Daye, John, II. 47

Decker, Thomas, I. 281

De Foe, II. see footnote 549, 402, see footnote 737; III. 169

Delille, James, III. 21

Denham, Sir John, II. 185

Denmark, I. 34, 35

Dennis, John, II. 331

Descartes, II. 149, 233; III. 333

Dickens, Charles, III. 85, 100; his novels,

187-221

Domesday Book, I. 72, 78, 104

Donne, John, I. 240, 241; II. 35

Dorat, C. J., III. 16, 140

Dorset, Earl of (Charles Sackville), II.

179, 180

Drake, Admiral, I. 173

Drake, Dr. Nathan, I. 173, 271

Drama, formation of the, I. 291 seq.

Drayton, Michael, I. 205; II. 34

Drummond, William, II. 100

Dryden, John, I. 18; II. 100; his comedies,

153, 184; his life and writings,

II. 222, 332; III. 5, 329

Dudevant, Madame (George Sand), III.

207

Dunstan, St., I. 36 seq.

Durer, Albert, II. 9, 10

Dyer, Sir Edward, I. 203

Earle, John, I. 246

Eddas, the Scandinavian, I. 42-46; III.

123, 124

Edgeworth, Maria, III. 253

Edward VI, II. 28

Edwy and Elgiva, story of, I. 38

Eliot, George. See Evans, Mary A.

England, climate of, I. 33

English Constitution, formation of the,

I. 105

Elizabeth, Queen, I. 175-177, 245, 270

Elwin, Whitwell, III. 5 seq.

Erigena, John Scotus, I. 64, 69

Esménard, Joseph Alphonse, I. 163

Essex, Robert, Earl of, I. 270, 273

Etheredge, Sir George, II. 137, 158

Evans, Mary A. (George Eliot), III. 85,

179, 185

Eyck, Van, I. 151

Falkland, Lord, I. 245

Farnese, Pietro Luigi, II. 6

Farquhar, George, II. 188, see footnote 290, see footnote 324, 209

Faust, III. 47

Feltham, Owen, I. 246

Fenn, Sir John, I. 172

Ferguson, Dr. Adam, II. 304; III. 271

Fermor, Mrs. Arabella, III. 15, 16

Feudalism, the protection and character

of, I. 73

Fichte, III. 335

Fielding, Henry, I. 319; II. see footnote 224, 434,

450

Fitmore, Sir Robert, II. 305

Finsborough, Battle of, an Anglo-Saxon

poem, I. 54

Fisher, John, Bishop of Rochester, I.

275; II. 26

Flemish artists, I. 170, 178

Fletcher, Giles, II. 34

Fletcher, John, I. 291, 307-317; II. see footnote 60, 100

Ford, John, I. 291, 297 seq., 312; II. 248

Fortescue, Sir John, I. 113 seq.

Fox, Charles James, II. 276, 311, 315

Fox, George, II. 52, 58, 133

Fox, John, II. 13

Francis of Assisi, I. 161

Freeman, Edward A., I. 74

Frisians, the, I. 32, 33

Froissart, I. 83, 102, 126, 127, 132

Froude, J. A., I. 104; II. 15

Fuller, Thomas, I. 318

Gaimar, Geoffroy, I. 76, 92

Gainsborough, Thomas, landscape painter,

II. 220

Garrick, David, II. 444, 448

Gaskell, Mrs. Elisabeth C., III. 85, 185

Gay, John, II. 211, 279; III. 4. 29-32

Geoffrey of Monmouth, I. 134

German ideas, introduction of, in Europe

and England, III; 328 seq.

Germany, drinking habits in, II. 7

Gibbon, Edward, II. 444

Gladstone, William Ewart, III. 274

Glencoe, Massacre of, III. 302 seq.

Glover, Richard, III. 37

Godwin, William, II. 95

Goethe, I. 6, 18; II. 111, 118, 430; III. 48,

74, 125-131, 327 seq.

Goldsmith, Oliver, II. 211, see footnote 555, 440

Goltzius, I. 196

Gower, John, I. 90, 163

Grammont, Count de, II. 135, see footnote 288, 170

Gray, Thomas, III. 36

Greene, Robert, I. 206, 210, 281, 283, 364

Grenville, George, II. 310

Gresset, J. B. Lewis, III. 16

Grey, Lady Jane, I. 180, 270

Grostete, Robert, I. 90, 93

Grote, George, III. 185

Guicciardini, Ludovic, I. 173

Guido, I. 16

Guizot, I. 107; III. 276, 282, 305

Guy of Warwick, I. 77

Habington, William, I. 240

Hakluyt, Richard, I. 246

Hale, Sir Matthew, II. 16

Hales, John, I. 245; II. 35, 37, see footnote 533, see footnote 534

Halifax, Charles, Montague, Earl of, II.

see footnote 595, see footnote 604, 361, 366

Hall, Bishop, Joseph, I. 246; II. 35

Hallam, Henry, I. 118; III. 276

Hamilton, Anthony, II. 136

Hamilton, Sir William, III. 185

Hampden, John, III. 276

Hampole, I. 93

Hardyng, John, I. 269

Harrington, Sir John, I. 237

Harrison, William, I. 173 seq.

Hastings, Warren, II. 317; III. 272, 285

seq., 291

Hawes, Stephen, I. 165

Hegel, I. 18, 22, 159; II. 271, 331

Heine, I. 2, 32, 360; III. 39, 48, 74, 87

Hemling, Hans, I. 170

Henry Beauclerk, I. 76

Henry of Huntingdon, I. 39, 76

Henry VIII and his Court, I. 269; II. 15

Herbert, George, I. 240

Herbert, Lord, I. 246

Herder, John Godfrey von, I. 6

Herrick, Robert, I. 238, 239

Hertford, Earl of, I. 270

Hervey, Lord, III. 26

Heywood, Mrs. Eliza, III. 18

Heywood, John, I. 186, 280

Hill, Aaron, III. 8

History, philosophy of. See the Introduction,

passim.

Hobbes, Thomas, II. 147, 250

Hogarth, William, II. 450; III. 18

Holinslied's Chronicles, I. 176, 246, 275

Holland, I. 31 seq.

Homer and Spenser, I. 217

Hooker, Richard, I. 245; II. 35

Horn, Ring, romance of, I. 77, 100

Hoveden, John, I. 90

Howard, John, II. 320

Howe, John, III. 299

Hugo, Victor, I. 2, 165; II. 270; III. 74, 87

Hume, David, II. 304, 440; III. 294, 352

Hunter, William, martyrdom of, II.

31, 32

Hutcheson, Francis, II. 304, 320; III. 271

Iceland and its legends, I. 35, 42

Independency in the sixteenth century,

II. 49, 90

Industry, British, in the nineteenth century,

III. 165 seq.

Irish, the ancient, I. 38

Italian writings and ideas, taste for, in

sixteenth century, I. 181, 182; vices of

the Italian Renaissance, II. 3

James I and his Court, I. 237 seq.

James II, III. 282

Jewell, Bishop, I. 277

Johnson, Samuel, I. 319; II. 303, 321, 444;

III. 10, 38, 345

Joinville, Sire de, I. 83

Jones, Inigo, I. 174, 321

Jones, Sir William, II. 444

Jonson, Ben, I. 208, 265, 280; II. 100; III.

155; sketch of his life, I. 318-321; his

learning, style, etc., 321-327; his

dramas, 327-333; his comedies, 333-345;

compared with Molière, 345; fanciful

comedies and smaller poems, 345-350

Jordaens, Jacob, I. 178

Jowett, Benjamin, III. 100, 334

Judith, poem of, I. 60, 61

Junius, Letters of, II. 311; III. 106

Jutes, the, and their country, I. 31 seq.

Keats, John, III. 130

Kemble, John M., I. 37, 49

Knighton, Henry, I. 123

Knolles, Richard, I. 246

Knox, John, II. 8, 28; III. 354

Kyd, Thomas, I. 280

Lackland, John, I. 102

LaHarpe, III. 345

Lamartine, I. 2; III. 74, 87

Lamb, Charles, III. 73, 76

Languet, Hubert, I. 194

Latimer, Bishop, I. 109; II. 17, 27

Lanfranc, first Norman Archbishop of

Canterbury, I. 76

Langtoft, Peter, I. 90

Laud, Archbishop, II. 38; III. 287

Lavergne, Léonce de, I. 33

Law, William, II. 303

Layamon, I. 92

Lebrun, Ponce Denis Econchard, I. 163

Lee, Nathaniel, II. 241

Leibnitz, III. 23

Leighton, Dr. Alexander, II. 49, 88

Lely, Sir Peter, II. 320

Leo X, Pope, II. 4

Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, I. 4

Lingard, Dr. John, I. 34, 35

Locke, John, II. 71, 300, 303, see footnote 539, 320

Lockhart, John Gibson, III. 78 seq.

Lodge, Thomas, I. 204, 280

Lombard, Peter, I. 157, 160

Loménie de Brienne, Cardinal, III. 311

London in Henry VIII's time, I. 173;

in the present day, III. 164

Longchamps, William, I. 97

Longus, Greek romance-writer, I. 209

Lorris, Guillaume de, I. 84, 95

Loyola, I. 161, 171; III. 273

Ludlow, Edmund, II. 51

Lulli, a renowned Italian composer, II.

233

Lully, Raymond; I. 161

Luther, Martin, I. 26, 171; II. 3; and the

Reformation, 7

Lydgate, John, I. 164, 165

Lyly, John, I. 192

Lyly, William, I. 180

Macaulay, Thomas Babington (Lord),

III. 100; his works, 267-307

Machiavelli, I. 183

Mackenzie, Henry, III. 35, 51

Mackintosh, Sir James, III. 276

Macpherson, James, III. 36

Malcolm, Sir John, III. 78

Malherbe, Francis de, III. 329

Malte-brun, Conrad, I. 31

Mandeville, Bernard, II. 303

Manners of the people in the sixteenth

century, I. 178 seq.

Marguerite of Navarre, I. 132

Marlborough, Duchess of, III. 26

Marlborough, Duke of, II. 275, 307; III.

259

Marlowe, Christopher, I. 211, 280; III. 73;

his dramas, I. 282-291

Marston, John, I. 320

Martyr, Peter, II. 23

Martyrs in the reign of Mary, II. 30

Marvell, Andrew, II. 254

Masques, under James I, I. 177, 348

Massillon, II. 28

Massinger, Philip, I. 280, 281, 297 seq.

Maundeville, Sir John, I. 91, 102

May, Thomas, II. 57

Medici, Lorenzo de, I. 182

Melanchthon, Philip, II. 13, 23

Merlin, I. 77

Meung, Jean de, I. 93, 162

Michelet, Jules, I. 4, 57; III. 325

Middleton, Thomas, I. 291

Mill, John Stuart, III. 100, 176, 360-408

Milton, John, I. 62, 215, 245; II. 71; his

prose writings, 84; his poetry, 100,

347, 348; III. 272

Molière, I. 213, 359, 361; II. 188, 418;

III. 214

Mommsen, Theodor, I. 19

Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, II. 424;

III. 8, 15

Montesquieu, Ch., I. 21, 25

Moore, Thomas, II. 440; III. 75 seq., 138

More, Sir Thomas, I. 246, 276

Müller, Max, III. 361

Muller, Ottfried, I. 6

Murray, John, III. 78, 138, 140

Musset, Alfred de, I. 2, 199, 282, 324, 358;

II. 267; III. 39, 74, 87, 430 seq.

Nash, Thomas, I. 281

Nayler, James, II. 53, 57

Neal's History of the Puritans, II. 53, 88

Newcastle, Duchess of (Margaret Lucas),

II. 187

Newspaper, first daily, III. 44

Newton, Sir Isaac, II. 289, 301

Nicole, Peter, II. 283

Norman Conquest, the, I. 71, 72, 73; its

effects on the national language and

literature, 87 seq., 123-125; III. 151

Normans, the character of, I. 74; how

they became French, 75; their taste

and architecture, 75; their literature,

chivalry, and success, 76-80; their position

and tyranny in England, 87-90; III.

152

Nott, Dr. John, I. 191

Novel, the English--its characteristics,

II. 402; the modern school of novelists,

III. 185 seq.

Nut-brown Maid, the--an ancient ballad,

190

Oates, Titus, II. 257

Occam, William, I. 161

Occleve, Thomas, I. 163

Ochin, Bernard, II. 23

Oliphant, Mrs., II. 424

Olivers, Thomas, II. 290

Orrery, Earl of, III. 8

Otway, Thomas, II. 241, 248

Ouseley, Sir William, III. 78

Overbury, Sir Thomas, I. 246

Owen, John, II. 58

Paganism of poetry and painting in

Italy in the sixteenth century, I. 181

seq.

Paley, William, II. 300

Palgrave, Sir Francis, I. 33

Parnell, Dr. Thomas, III. 4

Pascal, II. 300, 400; III. 25, 306

Pastoral poetry, I. 204 seq.

Peele, George, I. 280

Penn, William, II. 288; III. 299

Pepys, Samuel, II. 142, 143, 146

Percy, Thomas, III. 73

Petrarch, I. 126, 185, 190

Philips, Ambrose, III. 4

Philosophy and history, III. 308 seq.

Philosophy and poetry, connection of,

I. 157

Picts, I. 38

Pickering, Dr. Gilbert, II. 223

Piers Plowman's Crede, I. 122

Piers Ploughman, Vision of, I. 120 seq.,

185

Pitt, William, first Earl of Chatham, II.

276, 267; III. 275

Pitt, William (second son of the preceding),

II. 311, 217; III. 65

Pleiad, the, I. 18

Pluche, Abbé, II. 342

Poe, Edgar Allan, II. 405

Pope, Alexander, II. 252, 328, 332, 381;

III. 5-28, 112, 117, 28O

Prayer-book, English, II. 23

Preaching at the Reformation period,

II. 27

Presbyterians and Independents in the

sixteenth century, II. 49, 90

Price, Dr. Richard, II. 304, 321; III. 271

Priestly, Dr., III. 66

Prior, Matthew, III. 4, 28

Proclus, I. 159

Prynne, William, II. 57

Pulci, an Italian painter, I. 182

Pultock, Robert, II. 438

Purchas, Samuel, I. 246

Puritans, the, II. 45, 132

Puttenham, George, I. 185, 246

Pym, John, III. 276

Quarles, Francis, I. 240

Rabelais, I. 149, 222, 265, 366; II. 144, 388,

438

Racine, I. 371; II. 224, 284; III. 218, 306

Raleigh, Sir Walter, I. 214, 246, 273; II, 34

Rapin, II. 224

Ray, John, II. 303

Reformation in England made way for

by the Saxon character and the situation

of the Norman Church, I. 122-125,

165; II. 7

Reid, Thomas, II. 304, 320, 440

Renaissance, the English; manners of

the time, I. 169-185; the theatre its

original product, 264 seq.

Renan, Ernest, I. 19, 127

Restoration, period of the, in England,

II. 131, 209

Revolution, period of the, in England,

II. 273

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, II. 220, 320, 444

Richard Cœur de Lion, I. 101

Richardson, Samuel, II. 135, 303, 412,

444; III. 8, 35

Ridley, Nicholas, II. 30

Ritson, Joseph, I. 108 seq.

Robert of Brunne, I. 93

Robert of Gloucester, I. 93

Robertson, Dr. William, II. 440; III. 3,

38, 352

Robespierre, II. 284

Robin Hood ballads, I. 109 seq., 178, 185

Rochester, Earl of (John Wilmot), II.

143, 184, 337; III. 28, 140

Rogers, John, martyrdom of, II. 31

Rogers, Samuel, III. 112

Roland, Song of, I. 77, 81 seq.

Rollo, a Norse leader, I. 74

Ronsard, Peter de, I. 18

Roscellinus, I. 160

Roscommon, Earl of, II. 184

Roses, wars of the, I. 114, 124, 172, 287

Rotheland, Hugh de, I. 90

Rousseau, Jean-Baptiste, III. 22

Rousseau, Jean Jacques, II. 447; III. 16, 34

Royer-Collard, Pierre-Paul, III. 392

Rubens, I. 151, 177, 178, 232, 366; III. 27

Rückert, III. 74

Russel, Lord William, II. 141

Sacheverell, Dr., II. 273, 306

Sacy, Lemaistre de, II. 22

Sadeler, I. 196

Sainte-Beuve, I. 6

St. John. See Bolingbroke, Lord

Saint-Simon, I. 3; III. 217

St. Theresa, I. 161

Saintré, Jehan de, I. 102

Sand, George. See Dudevant, Madame

Savage, Richard, III. 18

Sawtré, William, I. 124

Saxons, the, I. 31 seq.; characteristics of

the race, 71; contrast with the Normans,

74, 75; their endurance, 103 seq.;

their invasion of England, III. 151, 152

Scaliger, III. 345

Schelling, I. 22

Schiller, III. 48, 74, 87

Scotland in the seventeenth century, II.

134

Scott, Sir Walter, I. 4; II. 222, 361,

440; III. 74, 105, 107, 260; his novels and

poems, 78-85

Scotus, Duns, I. 159 seq.

Scudéry, Mademoiselle de, I. 195

Sedley, Sir Charles, I. 240; II. 179

Selden, John, I. 246

Seres, William, II. 47

Settle, Elkanah, II. 225, 240

Sévigné, Madame de, III. 15, 306

Shadwell, Thomas, II. 157, 240, 261

Shaftesbury, Anthony Cooper, third

Earl of, II. 304

Shakespeare, William, I. 186, 206, 245,

280; II. 230, 238; III. 155; general

idea of, I. 350-353; his life and character,

354-366; his style, 366-371, and manners,

372-377; his dramatis personæ,

377-382; his men of wit, 382-386, and

women, 386-391; his villains, 391, 392;

the principal characters in his plays,

393-407; fancy, imagination--ideas of

existence--love; harmony between the

artist and his work, 407-419

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, III. 74, 95-100, 130

Shenstone, William, III. 37

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, II. 212,

311, 440

Sherlock, Bishop, II. 292, 301, 412

Shirley, James, I. 280; II. 153

Sidney, Algernon, I. 245; II. 71, 141

Sidney, Sir Phillip, I. 186, 194-204, 245,

266; II. 39; III. 155

Skelton, John, I. 165

Smart, Christopher, III. 37

Smith, Adam, II. 304, 320

Smith, Sidney, II. 282; III. 100

Smollett, Tobias, II. 308, 433, 440

Society in Great Britain in the present

day, III. 169 seq.; in England and in

France, 430 seq.

South, Dr. Robert, II. 292, 295

Southern, Thomas, II. 241

Southey, Robert, II. 438; III. 72, 76, 134,

287

Speed, John, I. 246

Spelman, Sir Henry, I. 246

Spencer, Herbert, III. 185

Spencer, Edmund, I. 186, 207, 213, 245;

II. 71, 110; his life, character and

poetry, I. 214-237; II. 236; III. 155, 424

Stanley, Arthur Penrhyn, III. 100, 334

Steele, Sir Richard, II. 311, 327; III. 259

Stendhal, Count de, I. 25, 74, 142

Sterling, John, III. 309 seq.

Sterne, Laurence, II. 437; III. 35

Stewart, Dugald, II. 320, 440; III. 61

Stillingfleet, Bishop, II. 292, 301

Stowe, John, I. 246

Strafford, Thomas Wentworth, Earl of,

III. 276 seq.

Strafford, William, I. 172

Strype, John, I. 268

Stubbes, John, I. 175, 180

Suckling, Sir John, I. 238; II. 181

Sue, Eugène, III. 220

Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of, I. 185-192;

II. 16

Swift, Jonathan, II. 135, 224, 303, 311, 327;

III. 259, 288; sketch of his life, II.

360; his wit, 368; his pamphlets,

371; his poetry, 380; his philosophy,

etc., 389

Taillefer, I. 79, 89

Tasso, I. 222, 229

Taylor, Jeremy, I. 246; II. 35, 38, 44

Temple, Sir William, II. 173, 365, 389;

III. 3, 272

Teniers, David, III. 83

Tennyson, Alfred, III. 100, 185, 410-438

Thackeray, William M. III. 85, 100; his

novels, 223-265

Theatre, the, in the sixteenth century, I.

264 seq.; after the Restoration, II. 153,

188, 226

Thibaut of Champagne, I. 84

Thierry, Augustin, I. 4, 35, 56, 88; III. 305

Thiers, Louis Adolphe, III. 282, 305

Thomson, James, III. 32-35

Thorpe, John, I. 47, 55

Tickell, Thomas, III. 4

Tillotson, Archbishop, II. 292

Tindal, Matthew, II. 303

Titian, I. 236, 366

Tocqueville, Alexis de, I. 19

Toland, John, II. 303

Toleration Act, the, III. 298, 299, 300

Tomkins, Thomas, II. 32

Townley, James, II. 220

Turner, Sharon, I. 48, 54 seq.

Tutchin, John, III. 18

Tyndale, William, II. 19, 28, 47

Urfé, Honoré d', I. 197, 315

Usher, James, I. 246

Vanbrugh, Sir John, II. 187

Vane, Sir Harry, II. 143

Vega, Lope de, I. 161, 279; II. 155

Village feasts of sixteenth century described,

I. 178-180

Villehardouin, a French chronicler, I.

83, 102

Vinci, Leonardo da, I. 16

Voltaire, I. 16; II. 447; III. 22, 137, 346

Vos, Martin de, I. 196

Wace, Robert, I. 76, 78 seq., 89

Waller, Edmund, I. 240; II. 71, 153, 181;

III. 3

Walpole, Horace, III. 15

Walpole, Sir Robert, II. 274, 280

Walton, Isaac, I. 246

Warburton, Bishop, II. 303

Warner, William, I. 212

Warton, Thomas, I. 72, 88, 95, 162; III. 73

Watt, James, II. 320

Watteau, Anthony, III. 14

Watts, Isaac, III. 37

Webster, John, 291, 297 seq.; II. 248

Wesley, John, II. 280

Wetherell, Elizabeth, III. 179

Wharton, Lord, III. 26

Whitfield, George, II. 289

Wiclif, John, I. 123, 286; II. 15

Wilkes, John, II. 310

William III, II. 173

Wither, George, II. 35

William of Malmesbury, I. 75

William the Conqueror, I. 78 seq.

Windham, William, II. 311

Witenagemote, the, I. 46

Wollastom William Hyde, III. 271

Wolsey, Cardinal, I. 165; II. 16

Wordsworth, William, III. 73, 88-95

Wortley, Lady Mary. See Montagu

Wyatt, Sir Thomas, I. 185, 180, 187

Wycherley, William, I. 18; II. 157,

178, 187, 188, 202, 250, 337

Yonge, Charlotte Mary, III. 179

Young, Arthur, II. 320

Young, Edward, III. 37