The reader of _Humphrey Clinker_--if that robust and sturdy British
story has any readers nowadays, when the art of fiction has become so
much finer and more subtile--will remember that little Tim Cropdale "had
made shift to live many years by writing novels at the rate of L5 a
volume; but that branch of business is now engrossed by female authors,"
so Smollett goes on to tell us, "who publish merely for the propagation
of virtue, with so much ease and spirit and delicacy and knowledge of
the human heart, and all in the serene tranquillity of high life, that
the reader is not only enchanted by their genius but reformed by their
morality." _Humphrey Clinker_ was first published in 1771, the year of
its author's death; and the names of the women of England who were
writing novels six-score years ago are now forgotten. How many of the
insatiate devourers of fiction who feed voraciously on the paper-covered
volumes of the news-stand have ever heard of the _Memoirs of Miss Sidney
Biddulph_ for example? Yet Charles James Fox called this the best novel
of his age; and Doctor Johnson found great interest in following the
misadventures of Miss Biddulph, and declared to the authoress that he
knew not if she had a right, on moral principles, to make her readers
suffer so much. The authoress of the _Memoirs of Miss Sidney Biddulph_
was Frances Sheridan, now remembered only because she was the mother of
the author of the _School for Scandal_.
Mrs. Sheridan was an estimable woman, and it was not to her that
Smollett turned the edge of his irony. There were in his day not a few
fashionable ladies who, in "the serene tranquillity of high life," told
stories that neither enchanted by their genius nor reformed by their
morality. In most of the novels written by women in the second half of
the eighteenth century, the morality is but little more obvious than the
genius. Like the fashionable English novels of the first half of this
century, now as carefully forgotten as the tales of Smollett's fair
contemporaries, the female fiction with which Little Tim Cropdale found
himself unable to compete was a curious compound of bad morals, bad
manners, and bad grammar. Although stories by female authors who
"publish merely for the propagation of virtue" and for the gratification
of their own vanity are still to be found in London by any one who will
seek on Mr. Mudie's shelves, the standard of female fiction has been
greatly elevated in England since Miss Austen put forth her first modest
story.
Charlotte Bronte and George Eliot followed in due season; and it would
not now be possible to draw up a list of the ten greatest British
novelists without placing on it the names of two or three women, at the
least. There are diligent readers of fiction who would insist that the
name of Mrs. Oliphant should be inscribed among the chosen few, by
reason of certain of her earlier tales of Scottish life; and there are
others equally insistent that the strange romances of the English lady
who calls herself a French expletive entitle the name of "Ouida" to be
placed on the roll of the chosen few. Indeed, the admiration of those
who do admire this lady's stories is so ardent and fervid that I
sometimes wonder whether the twentieth century will not see a Ouida
Society for the expounding of the inner spiritual meaning of _Under Two
Flags_ and _Held in Bondage_.
In America, since the day when Susanna Rowson wrote _Charlotte Temple_,
and more especially since the day when Mrs. Stowe wrote _Uncle Tom's
Cabin_, no list of American novelists could fairly be drawn up on which
nearly half the names would not be those of women--even when one of
these names might seem to be that of a man--like Charles Egbert
Craddock's, for example. Colonel Higginson recently deplored the
oblivion into which we have allowed the wholesomely realistic fiction of
Miss Sedgwick to fall; and it has been remarked that the vigorous New
England tales of Rose Terry Cooke never met with the full measure of
success they deserved. But the authoress of _Ramona_, the authoress of
_That Lass o' Lowrie's_, the authoress of _Anne_, the authoress of _Faith
Gartney's Girlhood_, the authoress of _Signor Monaldini's Niece_, the
authoress of _John Ward, Preacher_, the authoress of the _Story of
Margaret Kent_, the authoress of _Friend Olivia_, and the authoresses of
a dozen or of a score of other novels which have had their day of
vogue, these ladies are able easily to prove that the field of fiction
is being cultivated diligently by the women of America.
One of the cleverest novels recently published by any American woman is
_The Anglomaniacs_, which came forth anonymously, but which Mrs. Burton
Harrison has since acknowledged. It is a sketch only, a little picture
of a corner of life, hardly more than an impression, but is brilliant in
color and accurate in drawing. Limited as it is in scope and contracted
as is its framework, it strikes me as the best reflection of certain
phases of New York life since the author of the _Potiphar Papers_ made
fun of the Reverend Mr. Creamcheese. It echoes the talk of those who
"tread the weary mill
With jaded step and call it pleasure still."
And, better yet, it suggests the feelings which prompted the talk. At a
recent meeting of the Nineteenth Century Club, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt
called Mr. Ward McAllister's _Society as I Found It_ an "exposure of the
400;" and certainly it is difficult to believe that even 100 people of
fashion could be found anywhere in New York as dull as those Mr.
McAllister saw around him, as narrow-minded and as thick-witted. Mrs.
Burton Harrison knows what is called Society quite as well as Mr.
McAllister; and as she is a clever woman, those she sees about her are
often clever also. The company of Anglomaniacs to which she invites our
attention are not dullards, nor are they cads, even though an
ill-natured philosopher might be moved to call them snobs. A
good-natured philosopher would probably find them amusing; and he would
make shift to enjoy their companionship, dropping easily into
acquaintance and laughing with them quite as often as he laughed at
them.
In these days, when hosts of honest people throughout the United States
are reading with delighted awe long accounts of the manners and customs
of a strange tribe of human creatures, the female of which is known as a
"Society Lady" and the male as a "Clubman," it is pleasant to find
novels of New York life written by ladies who move within the charmed
circle of what is called Society, and who can write about the doings of
their fellows simply and without either snobbish wonder or caddish
envy. The authoress of _The Anglomaniacs_ and the authoress of
_Mademoiselle Reseda_ see Society as it is, and they are not so dazzled
by the unexpected glare that they need to put on sea-side spectacles to
enable them to observe what is going on about them. It is an old saying
that to describe well we must not know too well, for long knowledge
blunts the edge of appreciation. But those who, having knowledge, seek
rather to reveal than to describe, often render a more valuable service
than the more superficial observers who offer us their first
impressions. Something of this revelation of Society we find in Mrs.
Harrison's brilliant sketch and in the stories of "Julien Gordon."
Thackeray complained that no British novelist had dared to describe a
young man's life since Fielding wrote _Tom Jones_; and Mr. Henry James,
praising George Sand, notes the total absence of passion in English
novels. If this reproach is ever taken away from our fiction, it will be
by some woman. Women are more willing than men to suggest the animal
nature that sheathes our immortal souls; they are bolder in the use of
the stronger emotions; they are more willing to suggest the
possibilities of passion lurking all unsuspected beneath the placidity
of modern fine-lady existence. Perhaps they are sometimes even a little
too willing: as Mr. Warner reminded us not long ago, "it may be
generally said of novelists, that men know more than they tell, and that
women tell more than they know."
It is by slow degrees that woman forges forward and takes her place
alongside man in the mastery of the fine arts. The Muses were all women,
once upon a time, but those whom they visited were all men. The first
art in which the woman made herself manifestly the equal of the man was
the art of vocal music--or was it that of dancing? The daughter of
Herodias was mistress of both accomplishments. Then in time woman
divided the stage with man; the histrionic art was possessed by both
sexes with equal opportunity; and who shall say that Garrick or Kean
surpassed in power Mrs. Siddons or Rachel? Now prose fiction is theirs
quite as much as it is man's; and when the _Critic_ recently elected by
vote the twenty foremost American women of letters, many more than half
were writers of novels. The readers of _Humphrey Clinker_ did not
foresee Jane Austen and George Eliot and George Sand any more than
little Tim Cropdale could.
1891