Table of Contents for The English Novel by George Saintsbury

CHAPTER IV - THE MINOR AND LATER EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL

It is at last beginning to be recognised in principle, though it is still much too often forgotten in practice, that the minor work of a time is at least as important as the major in determining general literary characteristics and tendencies.  Nor is this anywhere much more noticeable than in regard to the present period of our present subject.  The direct influence of Richardson and Fielding was no doubt very great:  but the development of the novel during the middle and later century was too large and too various to be all mere imitation.  As a result, however, of their influence, there certainly came over the whole kind a very remarkable change.  Even before them the nisus towards it, which has been noticed in the chapter before the last, is observable enough.  Mrs. Manley’s rather famous New Atlantis (1709) has at least the form of a key-novel of the political sort:  but the whole interest is in the key and not in the novel, though the choice of the form is something.  And the second, third, and fourth decades of the century saw other work testifying to the vague and almost unconscious hankering after prose fiction which was becoming endemic.  A couple of examples of this may be treated, in passing, before we come to the work ­not exactly of the first class in itself ­of a writer who shows both the pre-Richardsonian and the post-Richardsonian phases of it most interestingly, and after a fashion to which there are few exact parallels.

A book, which counts here from the time of its appearance, and from a certain oddity and air of “key” about it, rather than from much merit as literature, or any as a story, is the Adventures of Gaudentio di Lucca by Simon Berington. It appeared in 1737, between Defoe and Swift on the earlier, and Richardson on the later side, while the English world was to the novel as an infant crying for the light ­and the bottle ­at once.  It begins and ends with adventures and discoveries of an ordinary romantic type.  But the body consists of a revelation to certain Italian Inquisitors (who are not at all of the lurid type familiar to the Protestant imagination, but most equitable and well-disposed as well as potent, grave, and reverend signers) of an unknown country of “the Grand Pophar” in the centre of Africa.  This country is civilised, but not yet Christianised:  and the description of it of course gives room for the exercise of the familiar game of contrast ­in this case not so much satiric as didactic ­with countries nearer home which are at least supposed to be both civilised and Christian.  It is a “respectable” book both in the French and the English sense:  but it is certainly not very amusing, and cannot even be called very interesting in any way, save historically.

The other example which we shall take is of even less intrinsic attraction:  in fact it is a very poor thing.  There are, however, more ways than one in which corpora vilia are good for experiment and evidence:  and we may find useful indications in the mere bookmaking of the time.  Lowndes, the fortunate publisher of Evelina, some dozen years before that windfall came, had issued, or reissued, a collection called The Novelist and professedly containing The select novels of Dr. Croxall [the ingenious author of The Fair Circassian and the part destroyer of Hereford Cathedral] and other Polite Tales.  The book is an unblushing if not an actually piratical compilation; sweeping together, with translations and adaptations published by Croxall himself at various times in the second quarter of the century and probably earlier, most of the short stories from the Spectator class of periodical which had appeared during the past two-thirds of a century.  Most of the rest are obvious (and very badly done) translations from the French and even from Cervantes’ Exemplary Novels; seasoned with personal and other anecdotes, so that the whole number of separate articles may exceed four-score.  Of these a few are interesting attempts at the historical novel or novelette ­short sketches of Mary Queen of Scots (very sympathetic and evidently French in origin from the phrase “a temple which was formerly a church"), Jane Shore (an exquisitely absurd piece of eighteenth-century middle-class modernising and moralising), Essex, Buckingham, and other likely figures.  There are cuts by the “Van-somethings and Back-somethings” of the time:  and the whole, though not worthy of anything better than the “fourpenny box,” is an evident symptom of popular taste.  The sweetmeats or hors d’oeuvre of the older caterings for that taste are here collected together to form a piece de resistance.  It is true that The Novelist is only a true title in the older sense ­that the pieces are novelle not “novels” proper.  But they are fiction, or fact treated like fiction:  and though the popular taste itself was evidently ceasing to be satisfied with these morsels and demanding a substantial joint, yet the substance was, after all, the same.

We rise higher, if not very high, with the novels of Mrs. Eliza Haywood (1693-1756), one of the damned of the Dunciad, but, like some of her fellows in that Inferno, by no means deserving hopeless reprobation.  Every one who has devoted any attention to the history of the novel, as well as some who have merely considered it as a part of that of English literature generally, has noticed the curious contrast between the earlier and the later novels of this writer. Betsy Thoughtless (1751) and Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy (1753) could, without much difficulty, be transposed into novels of to-day. Idalia (1723) is of an entirely different mood and scheme.  It is a pure Behnesque nouvelle, merely describing the plots and outrage which ruin the heroine (The Unfortunate Mistress is the second title), but attempting no character-drawing (the only hint at such a thing is that Idalia, instead of being a meek and suffering victim, is said to have a violent temper), and making not the slightest effort even to complete what story there is.  For the thing breaks off with a sort of “perhaps to be concluded in some next,” about which we have not made up our minds.  Very rarely do we find such a curious combination or succession of styles so early:  but the novel, for pretty obvious reasons, seems to offer temptations to it and facilities for it.

For Idalia’s above-named juniors, while not bad books to read for mere amusement, have a very particular interest for the student of the history of the novel.  Taken in connection with their author’s earlier work, they illustrate, for the first time, a curious phenomenon which has repeated itself often, notably in the case of Bulwer, and of a living novelist who need not be named.  This is that the novel, more almost than any other kind of literature, seems to lend itself to what may be called the timeserving or “opportunism” of craftsmanship ­to call out the adaptiveness and versatility of the artist. Betsy and Jenny are so different from Idalia and her group that a critic of the idle Separatist persuasion would, were it not for troublesome certainties of fact, have no difficulty whatever in proving that they must be by different authors.  We know that they were not:  and we know also the reason of their dissimilarity ­the fact that Pamela and her brother and their groups ont passe par la. This fact is most interesting:  and it shows, among other things, that Mrs. Eliza Haywood was a decidedly clever woman.

At the same time the two books also show that she was not quite clever enough:  and that she had not realised, as in fact hardly one of the minor novelists of this time did realise, the necessity of individualising character.  Betsy is both a nice and a good girl ­“thoughtless” up to specification, but no fool, perfectly “straight” though the reverse of prudish, generous, merry, lovable.  But with all these good qualities she is not quite a person.  Jenny is, I think, a little more of one, but still not quite ­while the men and the other women are still less.  Nor had Eliza mastered that practised knack of “manners-painting” which was to stand Fanny Burney, and many another after her, in the stead of actual character-creation.  Her situations are often very lively, if not exactly decorous; and they sometimes have a real dramatic verisimilitude, for instance, the quarrel and reconciliation of the Lord and the Lady in Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy; but the higher verisimilitude of prose fiction they lack.  Neither again (though Smollett had given her a lead here) had she attained that power of setting and furnishing a scene which is so powerful a weapon in the novelist’s armoury.  Yet she had learnt much:  and her later work would have been almost a wonder in her own earlier time.

She had even been preceded in the new line by one, and closely followed by another writer of her own sex, both of unblemished reputation, and perhaps her superiors in intellectual quality and accomplishment, though they had less distinct novel-faculty.  Sarah Fielding, the great novelist’s sister, but herself one of Richardson’s literary seraglio, had a good deal of her brother’s humour, but very little of his constructive grasp of life. David Simple (1744), her best known work, the Familiar Letters connected with it (to which Henry contributed), and The Governess display both the merit and the defect ­but the defect is more fatal to a novel than the merit is advantageous.  Once more ­if the criticism has been repeated ad nauseam the occasions of it may be warranted to be much more nauseous in themselves ­one looks up for interest, and is not fed.  “The Adventures” of David ­whose progeny must have been rapidly enriched and ennobled if Peter Simple was his descendant ­were “in search of a Friend,” and he came upon nobody in the least like O’Brien.  It was, in fact, too early or too late for a lady to write a thoroughly good novel.  It had been possible in the days of Madeleine de Scudery, and it became possible in the days of Frances Burney:  but for some time before, in the days of Sarah Fielding, it was only possible in the ways of Afra and of Mrs. Haywood, who, without any unjust stigma on them, can hardly be said to fulfil the idea of ladyhood, as no doubt Miss Fielding did.

There is an amusing and (in its context) just passage of Thackeray’s, in which he calls Charlotte Lennox, author of The Female Quixote (1752), a “figment.”  But it would be unlucky if any one were thereby prevented from reading this work of the lady whom Johnson admired, and for whom he made an all-night orgie of apple-pie and bay-leaves.  Her book, which from its heroine is also called Arabella, is clever and not unamusing, though it errs (in accordance with the moral-critical principles of the time) by not merely satirising the “heroic” romances of the Gomberville-La Calprenede-Scudery type, but solemnly discussing them.  Arabella, the romance-bitten daughter of a marquis, is, for all her delusion, or because of it, rather a charming creature.  Her lover Glanville, his Richardsonian sister, and the inevitable bad Baronet (he can hardly be called wicked, especially for a Baronet) are more commonplace:  and the thing would have been better as a rather long nouvelle than as a far from short novel.  It alternately comes quite close to its original (as in the intended burning of Arabella’s books) and goes entirely away from it, and neither as an imitation nor independently is it as good as Graves’s Spiritual Quixote:  but it is very far from contemptible.

Yet though the aptitude of women for novel-writing was thus early exemplified, it is not to be supposed that the majority of persons who felt the new influences were of that sex.  By far the larger number of those who crowded to follow the Four were, like them, men.

That not exactly credit to the Tory party, Dr. John Shebbeare, has had his demerits in other ways excused to some extent on the score of Lydia ­whose surname, by the way, was “Fairchild,” not unknown in later days of fiction.  Even one who, if critical conscience would in any way permit it, would fain let the Tory dogs have a little the best of it, must, I fear, pronounce Lydia a very poor thing.  Shebbeare, who was a journalist, had the journalist faculty of “letting everything go in” ­of taking as much as he could from Richardson, Fielding, Smollett, etc., up to date (1755); and of throwing back to Afra for an interesting Indian, Canassatego.  The book (like not a few other eighteenth-century novels) has very elaborate chapter headings and very short chapters, so that an immoral person can get up its matter pretty easily.  A virtuous one who reads it through will have to look to his virtue for reward.  The irony is factitious and forced; the sentiment unappealing; the coarseness quite destitute of Rabelaisian geniality; and the nomenclature may be sampled from “the Countess of Liberal” and “Lord Beef.”  I believe Shebbeare was once pilloried for his politics.  If it had been for Lydia, I should not have protested.

The next book to be mentioned is an agreeable change.  Why Hazlitt compared The Life of John Buncle (1756-1766) to Rabelais is a somewhat idle though perhaps not quite unanswerable question; the importance of the book itself in the history of the English novel, which has sometimes been doubted or passed over, is by no means small.  Its author, Thomas Amory (1691?-1788), was growing old when he wrote it and even when he prefaced it with a kind of Introduction, the Memoirs of several Ladies (1755).  It is a sort of dream-exaggeration of an autobiography; at first sight, and not at first sight only, the wildest of farragos.  The author represents himself as a disinherited son who is devoted, with equal enthusiasm, to matrimony, eating and drinking as much as he can of the best things he can find, discussion of theological problems in a “Christian-deist” or Unitarian sense, “natural philosophy” in the vague eighteenth-century meaning, and rambling ­chiefly in the fell district which includes the borders of Lancashire, Yorkshire, Westmoreland, “Bishopric” (Durham), and Cumberland.  With this district ­which even now, though seamed with roads and railways, does actually contain some of the wildest scenery of the island; which only forty years ago was much wilder; and which in Amory’s time was a howling wilderness in parts ­he deals in the characteristic spirit of exaggeration which perhaps, as much as anything else, suggested Rabelais to Hazlitt.  From Malham Cove and Hardraw Scar, through the Wild Boar Fell district to the head of Teesdale, you can find at this moment rough and rugged scenery enough, some of which is actually recognisable when “reduced” from Amory’s extravagance.  But that extravagance extends the distances from furlongs to leagues; deepens the caverns from yards to furlongs; and exalts fell and scar into Alps and Andes.  In the same way he has to marry eight wives (not seven as has been usually, and even by the present writer, said), who are distractingly beautiful and wonderfully wise, but who seldom live more than two years:  and has a large number of children about whom he says nothing, “because he has not observed in them anything worth speaking about.”  The courtships are varied between abrupt embraces soon after introduction, and discussions on Hebrew, Babel, “Christian-deism,” and the binomial theorem.  In the most inhospitable deserts, his man or boy is invariably able to produce from his wallet “ham, tongue, potted blackcock, and a pint of cyder,” while in more favourable circumstances Buncle takes his ease in his inn by consuming “a pound of steak, a quart of green peas, two fine cuts of bread, a tankard of strong ale, and a pint of port” and singing cheerful love-ditties a few days after the death of an adored wife.  He comes down the side of precipices by a mysterious kind of pole-jumping ­half a dozen fathoms at a drop with landing-places a yard wide ­like a chamois or a rollicking Rocky Mountain ram.  Every now and then he finds a skeleton, with a legend of instructive tenor, in a hermitage which he annexes:  and almost infallibly, at the worst point of the wilderness, there is an elegant country seat with an obliging old father and a lively heiress ready to take the place of the last removed charmer.

Mad, however, as this sketch may sound, and certainly not quite sane as Amory may have been, there is a very great deal of method in his, and some in its, madness.  The flashes of shrewdness and the blocks of pretty solid learning (Rabelaisian again) do not perhaps so much concern us:  but the book, ultra-eccentric as it is, does count for something in the history of the English novel.  Its descriptions, rendered through a magnifying glass as they are, have considerable power; and are quite unlike anything in prose fiction, and most things in prose literature, before it.  In Buncle himself there is a sort of extra-natural, “four-dimension” nature and proportion which assert the novelist’s power memorably: ­if a John Buncle could exist, he would very probably be like Amory’s John Buncle.  Above all, the book (let it be remembered that it came before Tristram Shandy) is almost the beginning of the Eccentric Novel ­not of the satiric-marvellous type which Cyrano and Swift had revived from Lucian, but of a new, a modern, and a very English variety.  Buncle is sometimes extraordinarily like Borrow (on whom he probably had influence), and it would not be hard to arrange a very considerable spiritual succession for him, by no means deserving the uncomplimentary terms in which he dismisses his progeny in the flesh.

If there is an almost preposterous cheerfulness about Buncle, the necessary alternative can be amply supplied by the next book to which we come.  The curious way in which Johnson almost invariably managed to hit the critical nail on the head is well illustrated by his remark to Frances Sheridan, author of the Memoirs of Miss Sydney Bidulph (1761), that he “did not know whether she had a right, on moral principles, to make her readers suffer so much.”  Substitute “aesthetic” for “moral” and “heroine” for “readers,” and the remark retains its truth on another scheme of criticism, which Johnson was not ostensibly employing, and which he might have violently denounced.  The book, though with its subsequent prolongation too long, is a powerful one:  and though actually dedicated to Richardson and no doubt consciously owing much to his influence, practically clears off the debt by its own earnings.  But Miss Bidulph (she started with only one d, but acquired another), whose journal to her beloved Cecilia supplies the matter and method of the novel, is too persistently unlucky and ill-treated, without the smallest fault of her own, for anything but really, not fictitiously, real life.  Her misfortunes spring from obeying her mother (but there was neither moral nor satire in this then), and husbands, lovers, rivals, relations, connections ­everybody ­conspire to afflict her.  Poetical justice has been much abused in both senses of that verb:  Sydney Biddulph shows cause for it in the very act of neglect.

But the eighteenth century, on the whole, loathed melancholy.  The Spiritual Quixote (1772) of the Reverend Richard Graves (1715-1804) has probably been a little injured by the ingenuous proclamation of indebtedness in the title.  It is, however, an extremely clever and amusing book:  and one of the best of the many imitations of its original, which, indeed, it follows only on broad and practically independent lines.  During his long life (for more than half a century of which he was rector of Claverton near Bath) Graves knew many interesting persons, from Shenstone and Whitefield (with both of whom he was at Pembroke College, Oxford, though he afterwards became a fellow of All Souls) to Malthus, who was a pupil of his; and he had some interesting private experiences.  He wove a good deal that was personal into his novel, which, as may easily be guessed, is a satire upon Methodism, and in which Whitefield is personally and not altogether favourably introduced.  But even on him Graves is by no means savage:  while his treatment of his hero, Geoffrey Wildgoose, a young Oxford man who, living in retirement with his mother in the country, becomes an evangelist, very mainly from want of some more interesting occupation, is altogether good-humoured.  Wildgoose promptly falls in love with a fascinating damsel-errant, Julia Townsend; and the various adventures, religious, picaresque, and amatory, are embroiled and disembroiled with very fair skill in character and fairer still in narrative.  Nor is the Sancho-Partridge of the piece, Jerry Tugwell, a cobbler (who thinks, though he is very fond of his somewhat masterful wife, that a little absence from her would not be unrefreshing), by any means a failure.  Both Scott and Dickens evidently knew Graves well, and knowledge of him might with advantage be more general.

The novels that have been noticed since those contrasted ones of Mrs. Haywood’s, which occupy a position by themselves, all possess a sort of traditional fame; and cover (with the proper time allowed for the start given by Richardson and Fielding) nearly the same period of thirty years ­in this case 1744 (David Simple) to 1772 (The Spiritual Quixote) ­which is covered by the novels of the great quartette themselves.  It would be possible to add a great many, and easy and not disagreeable to the writer to dwell on a few.  Of these few some are perhaps necessary.  Frank Coventry’s Pompey the Little ­an amusing satirical novel with a pet dog for the title-giver and with the promising (but as a rule ill-handled) subject of university life treated early ­appeared in 1751 ­the same year which saw the much higher flight (the pun is in sense not words) of Peter Wilkins, by Robert Paltock of Clement’s Inn, a person of whom practically nothing else is known.  It would be lucky for many people if they were thus singly yoked to history.  It was once fashionable to dismiss Peter as a boy’s book, because it discovers a world of flying men and women, modelled partly on Defoe, partly on Swift; it has more recently been fashionable to hint a sneer at it as “sentimental” because of its presentment of a sort of fantastic and unconventional Amelia (who, it may be remembered, made her appearance in the same year) in the heroine Youwarkee.  Persons who do not care for fashion will perhaps sometimes agree that, though not exactly a masterpiece, it is rather a charming book.  If anybody is sickened by its charm he may restore himself by a still better known story which no one can accuse of charm or sentiment, though it is clever enough ­Charles Johnstone’s Chrysal or The Adventures of a Guinea (1760).  This, which is strongly Smollettian in more ways than one, derives its chief notoriety from the way in which the scandalous (and perhaps partly fabulous) orgies of Medmenham Abbey are, like other scandalous and partly fabulous gossip of the time, brought in.  But it is clever; though emphatically one of the books which “leave a bad taste in the mouth.”  Indeed about this time the novel, which even in clean hands allowed itself not a little freedom, took, in others, excursions in the direction of the province of “prohibited literature,” and sometimes passed the border.

One rather celebrated book, however, has not yet been mentioned:  and it will serve very well, with two others greater in every way, as usher to a few general remarks on the weakness of this generation of minor novelists.  Between 1766 and 1770 Henry Brooke, an Irishman of position, fortune, and literary distinction in other ways, who was at the time of more than middle age, published The Fool of Quality or The Adventures of Henry Earl of Morland.  The hero is a sort of Grandison-Buncle, as proper though scarcely as priggish as the one, and as eccentric and discursive as the other; the story is chaos:  the book is stuffed with disquisitions on all sorts of moral, social, and political problems.  It is excellently written; it is clear from it that Brooke (who was for a time actually mad) did not belie the connection of great wits with madness.  But it is, perhaps, most valuable as an evidence of the unconquerable set of the time towards novel.

Of this, however, as of some other points, we have greater evidence still in the shape of two books, each of them, as nothing else yet mentioned in this chapter can claim to be, a permanent and capital contribution to English literature ­Johnson’s Rasselas (1759) and Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield (1766).

It is not from the present writer that any one need look for an attempt to belittle Johnson:  and there is no doubt (for the Lives of the Poets is but a bundle of essays) that Rasselas is Johnson’s greatest book.  But there may be, in some minds, as little doubt that attempts to defend it from the charge of not being a novel are only instances of that not wholly unamiable frenzy of eagerness to “say not ditto to Mr. Burke” which is characteristic of clever undergraduates, and of periods which are not quite of the greatest in literature. Rasselas is simply an extended and glorified moral apologue ­an enlarged “Vision of Mirza.”  It has no real story; it has no real characters; its dialogue is “talking book;” it indulges in some but not much description.  It is in fact a prose Vanity of Human Wishes, admirably if somewhat stiffly arranged in form, and as true to life as life itself.  You will have difficulty in finding a wiser book anywhere; but although it is quite true that a novel need not be foolish, wisdom is certainly not its determining differentia.  Yet for our purposes Rasselas is almost as valuable as Tom Jones itself:  because it shows how imperative and wide-ranging was the struggle towards production of this kind in prose.  The book is really ­to adapt the quaint title of one of the preceding century ­Johnson al Mondo:  and at this time, when Johnson wanted to communicate his thoughts to the world in a popular form, we see that he chose the novel.

The lesson is not so glaringly obvious in the Vicar of Wakefield, because this is a novel, and a very delightful one.  The only point of direct contact with Rasselas is the knowledge of human nature, though in the one book this takes the form of melancholy aphorism and apophthegm, in the other that of felicitous trait and dialogue-utterance.  There is plenty of story, though this has not been arranged so as to hit the taste of the martinet in “fable;” the book has endless character; the descriptions are Hogarth with less of peuple about them; the dialogue is unsurpassable.  Yet Goldsmith, untiring hack of genius as he was, wrote no other novel; evidently felt no particular call or predilection for the style; would have been dramatist, poet, essayist with greater satisfaction to himself, though scarcely (satisfactory as he is in all these respects) to us.  That he tried it at all can hardly be set down to anything else than the fact that the style was popular:  and his choice is one of the highest possible testimonies to the popularity of the style.  Incidentally, of course, the Vicar has more for us than this, because it indicates, as vividly as any of the work of the great Four themselves, how high and various the capacities of the novel are ­how in fact it can almost completely compete with and, for a time, vanquish the drama on its own ground.  Much of it, of course ­the “Fudge!” scene between Mr. Burchell and the town ladies may be taken as the first example that occurs ­is drama, with all the cumbrous accessories of stage and scene and circumstance spared.  One may almost see that “notice to quit,” which (some will have it) has been, after nearly a century and a half, served back again on the novel, served by the Vicar of Wakefield on the drama.

At the same time even the Vicar, though perhaps less than any other book yet noticed in this chapter, illustrates the proposition to which we have been leading up ­that, outside the great quartette, and even to a certain extent inside of it, the novel had not yet fully found its proper path ­had still less made up its mind to walk freely and firmly therein.  Either it has some arrière pensee, some second purpose, besides the simple attempt to interest and absorb by the artistic re-creation of real and ordinary life:  or, without exactly doing this, it shows signs of mistrust and misgiving as to the sufficiency of such an appeal, and supplements it by the old tricks of the drama in “revolution and discovery;” by incident more or less out of the ordinary course; by satire, political, social, or personal; by philosophical disquisition; by fantastic imagination ­by this, that, and the other of the fatal auxiliaries who always undo their unwise employers.  Men want to write novels; and the public wants them to write novels; and supply does not fail desire and demand.  There is a well-known locus classicus from which we know that, not long after the century had passed its middle, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu in Italy regularly received boxes of novels from her daughter in England, and read them, eagerly though by no means uncritically, as became Fielding’s cousin and her ladyship’s self.  But while the kind had not conquered, and for a long time did not conquer, any high place in literature from the point of view of serious criticism ­while, now and long afterwards, novel-writing was the Cinderella of the literary family, and novel-reading the inexhaustible text for sermons on wasted, nay positively ill-spent, time ­the novelists themselves half justified their critics by frequent extravagance; by more frequent unreality; by undue licence pretty often; by digression and divagation still oftener.  Except Fielding, hardly any one had dared boldly to hold up the mirror to nature, and be content with giving the reflection, in his own way, but with respect for it.  For even Goldsmith, with infinite touches of nature, had not given quite a natural whole, and even Johnson, though absolutely true, had failed to accommodate his truth to the requirements of the novel.

The turning point in this direction of the kind was to be made by a person far inferior in ability to any one of the great quartette, and in a book which, as a book, cannot pretend to an equality with the worst of theirs ­by a person indeed of less intellectual power, and in a book of less literary merit, than not a few of the persons and books just noticed.  There is something, no doubt, paradoxical in this:  and the paradox is connected, both with a real quality of the subject and with a surprising diversity of opinions about it.  Frances Burney and her Evelina (1778), not to mention her subsequent works and her delightful Diary, have been the subject of a great deal of writing:  but though more than a hundred years ­more indeed than a century and a quarter ­have passed since the book insidiously took London by gradual storm, it may, without too much presumption, be questioned whether either book or author has yet been finally or satisfactorily “placed.”  The immense advantage of not having a history, positively illustrated once for all in Shakespeare, could hardly be negatively illustrated better than in Madame d’Arblay.  She had the curious, and actually very unpleasant, experience of being selected for a position at court on the strength of her literary achievements, of finding it intolerable, of breaking down, and of never doing any really good work after her release, through much more than half of her long life.  On this fact critical biography has fastened almost exclusively.  Macaulay, in one of his most brilliant and best known essays, represents the world as having been deprived of unknown quantities of admirable work by the misplaced kindness, and the positive unkindness, of Queen Charlotte.  Some have agreed with him, some have differed with him.  Some, in one of the natural if uncritical révulsions, have questioned whether even Evelina is a very remarkable book.  Some, with human respect for the great names of its early admirers, have passed it over gingerly ­not exactly as willing to wound, but as quite afraid or reluctant to strike.  Nay, actual critical evaluations of the novel-values of Miss Burney’s four attempts in novel-writing are very rare.  I dare say there are other people who have read The Wanderer through:  but I never met any one who had done so except (to quote Rossetti) myself:  and I could not bring myself, even on this occasion, to read it again.  I doubt whether very many now living have read Camilla.  Even Cecilia requires an effort, and does not repay that effort very well.  Only Evelina itself is legible and relegible ­for reasons which will be given presently.  Yet Cecilia was written shortly after Evelina, under the same stimulus of abundant and genial society, with no pressure except that of friendly encouragement and perhaps assistance, and long before the supposed blight of royal favour and royal exigences came upon its author.  When Camilla was published she had been relieved from these exigences, though not from that favour, for five years:  and was a thoroughly happy woman, rejoicing in husband and child.  Even when the impossible Wanderer was concocted, she had had ample leisure, had as yet incurred none of her later domestic sorrows, and was assured of lavish recompense for her (it must be said) absolutely worthless labours.  Why this steady declension, with which, considering the character of Cecilia, the court sojourn can have had nothing to do?  And admitting it, why still uphold, as the present writer does uphold, Evelina as one of the points de repère of the English novel?  Both questions shall be answered in their order.

Frances Burney must have been, as we see not merely from external testimony, but from the infallible witness of her own diary, a most engaging person to any one who could get over her shyness and her prudery: but she was only in a very limited sense a gifted one.  Macaulay grants her a “fine understanding;” but even his own article contradicts the statement, which is merely one of his exaggerations for the sake of point.  She had not a fine understanding:  though she was neither silly nor stupid, her sense was altogether inferior to her sensibility.  Although living in a most bookish circle she was, as Macaulay himself admits, almost illiterate:  and (which he does not say) her comparative critical estimates of books, when she does give them, are merely contemptible.  This harsh statement could be freely substantiated:  but it is enough to say that, when a girl, she preferred some forgotten rubbish called Henry and Frances to the Vicar of Wakefield:  and that, when a woman, she deliberately offended Chateaubriand by praising the Itinéraire rather than the Genie du Christianisme, or Atala, or René, or Les Martyrs.  She had very little inventive power; her best novel, Evelina, has no plot worth speaking of.  She never wrote really well.  Even the Diary derives its whole charm from the matter and the reportage.  Evelina is tolerable style of the kind that has no style; Cecilia is pompous and Johnsonian; Camilla was stigmatised by the competent and affectionate judgment of Mrs. Delany as “Gallicised;” and The Wanderer is in a lingo which suggests the translation of an ill-written French original by a person who does not know English.

What then was it in Evelina, and in part in Cecilia (with a faint survival even into Camilla), which turned the heads of such a “town” as Johnson and Burke, Walpole and Windham, and many others ­which, to persons who can see it, makes the books attractive to-day, and which should always give their author a secure and distinguished place in the great torch-race of English fiction-writers?  It is this ­that Miss Burney had a quite marvellous faculty of taking impressions of actual speech, manners, and to a certain extent character:  that she had, at any rate for a time, a corresponding faculty of expressing, or at least reporting, her impressions.  Next (and perhaps most of all) that she had the luck to come at a moment when speech and manners were turning to the modern; and lastly, that she was content, in parts of her work at any rate, to let her faculty of expression work, automatically and uninterfered with, on the impressions:  and thereby give us record of them for all time.  Her acute critic “Daddy” Crisp lamented that we had not had a series of recorders of successive tons [fashions] like Fanny.  But she was much more than a mere fashion-monger:  and what has lasted best in her was not mere fashion.  She could see and record life and nature:  and she did so.  Still, fashion had a good deal to do with it:  and when her access to fashion and society ceased, the goodness of her work ceased likewise.

Even this gift, and this even in Evelina and the better parts of Cecilia, she had not always with her.  The sentimental parts of Evelina ­the correspondence with Mr. Villars, the courtship with Lord Orville, and others ­are very weak:  and it cannot be said that Evelina herself, though she is a pleasant girl enough, gives the lie to Mr. Pope’s libel about women.  Cecilia has a little more individuality.  But the great strength of the former book lies in the admirable lower middle-class pictures of the Branghtons and Mr. Smith, whom Fanny had evidently studied from the life in the queer neighbourhood of Poland Street:  as also in the justness and verisimilitude of the picture of the situation, which in different ways both books present ­that of the introduction of a young girl to the world. In these points, as in others which there is neither space nor need to particularise, Miss Burney showed that she had hit upon ­stumbled upon one may almost say ­the real principle and essence of the novel as distinguished from the romance ­its connection with actual ordinary life ­life studied freshly and directly “from the life,” and disguised and adulterated as little as possible by exceptional interests and incidents.  It is scarcely too much to say that one great reason why the novel was so long coming into existence was precisely this ­that life and society so long remained subject to these exceptional interests and incidents.  It is only within the last century or so that the “life of ’mergency” (to adapt Mr. Chucks slightly) ceased to be the ordinary life.  Addison’s “Dissenter’s Diary” with its record of nothing but constitutionals and marrow-bones, and Mr. Nisby’s opinions, has simply amused half a dozen generations.  Yet, in a sense, it has nearly as much to do with the advent of the novel as Sir Roger de Coverley himself.  For these things are, not merely in an allegory, the subjects of the novel.  Not so very much earlier Mr. Nisby would have had a chance of delivering his opinions on the scaffold:  and his disciple would have had prison bread and water for marrow-bones and “Brooks and Hellier.”  These would have been subjects for romance:  the others were subjects for novel.

All glory, therefore, be to Frances Burney; both that which her generous successor and superior gives her in Northanger Abbey, and more also ­for Miss Austen, naturally enough, was not taking the view-point of literary history.  But it has been said that Fanny herself possessed her gift in two senses uncertainly ­first, in that she did not very clearly perceive what it was, and, secondly, in that she soon lost grip of it.  It is, therefore, not wonderful that few others caught the trick from her for a long time ­for indeed fully twenty years, till Miss Edgeworth made her appearance.  But these twenty years were years of extreme fertility in novels of different sorts, while ­a phenomenon that occurs not seldom ­the older kind of fiction made a kind of rally at the very time that the newer was at last solidly establishing itself.  There was, indeed, ample room for both.  You cannot kill Romance:  it would be a profound misfortune, perhaps the profoundest that could befall the human race, if you could.  But the new romance was of rather a bastard kind, and it showed more of the bad blood than of the good till, by a curious coincidence, Scott once more found the true strain, just about the same time as that at which Miss Austen was making known the true strain of the novel proper.

This hybrid new romance had been stumbled upon more than a decade before Fanny Burney in her turn stumbled upon the pure novel:  and most people know in what and by whom.  To this day it is by no means easy to be certain what Horace Walpole really meant to write, or thought he was writing, in The Castle of Otranto (1764).  His own references to his own writings are too much saturated with affectation and pose to make it safe to draw any conclusions from them; there is little or no external evidence; and the book itself is rather a puzzle.  Taking the Preface to the second edition with a very large allowance of salt ­the success of the first before this preface makes double salting advisable ­and accommodating it to the actual facts, one finds it hardly necessary to go beyond the obvious and almost commonplace solution that The Castle of Otranto was simply the castle of Strawberry Hill itself with paper for lath and ink for plaster ­in other words, an effort to imitate something which the imitator more than half misunderstood.  Of mediaeval literature proper, apart from chronicles and genealogies, Walpole knew nothing:  and for its more precious features he had the dislike which sometimes accompanies ignorance.  But he undoubtedly had positive literary genius ­flawed, alloyed, incomplete, uncritical of itself, but existing:  and this genius showed itself here.  His paper-and-ink “Strawberry” is quite another guess structure from his lath-and-plaster one.  For itself in itself ­for what it is ­the present writer, though he has striven earnestly and often for the sake of the great things that it did, has never been able to get up any affection or admiration.  It is preposterous, desultory, tedious, clumsy, dull.  But it made people (we know it on such excellent authority as Gray’s) shudder:  and the shudder was exactly what they wanted ­in every sense of the verb “to want.”  Moreover, quite independently of this shudder, it pointed the way to a wide, fertile, and delightful province of historical, social, literary, and other matter which had long been neglected, and which people had been assured was not worth exploring.  Blair was just using, or about to use, “any romance of chivalry” as a hyperbolical exemplification of the contemptible in literature.  Hume had been arguing against, and Voltaire was still sneering at, all sorts of superstition and supernaturalism.  The common cant of criticism for generations had been that “sense” and “reason” were to be the only criteria.  Walpole’s egregious helmet dropped from no one knew (or knows) where on all these Philistinisms:  and squelched them.  How it did this, why it did it, and so forth, one knows not much more than one knows why and how all the things happened in the novel itself. Âpres coup, the author talked about “Shakespeare” (of whom, by the way, he was anything but a fervent or thorough admirer) and the like.  Shakespeare had, as Sir Walter Raleigh has well pointed out, uncommonly little to do with it.  But Shakespeare at least supplies us with an appropriate phrase for the occasion. The Castle of Otranto “lay in” Horace’s “way, and he found it.”  And with it, though hardly in it, he found the New Romance.

In Horace’s case also, as in that of Frances, though the success was even more momentous, the successors were slow and doubtful, though not quite so slow.  In some dozen years Walpole read Miss Clara Reeve’s Old English Baron (1777), and as in another celebrated case “thought it a bore.”  It is rather a bore.  It has more consecutiveness than Otranto, and escapes the absurdities of the copiously but clumsily used supernatural by administering it in a very minute dose.  But there is not a spark of genius in it, whereas that spark, though sometimes curiously wrapped up in ashes, was always present (Heaven knows where he got it!) in Sir Robert’s youngest son.  And the contagion spread.  For general and epidemic purposes it had to wait till the Germans had carried it over the North Sea and sent it back again.  For particular ones, it found a new development in one of the most remarkable of all novels, twenty years younger than Otranto, and a few years older than the new outburst of the “Gothic” supernatural in the works of Anne Radcliffe and Mat Lewis.

Vathek (1786) stands alone ­almost independent even of its sponsors ­it would be awkward to say godfathers ­Hamilton and Voltaire; apart likewise from such work as it, no doubt, in turn partly suggested to Peacock and to Disraeli.  There is, perhaps, no one towards whom it is so tempting to play the idle game of retrospective Providence as towards the describer of Batalha and Alcobaca, the creator of Nouronnihar and the Hall of Eblis.  Fonthill has had too many vicissitudes since Beckford, and Cintra is a far cry; but though his associations with Bath are later, it is still possible, in that oddly enchanted city, to get something of the mixed atmosphere ­eighteenth century, nineteenth, and of centuries older and younger than either ­which, tamisee in a mysterious fashion, surrounds this extraordinary little masterpiece.  Take Beckford’s millions away; make him coin his wits to supply the want of them; and what would have been the result?  Perhaps more Vatheks; perhaps things even better than Vathek; perhaps nothing at all.  On the whole, it is always wiser not to play Providence, in fact or fancy.  All that need be said is that Anthony Hamilton and Voltaire are certainly not by themselves ­good as they are, and admirable as the first is ­enough to account for Vathek.  Romance has passed there as well as persiflage and something like coionnerie; it is Romance that has given us the baleful beauty of that Queen of Evil, Nouronnihar, and the vision of the burning hearts that make their own wandering but eternal Hell.  The tendency of the novel had been on the whole, even in its best examples, to prose in feeling as well as in form.  It was Beckford who availed himself of the poetry which is almost inseparable from Romance.  But it was Horace Walpole who had opened the door to Romance herself.

Still, Vatheks are not to be had to order:  and as Romance was wanted, to order and in bulk, during the late years of the eighteenth century, some other kind had to be supplied.  The chief accredited purveyors of it have been already named and must now be dealt with, to be followed by the list of secondary, never quite accomplished, exponents now of novel, now of romance, now of the two mixed, who filled the closing years of the eighteenth century.

It is, however, unjust to put the author of The Mysteries of Udolpho and the author of The Monk on the same level.  Mat Lewis was a clever boy with a lively fancy, a knack of catching and even of anticipating popular tendencies in literature, a rather vulgar taste by nature, and no faculty of self-criticism to correct it.  The famous Monk (1795), which he published when he was twenty, is as preposterous as Otranto and adds to its preposterousness a haut gout of atrocity and indecency which Walpole was far too much of a gentleman, and even of a true man of letters, to attempt or to tolerate.  Lewis’s other work in various forms is less offensive:  but ­except in respect of verse-rhythm which does not here concern us ­hardly any of it is literature.  What does concern us is that the time took it for literature, because it adopted the terror-style in fiction.

Anne Ward (she married a barrister named Radcliffe, of whom we do not hear much except that his engagements in journalism threw time on his wife’s hands for writing) appears to have started on her career of terror-novelist, in which she preceded Lewis, with two fixed resolves of principle very contrary to his practice.  The first was to observe strict “propriety” in her books ­a point in which the novel had always been a little peccant.  The second and more questionable, but also more original, was a curious determination to lavish the appearance of the supernatural, in accordance with the Walpolian tradition and the German adoption of it, but never to allow anything really supernatural in ultimate explanation or want of explanation.  She applied these two principles to the working out, over and over again, of practically the same story ­the persécutions of a beautiful and virtuous heroine, and her final deliverance from them.  Her first attempt, The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne, appeared as early as 1789:  and she left a posthumous romance, Gaston de Blondeville, which did not come out till 1826, four years after her death.  She also wrote some poems and a volume of Travels (1794) which is important for a reason to be noticed presently.  But her fame rests upon four books, which she published in seven years, between her own twenty-sixth and thirty-third, A Sicilian Romance (1790), The Romance of the Forest (1791), the world-renowned Mysteries of Udolpho in 1794-1795, and The Italian two years later.

These stories owed their original attraction to the skill with which, by the use of a Defoe-like minuteness of detail, added to a pictorial faculty which Defoe had not, an atmosphere of terror is constantly diffused and kept up.  Very little that is terrible actually happens:  but the artist succeeds (so long as the trick has not become too familiar) in persuading you that something very terrible is going to happen, or has just happened.  And so the delight of something “horrid,” as the Catherines and Isabellas of the day put it, is given much more plentifully, and even much more excitingly, than it could be by a real horror now and then, with intervals of miscellaneous business.  In one sense, indeed, the process will not stand even the slightest critical examination:  for it is soon seen to consist of a succession of serious mystifications and non-comic much-ados-about-nothing.  But these “ados” are most cunningly made (her last book, The Italian, is, perhaps, the best place to look for them, if the reader is not taking up the whole subject with a virtuous thoroughness), and Mrs. Radcliffe’s great praise is that she induced her original readers to suspend their critical faculties sufficiently to enable them to take it all seriously.  Scott, who undoubtedly owed her something, assigned her positive genius:  and modern critics, while, perhaps, seldom experiencing much real delectation from her work, have discovered in it not a few positive and many more indirect and comparative merits.  The influence on Scott is not the least of these:  but there is even a more unquestionable asset of the same kind in the fact that the Byronic villain-hero, if not Byron himself, is Mrs. Radcliffe’s work.  Schedoni did much more than beget or pattern Lara:  he is Lara, to all intents and purposes, in “first state” and before the final touch has been put by the greater master who took the plate in hand.

But there is more to be said for Mrs. Radcliffe than this.  Her “explained supernatural,” tiresome as it may be to some of us nowadays, is really a marvel of patience and ingenuity:  and this same quality extends to her plots generally.  The historical side of her novels (which she does to some extent attempt) is a failure, as everything of the kind was before Scott:  that we may leave till we come to Scott himself.  But one important engine of the novelist she set to work in a fashion which had never been managed before, and that is elaborate description.  She shows an early adaptation of that “picturesque,” of which we see the beginnings in Gray, when she was in the nursery, which was being directly developed by Gilpin, but which, as we may see from her Travels, she had got not merely from books, but from her own observation.  She applies it both within and without:  at one moment giving pages on the scenery of the Apennines, at another paragraphs on the furniture of her abbeys and castles.  The pine forests and the cataracts; the skyline of Udolpho bathed in sunset glow, while a “melancholy purple tint” steals up the slopes to its foundations ­are all in the day’s work now; but they were not so then, and it is fair to say that Mrs. Radcliffe does them well.  The “high canopied tester of dark green damask” and the “counterpane of black velvet” which illustrate the introduction of the famous chapter of the Black Pall in Chateau lé Blanc may be mere inventory goods now:  but, once more, they were not so then.  And this faculty of description (which, as noted above, could hardly have been, and pretty certainly was not, got from books, though it may have been, to some extent and quite legitimately, got from pictures) was applied in many minor ways ­touches of really or supposedly horrible objects in the dark, faint suggestions of sound, or of appeals to the other senses ­hints of all sorts, which were to become common tricks of the trade, but were then quite new.

At any rate, by these and other means she attained that great result of the novel which has been noted in Defoe, in Richardson, and in others ­the result of what the French vividly call enfisting the reader ­getting hold of his attention, absorbing him in a pleasant fashion.  The mechanism was often too mechanical:  taken with the author’s steady and honest, but somewhat inartistic determination to explain everything it sometimes produces effects positively ridiculous to us.  With the proviso of valeat quantum, it is not quite unfair to dwell, as has often been dwelt, on the fact that the grand triumph of Mrs. Radcliffe’s terrormongering ­the famous incident of the Black Veil ­is produced by a piece of wax-work.  But the result resulted ­the effect was produced:  and it was left to those who were clever enough to improve upon the means.  For the time these means were “improved upon” in another sense; we shall glance at some of the caricatures, intended and unintended, later.  For the present we may turn to other varieties of the curiously swarming novel-production of these two last decades of the century, and especially of the very last.

If Scott had not established Richard Cumberland’s Henry (1795) in the fortress of the Ballantyne Novels, it would hardly be necessary to notice “Sir Fretful Plagiary’s” contributions to the subject of our history.  He preluded it with another, Arundel (1789), and followed it much later with a third, John de Lancaster:  but there is no need to say anything of these. Henry displays the odd hit-and-miss quality which seems to have attached itself to Cumberland everywhere, whether as novelist, dramatist, essayist, diplomatist, poet, or anything else.  It is, though by no means a mere “plagiarism,” an obvious and avowed imitation of Fielding, and the writer is so intent on his pastiche that he seems quite oblivious himself, and appears to expect equal oblivion on the part of his readers, of the fact that nearly two generations had passed.  Henry is Joseph; Susan May is a much more elaborate and attractive Betty; the doctor’s wife a vulgarised and repulsive Lady Booby; Ezekiel Daw, whom Scott admired, a dissenting Adams ­the full force of the outrage of which variation Sir Walter perhaps did not feel.  There are some good things in the story, but, as a whole, it is chiefly valuable as an early example of that great danger of modern literature ­the influence of the “printed book” itself:  and in a less degree of that forging ahead of the novel generally in public favour which we are chronicling.  If the kind had not been popular, and if Fielding had not been its great prophet, one may be pretty sure that Henry would never have existed.  The causes are important:  the effect not quite so.

There was, however, at this time a novel-school, and not such a very small one, which had more legitimate reasons for existence, inasmuch as it really served as mouthpiece to the thoughts and opinions of the time, whether these thoughts and opinions were good or bad.  This may be called the “revolutionary school,” and its three most distinguished scholars were Bage, Holcroft, and Godwin, with Mrs. Inchbald perhaps to be added.  The first began considerably before the outbreak of the actual French Revolution and shows the influence of its causes:  the others were directly influenced by itself.

One of the most remarkable of English novel-writers who are not absolute successes, and one who, though less completely obscured by Fortune than some, has never had quite his due, is Robert Bage.  It was unfortunate for him that he fell in with the crude generation contemporary in their manhood with the French Revolution, and so manifested the crudity in full.  Bage, in fact, except for a certain strength of humour, is almost more French than English.  He has been put in the school of Richardson, but it is certain that Richardson would have been shocked at the supposed scholar:  and it is not certain that Bage would or need have felt complimented by the assignment of the master.  He has the special laxity of the time in point of “morality,” or at least of decency; its affectations of rather childish perfectibilism and anti-theism; and the tendency of at least a part of it to an odd Calibanic jesting.  Bage is good-tempered enough as it is:  but he rather suggests possible Carrier-and-Fouche developments in a favourable and fostering atmosphere.  One does not quite know why Scott, who included in the Ballantyne Novels three of Bage’s, Mount Henneth (1781), Barham Downs (1784), and James Wallace (1788), did not also include, if not The Fair Syrian (1787), two others, Man as He is (1792) and the still later Hermsprong, or Man as He is Not (1796).  This last has sometimes been regarded as Bage’s masterpiece:  but it does not seem so to the present writer.  It begins by the sketch of an illegitimate child, written in Bage’s worst vein of hard rasping irony, entirely devoid of the delicate spring and “give” which irony requires, and which constitutes the triumph even of such things as A Tale of a Tub and Jonathan Wild.  The rather impossibly named Hermsprong himself is not really so named at all, but is related (and in fact head-of-the-house) to the wicked or at least not good lord of the story.  He is of the kind of Sir Charles Grandison, Rights-of-Mannified, which infests all these novels and is a great bore ­as, indeed, to me is the whole book.  The earlier Man as He is is far better.  The hero, Sir George Paradyne, though of the same general class, is very much more tolerable and (being sometimes naughty) preferable to Grandison himself:  while the heroine ­a certain Miss Colerain, who is a merchant’s daughter under a double cloud of her father’s misfortune and of calumny as regards herself ­though not an absolute success, is worth a dozen Harriets, with thirteen Charlottes thrown in to make “25 as 24” in bookseller’s phrase.  Bage’s extravagant or perhaps only too literal manners-painting (for it was an odd time) appears not infrequently, as in the anecdote of a justly enraged, though as a matter of fact mistaken, husband, who finds a young gentleman sitting on his wife’s lap, with her arms round him, while he is literally and en tout bien tout honneur painting her face ­being a great artist in that way. Mount Henneth is perhaps the liveliest of all:  though its liveliness is partly achieved by less merely extravagant unconventionalities than this.  But as a matter of fact Bage never entirely “comes off”:  though there is cleverness enough in him to have made a dozen popular and deservedly popular novelists at a better time for the novel.  For he was essentially a novelist of manners and character at a transition time, when manners and character had come out of one stage and had not settled into another.  Even Miss Edgeworth in Belinda shows the disadvantage of this:  and she was a lady of genius, while Bage had only talent and was not quite a gentleman.

Thomas Holcroft was not a gentleman at all, never pretended to the title, and would probably have been rather affronted if any one had applied it to him:  for he was a violent Atheist and Jacobin, glorying in his extraction from a shoemaker and an oysterseller, and in his education as a stable boy.  He was, however, a man of considerable intellectual power and of some literary gift, which chiefly showed itself in his dramas (the best known, The Road to Ruin), but is not quite absent from his novels Alwyn (1780), Anna St. Ives (1792), and Hugh Trevor (1794-1797).  The series runs in curious parallel to that of Bage’s work:  for Alwyn, the liveliest and the earliest by far of the three, is little more than a study partly after Fielding, but more after Smollett, with his own experiences brought in.  The other two are purpose-novels of anarchist perfectibilism, and Holcroft enjoys the traditional credit of having directly inspired Godwin.  Godwin himself acknowledged the obligation; indeed it is well known that ­in pecuniary matters more particularly ­Godwin had no hesitation either in incurring or in acknowledging obligations, always provided that he was not expected to discharge them.  It is possible that Holcroft’s rough and ready acceptance and exaggeration of the doctrines which Rousseau had (as seems most probable) developed from a paradox of Diderot’s, gave an impetus to the rather sluggish but more systematic mind of Godwin.  But it is certain that Political Justice, though it is not a novel at all, is a much more amusing book than Anna St. Ives, which is one.  And though Holcroft (especially if the presence of this quality in his Autobiography is not wholly due to Hazlitt ­there is some chance that it is) possessed a liveliness in narrative to which Godwin could never attain, there is no doubt that this enigmatical and many-sided spunger, philanderer, and corruptor of youth had a much higher general qualification for novel-writing than any one mentioned hitherto in this chapter, or perhaps than any to be mentioned, except the curiously contrasted pair, of Irish birth, who are to come last in it.

I have sometimes thought that the greatest testimony to Godwin’s power in this respect is the idea (which even Hazlitt, though he did not share it, does not seem to have thought preposterous, and which seems to have been held by others who were not fools) that Godwin might be the author of Waverley.  To us, looking back, the notion seems as absurd as that Bacon could be the author of Shakespeare or Steele of the Tale of a Tub:  but if, instead of looking back, we throw ourselves back, the absurdity does not quite persist as it does in the other two instances.  There are some who, of course, would say, “Why take this fanciful test of Godwin’s ability when you have a real one in Caleb Williams?” The reasons are double:  for, historically, such an estimate by contemporaries is of the very first value, and to the present writer Caleb Williams (1794) has never seemed a very interesting book.  It is impossible to sympathise with a hero who is actuated by the very lowest of human motives, sheer inquisitiveness:  and my sense of natural justice (which is different from Godwin’s) demands not that he shall escape, but that he shall be broken on the wheel, or burnt at a slow fire, or made to read Political Justice after the novelty of its colossal want of humour has palled on him.  One could sympathise with Falkland, but is not allowed to do so:  because he is not human, except in his crime.  But, as has been said, to those whose sporting interests are excited by the pleasures and hazards of the chase, these things no doubt do not occur.  After all Caleb is, in a sense, the first “detective novel”:  and detective novels have always been popular, though they bore some people to extinction.  Far, however, be it from me to deny that this popularity, especially when, as in the present case, it has been continued for four whole generations, is a real and a very considerable asset.  Even if it were now to cease, it is actually funded and vested to Godwin’s credit in the grand livre of literary history:  and it can never be written off.  Perhaps Caleb is the one book of the later English eighteenth century in novel for which there must always be a public as soon as it is presented to that public.  And when this is said and endorsed by those who do not personally much care for the book, it is at once a sufficient testimony to the position of the author, and a vindication of the not absolutely imbecile position of those who thought that he might have written Waverley and its successors.  The way in which Godwin in his later novels came down from the mountain-tops of theory and paradox just as he came down from those of Political Justice itself is interesting and amusing, but not for us.  As novels they are certainly inferior.  The best parts of St. Leon (1799) and Fleetwood (1805) are perhaps better than anything in Caleb:  Mandeville (1817) and Deloraine (1833) are senilia. The graceful figure of the heroine Marguerite in St. Leon is said to be modelled on Mary Wollstonecraft, and there are some fresh pictures of youth and childhood in Fleetwood.  But St. Leon, besides its historical shortcomings (which, once more, we may postpone), is full of faults, from the badly managed supernatural to an only too natural dullness and languor of general story:  nor has Fleetwood anything like the absorbing power which Caleb Williams exercises, in its own way and on its own people.  Yet again we may perhaps say that the chief interest of Godwin, from our point of view, is his repeated and further weighted testimony to the importance of the novel as an appeal to public attention.  In this respect it was in fact displacing, not only the drama on one side, but the sermon on the other.  Not so very long before these two had almost engrossed the domain of popular literature, the graver and more precise folk habitually reading sermons as well as hearing them, and the looser and lighter folk reading drama much oftener than (in then-existing circumstances) they had the opportunity of seeing it.  With the novel the “address to the reader” became direct and stood by itself.  The novelist could emulate Burke with his right barrel and Lydia Languish with his left.  He certainly did not always endeavour to profit as well as to delight:  but the double power was, from this time forward, shared by him with his brother in the higher and older Dichtung.

Next to Godwin may be placed a lady who was much adored by that curious professor of philandering, political injustice, psychology, and the use of the spunge, but who wisely put him off.  Mrs. Inchbald’s (1753-1821) command of a certain kind of dramatic or at least theatrical situation, and her propensity to Richardsonian “human-heart"-mongering, have from time to time secured a certain number of admirers for A Simple Story (1791) and Nature and Art (1796).  Some, availing themselves of the confusion between “style” and “handling” which has recently become fashionable, have even credited her with style itself.  Of this she has nothing ­unless the most conventional of eighteenth-century phraseology, dashed with a kind of marivaudage which may perhaps seem original to those who do not know Marivaux’s French followers, shall deserve the name.  She is indeed very much of an English Madame Riccoboni.  But her situations ­such as the meeting in A Simple Story of a father with the daughter whom, though not exactly casting her off, he has persistently refused to see, in revenge for her mother’s unfaithfulness, and the still more famous scene in Nature and Art where a judge passes the death-sentence on a woman whom he has betrayed ­have, as has been allowed, the dramatic or melodramatic quality which attracts people in “decadent” periods.  There seems, indeed, to have been a certain decadent charm about Mrs. Inchbald herself ­with her beauty, her stage skill, her strict virtue combined with any amount of “sensibility,” her affectation of nature, and her benevolence not in the least sham but distinctly posing.  And something of this rococo relish may no doubt, with a little good will and sympathy, be detected in her books.  But of the genuine life and the natural language which occasionally inspirit the much more unequal and more generally commonplace work of Miss Burney, she has practically nothing.  And she thus falls out of the main line of development, merely exemplifying the revolutionary and sentimental episode.

We must now, for some pages, illustrate the course of the novel by minor examples:  and we may begin with a brief notice of two writers, one of whom might have been taken before Miss Burney and the other just after her chronologically:  but who, in the order of thought and method, will come better here.  Both were natives of Scotland and both illustrate different ways of the novel.  Henry Mackenzie, an Edinburgh advocate, in three books ­the names of which at least are famous, while his friend Sir Walter has preserved the books themselves in the collection so often mentioned ­produced, in his own youth and in rapid succession, The Man of Feeling (1771), The Man of the World (1773), and Julia de Roubigne (1777).  John Moore, a Glasgow physician, wrote, when he was nearly sixty, the novel of Zeluco (1786) and followed it up with Edward ten years afterwards and Mordaunt (1800).  Mackenzie did good work later in the periodical essay:  but his fiction is chiefly the “sensibility"-novel of the French and of Sterne, reduced to the absolutely absurd.  From his essay-work, and from Scott’s and other accounts of him, he must have possessed humour of a kind:  but the extremely limited character of its nature and operation may be exemplified by his representation of a whole press-gang as bursting into tears at the pathetic action and words of an old man who offers himself as substitute for his son.  This is one of the not rare, but certainly one of the most consummate, instances of fashion caricaturing itself in total unconsciousness.  But it was the fashion:  and Mackenzie, though perhaps he helped to bring it to an end, no doubt caused the shedding, by “the fair” of the time, of an ocean of tears as great as the ocean of port wine which was contemporaneously absorbed by “the brave.”

Moore saw a good deal of continental society ­he is indeed one of the first-hand witnesses for the events of the French Revolution ­and he had a more considerable influence on the novel than has always been allowed him. Zeluco chiefly survives because of the exquisitely ludicrous and human trait of the English sailor who, discussing the French army, pronounces white uniforms “absurd” and blue “only fit for the artillery and the blue horse.”  But it is not quite certain that its villain-hero had not something, and perhaps a good deal, to do with those of Mrs. Radcliffe who were soon to follow, and, through these, with Byron who was not to be very long after.  The later books are of much less importance, if only because they follow the outburst of fiction which the French Revolution itself ushered.  But Moore, who was intimately connected with Smollett, carried on the practice of making national or sub-national characteristics important elements of novel interest:  and is thus noteworthy in more ways than one.

He is a late instance ­he was born in 1729 and so was only a few years younger than Smollett himself ­of the writers who had, for all but half a century after Richardson’s appearance, accumulated patterns and examples of the novel in all sorts of forms, hardly one of which lacked numerous and almost innumerable imitators and followers.  By these later years of the century the famous “Minerva Press” and many others issued deluges of novel-work which were eagerly absorbed by readers.  “Absorbed” in more senses than one:  for the institution of circulating libraries, while it facilitated reading, naturally tended towards the destruction of the actual volumes read.  Novels were rarely produced in a very careful or sumptuous fashion, and good copies of those that were in any way popular are now rather hard to obtain:  while even in the British Museum it will frequently be found that only the later editions are represented.  We shall finish this chapter with some instances, taken not quite at random, of the work of the last decades of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, winding up with more general notice of two remarkable writers who represent ­though at least one of them lived far later ­the period before Scott, and who also, as it happens, represent the contrast of novel and romance in a fashion unusually striking.  The description, as some readers will have anticipated, refers to Miss Edgeworth and to Maturin.  But the smaller fry must be taken first.

It is not uninteresting to compare two such books as Mrs. Bennett’s Anna and Mrs. Opie’s Adeline Mowbray.  Published at twenty years’ distance (1785 and 1804) they show the rapid growth of the novel, even during a time when nothing of the first class appeared. Anna, or the Memoirs of a Welsh Heiress, interspersed with Anecdotes of a Nabob, is a kind of bad imitation of Miss Burney, with a catchpenny “interspersion” to suit the day. Adeline Mowbray, written with more talent, chimes in by infusing one of the tones of its day ­Godwinian theories of life.  The space between was the palmy time of that now almost legendary “Minerva Press” which, as has been said, flooded the ever-absorbent market with stuff of which The Libertine, masterpiece of Mrs. Byrne, alias Charlotte Dacre, alias “Rosa Matilda,” is perhaps best worth singling out from its companions, Hours of Solitude, The Nun of St. Omers, Zofloya, etc., because it specially shocked the censor of the style who will be mentioned presently.  It is pure (or not-pure) rubbish.  Angelo (the libertine) seduces the angelic Gabrielle de Montmorency, who follows him to Italy in male attire, saves him from the wicked courtesan Oriana and her bravo Fiorenz_a_ (sic), is married by him, but made miserable, and dies.  He continues his misbehaviour to their children, and finally blows his brains out.  “Bah! it is bosh!” as the Master observes of something else.

It may seem iniquitous to say that some tolerably good novel-writers must be more summarily treated than some bad ones here:  but there is reason for it.  Such, for instance, as Charlotte Smith and the Miss Lees are miles above such others as the just-mentioned polyonymous “Rosa,” as Sarah Wilkinson, or as Henrietta Mosse-Rouviere.  The first three would make a very good group for a twenty-page causerie.  Charlotte Smith, who was tolerably expert in verse as well as prose; who anticipated, and perhaps taught, Scott in the double use of the name “Waverley”; and whose Old Manor House (1793) is a solid but not heavy work of its kind ­is something of a person in herself, but less of a figure in history, because she neither innovates nor does old things consummately.  Harriet and Sophia Lee claimed innovation for the latter’s Recess (1783-1786), as Miss Porter did for Thaddeus of Warsaw, but the claim can be even less allowed.  There is nothing of real historical spirit, and very little goodness of any kind, in The Recess.  The Canterbury Tales (1797-1805) (so named merely because they are supposed to be told by different persons) were praised by Byron, as he praised the Percy Anecdotes and other things ­either irresponsibly or impishly.  They are not exactly bad:  but also as far as possible from consummateness.

On the other hand, The Convent of Grey Penitents, one of the crops which rewarded Miss Wilkinson for tilling the lands of her imagination with the spade of her style, is very nearly consummate ­in badness.  It is a fair example of the worst imitations of Mrs. Radcliffe and Mat Lewis conjointly, though without the latter’s looseness.  The Marquis di Zoretti was an Italian nobleman ­“one of those characters in whose bosom resides an unquenchable thirst of avarice” ["thirst of avarice” is good!], etc.  He marries, however, a lovely signora of the odd name of Rosalthe, without a fortune, “which circumstance was overlooked by his lordship” for a very short time only.  He plots to be free of her:  she goes to England and dies there to the genteelest of slow music.  Their son Horatio falls in love with a certain Julietta, who is immured by wicked arts in the “Convent of Grey Penitents,” tormented by the head, Gradisca, but rescued, and so forth.  The book, if harmless, is about as worthless as a book can be:  but it represents, very fairly, the ruck, if not indeed even the main body, of the enormous horde of romances which issued from the press towards the end of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth, and which, in their different action on persons of genius, gave us Zastrozzi on the one side and Northanger Abbey on the other.

As for Miss Henrietta Mosse, otherwise Rouviere, she represents the other school of abortive historical novel. A Peep at Our Ancestors (1807) is fairly worthy of its ridiculous name.  It is preceded by expressions of thanks to the authorities of “the British Museum and the Heralds’ Office” for the “access to records” vouchsafed to its author.  As the date of the story is 1146 (it was long before Mr. Freeman wrote) access to records would certainly not have been superfluous.  The actual results of it are blocks of spiritless and commonplace historic narrative ­it is nearly all narrative, not action ­diversified by utterances like this of Malcolm III. of Scotland, “O my Edward! the deed which struck my son’s life has centred [sic] thy noble youthful bosom also,” or this of the heroine (such as there is), “the gentle elegant Adelaise,” “And do I not already receive my education of thee, mamma?” It is really a pity that the creator of this remarkable peep-show did not give references to her “records,” so that one might look up this “elegant” young creature of the twelfth century who talked about “education” and said “mamma!” But this absolute failure in verisimilitude is practically universal before Scott.

The works of the very beautifully named Regina Maria Roche should probably be read, as they were for generations, in late childhood or early youth.  Even then an intelligent boy or girl would perceive some of the absurdity, but might catch a charm that escapes the less receptive oldster.  They were, beyond all question, immensely popular, and continued to be so for a long time:  in fact it is almost sufficient evidence that there is, if I mistake not, in the British Museum no edition earlier than the tenth of the most famous of them, The Children of the Abbey (1798).  This far-renowned work opens with the exclamation of the heroine Amanda, “Hail, sweet sojourn of my infancy!” and we are shortly afterwards informed that in the garden “the part appropriated to vegetables was divided from the part sacred to Flora.”  Otherwise, the substance of the thing is a curious sort of watered-down Richardson, passed through successive filtering beds of Mackenzie, and even of Mrs. Radcliffe.  It is difficult for even the most critical taste to find much savour or stimulus in the resulting liquid.  But, like almost everybody mentioned here, Regina is a document of the demands of readers and the faculty of writers:  and so she “standeth,” if not exactly “crowned,” yet ticketed.

Work ­somewhat later ­of some interest, but not of first-class quality, is to be found in the Discipline (1811) and Self-Control (1814) of Mary Brunton.  A Balfour of Orkney on the father’s side and a Ligonier on the mother’s, the authoress had access to the best English as well as Scottish society, and seems to have had more than a chance of taking a place in the former:  but preferred to marry a minister-professor and settled down to country manse life.  She died in middle age and her husband wrote a memoir of her. Discipline seems to represent a sort of fancy combination of the life she might have led and the life she did lead.  Ellen Percy, the heroine, starts in the highest circles; forgets herself so far as to “waltz_e_” with a noble ne’er-do-weel, thereby earning the “stern disapprobation” of a respectable lover; comes down in the world; has Highland experiences which, at the book’s early date, are noteworthy; marries (like her creatress) a minister; but “retains a little of her coquettish sauciness.”  “Bless her, poor little dear!” one can imagine Thackeray exclaiming in his later and mellowed days.  Mrs. Brunton’s letters breathe a lady-like and not unamiable propriety, and she is altogether a sort of milder, though actually earlier, Miss Ferrier.

Ireland vindicated its claim to comparative liveliness in the work of a better known contemporary and survivor.  Lady Morgan’s (Miss Sydney Owenson’s) Wild Irish Girl (1806) is one of the books whose titles have prolonged for them a kind of shadowy existence.  It is written in letters:  and the most interesting thing about it for some readers now is that the heroine supplied Thackeray with the name Glorvina, which, it seems, means in Irish “sweet voice,” if Lady Morgan is to be trusted in rebus Celticis.  It is to be hoped she is:  for the novel is a sort of macedoine of Irish history, folk-lore, scenery, and what not, done up in a syrup of love-making quant. suff. Its author wrote many more novels and became a butt for both good- and ill-natured satire with the comic writers of the twenties, thirties, and forties.  The title was actually borrowed by Maturin in The Wild Irish “Boy,” and it is fair to say that the book preceded Scott’s, though not Miss Edgeworth’s, experiments in the line of the “national” novel.  The earlier Reviewers were discreditably savage on women-writers, and Lady Morgan had her share of their truculence.  She did not wholly deserve it:  but it must be said that nothing she wrote can really be ranked as literature, save on the most indiscriminate and uncritical estimate.  It is, however, difficult to see much harm in her.

Ida of Athens, for instance, which shocked contemporaries, and which, by the way, has the very large first title of Woman, could only bring a blush to cheeks very tickle of that sere:  a yawn might come much more easily.  The most shocking thing that the heroine, who is “an attempt to delineate woman in her natural state,” does (and that not of malice) is to receive her lover in a natural bathroom.  But her adventures are told in a style which is the oddest compound of Romantesque and Johnsonese.  ("The hour was ardent.  The bath was cool. He calculated upon the probable necessity of its enjoyment.”) The spirit is the silliest and most ignorant Philhellenism ­all the beauty, virtue, wisdom, of the ancient Greeks being supposed to be inherited by their mongrel successors of the early nineteenth century.  An English and a Turkish lover dispute Ida’s affection or possession.  There are the elaborate pseudo-erudite notes which one has learnt to associate chiefly with Moore.  The authoress boasts in her preface that she “has already written almost as many volumes as she has years,” and that she has hardly ever corrected her proofs.  Perhaps this silliness will make some think her not more an example of the savagery of contemporary criticism than a justification thereof.

It was in fact not only brutal man who objected to the preposterous excesses of pseudo-romance:  and serious or jocular parables were taken up against it, if not before Northanger Abbey was written, long before it was published.  In 1810 a certain “G.” or “S.G.,” whose full name was Sarah Green, wrote, besides some actual history and an attempt at the historical novel, a very curious and rather hybrid book entitled Romance Readers and Romance Writers.  Its preface is an instance of “Women, beware Women,” for though it stigmatises male creatures, such as a certain Curteis and a certain Pickersgill, it treats Lady Morgan (then only Sydney Owenson) and “Rosa Matilda” even more roughly and asks (as has been asked about a hundred years later and was asked about a hundred years before), “Is it not amazing that the [two] most licentious writers of romance are women?” And it starts with a burlesque account of a certain Margaret Marsham who exclaims, “What then? to add to my earthly miseries am I to be called Peggy?  My name is Margari_tt_a!” “I am sure that if I am called Peggy again I shall go into a fit.”  But this promise of something to complete the trio with Northanger Abbey and The Heroine (to be presently mentioned) is not maintained.  Not only does the writer force the note of parody too much by making “Margaritta” say to herself, “Poor persecuted dove that I am,” and adore a labourer’s shirt on a hedge, but she commits the far more fatal fault of exchanging her jest for earnest.  Margaritta ­following her romance-models ­falls a victim to an unprincipled great lady and the usual wicked baronet ­at whose head, one is bound to say, she flings herself with such violence as no baronet could possibly resist.  Her sister Mary, innocent of romance-reading and all other faults, is, though not as guilty, as unlucky almost as Margaret:  and by far the greater part of the book is an unreal presentment, in nearly the worst manner of the eighteenth century itself, of virtuous curates, unvirtuous “tonish” rectors, who calmly propose to seduce their curates’ daughters (an offence which, for obvious reasons, must, in the worst times, have been unusual), libertine ladies, and reckless “fashionables” of all kinds.  The preface and the opening create expectations, not merely of amusement but of power, which are by no means fulfilled.  It is “S.G.” who asserts that Ida of Athens “has brought a blush to the cheek of many,” and one can only repeat the suggested substitution.

The only faults that can be found with The Heroine or The Adventures of Cherubina, by Eaton Stannard Barrett, which appeared in the same year, with no very different object and subject, though written in lighter vein, are one that it could not help and another that it could.  Unjustly, but unavoidably, the first is the worst.  That it is a burlesque rather overdone ­a burlesque burlesque ­not in the manner of Thackeray, but in that of some older and some more recent writers ­is unfortunate, but not fatal.  One can forgive ­one can even enjoy ­the ghost who not only sneezes but says, “D ­n, all is blown!” When the heroine is actually locked up with a man in a chest one is more doubtful:  recovering when the Marquis de Furioso, “bowing gracefully to the bride,” stabs himself to the heart, which is almost “the real Mackay” as they say in the North.  The slight awkwardness of snow falling the day after the characters have been eating strawberries does not amuse us much, because this is a comparatively ordinary event of the early twentieth century, whatever it might be of the early nineteenth.  But what is fatal, though the author could not help it, is that the infinitely lighter, more artistic, and more lethal dart of Northanger Abbey had been launched by the pen, if not the press, more than a dozen years before.

There are few more curious and interesting personages in the history of the English Novel than Maria Edgeworth.  The variety of her accomplishment in the kind was extraordinary:  and in more than one of its species she went very near perfection.  One is never quite certain whether the perpetual meddling of her rather celebrated father Richard ­one of the capital examples of the unpractical pragmatists and clever-silly crotcheteers who produced and were produced by the Revolutionary period ­did her more harm than good.  It certainly loaded her work with superfluous and (to us) disgusting didacticism:  but it might be contended that, without its stimulus, she would have done much less, perhaps nothing.  As it was, she lived for more than eighty years (till all but the middle of the nineteenth century) and wrote for more than sixty.  Her work is thus very bulky:  but it may be considered, for our present purpose, in three groups ­her short stories written mainly but not wholly for children; her regular novels; and her Irish studies.  Of these the middle division has been, and no doubt has deserved to be, the least popular:  but its principal example, Belinda (1801) (Patronage, a longer and later book, and others are inferior), is considerably better than is usually admitted and, by its early date, deserves special notice here.  It preceded Miss Austen’s work in publication, and is specially cited by her as a capital example of novel in connection with the work of Miss Burney:  and it is evidently founded on study of the latter, of which, indeed, it is the first really worthy continuation.  Maria has nothing so good as Fanny’s Smiths and Branghtons:  but the whole book is far superior to Evelina.  The extravagance of the fin-de-siecle society which it represents has probably disguised from not a few readers who do not know the facts, the other fact that it is a real attempt at realist observation of manners:  and it has the narrative merit which was Miss Edgeworth’s gift of nature.  But the hero is patchy and improbable:  the heroine, a good and quite possible girl, is not sufficiently “reliefed out”; and the most important figures of the book, Lord and Lady Delacour, almost great successes, are not helped by the peculiar academic-didactic moralising which she had caught from Marmontel.

The following of that ingenious and now too much under-valued writer stood her in better stead in the Moral Tales (1801) (which she deliberately called after his), the Popular Tales of the same kind, and (though Marmontel did not intentionally write for children) the delightful Parent’s Assistant (1801) and Frank.  In the two first-named divisions, the narrative faculty just mentioned appears admirably, together with another and still greater gift, that of character-painting, and even a grasp of literary and social satire, which might not be anticipated from some of her other books.  The French governess (Mlle. Panache) and the satire on romantic young-ladyism (Angelina) are excellent examples of this.  As for the pure child’s stories, generation after generation of competent criticism, childish and adult, has voted them by acclamation into almost the highest place possible:  and the gain-sayers have for the most part been idle paradoxers, ill-conditioned snarlers at things clean and sweet, or fools pure and simple.

The “Irish brigade” of the work ­Castle Rackrent (1800), Ormond, and The Absentee, with the non-narrative but closely-connected Essay on Irish Bulls ­have perhaps commanded the most unchequered applause.  They are not quite free from the sentimentality and the didacticism which were both rampant in the novel of Miss Edgeworth’s earlier time:  but these are atoned for by a quite new use of the “national” element.  Even Smollett and, following Smollett, Moore had chiefly availed themselves of this for its farcical or semi-farcical opportunities.  Miss Edgeworth did not neglect these, but she did not confine herself to them:  and such characters as Corny the “King of the Black Isles” in Ormond actually add a new province and a new pleasure to fiction.

Her importance is thus very great:  and it only wanted the proverbial or anecdotic “That!” to make it much greater.  “That!” as it generally is, was in her case the last fusing touch of genius to accomplish the grand oeuvre ­the perfect projection.  She had humour, pathos, knowledge of the world, power of drawing it, acquaintance with literature, shrewd common sense, an excellent style when she was allowed to write in her own way, the feelings of a lady who was also a good woman.  King Charles is made to say in Woodstock that “half the things in the world remind him of the Tales of Mother Goose.”  It is astonishing, in the real complimentary sense, how many things remind one of situations, passages, phrases, in Miss Edgeworth’s works of all the kinds from Castle Rackrent to Frank.  She also had a great and an acknowledged influence on Scott, a considerable and a certainly not disavowed influence on Miss Austen.  She is good reading always, however much we may sometimes pish and pshaw at the untimely poppings-in of the platitudes and crotchets (for he was that most abominable of things, a platitudinous crotcheteer) of Richard her father.  She was a girl of fourteen when the beginnings of the domestic novel were laid in Evelina, and she lived to see it triumph in Vanity Fair.  But her own work, save in some of her short stories, which are pretty perfect, represents the imperfect stage of the development ­the stage when the novel is trying for the right methods and struggling to get into the right ways, but has not wholly mastered the one or reached the others.

There are those who would assign what they might call “higher genius,” or “rarer gift,” or something similar, to her countryman Charles Robert Maturin.  The present writer is not very fond of these measurings together of things incommensurable ­these attempts to rank the “light white sea-mew” as superior or inferior to the “sleek black pantheress.”  It is enough to say that while Miss Edgeworth very deliberately adopted the novel, and even, as we have seen, slightly satirised at least pseudo-romance, Maturin was romantic or nothing.  His life was hardly half hers in length, and his temperament appears to have been as discontented as hers was sunny:  but he had his successes in drama as well as in novel, and one of his attempts in the latter kind had a wide-ranging influence abroad as well as at home, has been recently printed both in whole and in part, and undoubtedly ranks among the novels which any tolerably well instructed person would enumerate if he were asked to give a pretty full list of celebrated (and deservedly celebrated) books of the kind in English.  The others fall quite out of comparison. The Fatal Revenge or the Family of Montorio (1807) is a try for the “furthest” in the Radcliffe-Lewis direction, discarding indeed the crudity of The Monk, but altogether neglecting the restraint of Udolpho and its companions in the use of the supernatural. The Wild Irish Boy (1808), The Milesian Chief (1812), Women (1818), and The Albigenses (1824) are negligible, the last, perhaps, rather less so than the others.  But Melmoth the Wanderer (1820) is in quite a different case.  It has faults in plenty ­especially a narrative method of such involution that, as it has been said, “a considerable part of the book consists of a story told to a certain person, who is a character in a longer story, found in a manuscript which is delivered to a third person, who narrates the greater part of the novel to a fourth person, who is the namesake and descendant of the title-hero.”  Stripped of these tiresome lendings (which, as has been frequently pointed out, were a mania with the eighteenth century and naturally grew to such intricacy as this), the central story, though not exactly new, is impressive:  and it is told and worked out in manner more impressive, because practically novel, save for, perhaps, a little suggestion from Vathek.  Melmoth has bartered his soul with the devil for something like immortality and other privileges, including the unusual one of escaping doom if he can get some one to take the bargain off his hands.  This leads up to numerous episodes or chapters in which Melmoth endeavours to obtain substitutes:  and in one of these the love interest of the book ­the, of course, fatal love of Melmoth himself for a Spanish-Indian girl Immalee or Isidora ­is related with some real pathos and passion, though with a good deal of mere sentiment and twaddle.  Maturin is stronger in his terror-scenes, and affected his own generation very powerfully:  his influence being so great in France that Balzac attempted a variation and continuation, and that there are constant references to the book in the early French Romantics.  In fact for this kind of “sensation” Maturin is, putting Vathek aside, quite the chief of the whole school.  But it is doubtful whether he had many other gifts as a novelist, and this particular one is one that cannot be exercised very frequently, and is very difficult to exercise at all without errors and extravagances.

The child-literature of this school and period was very large, and, had we space, would be worth dealing with at length ­as in the instances of the famous Sandford and Merton (1783-1789) by Thomas Day, Richard Edgeworth’s friend, of Mrs. Trimmer’s Story of the Robins, and others.  It led up to the definitely religious school of children’s books, first evangelical, then tractarian, with which we shall deal later:  but was itself as a rule utilitarian ­or sentimental ­moral rather than directly religious.  It is, however, like other things ­indeed almost all things ­in this chapter ­a document of the fashion in which the novel was “filling all numbers” and being used for all purposes.  It was, of course, in this case, nearest to the world-old “fable” ­especially to the moral apologues of which the mediaeval sermon-writers and others had been so fond.  But its popularity, especially when taken in connection with the still surviving distrust of fiction, is valuable.  It involves not merely the principle that “the devil shall not have all the best tunes,” but the admission that this tune is good.

This point, and that other also frequently mentioned and closely connected with it, that the novel at this time overflows into almost every conceivable department of subject and object, are the main facts of a general historical kind, which should be in the reader’s mind as the upshot of this chapter.  But there is a third, almost as important as either, and that is the almost universal coming short of complete success ­the lack of consummateness, the sense that if the Novel Israel is not exactly still in the wilderness, it has not yet crossed the Jordan.  Even if we take in the last chapter, and its comparative giants, with the present and its heroes, ordinary folk, and pygmies, we shall scarcely find more than one great master, Fielding, and one little masterpiece, Vathek, deserving the adjective “consummate.”  No doubt the obvious explanation ­that the hour was not because the man had not come except in this single case ­is a good one:  but it need not be left in the bare isolation of its fatalism.  There are at least several subsidiary considerations which it is well to advance.  The transition state of manners and language cannot be too often insisted upon:  for this affected the process at both ends, giving the artist in fictitious life an uncertain model to copy and unstable materials to work in.  The deficiency of classical patterns ­at a time which still firmly believed, for the most part, that all good work in literature had been so done by the ancients that it could at best be emulated ­should count for something:  the scanty respect in which the kind was held for something more.  As to one of the most important species, frequent allusions have been made, and in the next chapter full treatment will be given, to the causes which made the historical novel impossible until very late in the century, and decidedly unlikely to be good even then.  Perhaps, without attempting further detail, we may conclude by saying that the productions of this time present, and present inevitably, the nonage and novitiate of a branch of art which hardly possessed any genuine representatives when the century was born and which numbered them, bad and good, by thousands and almost tens of thousands at its death.  In the interval there had been continuous and progressive exercise; there had been some great triumphs; there had been not a little good and pleasant work; and of even the work that was less good and less pleasant one may say that it at least represented experiment, and might save others from failure.