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AN 
 
 ESSAY ON LIGHT READING. 
 
 F.UertoJi aftd By worth, Printci-s, JoUason's Court, Fleet Street. 
 

 AN 
 
 ESSAY 
 
 ON 
 
 LIGHT READING, 
 
 AS IT MAY BE SUPPOSED TO INFLUENCE 
 
 MORAL CONDUCT 
 
 AND 
 
 LITERARY TASTE. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE REV, EDWARD MANGIN, M. A. 
 
 Hae nugae seria ducent 
 
 In mala. IIOR. 
 
 . . . In the morn and liquid dew of youth 
 
 Contagious blastments are most imminent. 
 
 SHAKSP. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR JAMES CARPENTER, 
 OLD BOND STREET. 
 
 1808. 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
E S S A Y, &c. 
 
 XN the following observations upoii 
 the subject of LIGHT reading, I shall 
 not extend my view to works which 
 might receive that title from such per* 
 sons as Aristotle, Locke, or Newton ; 
 but, excluding from my definition of 
 light literature, all folios, quartos, and 
 crown-octavos of voyages, travels, tracts 
 B 
 
of divinity, politics, metaphysics, &c., 
 shall endeavour to call the attention of 
 the reader to some remarks on a few of 
 the various consequences which may be 
 supposed to arise from the perusal of 
 novels, romances, and poems of a parti- 
 cular class : in other words, to the ordi- 
 nary contents of a circulating library. 
 
 Vanity already prompts me to be- 
 lieve that this my little volume has itself 
 some chance of a place in one of those 
 repositories, and therefore a chance of 
 being read. Already, methinks, I see it 
 take its post in a sky-blue or rose-co- 
 loured covering, upon the counter or in 
 
the window; and that this first a r^ im^ 
 portant diflSculty being surino«nled» 
 €v-ery thieg else, connected with its re*- 
 piitatian^ will follow of course. 
 
 It will receive condeimiation or 
 praise — it matters not which — 'frotn the 
 reviewers; be turned over, throwq 
 down, taken up again, cut open, read, 
 and returned to the shop wifch the itsml 
 and flattering marks of having seen ser- 
 vice; viz. a leaf or two torn out, 
 scratches of pins, scorings of thumb- 
 nails, and divers marginal illustrations, 
 executed by means of a crow-quill, or 
 a black-lead pencil. 
 
 b2 
 
4 
 
 But if, contrary to these suggestions 
 of a vain heart, it should be the lot of 
 my book to take rank amongst the charta 
 inept a s to lie in cold obstruction on the 
 highest shelf, and constitute a sort of 
 fee- simple to the first spider that gets 
 possession of it, I must console myself 
 with the reflection of having tried to 
 merit a happier fate. 
 
 Before I examine the effects of which 
 the light reading alluded to may be 
 thought productive, I shall arrange the 
 different orders of works of fancy under 
 their proper heads. 
 
 Thus, to borrow a phrase from the 
 
system of the naturalist, the word novel 
 is a generical term ; of which romances, 
 histories, memoirs, letters, tales, lives, 
 and adventures, are the species. And 
 these again have their appropriate cha- 
 racters; and are either merry, mournful, 
 or of a mixed kind. 
 
 Of these, all, except the romance 
 profess to be resemblances of truth: 
 that is to say, representations of man- 
 ners and persons actually living, or who 
 have lived on this our planet. And their 
 object, when they happen to have 
 one, is, or should be, to teach us, by 
 virtuous and vicious examples, what 
 
y¥,H ought to foUowv aod what to 
 
 With; regard) to. such productions as 
 W6; termed! roraauces, it? can hardly be 
 ^sopectedi tihafc I sliouJd do more than 
 their aufcbors, and discover a design of 
 instructing the reader ^vhere no such 
 (fesigOi is to be found: o£ these truly 
 eaormous performances, therefore, I 
 shaiJLsay litde or nothings but proceed 
 t{ft con&idier the nature of the ?iovel^ pro- 
 perly so called: wishing it, however, 
 tjQ he understood that there are some 
 vx)lumes passing under that name which 
 are in. most points unexceptionable j 
 
and of which I slialt take notiee before I 
 coiiciudte. 
 
 The writer and the reader of an or- 
 dinary novel seem to have entered into a 
 mutual agreement as to the quality of 
 the ingredients used in its composition: 
 the chief of which is, a display of the 
 passion of love, not only in aH its- va- 
 rieties and all its virulence, but set forth 
 with a strength of colouring rather more 
 than natural. 
 
 Both parties appear to have adopted 
 for their motto, and in a literal seuse — 
 omnia vincit Amor: and not confining- 
 tlie triumphs of this potent deity to the- 
 
8 
 
 human heart, which is, by courtesy, sup- 
 posed his lawful field of battle, have ex- 
 tended his power to the human head 
 also; and decency, reason, and gram- 
 matical accuracy, fall unlamented be- 
 fore him. The author of the novel feels 
 no compunction, nor his reader any dis- 
 gust; the former acquires money, and 
 the latter finds amusement: and so far 
 there is not any great mischief done. 
 Nor, indeed, if matters rested there, 
 should I think it necessary to enlarge 
 further upon this topic : for had novels 
 produced nothing in civilised life except 
 a dinner to the writer, and a harmless 
 
9 
 
 expedient for killing time to the reader, 
 though I might have joined with the 
 one in laughing at the other, I should 
 have done no more. But, conscious as 
 I am that books of the kind have a vast 
 influence on the morals and manners of 
 society, and an influence the most per- 
 nicious, I consider it my duty as a good 
 citizen openly to assert the fact, and to 
 use my best endeavours to prove it. 
 
 This part of my design cannot, per- 
 haps, be more effectually executed than 
 by giving a general description of those 
 persons by whom novels are usually 
 read ; followed by a conjecture of some 
 
10 
 
 of the consequeniices likely ta arise from 
 such studies, and by a particular exar 
 minatioi> of two or three of the most 
 established works of tliis sort y which I 
 shall strive to select with reference to 
 their specifuc diaracters and com- 
 plexions 5 and analyse as the g^rand and 
 classic origirud>Sy whereoti many thou- 
 sand of a» inferior degree have been 
 modelled. 
 
 Novels can be looked on only as 
 meaais: ofi occasional relaxation to the 
 very high a«d tlie very bw : to tiie peer- 
 ess, and her housemaid; the senator and 
 hi53 groora. On tliese, their eflfect; if 
 
11 
 
 they produce auy, can be but transient. 
 And, falling undiet the eye of the e*. 
 lightened man of letters, or of the dis- 
 creet and decorous mother of a family, 
 they are perused with apathy, or thrown 
 aside with contempt. If the libraries 
 expressly supported by the circulation 
 of novels could number only sucb 
 amongst their subscribers, their pro- 
 prietors wouldi suffer a greater loss than* 
 the nation. 
 
 But the profits of these persons flow 
 from a more prolific source; and while 
 fehey can reckon with confidence on 
 having the YOUTH of both sexes, and of 
 
12 
 
 the middle ranks of the state, in their 
 books, there is an equal certainty of 
 gain to them, and of moral injury to 
 their readers. 
 
 The sons and daughters of the gen- 
 tleman and the tradesman, who are, as it 
 were, the very life-blood of the i-ealm, 
 become the principal victims of this idle 
 literature; which is so universally dif- 
 fused, so easy of access, and of so insidi- 
 ous a nature, as nearly to preclude the 
 possibility of safety. 
 
 There is scarcely a street of the me- 
 tropolis, or a village in the country, in 
 which a circulating library may not be 
 
13 
 
 found: nor is there a corner of the em- 
 pire, where the English language is un- 
 derstood, that has not suffered from the 
 effects of this institution. 
 
 When the female attains the age of 
 seventeen or eighteen, and who is not 
 born to the possession of an ample for- 
 tune, but destined to move in a mode- 
 rate sphere; when her looking-glass 
 and her partner at the assembly have 
 told her that she is a beauty; and when 
 the fairy-tales have lost their zest, the 
 novel is at hand. The fair student sees 
 her own picture in the charming and 
 sorrowful heroine; and very naturally 
 
at 
 
 tries, as fer as H is in her power, to imi- 
 tate what she admires. 
 
 For a time, tlie result of this attempt 
 is only ridiculous, and manifested l»y 
 gentle symptoms : such as a prodigious 
 expenditure of tears and muslin, writing 
 billets on green and yellow paper, fits of 
 spleen, the composition of sonnets, and 
 an invincihle antipathy to useful books. 
 Siiortly after, the disease puts on a more 
 formidable appearance : the young lady 
 (whorm w^e may suppose the daughter of 
 a plain country parson, a substantial 
 farmer, an eminent shop-keeper, or an 
 officer on halfpay) ventures to wear 
 
i5 
 
 a little rmige, and to concentrate the 
 rays of her aflfectkms upon some yotith* 
 ful 'squire, ensign, or merchant's ap- 
 prentice ; whose attractions are com- 
 prised in a pair of white hands, a por- 
 tion of skill in dancing, and the Chris- 
 tian-name of Charles, or Henry. 
 
 Now it is that the poison begins to 
 work; and several destinies await the 
 lady ; some of which she must choose ; 
 and the least fonnidable of them is not 
 to be envied ! 
 
 Let us imagine that, contrary to 
 probability, she escapes infamy, deser- 
 tion, and despair; and, Kke another 
 
16 
 
 Lydia Languish, lives to he called spin- 
 ster in churchy and to become honourably 
 a mother : and then see what has been 
 her preparation for this momentous 
 calling, and what is likely to be the 
 consequence. 
 
 For two or three years previous to 
 marriage, she has moved amidst ima- 
 ginary circles of heroes, nobility, and 
 even of angels; in an ideal Elysium; 
 where she has breathed none but vernal 
 airs, and dwelt only in groves of immor- 
 tal foliage y where all har nights glisten* 
 ed with moon-light, and all her days 
 were sunny , where she has ^Jonvcrsed 
 
17 
 
 with personages who, instead of resem- 
 bling the inhabitants of this world, re- 
 semble nothing, except the silly fancies 
 of the foolish or vicious authors of the 
 novels she has been reading ; and who 
 sometimes know as little of the realities 
 of life as she does ; or knowing, design- 
 edly conceal or misrepresent them. 
 
 It is, therefore, not wonderful that 
 she should believe intrigue to be natu- 
 ral, falsehood and Jilial disobedience ve- 
 nial, and the passion of love absolutely 
 invincible ; that a consumption is inte- 
 resting; and 2L fever ^ not a misfortune, 
 but a blessing, as the bestovver of efi- 
 c 
 
18 
 
 chanting weakness, and prepossessing 
 languor; and that youth, and its conco- 
 mitants of blooming cheeks, auburn 
 ringlets, pearly teeth, and odoriferous 
 breath, are perpetuities, not only to 
 her but to her favoured lover ; who is, 
 like herself, an assemblage of perfec- 
 tions. He, we must suppose, in his 
 turn, has received similar impressions 
 by similar means; and having arrived 
 at the experienced and sagacious age of 
 one or two and twenty (when by the 
 laws he is styled a man, though in truth 
 at that period nine out of ten are suck- 
 lings as to knowledge^ of the world), 
 
19 
 
 makes formal proposals; atid these two 
 wiseacres are united by the indissolu- 
 ble tie of marriage, without affluence, 
 without erudition, without a capability 
 of looking into the future, without 
 knowing the characters aiid tempers of 
 each. other, without one correct notion 
 of the important step they are taking, 
 or of any other important step : in 
 short, without a single rational induce- 
 ment,\and inspired solely by inclinations 
 congenial to the young of opposite 
 sexes; and those inclinations exaspe- 
 rated into frenzy by the perusal of 
 novels. 
 
 C 2 
 
20 
 
 Without this latter circumstance, 
 such a marriage (as society is consti- 
 tuted in these nations) is the parent of 
 much public and private calamity. But 
 the evil is greatly magnified indeed, 
 when the circulating library has been 
 the preparatory school. And I be- 
 lieve it would not be difficult to show 
 that its unthinking and immature fre- 
 quenters are they who commonly form 
 improper attachments, and enter into 
 the matrimonial compact, the most se- 
 rious of any, before they know the 
 meaning of a-legal or conscientious ob- 
 ligation. 
 
21 
 
 For a week, or possibly a month 
 after commencing the state of wedlock, 
 the parties may continue in their mutual 
 deception ; but this being dissipated by 
 intimacy, as it will most assuredly be, 
 the faculty of discernment is restored to 
 or acquired by both these victims of de- 
 lusion. Each is surprised on discover- 
 ing the other to be merely a mortal; re- 
 ciprocal accusations of dissimulation 
 and perfidy ensue, and are followed by 
 dislike, and dislike l^y detestation : their 
 asperities of temper are not softened by 
 the imperious necessity of providing for 
 the wants of children, whom thev can 
 
22 
 
 sGikrcdy feed, aird (for obvious reasons) 
 cannot educate. And thus we have two 
 divinities transformed into two fiends, 
 who propagate a race of sons and daugh- 
 ters — doomed, like themselves, to suffer 
 future misery, and to inflict it- to en^- 
 cumber, not to serve, their native land;- 
 antl^ imbibing the parental taste, to be- 
 comcj not *he encouragers of useful arts 
 and elegant studies, but of a tribe of illi-* 
 terate and rapacious miscreants, wh© 
 eaciv a livelihood by infusing immorality 
 and) absurdity into the general mind, 
 and acciimulate not only wealth, but 
 celebrity, by writing novels ! 
 
23 
 
 To some, it may appear unreasona- 
 ble to declaim with violence on such a 
 subject, and to attribute evils so vast to 
 so trivial a cause. There are othersy 
 
 however, who will think differently of 
 this attempt; who will readily admit 
 
 that I am authorised by abundant provo- 
 cation, and that it is hardly possible to say 
 too much inabuse of the particular spe»» 
 cies of writings now under consideration.' 
 This is my own unprejudiced opi- 
 nion, or I should reJinquish my task; 
 but I conceive myself pleading the cause 
 ofimy country ; and, though I dfe^routly 
 wish it had. fallen to the share of att 
 
24 
 
 abler advocate, shall proceed to fulfil 
 my original intention; and briefly re- 
 view some of the most admired and noto- 
 rious productions of the fictitious kind, 
 both of an old and recent date: and 
 perhaps not altogether unsuccessfully. 
 When the objectionable features are 
 collected into a group, their impurities 
 and absurdities will be more striking 
 than they can be while they lie scatter- 
 ed and designedly distributed amongst 
 the numerous pages of the works in 
 which they are contained. 
 
 From the nature of this undertaking, 
 I find myself compelled (and I regret 
 
25 
 
 the necessit}^) to retrace certain parts, 
 and refer to certain passages, in the au- 
 thors whose labours are about to be 
 discussed. But my motive will not, I 
 trust, be mistaken. My strictures shall 
 be such, that although they may stamp 
 the characters of infamy and contempt 
 on their object, and inspire the wise and 
 good with a just abhorrence of folly and 
 depravity, shall not offend the eye of 
 purity, nor create any sentiment, except 
 that of indignation or derision, in bosoms 
 not already corrupt. 
 
 Upon contemplating the mass of 
 wickedness and fooleries pointed at, the 
 
26 
 
 emotion of astonishment will, I appre- 
 hend, be strongly excited in the minds 
 of my readers. They will naturally 
 wonder how it happens that Vice has 
 been all6wed thus to stray at large, and 
 to spread' wide its deadly infection, 
 " unxchipp'd of Justice;'' and also, how a 
 polite and serious people have been hi- 
 therto' content to endure — not to say 
 admire — the grossest violations of the 
 'code of urbanity; or how this people, 
 distinguished by the appellation of sen- 
 sible, amongst the nations of Europe, 
 should permit themselv'es to be amused, 
 and, diverted fifom salutary and reputa- 
 
27^ 
 
 ble pursuits^ by puerilities more glaring 
 than any in the legends of superstition, 
 and often conveyed in language the* 
 most unoouth aud barbarous. 
 
 The tender parent and conscientious 
 guardian will feel surprise, not unmixed 
 with self-reproach, at the reflection of 
 having, through criminal inattention, 
 connived at the perusal of some of those 
 works which I shall specify: or whoy 
 through indolence not less criminal, 
 have neglected to inquire how all the 
 hours of their offspring or their pupils 
 were passed ; and, by an indifference 
 wholly unpardonable, have allowed 
 
28 
 
 the work of moral and useful instruc- 
 tion, to which the day may have been 
 dedicated, to be demolished, like the 
 web of Penelope, by the mischievous oc- 
 cupation of the night! 
 
 One of the best dramatic poets, and 
 brightest wits of England, in his comedy 
 of " The Rivals," has very happily ridi- 
 culed the bad effects of novel reading : 
 many other distinguished satirists have 
 done the same; and the perusal of cer- 
 tain novels has, accordingly, been deem- 
 ed ridiculous, or, it may be, worse than 
 ridiculous; but is, nevertheless, not 
 abandoned. The cause of this is, that 
 
m 
 
 the sly laugh of the comic poet, and the 
 cursory sneer of the reviewer, are in- 
 sufficient to effect their purpose. 
 
 Public decency demands a more 
 grave and pointed exposure of what 
 may be termed the propensity of the 
 times; by which we of the present age, 
 exclusive of the immediate harm we do, 
 and suffer, are liable to be stigmatised 
 by future generations as the abettors of 
 obscenity, scurrility, and folly, as bad 
 as any thing for which we ourselves 
 condemn the licentious days of the se- 
 cond Charles. 
 
 I say, with some confidence, that 
 
so 
 
 such is likely to be the sentence passed 
 tipou our tastes by posterity ; because 
 I hope that our existence, as a nation, is 
 not at an end ; and am sure that our 
 continuance will depend upon our 
 growing wiser and better. 
 
 The time, I trust, is to come, when 
 the virtuous, the religious, the witty, and 
 the learned, will wonder equally at the 
 profligacy and the weakness of us their 
 forefathers; and will consign our novels 
 to dust and darkness, as we have done by 
 the monstrous effusions of Behn, and 
 Etheridge, and Suckling ; and when 
 " Tom Jones," and " Roderick Ran- 
 
31 
 
 dom,'* and Mr. Cumberland's "Henry," 
 and " The Sorrows of Werter," and 
 " Anna St, Ives," and the myriads which 
 resemble these, will either not be found 
 Jat all, or only in the cabinets of the cu- 
 rious and the reprobate. 
 
 Having reason to think that some of 
 the well-known works to which the above 
 titles are prefixed will answer our pur- 
 pose as fully as any others; and as it is 
 more or less the prevailing fashion to 
 read, and quote, and praise the first- 
 named in particular, viz. Mr. Fielding's 
 " History of a Foundling," with it I 
 shall begin. 
 
32 
 
 There are few persons in these coun- 
 tries, I believe, of any age, sex, or con- 
 dition, amongst those who can read, to 
 whom the adventures of Tom Jones are 
 not familiar. Something like a sense of 
 shame would accompany the acknow- 
 ledgment of never having read Tom 
 Jones: though I do not despair of 
 showing, that it would be more becom- 
 ing in such mothers, wives, and daugh- 
 ters as have, to blush at the confession. 
 
 It is commonly the first book laid 
 hold of by the youth of both sexes ; and 
 if as yet nojt all intelligible to them, is 
 still very entertaining, when compared 
 
33 
 
 with the long-drawn narrative of the 
 historian, or the abstruse lucubrations 
 of the philosopher and the moralist. 
 
 What is read too with most delight, 
 is always best remembered ; thus there 
 are, I suspect, in our seminaries of edu- 
 cation, many young persons who know 
 more of the site of hlv.Allworthy's house, 
 and its environs, than they do of Athens 
 or Rome; are better acquainted with 
 Mazzard Hill than they are with the 
 Tarpeian Rock ; and though ignorant of 
 the meaning of lustres and laticlavcsy 
 know correctly what a natural child 
 signifies; and are intimate with every 
 D 
 
34 
 
 corner in Molly SeagrinCs bed-chamber, 
 
 and with the cut of Sophia Western's 
 
 riding-habit ; while the Capitol and the 
 
 Portico are forgotten ; while in vain for 
 
 » 
 them shines the shield of Achilles, and 
 
 the bark of Cleopatra glides along un- 
 heeded! 
 
 Is it not lamentable that the divine 
 pages of Cicero or Addison should be 
 cast aside in favour of the vulgar trum- 
 pery of Fielding and his school? That 
 the illustrious of the old and modern 
 world, who at the cost of repose, and 
 even of life, have toiled for real fame, 
 and devoted their existence to the glo* 
 
35 
 
 rious task of giving rational instruction 
 to races yet unborn 3 who have record- 
 ed the acts of the hero and the patriot ; 
 who, in matchless strains, have sung the 
 triumphs of civic virtue, and, by teach- 
 ing empires to be wise, have contri- 
 buted to make them great ; that these, 
 the undoubted benefactors of mankind, 
 should give place to those who, as un-- 
 doubtedly, are its enemies? 
 
 And surely that is not too severe an 
 epithet to bestow on writers who, by com- 
 posing novels like that of Tom Jones, not 
 only instil improper thoughts, but inter- 
 cept the progress of useful learning ! 
 D 2 
 
36' 
 
 The excuse commonly offered for 
 admiring Tom Jones is, that the work 
 contains a just representation of human 
 life^ is intended to inspire sentiments of 
 rectitude, honour, generosity, and va- 
 lour^ and displays much wit, humour, 
 and erudition. If we admit this enco- 
 mium in its fullest extent (which I am 
 very far from doing), it will only prove 
 that the novel is the more dangerous^ 
 because these real or fancied qualities 
 are precisely what make it so. 
 
 The annals of the Old Bailey exhibit 
 an equally just picture of life, as to its 
 moral deformities; and one not at all 
 
37 
 
 more forbidding than may be found in 
 the pages of Fielding. Neither can I 
 perceive the necessity or the expedi- 
 ency of inculcating the practice of 
 virtue by an exaggerated and nauseous 
 view of vice in all its odious distor- 
 tions. . . 
 
 This author's powers of exciting 
 merriment are by no means despicable : 
 but the mirth he creates is often upon 
 topics so much at variance with mental 
 dignity and good-breeding, that no truly 
 modest or polite female could either read, 
 or hear another read, some of his pleasan- 
 tries without offence. Besides, that 
 
SB 
 
 
 
 Tom Joneis contains much wit, or that 
 its wit is the basis of its popularity, is, I 
 believe, not a fact. In the first chapter 
 of the first book, the author has intro- 
 duced a conplet from the writings of 
 Pope,^ which bears rather hard on him- 
 self: 
 
 ** True wit is Nature to advantage dressed. 
 What oft was thought, but n€*ersowell express'd.** 
 
 Now, although there may be much 
 nature in the characters (as Fielding has 
 drawn them) of ostlers, innkeepers, 
 peasants, gipsies, waiting-maids, servant- 
 men, London landladies, prostitutes, 
 Irish fortune-hunters, Tory squires, ob- 
 
39 
 
 seqmeus parsons, and village gossips ; I 
 question if any one will aver these 16 
 be portraits of NATURE advajitageously 
 presented to the spectator ! And I am 
 convinced, that no young gentleman, 
 who has kept good company only, nor 
 any well-conducted w^oman, ought to be 
 capable of judging whether they are na- 
 tural or otherwise. 
 
 But perhaps these are specimens, 
 not of the wit, but of what is termed the 
 humour of Tom Jones ; and if so, my last 
 observation will apply with undiminish- 
 ed force: this humour is unpalatable to 
 minds not contaminated. 
 
40 
 
 In speaking of the Beggar's Opera, 
 and its alleged influence on the lower 
 orders of the people, Dr. Johnson re- 
 marks, that probably the objection is 
 unfounded ; for that no young idler of 
 the audience will be tempted to go on 
 the highway, and hope to escape with 
 impunity, merely because Macheath is 
 reprieved on the stage. Were the ma- 
 gistrates of London and Westminster 
 consulted, they could, I imagine, contra- 
 dict this supposition of Dr. Johnson. 
 But allowing the conjecture of the critic 
 to be just, with respect to the above- 
 named opera, nothing similar can be 
 
41 
 
 offered in extenuation of Tom Jones, or 
 Roderick Random, or Peregrine Pickle. 
 The dramatic robber is indeed re- 
 prieved (it would be difficult to say 
 why), and, his poetical life once ter- 
 minated, we hear no more of him: 
 he is dismissed as he came forth, a 
 bold and impenitent ruffian; and we 
 are left at liberty to conclude that he 
 returns to the road and the bagnio. 
 But the heroes of Fielding and Smol- 
 let are, as has been observed of the tra- 
 gedies of Otvvay, a seducing poison : 
 they intrigue, and fight, and gamble; 
 and revel in each variety of licentious- 
 
42 
 
 hess J and their lawless career is accom- 
 panied by eclat, and rewarded with 
 prosperity. 
 
 Where is the young man of lively 
 sensibilities, and constitutional energy, 
 who, uncontrolled, can resist the lure? 
 His powers of reflection and self-re- 
 straint must be inconceivably great, if 
 he can withstand the invitation to plea- 
 sure, which tells him that he may riot in 
 security amidst illicit enjoyments, and 
 ultimately reap a richer harvest than 
 tame and timid prudence can hope for ! 
 
 The fir.st ambition of the inexpe- 
 rienced youth who reads these delete- 
 
45 
 
 rious memoirs is, to emulate the princi- 
 pal personage; and, finding it much 
 more easy to copy foibles and follies 
 than laudable actions, he gives himself 
 credit at least for a capability of being 
 amiable ; discovers that to fall into error 
 is not difficult, and that its effects are 
 not fatal; that though propriety may 
 be outraged, the punishment is but 
 temporary j that debts imprudently con- 
 tracted may be discharged, an angry 
 mistress be appeased, and the best gifts 
 of fortune be heaped unexpectedly on 
 him ; and that finally he may retire, with 
 health, youth, riches, and reputation, 
 into the bosom of felicity. 
 
44 
 
 It is needless to insist on what is 
 likely to ensue, when the experiment is 
 made, and this theory reduced to prac- 
 tice. The similitude to the hero or he- 
 roine is closely preserved, as far as it 
 respects criminality and folly ; but fails 
 most lamentably in the catastrophe, and 
 finishes in ruin. This may pretty safely 
 be considered as an abridgement of the 
 novel of Tom Jones, and of the fates of 
 many of its juvenile admirers. 
 
 The names of Fielding and Smollet 
 have, I know, become venerable; they 
 have passed the ordeal of criticism, and 
 their claim to eminence as novel xvi'iters 
 no one ventures to dispute. It would 
 
45 
 
 therefore be an act of more than or- 
 dinary hardihood to arraign them on 
 the articles of style, or selection of inci- 
 dents; the knowledge of the world 
 evinced in delineating human charac- 
 ter ; or the refinements of art, which 
 they have displayed in the conduct of 
 their fable; and of ingenuity, on all 
 occasions, in the application of epic 
 dexterity. 
 
 Such an inquiry is, however, foreign 
 to my present purpose; which is to 
 prove, that, whatever may be their mas- 
 terly qualifications in other points, they 
 are not to be esteemed teachers of 
 
46 
 
 jwliteness or of virftie, but of coarseness 
 and immorality s that society has been 
 corrupted, not meliorated, by their no- 
 vels y and that Tom Jones , Joseph An- 
 drewsy Peregrine Pickle^ Roderick Ran- 
 dom, Jonathan Wild^ Count Fathom^ &c. 
 &c., may be fit manuals for the rake and 
 the courtesan, but are objects of abhor- 
 rence to the chaste and delicate mind; 
 and can only cease to be such, when 
 they have executed their felonious office, 
 and transformed the innocent into the 
 depraved. 
 
 In support of my assertion, it would 
 be unnecessary to adduce particular 
 
47 
 
 passages for the conviction of those who 
 are already acquainted with any ofth^ 
 above-named works ^ and to do so for 
 the information of such as are not, would 
 be unsuitable to the character I wish, to 
 sustain. Indeed, the improper parts are 
 so numerous, and of so gross a texture, 
 as to render a detail of them incompati- 
 ble with the established principles of 
 decorum. It is* to be hoped, therefore, 
 that a rough outline of the story of any 
 one of these notable performances, will 
 suffice to create a sense of shame in 
 some, and to repress the curiosity of 
 others. 
 
48 
 
 The history of Tom Jones is an ex- 
 position, and a very minute one, of the 
 whole craft and mystery relating to the 
 generation and breeding of illegitimate 
 children : and the title of the work, and 
 of every page of the work, keeps this 
 idea strongly in the reader's recollec- 
 tion. The hero is concerned in several 
 intrigues, which are given by the author 
 at large, meet the eye at every turn, and 
 are so essential to the business of the 
 novel," that without them the whole 
 vvould fall into confusion. 
 
 Jones's first adventures originate in 
 alow amour 3 much of his character is 
 
m 
 
 developed by another, the colouring of 
 which is heightened by insinuations of 
 adultery, and even by allusions to the 
 possibility of incest; and the winding- 
 up of his history depends chiefly on a 
 shameless intercourse with one of the 
 most abandoned females of the metro- 
 polis. 
 
 If to this sketch we add the impure 
 traits in the histories of Partridge, Mr. 
 Square, and Mr. Nightingale; the oaths 
 and execrations of 'Squire Western; and 
 the fdth which overflows in the innume- 
 rable dialogues that take place between 
 personages selected from the dregs of 
 E 
 
50 
 
 sociGty, the sum will be an incredible 
 and unpardonable accumulation of of- 
 fences against the manners and morals of 
 a civilised country. 
 
 Something like this censure, or per- 
 haps something more severe, may be 
 passed upon the Ixoderlck Random and 
 Peregrine Pickle o f S m oil e t ; \v h ose h u- 
 mour is inferior to that of Fielding, and 
 his objectionable scenes wrought up 
 with still less regard to decency. l\\ 
 fact, the female v/ho has read tliese no- 
 vels has nothing bad to learn. 
 
 Nearly all the splendid qualities of 
 Roderick Random and Peregrine Pickle 
 
51 
 
 are subservient to licentious purposes. 
 Their characters, and tliose of the minor 
 agents in each })icce, may be, and I 
 dare say sometimes are, drawn with a 
 strict attention to nature: but 1 trust I 
 shall never know whether many oi'theai 
 are so or not. 
 
 The author is not satisfied with ex- 
 patiating on the reveh-y of the stews, and 
 the vile debaucheries'of the bully and 
 the harlot; but thinks it incumbent on 
 him to subjoin nastiness to obscenity ; 
 and brings into full view the infirmities 
 by which man is degraded 3 the ravages 
 of loathsome distemper, and the stench 
 and the vermin of the hospital. 
 e2 
 
6^ 
 
 To those who assert all this to be 
 nattiral,! have only to say, that it is, for 
 that very reason, inexcusable; and I 
 must beg leave to remind them of a 
 certain sarcasm attributed to Voltaire, 
 as applied to the dramas of Shakspeare, 
 and in allusion to the human person: 
 " We are not^'^ said the w^it, " because 
 nakedness is NA'TURAL, therefore to go 
 naked! '* 
 
 To the list of writers whose noVels 
 are calculated to hurt the morals of the 
 reader, it is with much concern I feel 
 myself obliged to annex the celebrated 
 and respected name of Mr. Cumberland. 
 As the author of several most ingenious. 
 
53 
 
 learned, and highly-finished works, he 
 has merited the gratitude, and long en- 
 joyed the admiration, of his country; 
 and it is to be regretted that by his 
 novel of " Henry,*' the Terence of 
 England should have tarnished his 
 honourable character ; and after having 
 so successfully endeavoured to mend the 
 hearty employed his great talents to cor- 
 rupt it. 
 
 Henry is not Mr. Cumberland's 
 first offence. His ^'Arundel " is like- 
 w^ise exceptionable ; but less so than the 
 other 3 with which it bears no compa- 
 rison, either in its pleasing or its perni- 
 
54 
 
 cious qualities. Henry is a fascinating 
 publication ; it abounds in passages of 
 genuine humour; in the richest and 
 most correct descriptions; and in inci- 
 dents irresistibly pathetic, or replete 
 with comic force : for the author is a 
 master, and touches everv chord of hu- 
 man sensibility with a master's hand. 
 But the goodly work is, alas! marred, 
 and its efficacy counteracted, by its 
 being iuterlarded with scenes perfectly 
 inexcusable; and very unseemly, as the 
 labour of a head white with the snows 
 of time, and crowned, as it is, with li- 
 terary laurels. The author of Henry 
 
55 
 
 might have lost somewhat of his popu- 
 larity, but would not have suffered iu 
 his reputation, had that work never been 
 written. 
 
 In these observations I have referred 
 to such books as are rendered formida- 
 ble, in my estimation, by the real or 
 supposed abilities of the writers. I knozv 
 them to be dangerous in their tenden- 
 cies, and I denounce them as such, 
 without any fear of contradiction froru 
 the reasonable and the good, or any 
 dread of the enuiity or the ridicule of 
 the irrational and tlie bad. And ad- 
 
 mitting the survey taken of these novels 
 
56 
 
 not to be exaggerated by the mist of pre- 
 judice, but, on the contrary, softened and 
 reduced out of respect to my reader, I be- 
 lieve myself justified in declaring that 
 the parents, guardians, or preceptors, 
 who authorise, or permit, or connive at, 
 or do not strictly prohibit the perusal of 
 any of them to the youth whose morals 
 they superintend, have to answer for a 
 crime more heinous than can well be 
 named; for which no subsequent care 
 er caution can make reparation, either to 
 the individual or the state, and for which 
 hardly any penitence can ever atone. 
 Perhaps a total restriction from all 
 
57 
 
 such light reading as includes novels of 
 any kind, would be adviseable : but if 
 otherwise, and that an exception should 
 be made in favour of some works of this 
 description, it is by no means impossible 
 to point out several capable of commu- 
 nicating delight, unattended by conta- 
 mination; though it might be difficult 
 to specify one that is not more or less 
 productive of a distaste for the study of 
 books of useful instruction. Some of 
 these I shall mention hereafter; but my 
 present course requires that I should 
 enter a protest^ as the friend both of 
 purity and reason, against a work called 
 
58 
 
 " The Monk;'' the author of which has 
 entitled iiis book a romance. As such, 
 I suppose, it defies the critic's ordinary 
 laws; but it should not be suffered with 
 impunity to do the same by the laws of 
 morality y and even by those of the land. 
 Accordingly one of the best satirists, 
 the finest writers, and most truly learn- 
 ed persons of the age, the author of 
 " The Pursuits of Literature^' has, in a 
 note to that poem, bestowed some pains 
 in the castigation of the '^Monk;" to 
 this note I refer those who are desirous 
 of seeing as choice a specimen of just 
 severity. and manly reproof as can any 
 
59 
 
 where be found ; and shall tliereibre, on 
 this disagreeable subject, add little more 
 than an expression of regret, that, with 
 the eloquent reprehension adverted to, 
 any thing like praise should have been 
 mingled. 
 
 By such as are not ashamed to ap- 
 plaud the pages of the Monky the talents 
 of the author are extolled as boundless; 
 while, amongst those who detest the im- 
 purity that stain&them, there are many 
 ready to confess the magnitude of the 
 writer's powers, but lament their misap- 
 plication. 
 
 I must say it is my wish to separate 
 
60 
 
 myself from each party. In powers of 
 imagination, and variety of language, 
 the author of the ^^ Monk^' is, I think, 
 excelled by very many of the fair sex, 
 and by several of his own ^ and, far from 
 considering his genius misapplied, I am 
 firmly convinced that romance is its pro- 
 per element. 
 
 Of the works hitherto glanced at, the 
 effect produced to society is of a nature 
 «o exceedingly alarmipg, that it is im- 
 possible to smile when we reflect on the 
 operation of such ingredients as are 
 used in their composition. 
 
 But this is not entirely the case with 
 
61 
 
 regard to a tribe of exotic volumes, ex- 
 tremely well known to the proprietors 
 and frequenters of all circulating libra- 
 ries ; and which, for the benefit of this 
 and ensuing generations, have been in- 
 dustriously imported, and painfully done 
 into the English tongue. 
 
 In turning over some of these, and 
 most of the multitudes manufactured at 
 home, one cannot but wonder how any 
 books, thus ridiculous, should find read- 
 ers so sparingly gifted with understand- 
 ing as to be misled by them ; of tastes so 
 perverted as to be amused by such ill- 
 digested stuff, or possessing so feeble a 
 
62 
 
 sense of humour, as to resist laughing at 
 the amazing absurdities they contain. 
 
 Amongst our importations^ I shall 
 take a short view only of one: for in- 
 stance, The Sorrotos — or, as tliey have 
 been newly termed. The Letters of IVer- 
 ter J than which a richer combination 
 of dangerous j)rccept;, and pompous 
 foolery, will not easily be discovered. 
 
 In the preface to the transL^tion of 
 Werter, we are informed that the story 
 is not to be received barely as the pro- 
 duct of imagination; but that M. 
 Goethe has given the world little else 
 than the particulars of a fact occurring 
 
63 
 
 within the circle of his own acquaint- 
 ance. It appears that the prototype of 
 Werter was the son of a celebrated theo- 
 logist of Brunswick, and killed himself 
 for love of a lady of Wetzlar. 
 
 The son of a divine should have been 
 better instructed than to cherijyh the 
 flame of love for another person's wife, 
 and shoot himself, because he could not 
 possess what did not belong to him. 
 And M. Goethe might have employed 
 his time on a less hurtful subject; in- 
 stead of selecting decidedly one of the 
 most unfit to present to the attention of 
 youth. 
 
64 
 
 Speaking of his hero, in an address 
 prefixed to the original edition, he says, 
 to the reader; " You cannot withhold 
 your admiration of his genius, your pity 
 to his disposition, or your tears for his 
 unhappy fate." The meaning of which 
 is (if any it has), that an adulterous pas- 
 sion is not a just subject of censure, but 
 of commiseration; and that suicide is 
 not a crime, but a calamity ! Upon this 
 principle, all human enormities may be 
 converted into cases of pitiable frailty ; 
 and by representing the delinquent as 
 otherwise amiable, vice is not only pal- 
 liated, but recommended. 
 
65 
 
 This, let his apologists argue as they 
 v/ill, is a perfectly fair description of the 
 moral of M. Goethe*s book. But whe- 
 ther it be or not, is unimportant 5 be- 
 cause this at least is the general opi- 
 nion. The physician who should admi- 
 nister poison instead of medicine, may 
 not think himself guilty of murder; but 
 the patient, who encounters death where 
 he expected a cure, is equally a sufierer. 
 
 I am, however, unwilling to be- 
 lieve that this redoubted book can have 
 caused a great manxj instances of self- 
 destruction, or the subversion of much 
 conjugal happiness, notwithstanding the 
 
66 
 
 supposed design of the author. It is 
 not likely to make a very deep impres- 
 sion on the sensibilities of hackney- 
 coachmen, foot-soldiers, ploughmen, or 
 porters ; and it is to be hoped, that most 
 persons, removed only one degree higher 
 in the scale of social beings, are incapable 
 of reading without laughing at it. For 
 myself, I have in vain endeavoured to 
 preserve my gravity during the perusal ; 
 and I remember that a particular friend 
 of mine, even when a boy, had his risi- 
 ble faculties violently excited by an 
 image presented to him in a passage of 
 the tenth letter, where Werter says to 
 
67 
 
 Ills correspondent, " whilst I am eating 
 some bread and milk, I vviil write to 
 you/* Whereby it was apparent to my 
 irreverent young acquaintance, that this 
 ingenious and unfortunate gentleman 
 must have been also somewhat of a con- 
 jurer, and adequate to doing with txvo 
 hands what would require at least three 
 on the part of any body else ! 
 
 The admirers of Werter boast chiefly 
 of the simplicity which pervades the 
 work 3 and, in proof of this, cite many 
 passages in which solemn mention is 
 made of apples y milk, coffee, zvhey, bread, 
 and butter, and the whole of the 54tli 
 f2 
 
68 
 
 letter; which is so delicately worded, as 
 to leave it doubtful whether it is ad- 
 dressed by Werter to his friend or his 
 tailor. I should rather incline to sup- 
 pose the latter ; but the public will judge 
 for itself; and as the billet is not long, 
 I transcribe it: 
 
 * Sepitember 6. 
 
 ' I have left off, with the greatest 
 
 ' reluctance, the blue/rocky which I wore 
 
 ' the first time I danced ^ith Charlotte, 
 
 ^ though it was perfectly shabby ; but I 
 
 * have procured one exactly like it, and 
 
 * with a biiff waistcoat and bi^eeches. I do 
 
 * not, however, like it so much as the 
 
69 
 
 ' original, yet I hope it will in time be- 
 
 * come equally dear to me.' 
 
 Of our hero's philosophy and self- 
 command, the conclusion of the. fourth 
 letter affords a luminous instance: *My 
 
 * heart,' he says, * is like a sick child ; 
 
 * and, like a sick child, I let it have its 
 
 * tvay : but this between ourselves ; for I 
 
 * know the world would blame me for 
 
 * suffering ijiy passions to get such an 
 
 * ascendancy over my reason.* 
 
 For his gallantry and condescension, 
 see letter five. 
 
 ^ The last time I was at the fountain, 
 
 * I found a young woman upon the 
 
70 
 
 ' steps, with her pail beside her, vvaiting^ 
 
 * Jtlll somebody came, who might help 
 
 * to place it upon her head ; " Shall I 
 
 * assist you, my dear?'' I said. " Oh,. 
 ' no, sir," she answered, colouring. 
 ' "Come, come, make no ceremony ,"^ 
 
 * said I ; and helped her to lift the pail : 
 
 * she thanked me, and went up the steps, 
 ' smiling.' 
 
 In this scene, which is highly dra- 
 matic, its admirers assert that the unities 
 are finely preserved, the incidents well 
 imagined, the dialogue terse, and beau- 
 tifully pastoral ; and the interest sustain- 
 ed to the last. 
 
71 
 
 M. Goethe has conferred a multipli- 
 city of accomplishments on Werter, at a 
 very small expense : we are assured 
 that he not only draws, but understands 
 Greek; and his literary taste is put out 
 of doubt by various allusions, in terms of 
 rapture, to those incomprehensible and 
 tiresome forgeries, usually called the 
 Poems of Ossian. 
 
 Every page contains instances of 
 Werter*s powers of reasoning, and his 
 dexterous use of logical deductions ; but 
 nothing in this way can exceed one in 
 the sixty-first letter, dated the 30th of 
 October ; a day, it may be presumed, 
 
72 
 
 auspicious to moral argument. *A hun- 
 
 * dred times have I been on the point of 
 ' clasping her in my arms' {his friend's 
 ivlfe), 'What torment to see such loveli- 
 
 * ness, such charms, passing and repassing 
 ' continually before one, without daring 
 
 * to touch them ! To touch is so na- 
 ' tural: do not children endeavour to 
 'touch every thing they see; — and 
 
 ' I .* Whence it appears that this 
 
 frantic gentleman knew extremely well 
 what he was about; and that, more- 
 over, had Mrs. Charlotte been ugly, he 
 would not have been so anxious to 
 touch her. 
 
73 
 
 In letter fifty-six, his ambition was 
 confined within more moderate limits, 
 and something less than touching would 
 have contented him; for he says, with 
 sweet sensibility, * Only to look at her 
 
 * dark eyes, is to me happiness : what 
 ' affects me is, that Albert' [the ivofnmis 
 husband) * appears not so happy as he 
 
 * expected to be; as I should have been, 
 
 * if — I hate broken sentences — heavens I 
 
 * And am I not explicit enough ? ' 
 
 Most certainly he is : his object is as 
 manifest as any object can possibly be ; 
 nor is it altogether so very surpriswg 
 that the poor man, whose domestic 
 
74 
 
 peace he is undermining, should not ap- 
 pear happy. 
 
 The catastrophe which terminates 
 this pious transaction wears rather a se- 
 rious aspect; and, conscious of this, M. 
 Goethe has done his utmost to relieve 
 its sombre colouring, by a few lively 
 tints: for, doubtless, this must have been 
 his motive for introducing some strokes 
 of a character so equivocal, as to render 
 it uncertain whether, at last, the reader 
 should be sad or merry. 
 
 Can it be otherwise believed that the 
 author (unless as light-headed as his 
 hero) would represent him, when upon 
 
75 
 
 the dismal verge of a suicide's grave, 
 deliberately writing in the following 
 manner? 
 
 * I have just been looking out at the 
 
 * window; and through clouds which 
 
 * were driven rapidly along, I perceived 
 ' a few stars. Celestial bodies ! * (i. e. 
 the stars) ' you will not fall : the Eternal 
 
 * supports both you and me! I also saw 
 
 * the greater Bear — favourite of constel- 
 
 * lations ! — I wish, Charlotte, to be buried 
 
 * in the clothes I now wear. — My soul 
 
 * hovers over the grave : my pockets are 
 
 * not to be searched : the knot of pink- 
 « ribband: how little was I aware of 
 
76 
 
 ^ consequences : let me entreat you to 
 
 * be at peace ; they are loaded ; the 
 
 * clock strikes twelve : I go/ And 
 forthwith he does go; but to what 
 place, M. Goethe has not informed us : 
 we can therefore only conjecture, that 
 it was probably to a place appointed for 
 the reception of an author who has com- 
 posed a novel for the purpose of cor- 
 rupting public morals and perverting 
 human reason. 
 
 It will not be thought incumbent 
 on me to have pointed out any other 
 works of the above description, as books 
 to be shunned and discountenanced by 
 
77 
 
 every well-wisher to the cause of virtue 
 and sense. Those I have endeavoured 
 to stigmatise may be esteemed the pa- 
 rents of an exceedingly numerous and 
 corrupt progeny ; indeed, much too nu- 
 merous even to be named. All that 
 can be done then, is, to issue a ge- 
 neral caution against every thing in the 
 form of a romance, novel, or dramatic 
 piece, proceeding from the modern 
 French or German school, as well as 
 against the novels of Fielding, Smollet, 
 and their imitators. The perusal of 
 such (supposing it to have no other ill 
 effects), is a wasteful expenditure of 
 
78 
 
 time in those who have still to acquire 
 education; to fix their principles; to 
 earn a reputable subsistence ; or qua- 
 lify themselves for their relative duties. 
 
 But it is fatally true, that losing the 
 invaluable hours of youth is only one of 
 the evils which arise from reading these 
 works: they never yet made husbands 
 or wives, parents or children, better ci- 
 tizens; but have rendered many thou- 
 sands bad, who, without them, had been 
 useful and happy. 
 
 My next consideration is directed 
 to an order of novels, distinguished from 
 the foregoing l)y a character compara- 
 
79 
 
 tively harmless, though far from being 
 innocent; and which may be said to 
 hold the same rank amongst novels, that 
 pickpockets do amongst thieves. Their 
 depredations, however, are not, on that 
 account, to be slighted, nor thought 
 much less injurious. They execute 
 their destructive functions by a different 
 and less offensive method ; but the mis- 
 chief they occasion is, notwithstanding, 
 great and irreparable. 
 
 The human mind, to speak figura- 
 tively of it, cannot remain in a state of 
 sterility ; and the poisonous weeds of 
 vice and folly will spring up, where the 
 
80 
 
 seeds of profitable and elegant acquire- 
 ments are not encouraged to grow. 
 
 Thos, as was before observed, the 
 young of both sexes, by means of those 
 frivolous volumes which load the shelves 
 of our circulating libraries, are at least 
 beguiled of their fairest opportunities of 
 improvement in the studies that enlarge 
 and adorn the understandings of a ci- 
 vilised people. 
 
 They rapidly learn to prefer the 
 page of ^fiction to the narrative of the 
 historian; and to turn their eyes from 
 the sober beauties of truth and genuine 
 philosophy, to. the meretricious allure- 
 
81 
 
 ments of falsehood and absurdity. They 
 likewise imbibe, from these sources, the 
 most perverse and erroneous notions of 
 the art of writing : the simple dignity of 
 a classical composition is lost on these 
 enthusiasts; who mistake for grandeur 
 of style, the bombastic jargou of their 
 favourite authors; and, grown incapable 
 of relishing the graces of a Robertson, a 
 Hume, a Mackenzie, or a Roscoe, are 
 enamoured of every kind of writing 
 which least resembles theirs. 
 
 Amidst such a profusion of these 
 home-made novels as the British press 
 hourly teems with, it would be difficult, 
 G 
 
62 
 
 if not impossible, to make choice of any 
 pne in particular, as more ridiculous 
 than its fellows. They are all equally 
 vapid, and, as far as I can judge, equally 
 popular; and are constructed upon 
 principles so nearly alike, that I have 
 ■sometimes thought there must be a ge- 
 neral receipt for making novels, in circu- 
 la.tion amongst the trade; the tenor of 
 'ivhich might be conceived to run much 
 in the following manner ; borrowing the 
 idea from a famous recipe, I believe, in 
 the Memoirs of Scriblerus. 
 
 First take a great deal of paper, 
 pens, and ink, and an English pocket 
 
1^ 
 
 dictionary. Next compose a vast assort>- 
 liient of names, reserving the most r(>- 
 mantic for your hero and heroine ; then^ 
 affixing persons to these appellations, 
 allow them to converse together on any 
 given subject, by letter, or word of 
 mouth, as long as your publisher thinks 
 proper. Intersperse, judiciously, mar- 
 cheseSy marches as, pavillions, manks^ nuns^ 
 caverns, tozvers, lakes, and dells. Trans- 
 fer your scenery, and the dramatis per- 
 sojue, frequently from one extremity of 
 Europe to another. See that your he- 
 roine is invariably of a fragile form, 
 with blue eyes; accustom her to exist 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 without either eating, drinking, or sleep- 
 ing ; which will enable her to endure as 
 much fatigue as would weary a camel, 
 without any inconvenience j and also 
 account for her always flying, tripping, 
 bounding, and gliding — heroines being 
 never known to walk. 
 
 Make your hero as much like the 
 Belvidere Apollo, Hercules, and Anti- 
 nous combined, as you can; and take 
 care that he knows how tp sivim. 
 
 For the story, no particular pains 
 are requisite; as it arises naturally out 
 of the incidents. Sprinkle the Avhole 
 with sighs, dew-drops, pearls, smiles. 
 
B5 
 
 bhishes, roses, sal-volatile, and eau dc 
 luce. Let your musical instruments be 
 confined to lutes, flutes, and pedal 
 harps; and recollect to commit all your 
 murders with a stiletto. 
 
 With these rules, or something of the 
 same kind as a ground-work, several 
 modern authors have laboured success- 
 fully; and, if endowed with superior ca- 
 pacity, have contrived to render a novel, 
 on the above plan, at the same time a 
 vehicle for treason, blasphemy, and pri- 
 vate calumny. 
 
 There is a novel called " Vensen- 
 shon, or Love's Mazes," published in 
 
1806, which, though bearing a striking 
 resemblance to its brethren, has as fair 
 pretensions to notice as any of them. 
 It is in great request at all the watering- 
 places; and an especial favourite with 
 ydung ladies and gentlemen at Bath, 
 where I procured the gratification of 
 reading it (after many disappointments 
 and much solicitation) from the pro- 
 prietor of a circulating library; who as- 
 sured me, at the time of lending it, that 
 he gave me the preference over fifteen 
 expectants. 
 
 How it came to be so much sought 
 after, I was at some loss to conceive ; as 
 
S7 
 
 k contains, to do it but jnstic^^ neither 
 apparent slander nor iinpurity; until I 
 observed, that it abounds, ia tiiose fascii 
 nations of style, seatlment, and descrip.^' 
 tion, which aire considered ir resist iible; 
 and whicit indeed render it s.ingula.rly 
 well suited to my purpose, as anillus- 
 tralioa of the nonsejisicai in w-ritkng. 
 
 It may be worth renxarkiiigv'that th^ 
 word NONSENSE is actually coiitained^irt 
 the syllables which compose this xnosir 
 extraordinary title of Vensenshan.;. byi 
 the bye, the name of the heroine. 
 
 For some time, I could hardly pec-» 
 suade mpelf that the work now before 
 
88 
 
 me was not a burlesque on modern no- 
 vels ; and, as such, its excellence would 
 be undeniable. But, alas! no such plea 
 can be offered in its defence: Vensen- 
 shon is not only written, but read, in 
 downright seriousness; and reflects (as 
 my faithful extracts will show) less dis- 
 credit on the author, than on the nine- 
 teenth century, on the purchasers of 
 the work and its sapient admirers, and, 
 most particularly, on the whole body of 
 reviewers; who, labouring often to re- 
 press the efforts of real talents, by which 
 the public mind might be improved and 
 civilization promoted, have quietly per- 
 
89 
 
 mitted such writings as Vensenshon, and 
 its likenesses, to pass uncensured, if not 
 unnoticed, into the world: whilst the 
 man of undoubted genius and learning, 
 who has exhausted half his days in pain- 
 ful studies, famishes in a hovel or a 
 prison ; neglected, or unknown through 
 want of encouragement; and perhaps 
 is driven to despair by the base in- 
 trigues of hired critics and mercenary 
 publishers. 
 
 This is a formidable charge ; but one 
 which, unfortunately, can be fully sus- 
 tained and made good by proofs drawn 
 from the literary history of our times. 
 
00 
 
 Some have supposed that this can 
 never be the fate of great abilities ; and 
 that mankind hav^e too much regard to 
 their own advantage, to overlook those 
 who possess the powers of delighting 
 and instructing their fellow-creatures;. 
 But these are the conjectures of the 
 ignorant and uninitiated, who require 
 to be informed that a bookseller can 
 buy the ravings of some silly old 
 woman, or illiterate apprentice, for two 
 ©r three guineas; and, by puffs in the 
 newspapers^ mid making interest with 
 th^, reviewers, can impose his bargain on 
 the public, tod, by the sale of it, pro- 
 
91 
 
 cure two or three hundred pounds for 
 himself. A^lHiereas the writer of naerit is 
 more difficult to find, and less moderate 
 in his demands. 
 
 But to return to VensensRon : I 
 here present my reader with some of its 
 beauties; and request, that, should a few 
 of my extracts prove ratlter unintelligir- 
 ble, that circumstance may not be attri- 
 buted to any dulness on his part,. nor to 
 any want of accuracy on mine. 
 
 The opening sentence is as follows: 
 " The first glow of breezy morn crim- 
 soned the eastern horizoa; the light- 
 grey mists retired abashed, or fainted on 
 
92 
 
 each spiry mountain, that towered its bo- 
 som to cerulean zeniths." 
 
 The next is nothing inferior in neat- 
 ness and simplicity of expression : 
 
 " Her roseate blushes kindled the 
 dew-bathed, aromatic vegetation into 
 lustrous animation, and rolled a mass of 
 vivid splendor over the illumined beauty 
 of creation." 
 
 Then a mother is described as fear- 
 ful, and her fears as feminine ; she ex- 
 horts her son to emulate the fame of his 
 sainted sire ; the youth catches the en- 
 thusiasm, and the author proceeds to 
 observe : 
 
93 
 
 " The lofty organization of his in- 
 ward faculties, the just temper of his 
 luxuriant, keenly-perceptive mind, re- 
 volted from every species of baseness, 
 and spurned at each shadow of medio- 
 crity. To soar, to tower, to be im- 
 mortalized on the annals of glory, was 
 his inspiring, magnanimous goal/* 
 
 This writer's forte seems to consist 
 in the art of conveying ordinary thoughts 
 in extraordinary language: the above 
 are, it is believed, descriptions oi morn- 
 ing and ambition; and are followed by 
 others to which I shall prefix the best in- 
 terpretations I can. For exampk ; 
 
m 
 
 The meeting of friends hereafter. 
 " \Yhen released from earthly proba- 
 tion, uns^hackled by mundane frailties, 
 4:heir chastened spirit blends with its 
 kindred seraph." 
 
 A general killed in the West Indies. 
 ' "A poisonous arrow fatally envenom- 
 ed his patriot breast." 
 
 A lieutenant in love, and on leave of ab- 
 sence. 
 " Hours, weeks, flew on the wings of 
 gaiety and bliss; enchained in a deli- 
 rium of happiness, he forgot to scruti- 
 nize the nature of those exquisite sensa- 
 tions." 
 
m 
 
 Promoted, and ordered to Join. 
 
 " Captain Beaufort M^as again sum- 
 moned to join the daring band, in search 
 of victory and renown/* 
 
 Gets money zvitk his wife, 
 
 " Fiv« thousand pounds produced an 
 interest sufficient for the economy of 
 rural domestication." 
 
 Soon after this event, the lady be- 
 comes a widow, and retires to the vil- 
 lage of. Bellonmore in Devon, which is 
 described as a luxuriated county. Slie 
 there establishes herself in a. " fairy 
 «iansion," and " her sorrows fade at the 
 tranquillizing touch of nature;" of 
 
96 
 
 which tranquillizing touch this is a pic- 
 ture: 
 
 " All was in unison with her mind's 
 romantic temper. Sublime variety 
 nodded from the appalling, crag-en- 
 cumbered steep, and awakened the 
 throb of horror. Then would soft, 
 verdant blooms, in all the flowing luxu- 
 riance of variegated playfulness, sport 
 on her fascinated eye, and lull each 
 aching feeling into the slumber of dul- 
 cet indefinable emotion." 
 
 A portrait of the heroine, 
 
 " Vensenshon was no longer an infan- 
 tine child of frolic nature^ but moved the 
 
97 
 
 all-lovely fascinating girl of eighteen. 
 Bright beams of genius illumined her 
 dark-blue eyes, softened to feminine love- 
 liness by the magic of exquisite sensibi- 
 lity. Her face was modelled by the fi- 
 nished lines of Grecian fascination ; 
 soft coral lips enshrined pearly teeth, 
 white as Alpine snows which have never 
 felt Aurora's glowing pressure. Her 
 complexion boasted not a dazzling fair- 
 ness, yet was brilliantly transparent; as 
 the light canopy of azure, ere a passing 
 cloud has shadowed the serene front of 
 a bright autumnal morning. Her po- 
 lished limbs possessed the easy grace 
 H 
 
98 
 
 and jyymnietric delicacy of Mediceau 
 volupth 
 
 EvcTmig. 
 
 " Cynthia was unfolding her spangled 
 mantle, and gaily spreading the opa- 
 ciioiis drapery over nature's soft-fainting 
 features." 
 
 Its effect on Vensenshon. 
 
 " Her inward eye was rapt in bliss- 
 ful contemplation of supermundane 
 truths, while the glow of youthful en- 
 thusiasm agitated her heart with raptu- 
 rous eccentricity, and dissolved her soul 
 in a reverie of undefinable tender- 
 
 ness." 
 
99 
 
 While in this calamitous condition, 
 she is overtaken by 
 
 The moon, 
 " Night's argent queen had then 
 seized her softest sceptre, and stole, 
 unheeded, on Vensenshon's solitary 
 ramble." 
 
 Vensenshon, whose fingers are *' rose- 
 tipped," walks home through a field; 
 and this is termed " her light pressure 
 on velvet verdure." And 
 
 Love at first sight 
 
 is thus described : — " The first moment 
 
 in which she beheld Adolphus, bid her 
 
 prove Love's all-potent throb : that soft 
 
 H2 
 
100 
 
 placidity was fled ; but ah ! how raptu- 
 rous, how agonizing rapturous, the fine- 
 wrought sensations that had supplanted 
 the barren vacuum of her happy era!" 
 
 After much blushing, throbbing, and 
 walking in their sleep, towards the close 
 of the third volume, most of the parties 
 grow into nobility, and are imparadised 
 on each other's faithful bosoms. 
 
 It may appear more than unneces- 
 sary thus " to prepare the rack for a 
 butterfly," and single out such a work 
 as Vensenshon for exposure. But my 
 design required that I should find a suf- 
 ficient example of this species of novel ^ 
 
101 
 
 having already adduced instances of 
 works so denominated, capable of injur- 
 ing the manners and morals of the 
 young as radically as Vensenshon is cal- 
 culated to vitiate their tastes. 
 
 In an essay like this, it is presumed 
 that the writer may be permitted to in- 
 dulge his fancy with the supposition of 
 some of the noxious effects arising from 
 the prevailing fondness for light reading 
 in general, but especially for novels: 
 because, exclusive of its immediate ope- 
 ration on the taste and morals of vouth, 
 it can, I think, be shown, that a fami- 
 liarity with counterfeit afflictions is to- 
 
102 
 
 tally destructive of that sensibility to 
 which *they are erroneously believed so 
 favourable; and that the same study 
 which perverts the reason, also contri- 
 butes to indurate the heart. 
 
 Of this, I have myself witnessed too 
 many instances to allow of my enter- 
 taining any doubt upon the subject. I 
 have known a man who, as a duellist and 
 a gamester, had steeped his hands in 
 the blood of more than three fellow- 
 oreatures, and, by his success at the ha- 
 zard-table, reduced several to beggary; 
 who by his arts had betrayed many fe- 
 males to ruin ; by filial disobedience had 
 
103 
 
 deprived his parents of the repose and 
 the reverence to v^hich old age looks for 
 its best earthly recompense; v>^liO by the 
 ferocity of his disposition had, alienated 
 his relations, friends, and acquaintances, 
 and acquired the hatred of his tenantry 
 and domestics; v^ho, although he had 
 squandered hundreds fiom ostentation 
 and caprice, never bestowed a guinea to 
 relieve distress, nor heaved one sigh of 
 compassion when imploring misery has 
 stood within his view: and this r.ian 
 has often been seen melted into tears at 
 the theatre, and still more frequently 
 when engaged in the amusement of read- 
 ing tender novels. 
 
104 j 
 
 This prodigious inconsistency of 
 character can only be accounted for by 
 supposing that so much vice was the 
 fruit of a bad education ; and that the 
 same individual might have been made 
 as singularly virtuous by a course of ra- 
 tional discipline, as he proved abandon- 
 ed through neglect. , 
 
 We can readily imagine that this 
 person, in his youth, had imbibed his 
 ideas of human life, both with respect to 
 prosperity and adversity, from works of 
 -fiction; in which they are usually so 
 misrepresented, as to causes and effects^ 
 that they bear no resemblance what- 
 ever to reality: and he who, as a strip- 
 
105 
 
 ling, could glow with sentiments of cou- 
 rage and benevolence, and weep over 
 the woes of suffering worth, found, on 
 stepping into the world, demands indeed 
 enough upon his valour, his humanity, 
 and his generosity, but found not the ap- 
 peal made as his books taught him to ex- 
 pect it would be — No divine and spot- 
 less fair-one, beset by ravishers, or bu- 
 ried in the dungeons of a castle; no 
 princesses disguised in peasants' garbs; 
 no pale incognitas in picturesque cot- 
 tages or woodbine bowers; no romantic 
 adventures to be achieved on Alpine 
 heights or in Tuscan valleys! Is it 
 
106 
 
 then wonderful, that, with a mind un- 
 prepared by good education, and adul- 
 terated by one of an opposite kind, he 
 should have continued insensible to the 
 ** round unvarnished tale" of real mi- 
 sery, and deaf to its cries ? Or that, un- 
 acquainted with the pleasures which 
 learning procures for its possessor, his 
 chief gratification should have arisen 
 from pursuits, in which the most illite- 
 rate, vulgar, and ferocious, are most 
 likely to succeed r 
 
 To a female, whose earliest impres- 
 sions have been received from novels, 
 how surprisingly tame and inrfpid must 
 
107 
 
 real life appear, contrasted with her con- 
 ception of it ! 
 
 Is it not reasonable to expecl that her 
 lot will rather be destruction than feli- 
 city j and that she has a much greater 
 chance of becoming the wanton mistress 
 of a profligate, than the seemly wife of a 
 respectable husband ? 
 
 With a young woman thus preju- 
 diced, what likelihood of succeeding has 
 an honourable suitor, whose qualities of 
 person and understanding are, in her 
 eyes, but a degree less than perfect? 
 Should a man not of the first order of 
 fine formsy with fewer accomplishments 
 
108 
 
 than the hero of a novel, and whose 
 Christian name should unfortunately be 
 Timothy, or Nicholas, or DanieU present 
 himself to the sublimated nymph, he is 
 scornfully dismissed in behalf of some 
 well-dressed and flippant idiot, who, 
 being an adept in the literature of the 
 circulating library, can converse with 
 the lady on equal terms, and is master 
 of all the requisites that can constitute 
 him the destroyer of domestic peaOe, but 
 of none whereby female honour or hap- 
 piness can be secured. 
 
 The advocates of light reading may 
 assert, that young persons of any re- 
 
109 
 
 spectability run it over merely as a 
 pastime -, and cannot be seriously aftect- 
 ed by books taken up, and again laid 
 aside, with indifference. But this plea is 
 founded in mistake : the unnatural inci- 
 dents, inflated style, and false principles 
 of the ordinary novel, are insufferable to 
 one at all conversant with the champs 
 
 of intellectual refmement, or who has 
 
 "I 
 
 been once initiated in the. knowledge 
 that works of a rational description con- 
 tain ; and an attachment to the former 
 is so incompatible with a relish for the 
 latter, that a professed reader of novels 
 seldom or never reads any thing else. 
 
110 
 
 Having Before admitted that there 
 are some works of the fictitious kind 
 which may, comparatively, be termed 
 unexceptionable ; I shall proceed to 
 mention the characters of a few, to 
 which the moralist cannot make any po- 
 sitive opposition i and in the pages of 
 which, the lover of wit, humour, and a 
 correct style, may find much to admire. 
 Yet even these cannot be very safely en- 
 trusted to the young and inexperienced ; 
 for still they are novels ; and however 
 rigidly the author may conform to the 
 laws of propriety, and exert himself to 
 convey only precepts of utility ^ to ex- 
 
Ill 
 
 hilarate, without being indelicate; and 
 to warn his reader against vice, without 
 too plainly telling what it is; his prin- 
 cipal object is, nevertheless, to entertain^ 
 and communicate to fiction the sem- 
 blance of truth. 
 
 Although, therefore, the mature, and 
 those more advanced in life, may read 
 such works with < impunity, and derive 
 amusement from them, the young, with 
 whom education has hardly commenced, 
 and cannot as yet be perfected, should be 
 kept in ignorance of their contents, ^d 
 their irrevocable hours be dedicated Jk) 
 more salutary purposes. \ 
 
112 
 
 The novels of Richardson form a 
 very striking contrast with those already 
 noticed ; and may indeed be said to em- 
 brace an exceedingly fine system of 
 ethics, conveyed in a style sufficiently 
 clear, and in language unusually copi- 
 ous. To the histories of Clarissa, and 
 Sir Charles Grandison, tv^o objections 
 have been made, which appear to me of 
 little or no force. It has been said, that 
 the chief personages in these works are 
 of a rank too elevated to afford whole- 
 some examples to the general reader ; 
 and, that all the amiable characters of 
 the author in question are loaded with 
 
113 
 
 virtues and accomplishments which frail 
 humanity can neither imitate nor ac- 
 quire. But it is observable that, how- 
 ever exalted from their wealth and sta- 
 tion the leading figures in each of the 
 above pieces may be, there is inter- 
 spersed a vast multitude of a subordinate 
 cast; and that the choicest lessons are 
 occasionally given to almost all degrees 
 of men in a state of civilized society. 
 
 And with respect to the second ob- 
 jection, we are provided with a sufficient 
 answer by the writer himself, who has 
 presented us with an admirable analysis 
 of his design; especially in drawing his 
 I 
 
114 
 
 noble portraits of masculine and femi- 
 nine excellence, in Sir Charles Grandi- 
 son and Miss Byron ; who are evidently 
 intended as representations of what man 
 and woman ought to be, not of what 
 they are; and it is equally manifest, that 
 they approach nearest to perfection who 
 most resemble these highly finished 
 models. 
 
 Against Richardson, the shafts of 
 sarcasm have been discharged in profu- 
 sion ; he has been sneered at by wit- 
 lings, and attacked by critics: but their 
 assaults have proved ineffectual, and he 
 still deservedly maintains the reputation 
 
115 
 
 conferred on him by the discerning, the 
 virtuous, and the learned of a former 
 age. His pages are still read with de- 
 light by the man of taste, and the man 
 of morals. No one ever yet laid down a 
 volume of the writings of Richardson 
 with any diminution of his piety, nor 
 with any sentiment hostile to the inte- 
 rests of virtue ; and if they have fallen 
 in popularity, it is to be feared that 
 something worse than the caprice of 
 fashion, or the lapse of years, is connect- 
 ed with the circumstance. 
 
 It must, at the same time, be allowed 
 that the manners of Richardson's persons 
 l2 
 
116 
 
 have become, in some measure, obso- 
 lete ; and that, in this respect, a change 
 has taken place similar to what has oc- 
 curred in the dress and behaviour of the 
 British nation. In lieu of stiff stays, 
 bigh-heeled shoes, flowered silks, em- 
 hraidered coats, and flowing perukes, 
 our belles '^nd fine gentlemen have as^ 
 sumed a more picturesque and airy 
 costume; and, instead of the restraint 
 imposed by ceremonials, have adopted 
 a system of a totally opposite kind. 
 But, as to alter is not always to mend, I 
 believe it may be asserted that the 
 change has not been to our advantage. 
 
117 
 
 Neither, perhaps, is it very creditable to 
 us, that we should ridicule as formal 
 what our fathers thought dignified, and 
 laugh at what caused them to weep. 
 
 If, notwithstanding, Richardson must 
 be given up as antiquated, and that an 
 author is to be found not liable to the 
 same objection ; I think one may be 
 named, who, in the compass of a novel 
 contained in two small volumes, has 
 proved himself not only the friend and 
 teacher of virtue, but a perfect master of 
 all the powers requisite to accomplish 
 his object: unequalled in humour, and 
 irresistibly pathetic^ writing in a nearly 
 
US 
 
 faultless style, and with such closeness of 
 observation, that the characters in his 
 work will be intelligible, and appear na- 
 tural, as long as the English language is 
 understood : and all this, without the 
 slightest offence either to religion, vir- 
 tue, or decorum. I allude to Oliver 
 Goldsmith, and his novel, " The Vicar of 
 Wakejieldr 
 
 That it should be universally ad- 
 mired, ought not to excite astonishment 
 in any who are acquainted with this in- 
 comparable work; though they might 
 be pardoned for wondering (as I must 
 own I do) how a nation, capable of re- 
 
119 
 
 lishing some of the novels mentioned in 
 the preceding part of these observations, 
 can likewise possess a true taste for 
 the merits of such a performance as this 
 of Goldsmith. 
 
 From the advertisement prefixed to 
 the work by its author, we have a view 
 of the plan he has so ably executed. 
 But every admirer of his will rejoice to 
 perceive that he was mistaken in sup- 
 posing his book would obtain but little 
 celebrity; a conjecture in which, if he 
 was sincere, he does injustice to his own 
 talents, and to the discernment of man- . 
 kind. 
 
120 
 
 There are few to whom the Vicar of 
 Wakefield is unknown ; and I imagine 
 that, amongst English readers, there 
 does not exist an individual dull enough 
 to refuse the tribute of unqualified 
 praise to this novel. 
 
 " The hero of this piece," says the 
 author, " unites in himself the three 
 greatest characters upon earth : he is a 
 priest, a husbandman, and a father of a 
 family ; he is drawn as ready to teach, 
 and ready to obey^ as simple in afflu- 
 k ience, and majestic in adversity. In this 
 ^^age of opulence and refinement, whom 
 can such a character hope to please? 
 
121 
 
 Such as are fond of high life, will turn 
 with disdain from the simplicity of his 
 country fire-side; such as mistake ri- 
 baldry for humour, will find no wit in 
 his harmless conversation ; and such as 
 have been taught to deride religion, will 
 laugh at one whose chief stores of com- 
 fort are drawn from futurity." 
 
 The above passages are full of matter 
 and meaning: with infinite modesty, 
 and in the happiest expressions, the 
 writer has delineated his work; and 
 while he describes what novels should 
 be, points tbe keenest satire at those 
 which are composed upon other princi- 
 
122 
 
 pies, and stamps a mark of opprobrium 
 both on the authors of such and their 
 admirers. 
 
 Goldsmith's declaration in his adver- 
 tisement inclines me to say, that if there 
 is a novel which should not be prohibit- 
 ed, and which should even be recom- 
 mended to all, as pure, pleasing, and in- 
 structive, it is the Vicar of Wakefield. 
 Every thing, indeed, which Goldsmith 
 has written, deserves the same commen- 
 dation as this charming tale. Accord- 
 ing to the first couplet in Pope's fine 
 prologue to Cato, the aim of Goldsmith 
 has constantly been. 
 
123 
 
 /' To wake the soul, by tender strokes of art j 
 To raise the genius, and to mend the heart,'' 
 
 An encomium in which it is to be la- 
 mented so very few can share with him. 
 It would not be easy to find, within 
 the compass of light literature, any 
 thing more perfect in its kind than the 
 scene unfolded in the opening chapters 
 of the Vicar of Wakefield: it abounds 
 in strokes of humour and tenderness; 
 and fixes the attention by a most affect- 
 ing picture of a h^ppy home, enjoyed by 
 persons in the middle rank of life, citi- 
 :?:ens of a free country, and possessing 
 competent means and innocent minds. 
 
124 
 
 The group of characters, their circum- 
 stances, and local situation, are truly 
 EngUshy and could only belong to the 
 enviable land within whose confines the 
 scene is laid. 
 
 In England alone, amongst the na- 
 tions of the earth, could such an indivi- 
 dual as the vicar be supposed. Ido- 
 latry, Mahometanism, and superstition 
 have indeed their priests; and the mi- 
 nister of religion exists alike under the 
 fervour of Indian skies, and in the twi- 
 light of Lapland ; in the cloisters of Ma- 
 drid, and the conventicles of Philadel- 
 phia: but England only can exhibit the 
 
original from which the inimitable por- 
 trait of Dr. Primrose is taken. 
 
 He is drawn as pious, learned, cha- 
 ritable, hospitable , fearless in the cause 
 of sanctity and rectitude ; in affliction, 
 at once magnanimous and resigned ; in 
 prosperity, grateful and humble ; a kind 
 and sympathizing neighbour; a most 
 affectionate parent ; and, as a pastor, al- 
 most worshipped for his virtues by the 
 flock under his care. 
 
 As a shade, to counteract the 
 dazzling effect of so much excellence, 
 his learning is represented as not quite 
 unmixed with inoffensive pedantry 5 and 
 
126 
 
 the awe inspired by his good natural un- 
 derstanding, is admirably tempered with 
 a very endearing cast of simplicity ; and 
 the solemnity of his deportment relieved, 
 by a well - managed introduction of 
 comic traits. 
 
 If any thing can equal this portrait 
 of the vicar, it is the delicacy with which 
 his story is related ; and the art shown 
 by the author in conducting the per- 
 sonages of his fable through various vi- 
 cissitudes, without the least appearance 
 of exaggeration or force. The reader 
 sheds tears at their sorrows, and exults 
 in their restoration to felicity; but the 
 
127 
 
 depression of spirits created by the 
 perusal has in it nothing shocking, no- 
 thing disgusting ; it is rather the " luxury 
 of grief:'* and the most unsullied 
 chastity may, without self-reproach, 
 smile at all the pleasantries of Gold- 
 smith. 
 
 This dexterity in the author of a 
 novel cannot be too highly praised ; 
 particularly if we consider the period, 
 when Goldsmith wrote, the opportuni- 
 ties his own hard lot in life had afforded 
 him of becoming acquainted with every 
 phrase of vulgar humour, and how 
 strongly (had he pleased to do so) he 
 
128 
 
 might have pourtrayed many of the in- 
 cidents in his narrative. 
 
 His powers of description and com- 
 mand of language were nearly unlimit- 
 ed, ana many of the events in the Vicar 
 of Wakefield are such as would have 
 tempted a writer of meaner talents and 
 less true sensibility, to exceed those 
 boundaries which he scorned to over- 
 leap;' confident that the object in view 
 might be otherwise attained, and that 
 success would be purchased at too great 
 e price by an outrage against the morals 
 "of his country. 
 
 Of a work so well known and so w^^ll 
 
129 
 
 well executed, it is needless to quote 
 what are usually esteemed the brilliant 
 passages ; and, in fact, to do this would 
 be little else than to transcribe the en- 
 tire. But, in general, it may be affirm- 
 ed of it, that it includes examples of 
 every variety of excellence required in 
 a performance of the kind. 
 
 Though I have already extended 
 this article farther than may be thought 
 necessary, I must, before I quit the sub- 
 ject, request greater indulgence from 
 my reader^ and entreat his attention to 
 a few remarks, which will probably tend 
 still more than what has been said to 
 elevate the character of Goldsmith. 
 K 
 
130 
 
 To this I am induced from having ob- 
 served that, on several occasions, and by 
 different writers of the day, many a 
 name, not only less eminent in the re- 
 public of letters, but actually con- 
 temptible, has been recorded with ho- 
 nour, while that of Goldsmith is over- 
 looked : and also, because I have an op- 
 portunity of correcting some mistakes 
 which exist respecting the birth-place of 
 this ingenious man, and of clearing up a 
 contested question, as to the precise 
 scene of his ^^ Deserted Village y 
 
 For my information on these points, 
 I am indebted to the politeness of the 
 reverend Doctor Strean, a clergyman 
 
131 
 
 in the diocese of Elphin ; well known to 
 many for his moral worth and extensive 
 learning. From him, in reply to ^my 
 inquiries, I received a letter, of which, in 
 its proper place, I shall give a copy ; 
 conscious that it would be unjust to 
 withhold it from the curiosity of my 
 readers, and impossible, by any altera- 
 tion, to improve it. 
 
 It is much to be regretted that we 
 have not a life of Dr. Goldsmith, and a 
 review of his voluminous works, from 
 the nervous and critical pen of his illus- 
 trious friend Dr. Johnson; or, at least, 
 something more satisfactory than the 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 scanty memoir usually prefixed to his 
 poems. With this, nevertheless, and the 
 anecdotes of him scattered throughout 
 BoswelFs I.ife of Johnson, and a page or 
 two dedicated to his memory by Mr. 
 Cumberland, in his account of himself, 
 it is probable the world must now be 
 content. 
 
 From all these, however, it may be 
 collected that Goldsmith, endowed as 
 he assuredly was with transcendant abi- 
 lities, struggling with the pains of indi- 
 gence and obscurity; a lover of ease, 
 and possessed of appetites which im- 
 pelled him strongly to the pursuit of 
 
133 
 
 pleasure; yet, to bis immortal honour, 
 stood firm in the cause of VIRTUE; and, 
 disdaining to rescue himself from po- 
 verty by the prostitution of his great 
 and versatile talents, to the base services 
 of impurity, personal abuse, or party 
 rancour, merited the panegyric con- 
 ferred on the excellent Thomson, of 
 never having published 
 
 *' One line which, dying, he could wish to blot." 
 
 That he was sorely pressed by poverty, 
 may be gathered very distinctly from 
 the lively description which Mr. Cum- 
 berland has given of the bard's embar- 
 rassments at different periods; but par- 
 
134 
 
 ticularly at the time of his composing 
 the Vicar of Wakefield. Dr. Johnson, 
 it appears, related with great humour 
 hrs efforts to save poor Goldsmith from 
 a most ridiculous dilemma, by procuring 
 him the purchase-money for this novel, 
 which he sold to Dodsley, as Mr. Cum- 
 berland thinks, for the sum of ten 
 pounds only. 
 
 Goldsmith had run up a debt of 
 some few pounds with his landlady for 
 board and lodging, and was at his wit's 
 end how to wipe off the score, and keep 
 himself under the shelter of a roof, with- 
 out embracing a very staggering pro- 
 
135 
 
 posal on the lady*s part : no less than 
 that of taking his creditor to wife ^ and 
 her importunity was great, though her 
 charms were far from alluring. In this 
 terrific crisis of his fate, Johnson found 
 him in the act of meditating on the me- 
 lancholy alternative before him; and 
 casting his eye over the MS., saw some- 
 thing that gave him hope, and carried it 
 off toDodsley ; administering the money 
 obtained by a guinea at a time to Gold- 
 smith j and so paid the debt, and disen- 
 tangled the luckless author from the 
 snares of the fair-one! 
 
 To a favourable character of Gold- 
 
136 
 
 smith*s style, and an encomium on the 
 gentleness of his manners and the good- 
 ness of his heart, Mr. Cumberland very 
 handsomely adds: " if he had been rich, 
 the world would have been poorer than 
 it is, by the loss of all the treasures 
 of his genius and the contributions of 
 his pen." 
 
 Doctor Strean's interesting answer 
 to my application is as follows : 
 
 ' My dear Sir, 
 
 * Could I have sooner ascertained 
 
 * the place of Goldsmith's birth, &c., 
 
 * you should have heard from me be- 
 
 * fore this. And I must begin by ob- 
 
137 
 
 * serving that the following distich, 
 ' which I have seen somewhere, 
 
 " Septem urhes certant de stirpe insignis Homeriy 
 Smyrna, Rhodos, Colophon, Salamis, Chios, [Argos, 
 Athena/' 
 
 * is applicable to the disputed birth- 
 
 * place of our poet; with this difference, 
 
 * that tzvo places only, namely, Pallas in 
 
 * the county of Longford, and Ardnagan 
 
 * (in correct Celtic orthography, Aird- 
 
 * 7iagahha; in Y^u^Wsh^ Smith- H ill) inihe 
 ^ county of Roscommon, contend for 
 
 * that honour; and notwithstanding I 
 
 * have travelled many miles to inquire 
 
 * of the bard's relations, as well as of 
 
138 
 
 * some of the oldest inhabitants of three 
 
 * counties, who knew him and his fa- 
 
 * mily, adhnc sub judice lis est. How- 
 
 * ever, the most authentic account is in 
 *■ favour of the latter, where his ances- 
 
 * tors had lived; and from the neigh- 
 
 * bourhood of which his father, the reve- 
 
 * rend Charles Goldsmith, removed to 
 ' Pallas, while Oliver w^as a boy, and 
 ^ where he lived in his father's house till 
 
 * the age of about eighteen or nineteen ; 
 
 * when his father and family removed to 
 
 * Lissoy^ in the parish of Kilkenny-west, 
 
 * in the county of Westmeath) and there 
 ^ built the house afterwards celebrated 
 
139 
 
 ^ by the poet under the name of Au- 
 
 * burns situated in the centre of the 
 
 * plain, which is unquestionably the 
 
 * scene of his Deserted Village, as the 
 ' history of those inhabitants who were 
 
 * of his day, and the situation of the 
 
 * country then and now, clearly prove. 
 
 * Here he lived with his father until 
 
 * his deaths and, when the old clergy- 
 
 * man was succeeded by his son Henry 
 ' in the cure and mansion, he continued 
 
 * to live with his brother, to whom he 
 
 * addresses his " Traveller," and who is 
 ' the curate ''passing rich with forty 
 ' pounds a year ;'' which was not only 
 
140 
 
 * his salary, but continued to be the 
 
 * same when I, a successor, was appoint- 
 
 * ed to that parish. 
 
 * The poem of the *^ Deserted Vil- 
 
 * lage," took its origin from the circum- 
 
 * stance of general Robert Napper (the 
 ^ grandfather of the gentleman who now 
 
 * lives in the house, within half a mile 
 
 * of Lissoy, and built by the general) 
 ' having purchased an extensive tract 
 
 * of the country surrounding Lissoy, or 
 
 * Auburn; in consequence of which 
 
 * many families, here called cottiers, 
 
 * were removed, to make room for the 
 
 * intended improvements of what was 
 
141 
 
 * now to become the wide domain of a 
 
 * rich man, warm with the idea of 
 
 * changing the face of his new acquisi- 
 
 * tion -y and were forced, " zvith fainting 
 
 * steps,'' to go in search of " torrid 
 ' tracts '' and " distant climes ^ 
 
 * This fact alone might be sufficient to 
 
 * establish the seat of the poem j but there 
 
 * cannot remain a doubt in any unpreju.- 
 
 * diced mind when the following are 
 
 * added ^ viz. that the character of the 
 
 * village -preacher, the above-named 
 
 * Henry, is copied from nature. He is 
 
 * described exactly as he lived 3 and his 
 ' " modest mansion" as it existed. 
 
142 
 
 * Burn, the name of the village-master, 
 
 * and the site of his school-house ; and 
 
 * Catherine Giraghty^ a lonely widow, 
 
 " The wretched matron, forced in age for bread 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread ;" 
 
 ^ (and to this day the brook and ditches 
 
 * near the spot where her cabin stood 
 
 * abound with cresses) still remain in 
 
 * the memory of the inhabitants, and 
 
 * Catherine's children live in the neigh- 
 
 * bourhood. The pool, the busy mill, 
 
 * the house where " 7mt-brown draughts 
 
 * inspired,'* are still visited as the poetic 
 
 * scene; and the " hawthorn- bush,'' 
 
 * growing in an open space in front of 
 
143 
 
 ^ the house, which I knew to have three 
 
 * trunks, is now reduced to one; the 
 
 * other two having been cut, from time 
 
 * to time, by persons carrying pieces of 
 
 * it away to be made into toys, &c. in 
 
 * honour of the bard, and of the cele- 
 
 * brity of his poem. All these contri- 
 
 * bute to the same proof; and the " de- 
 
 * cent churchy^ which I attended for up- 
 ' wards of eighteen years, and which 
 
 * " tops the neighbouring hill,'* is exactly 
 
 * described as seen from Lissoy, the re- 
 
 * sidence of the preacher. 
 
 * I should have observed that Eliza- 
 
 * beth Delap, who wag a parishioner of 
 
144 
 
 * mine, and died at the age of about 
 ' ninety, often told me she was the first 
 ' who put a book into Goldsmith's hand ; 
 ' by which she meant that she taught 
 ' him his letters : she was allied to him, 
 ^ and kept a little school. 
 
 * His education, however, was at 
 
 * the diocesan school of Elphin, as ap- 
 ' pears by a letter I received by post, 
 ' while writing the above, from a very re- 
 ^ spectable gentleman. I send you an 
 ' extract, by which you will see my ori- 
 
 * ginal conjecture ofthe poet's birth-place 
 '. fully confirmed, and the author of his 
 
 * epitaph in Westminster-abbey confuted. 
 
145 
 
 ' " Smith-HlU, Dec. 24, 1807. 
 
 ^ " Dear Sir, 
 
 '^" The reverend Oliver Jones was 
 ' curate of Elphin, and also had the 
 
 * diocesan school of that town : he lived 
 
 * where I now live, a little more than 
 
 * half a mile from the church. He had 
 
 * four daughters, and no son. My 
 ' grandfather, George Hicks, was mar- 
 
 * ried to one of these daughters, and 
 
 * consequently knew every circumstance 
 
 * relating to that family; and has often 
 
 * told me that the reverend Mr. Gold- 
 
 * smith, who was married to another of 
 
 * Mr. Jones's daughters, had a curacy 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 * somewhere near Athlone, and that 
 ' Mrs. Goldsmith spent much of her 
 
 * time with her mother, Mrs. Jones, 
 
 * then a widow, and living at Smith- 
 
 * Hill ; that Oliver Goldsmith wa§ born 
 
 * here, in his grandfather's house; that 
 ' he was nursed and reared here, and 
 ' got the early part of his education at 
 
 * the school of Elphin. 
 
 ' " My mother, the only child of the 
 '* above George Hicks and Miss Jones, 
 
 * was contemporary with Oliver Gold- 
 ' smith, and brought up in her grand- 
 
 * father's house. She also has often told 
 
 * me the foregoing circumstances; and 
 
147 
 
 * has shown me the very spot where the 
 
 * bed stood in which Goldsmith was 
 
 * born. From what I have always heard 
 
 * and understood, I never had a doubt 
 
 * on my mind that Goldsmith was born 
 
 * here. 
 
 ' *'I am, &c. &c. 
 
 * " Robert Jones Lloyd/' 
 
 * Goldsmith had three brothers ; 
 
 * Charles, who went to America in earl v 
 
 * life; Maurice, who was a cabinet- 
 
 * maker, and lived and died in Dublin, 
 
 * about six or seven years ago; and the 
 
 * above-named Henry. 
 
 * He had two sisters, Catherine and 
 
 L2 
 
148 
 
 ' Jane, whom I knew intimately : they 
 ' lived and died in Athlone, about ten 
 
 * years since. 
 
 • Of bis relations, there remain 
 ' Henry, his nephew, who lives in 
 ^ Rhode-Island in America, son of 
 
 * his brother Henrys Catherine, his 
 ' niece, sister of Henry, who lives in 
 
 * Dublin and teaches music ; and 
 
 * Oliver Goldsmith Hodson, his grand- 
 
 * nephew, who inherits and lives on an 
 
 * estate of about 700/. a year, eight 
 
 * miles from this town. 
 
 ' Several of the family and name live 
 ' Jiear Elphin, who, as well as the poet. 
 
149 
 
 ^ were and are remarkable for their 
 
 * worth; but of no cleverness in the 
 ^ common affairs of the world. From 
 ^ these, indeed, he differed in brightness 
 ' of genius in the latter part of his life; 
 
 * yet he was considered by his contem- 
 ' poraries and school-fellows, with whom 
 ^ I have often conversed on the subject, 
 
 * as a stupid, heavy blockhead, little 
 
 * better than a fool, whom every one 
 
 * made fun of. But his corporal pow- 
 ' ers differed widely from this apparent 
 ' state of his mind, for he was remarka- 
 
 * bly active and athletic ; of which he 
 
 * gave proofs in all exercises among his 
 
150 
 
 ^ playmates, and eminently in ball- 
 ' playing, which he was very fond of, 
 
 * and practised whenever he could. 
 
 ' He was intended for the church, 
 ^ and went to the bishop of Elphin to 
 'he examined for orders^ but appear- 
 
 * ing in a pair of scarlet breeches (a 
 
 * piece of dress, you will allow, not ex- 
 
 * actly suited to a clerical garb), he was 
 
 * rejected, turned his studies to physic, 
 ' and went to the university of Edin- 
 
 * bur^h. ^ ^ ^ -^ 
 
 ' Believe me, my dear Sir, 
 * Sincerelv vours, 
 
 ' Glebe, Athlone. < AnNESLEY StREAN/ 
 
 Dec. 31, 1807/ 
 
151 
 
 The place of Goldsmith's birlh is, 
 we may now conclude, established be- 
 yond the reach of disputation ; and it 
 appears that Dr. Johnson was not accu- 
 rately informed when he wrote his 
 friend's epitaph, as it stands in AVest- 
 minster-abbey; in which it is said that 
 Goldsmith was born IN LOCO CUI NO- 
 MEN Pallas: an error that has given 
 rise to a strange conceit on the part of 
 the absurd translator of the Latin, who 
 observes that the place in question was 
 one tvhere Pallas had set her fiame ! 
 
 To many, this investigation will ap- 
 pear impertinent and immaterial: there 
 
152 
 
 are some, however, who will think 
 otherwise of it, and allow that it is de- 
 sirable to know even the most trivial cir- 
 cumstance connected with the life of 
 one whose writings are destined to de- 
 liglit and improve mankind hereafter, 
 and whose private history will probably 
 form an object of eager inquiry to gene- 
 rations yet unborn. 
 
 Upon the subject of novels I have, as 
 I conceive, said all that belongs to the 
 nature of this Essay, designedly thrown 
 
153 
 
 t)fr in a plain, brief, and popular man- 
 ner, in order to aiford it the better 
 chance of being read and remembered 
 by those for whose use it is intended. 
 
 But as it might be thought that I 
 had very imperfectly performed my 
 task should I, in treating of light read- 
 ing, pass by the poetical department 
 without notice, I shall add something 
 upon that head. And, in the first in- 
 stance, offer my opinion candidly on the 
 general characteristics of the poems of 
 Swift and Pope : I mean those parts of 
 their poetical labours which are more 
 particularly in every one's possession. 
 
154 
 
 and constantly submitted to the eye of 
 youth, as models of perfect versifica- 
 tion, and splendid proofs of human ca- 
 pacity. 
 
 It must be confessed that many of 
 their poems are such: but it should not 
 be forgotten that the most ingenious 
 compositions of these eminent wits are 
 also the most pernicious and inex- 
 cusable. 
 
 These authors, in their poetical cha- 
 racters, may be considered as parallels 
 to Fielding and Smollet, and as entitled, 
 for many of their effusions, to the like 
 condemnation. Let any person of ripe 
 
155 
 
 years and an unprejudiced mind reflect 
 on the tendency of some of Pope's 
 poems, and say what it is which they 
 must be supposed to teach those who 
 for the first time peruse their contents. 
 
 Is it credible that any one was ever 
 made wiser or better by the corrupt 
 and profane allusions contained in the 
 *' Epistle of Eloisa to Abelard ; " by the 
 vile precepts inculcated in the " Elegy 
 on an unfortunate young Lady ;'^ or by 
 the false philosophy, the trite senti- 
 ments, and solemn nothings of the 
 *' Essay on ManP'' The far-famed 
 " Rape of the Lock '' is by no means 
 
156 
 
 free from taint; and much might be 
 said to prove that many of his shorter 
 pieces are exceedingly reprehensible. 
 
 Of some of the inspirations of Dean 
 Swift's Muse it is not possible to speak 
 in terms too severe; nor, indeed, to 
 speak at all, without danger of impro- 
 priety: I shall, therefore, only observe 
 that in one place or another of his 
 poetical writings, and those of Pope, 
 may be discovered instances the most 
 flagitious of almost every indecorous 
 and debasing thought that the heart of 
 humanity can conceive. 
 
 This assertion, I am sorrv to think, 
 
157 
 
 cannot be contradicted ; but the infe- 
 rence it carries along with it is obvious, 
 and needs no explanation : the poetical 
 volumes of Swift and Pope should not be 
 placed, as they perpetually are, in 
 youthful and innocent hands ! ' 
 
 Criminal as they are for having thus 
 written", these renowned names are re- 
 sponsible for still greater offences; as 
 they have been the -means of encou- 
 raging innumerable copyists ; who, in- 
 capable of melodious verse or poignant 
 wit, could yet, like them, be abusive, 
 filthy, and obscene; and have accord- 
 ingly, for more than half a century, in- 
 
158 
 
 fested society with what they imagine, 
 or pretend to imagine, imitations of 
 Swift and Pope, but which are really 
 satires on the patriotic Dean and the 
 bard of Twickenham. 
 
 It is neither in my power nor suita- 
 ble to my purpose to warn others 
 against e\ery poetaster or whining 
 sonneteer of the present, or of a more 
 remote period ; .nor does it come within 
 my plan to enlarge on the merits of 
 many poets of our own time, who have 
 honourably acquired fame by their com- 
 positions. But I cannot refuse myself 
 the pleasure of noticing some of them 3 
 
159 
 
 deservedly esteemed the supporters of 
 virtue, and the ornaments of English li- 
 terature. 
 
 Amongst the most celebrated of these 
 may be mentioned Goldsmith, Cowper, 
 and the too much neglected Langhorne, 
 the author of " Owen of Carron ;'^ a 
 poem which perhaps bids as fair for im- 
 mortality as any light production of an- 
 cient or modern genius. This delight- 
 ful work, and the Task of Cowper, and 
 the Traveller and Deserted Village of 
 Goldsmitli, do not, I ^dmit, rank more 
 properly under the denomination of 
 LIGHT READING than hundreds which 
 
are stationed in private libraries, and 
 which are read with avidity, and quoted 
 with applause. But they possess certain 
 attractive qualities, not easily described, 
 though powerfully felt. They overflow 
 with charms for every laudable variety 
 of taste, and for each degree of under- 
 standing. To their matter, and the har- 
 monious numbers in which it is convey- 
 ed, there exists something responsive in 
 every bosom : no preparative erudition 
 is required to make them intelligible, 
 nor any comment wanting to indicate 
 their beauties; and, to the reader of 
 these pages, if not very fastidious, I 
 
161 
 
 should hope that an apology is unneces- 
 sary for introducing a few of the 
 distinguished passages in each of these 
 poems : and first, of the Traveller and 
 Deserted Village. 
 
 Of these, Mr. Cumberland, in his 
 Memoirs of himself, has an observation 
 which appears to me, and will, I believe, 
 be thought by most other readers, ex- 
 ceedingly unjust. He, says of Gold- 
 smith, that the paucity of his verses docs 
 not allow us to rank him in that high 
 poetical station to which his genius 
 might have carried him -, and adds, of 
 the Deserted Village, Traveller, and 
 M 
 
162 
 
 Hermity that they are only specimens — 
 " Birds' eggs en a stringy and eggs of 
 small birds iooJ* 
 
 Mr. Cumberland's objection to the 
 claims of Goldsmith, from the circum- 
 stance of his not having written more in 
 verse than he did, is altogether so desti- 
 tutie of force, as to render a laboured re- 
 futation superfluous. He must know, 
 as well as any one, that excellence in 
 an author consists not in writing much 
 but in writing well. When we read the 
 ode addressed by Horace to Aristius 
 (22d ode, 1st book), the Pollio of Virgil, 
 or the Lycidas of Milton, we are satis- 
 
163 
 
 fied that the minds, from which these 
 inestimable productions emanated, were 
 truly poetical, and of the highest class : 
 and surely the dramatic reputation of 
 the amiable and ingenious author of the 
 West Indian would not have suffered 
 any diminution had he composed no- 
 thing more for the stage than that ad- 
 mired comedy. 
 
 The meaning of Mr. Cumberland's 
 birds' eggs, &c. is not very distinct, 
 though the expression is very puerile: 
 neither the epicure, nor the amateur of 
 delicate plumage or of the music of the 
 fields and groves, w^ould agree with 
 m2 
 
164 
 
 Mr. Cumberland in preferring the eggs 
 of the crocodile, the ostrich, or the 
 goose, for their produce, to those of the 
 pheasant, the goldfinch, or the lark ! 
 
 If the Traveller and Deserted Village 
 are examined, they will be found, in 
 most respects, to bear the closest scru- 
 tiny of criticism, to abound with pre- 
 cepts of the soundest policy, the shrewd- 
 est remarks on human character, de- 
 scriptions of local scenery as rich and as 
 appropriate as any thing that ever came 
 from the pen of Shakspeare or the pencil 
 of Claude^ and, for plaintive melody of 
 versification, and pathetic appeals to 
 
165 
 
 the heart, they stand perhaps uhrii 
 vailed. 
 
 The exordium of the " Traveller, or 
 a Prospect of Society,'' is very happily 
 conceived ; and the reference to home 
 and its delights, is an affecting instance 
 of the poet's art in the commencement 
 of a composition which depicts the wan- 
 derings over a foreign land of one, 
 whose ^^ heart untravelled'^ turns with 
 fondness to the scenes of early life, and 
 acknowledges so tenderly the ties of 
 kindred. Though nothing can appear 
 more easy or natural than this intro- 
 duction of himself, yet thus completely 
 
166 
 
 to interest the reader in his private feel- 
 ings is a proof of consummate skill. 
 
 The altitude which he makes choice 
 of to take his purposed view of society, 
 is selected with great judgment : 
 
 " Ev*n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down, a pensive hour to spend." 
 
 Beneath him he sees, while " above the' 
 storm's career,'' lakes, forests, cities, 
 plains, the kingly palace, and the 
 shepherd's cottage ; and remembering 
 that man, however destitute, should 
 not cease to be benevolent, he exults 
 in the visible prosperity of his fellow- 
 beings, and exclaims, in the sublimest 
 
167 
 
 spirit of philanthropy and poetical 
 fervour, 
 
 '' Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine." 
 
 Some of the landscapes which follow 
 are executed with inimitable truth, and 
 with surprising variety of expression ; 
 and his pictures of Italy and the United 
 Provinces are drawn with great ability: 
 
 " Far to the right, where Appenine ascends. 
 Bright as the summer Italy extends; 
 The uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
 Woods over woods, in gay, theatric pride ; 
 While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between. 
 With venerable grandeur mark the scene." 
 
 How few, but how masterly, the strokes 
 used to produce this accurate and luxu- 
 rious description I 
 
168 
 
 Having sketched the ''churlish soil** 
 of Switzerland, and the sprightly region 
 of France, ^yith their inhabitants, he 
 proceeds — 
 
 *i To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
 EmbosomM in the deep where Holland lies: 
 
 * * -K- ^ ^^ 
 
 Where the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile. 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
 The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale. 
 The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail. 
 The crowded mart, the cultivated plain; 
 A new creation rescued from his reign." 
 
 His transition to England, '' (he land of 
 scholars, and the niivse of arms,'* is un- 
 questionably one of the most majestic 
 flights of poetry. The political observa- 
 tions, which adorn his view of Britain, 
 
169 
 
 are eminently just and spirited ; and the 
 versification of this concluding part of 
 the poem is full of energy and grace. 
 
 Over this fine work there is spread 
 an imposing air of philosophic dignity, 
 which awes the reader; and, engaging 
 his understanding rather than his sensi- 
 bility, forces him to reflection. 
 
 The Deserted V^illage, written in the 
 same measure, and with every mark of 
 the same potent hand, has a distinct 
 character; it applies more immediately 
 to the softer feelings of our nature, than 
 to our reasoning faculties; and evinces 
 the fertility of Goldsmith's genius, by 
 
170 
 
 showing him equally capable of exciting 
 emotions of tenderness and compassion. 
 Here ialmost all the imagery is familiar 
 to our eyes, and all the sentiments to 
 our hearts. We seem rather to remem- 
 ber what the poet describes, than to re- 
 ceive information from his lines ; we ac- 
 knowledge without hesitation the fidelity 
 of his outline ^ we instantaneously grow 
 acquainted with every interesting ob- 
 ject ; each "rural sight and sound ^'^ 
 the hamlet, its humble children, and 
 their saintly pastor ; their joys and their 
 sorrows. We share their sufferings, and 
 shed tears over the downfal of their 
 
171 
 
 liapplness, when, at the poet's bidding", 
 this lovely pageant vanishes; and for 
 the mansion of festivity, and the fields 
 which industry had taught to smile, we 
 behold only a ruin and a desert. 
 
 Whether or not this, and other 
 poems of Goldsmith, would bear the 
 test of a critical inquisition, is a 
 question that does not belong to my 
 present purpose ; which is to exhibit 
 him in a far higher capacity than that 
 pf a versifier : as A MORAL INSTRUCTOR* 
 WHOSE TALENTS WERE UNIFORMLY DI- 
 RECTED TO THE GREAT AND PRAISE- 
 WORTHY END OF COMMUNICATING TO 
 
172 
 
 HIS COUNTRYMEN A PARTIALITY FOR 
 THE DICTATES OF VIRTUE. And this 
 
 he has done so effectually, that, in read- 
 ing his lines, we are more apt to weigh 
 the thoughts they contain, than the 
 powers that produced them; and, over- 
 looking the graces and sweetness hy 
 which his verse is distinguished, to dwell 
 with intense admiration on the sub- 
 stance. 
 
 In support of this remark, I shall ex- 
 tract only a few passages from the De- 
 serted Village y the construction of 
 which, however beautiful, is scarcely 
 ever adverted to by the multitudes who 
 
173 
 
 are enraptured with the images which 
 they present to the mind. 
 
 Nothing of its kind can be more 
 finished than the picture of the village- 
 clergyman : but the simile employed to 
 illustrate the poet's account of his strict 
 performance of the pastoral oflice, the 
 affection he feels for his people, and the 
 persevering piety by which he wins 
 them to paths of holiness and peace, 
 if not matchless, has never been ex- 
 celled : 
 
 *'' And as a bird each fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledgM oftspring to the skies. 
 He tryM each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
 Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way." 
 
174 
 
 If this idea can be equalled by an- 
 other, in any language, ancient or mo- 
 dern, it is by that with which the por- 
 trait concludes : 
 
 *' To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n ; 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form. 
 Swells from the vale, afid mid-way leaves the storra, 
 Tho* rouiKl its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head." 
 
 His heart and his taste must be alike 
 vitiated, who unmoved could contem- 
 plate the subject of the following lines, 
 or be insensible to the melody with 
 
 which they flow : 
 
 *' Ah ! turn thine eyes. 
 
 Where the poor, houseless, shiv'ring female lies : 
 
175 
 
 She once, perhaps, in village-plenty blest. 
 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. 
 
 Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled. 
 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ; 
 
 And, pi nch'd with cold, and shrinking from the show'r, 
 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour. 
 
 When idly, first, ambitious of the town. 
 
 She left her wheel, and robes of country-brown." 
 
 The Deserted Village ends with an 
 address to Poetry, not only affecting 
 for the solemnity of its j/ersonal allusion, 
 and pleasing to the reader for the 
 smooth current of its versification^ but 
 remarkable as displaying the virtuoua 
 enthusiasm of Goldsmith^ and a gene- 
 
176 
 
 rous declaration of what was his notion 
 concerning a poet's duty, and the influ- 
 ence of his art on mankind : 
 
 *' And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
 Unfit, in these degen'rate times of shame. 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame : 
 Dear, charming nymph! neglected and decry'd. 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
 Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
 " Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 
 , Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
 
 Cowper has pursued a different 
 course from that of Goldsmith, but has 
 successfully attained the saiiie. great and 
 
177 
 
 desirable end ; that of persuading men 
 to a love of virtue, and delighting those 
 whom he professes to instruct. 
 
 The excellencies of his Task^ which 
 is written in blank verse, are so va- 
 rious, as to leave the reader in doubt 
 whether most to admire it as an evi- 
 dence of the author's poetical talents, 
 his goodness of heart, his sublimity of 
 conception and expression, the integrity 
 of his judgment, or the felicity of his 
 wit. 
 
 The morality and good sense of 
 Cowper are, throughout all his writings, 
 but particularly in the serious parts of 
 N 
 
178 
 
 the Task, as Conspicuous as those of 
 Young, without being overshadowed by 
 the gloom of sadness which generally 
 characterises the author of the Night 
 Thoughts: while Cowper's more lively 
 and familiar passages are illuminated by 
 rays of cheerfulness and flashes of plea- 
 stmtry that would elicit a smile from 
 Melancholy herself. 
 
 To the admirers of the Task, some 
 short extracts from it will not prove un- 
 acceptable; and still less so to such as 
 are ignorant of a poem which is justly 
 esteemed one of the boasts of British li- 
 terature, and with which it is indeed 
 
17^ 
 
 difficult to suppose any English reader 
 not acquainted. 
 
 Cowper s lote of a country-life^ and 
 all its enchantments, is constantly dis- 
 cernible ; nor is he ever happier than 
 in the introduction of the most ordinary 
 objects of a rural nature; which, on 
 every suitable occasion, he applies to 
 his purpose vi^ith great dexterity. Thus, 
 early in the Task, when decrying the 
 pursuit of frivolous and vicious plea- 
 sures, he brings forward an image em- 
 ployed by almost every other poet, 
 which yet comes from his pen embel- 
 lished with new graces: 
 N 2 
 
480' 
 
 " The lark is gay. 
 That dries his feathers, saturate with dew, 
 ^eneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams 
 Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest/' 
 
 The preference given hy man to ru- 
 ral scenes, he seems to think general; 
 he terms it, 
 
 " An in-born universal thJr.:t.'* 
 And then, with great truth and force of 
 
 humour, says — 
 
 *' The most utifurnish'd with the means of life. 
 And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds 
 To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air. 
 Yet feel the burning instinct ^ over head 
 Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick. 
 And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands, 
 A fragment ; and the spoutless tea-pot there ; 
 Sad w^itnesses how close-pent man regrets 
 
181 
 
 The country ; with what ardour he contrives 
 A peep at Nature, when he can no more." 
 
 The personification of winter, in the 
 fourth book, has probably never been 
 exceeded by writer or painter; and 
 while it conabines circumstances which 
 no pencil could describe, contains 
 enousrh to furnish the artist with an au- 
 gust subject, and confirms the author a 
 genuine poet: 
 
 " O Winter, ruler of th* inverted year, 
 Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes fill'd; 
 Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips; thy cheeks 
 Fring'd with a beard, made white with other snows 
 Than those of age ; thy forehead wrapt in clouds; 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 
182 
 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels. 
 
 But urg'd by storms along its slippVy way." 
 
 That of evening, in the same book, is 
 also very finely imagined : 
 
 " Return, sweet Evening, and continue long ! 
 Methinks I see thee in the streaky west. 
 With matron-step slow moving ; while the Night 
 Treads onlhy sweeping train : one hand employed 
 In letting fall the curtain of repose 
 On bird and beast ; the other charg'd for man.^ , 
 With sweet oblivion of the cares of day : 
 Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid. 
 Like homely-featur'd Night, of clustering gems : 
 A star or two just twinkling on thy brpw 
 Suffices thee.*' 
 
 The fifth book opens with a descrip- 
 tion of a frosty morning, which is ex- 
 
183 
 
 tremely beautiful, and accompanied by 
 a thought full of that playfulness of 
 fancy and chastened humour for which 
 Covvper is remarkable: 
 
 " 'Tis morning, £^nd the sun, with ruddy orb 
 Ascending, fires th' horizon: while tiie clouds. 
 That crowd away before the driving wind. 
 More ardent as the disk emerges more, 
 Resemble most some city in ablaze. 
 Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray- 
 Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale. 
 And tinging all with his own rosy hue. 
 From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade. 
 Stretches a length of shadow o*er the field. 
 Mine, spindling into longitude immense. 
 In spite of gravity and sage remark 
 That I myself am but a fleeting shade. 
 Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
 
184 
 
 I view the rauscular proportionM limb 
 Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair. 
 As they design'd to mock me, at my side 
 Take step for step ; and, as I near approach 
 The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall. 
 Preposterous sight ! the legs without the man.** 
 
 The woodman and his faithful at- 
 tendant have supplied the subject of a 
 much-admired painting, and the dog is 
 well represented on the canvas, 
 
 *' Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd ; with pointed ears. 
 And tail cropp'd short; half lurcher and half cur.** 
 
 But here the painter*s art must desist, 
 
 and is left far behind by that of the 
 poet : — 
 
 " Now creeps he slow ; and now, with many a frisk, 
 Wide-scamp*ring, snatches up the drifted snow 
 
185 
 
 With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout. 
 Then shakes his pow'der'd coat, and barks for joy." 
 
 / This is exquisitely told: had it been Ho- 
 mer's or Virgirs, how often would it have 
 been quoted, and what applause would 
 have been lavished on every epithet, or 
 even on every word of the passage ! 
 Many other parts of the fifth book are 
 uncommonly happy; particularly the 
 account of the palace of ice, built by 
 the empress of Russia. The genius of 
 Gowper revels amidst the frozen scenery, 
 and shows that his was very justly enti- 
 tled '' the winter-loving muse." 
 
 But on other topics he is not less sue- 
 
186 
 
 cessful ; and his powers are augmented 
 to a degree of magnificence propor- 
 tioned to their object; for instance, 
 speaking of Deity, he says, with gran- 
 deur befitting the awful theme — 
 
 '* The unambiguous footsteps of the God, 
 Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing. 
 And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds." 
 
 This great poet's love of freedom 
 also inspires his verse with more than 
 wonted energy; and, in the second 
 book of the Task, he pleads, with most 
 pathetic eloquence, the cause of a long- 
 oppressed and degraded race of man- 
 kind; nor is it possible to repress the 
 
187 
 
 sigh of regret, when we recollect that 
 his liberal and feeling heart had ceased 
 to beat before the accomplishment of 
 his generous wish in favour of the hap- 
 less negro! 
 
 For the verses alluded to, I shall re- 
 fer my reader to the original, and here 
 transcribe from them only three lines, 
 which are remarkable, because they 
 contain a thought similar to one that 
 was afterwards made use of by the finest 
 orator of the age, and which his mighty 
 talents expanded into a passage per- 
 haps more sublime than any on record 
 from the days of Demosthenes to tho 
 
188 
 
 present hour. Cowper says, very beau- 
 tifully, 
 
 " Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free; 
 They touch our country, and their shackles fall." 
 
 The celebrated Mr. Curran, in the 
 course of one of his splendid orations, 
 thus expressed himself: 
 
 ^ I speak in the spirit of the 
 
 * British law, which makes liberty com- 
 
 * mensurate with, and inseparable from 
 
 * British soil y which proclaims to the 
 
 * stranger and the sojourner, the mo- 
 
 * ment he sets his foot on British 
 
 * ground, that the earth he treads is 
 
189 
 
 * holy,^ and consecrated by the genius of 
 
 * universal emancipation. No matter 
 
 * in what language his doom may have 
 
 * been pronounced ; no matter in what 
 
 * disastrous battle his liberties may have 
 
 * been cloven down ; no matter what 
 ' complexion, incompatible with free- 
 
 * dom, an Indian or an African sun 
 
 * may have burnt upon him ; no matter 
 
 * with what ceremonies he may have 
 
 * been devoted upon the altar of 
 
 * Slavery: the instant that he touches 
 
 * the sacred shore of Britain, the altar 
 
 * and the god sink together in the dustj 
 
 * his soul walks abroad in her own ma- 
 
1^0 
 
 * jesty; his body swells beyond the triea- 
 
 * sure of his chains, that burst from 
 
 * around him; and Vie stands redeemed, 
 
 * regenerated, and disenthralled, by the 
 ' irresistible genius of universal emanci- 
 
 * pation!' 
 
 The resources of this great orator*s 
 own mind are known to be nearly inex- 
 haustible; it is therefore not probable 
 that he borrowed any part of the above 
 from the poet; but it is pleasing to ob- 
 serve a coincidence of idea in two men 
 of superior intellect, when awakened by 
 the same animating subject. 
 
 In speaking of those who, by the mo- 
 
191 
 
 ral tendency of their poems, the accu- 
 mulation of interesting circumstanced, 
 and the sweetness of their versification, 
 have largely contributed to the delight 
 and improvement of their country, and 
 increased the stores of light reading in 
 England, without any intermixture of li- 
 centiousness, it would be unjust to omit 
 the names of Gray, Collins, Beattie, and 
 Langhorne. Of these, however, I shall 
 here take particular notice of the last- 
 named only J and of him, merely for the 
 purpose of endeavouring to revive the 
 public attention to his podm of " Owen 
 ofCarron/* 
 
192 
 
 As the story is more than legendary, 
 though founded on an incident not to- 
 tally unexceptionable, the poet cannot 
 fairly be arraigned on that account. 
 He has, besides, related it with infinite 
 delicacy, enriched it with a great va- 
 riety of miniature beauties, and render- 
 ed it, for harmony of composition and 
 for pathos, one of the most interesting 
 pieces of popular poetry extant. 
 
 The story of " Owen of Carr.on" is 
 like that of the ancient ballad known 
 by the title of Gilt Morris, printed in 
 the .curious collection of the learned and 
 venerable bishop of Dromore. It also 
 
193 
 
 resembles the plot of the tragedy of 
 Douglas, which has been a favourite 
 with the public for above fifty years, 
 and the fable of which, not the least of 
 its charms, has been considered by the 
 best judges as the most complete ever 
 chosen by a dramatic poet, and most 
 calculated to produce one of the chief 
 ends of tragedy, that of affecting the 
 mind through the mediums of /^rror and 
 pity. 
 
 It may not be safe to affirm that any 
 
 useful lesson is directly taught by Lang- 
 
 horne in this poem. Like Home, he 
 
 has represented the lot of virtue as ulti- 
 
 O 
 
194 
 
 mately unfortunate; and the good are 
 drawn as the principal victims of error 
 and fatality, not of crime. For this, 
 supposing it to stand in need of excuse, 
 a sufficient reason arises from the ne- 
 cessity of adhering to received tra- 
 dition. 
 
 In the descriptive parts, and the ge- 
 neral machinery of the poem, the author 
 has relied on the stores of his own ge- 
 nius ; and with great art has magni- 
 fied the simple action of the ballad into 
 a long and very fascinating composi- 
 tion. 
 
 In the construction of his verse he 
 
195 
 
 has preserved just as mueh of the\allad 
 metre as was requisite to give it what 
 may be termed a rustic air, without the 
 least approach to vulgarity, or to that 
 ruggedness of pauses and accentuation 
 by which the old English ballad is often 
 distinguished. 
 
 The story opens with an idea of strict 
 poetical authority, that the primroses 
 growing on Carron's side, where Owen 
 lies interred, are tinged with a purple 
 hue in memory of his fall ; and with an 
 allusion to a dirge sung at the annual 
 return of spring, in honour of the youth, 
 by the pymph? of Marl.ivale. Jibe date 
 2 
 
196 
 
 of the events recorded is assigned to the 
 days of William the Lion, king of 
 Scotland, when the earl of Moray is 
 stated to have been a powerful chief- 
 tain : 
 
 " In fortune rich, in offspring poor. 
 An only daughter crown'd his bed :" 
 
 fair Ellen, the heroine, being his only 
 child. This circumstance, and the lady's 
 worth, are touched on in a stanza of con- 
 siderable force : 
 
 " Oh ! write not poor ; — the wealth that flows 
 In waves of gold round India's throne. 
 All in her shining breast that glows. 
 
 To Ellen's charms were earth and stone." 
 
197 
 
 She is addressed by many suitors of 
 high rank without effect, and is des- 
 tined, according to the prediction of a 
 " zvayzvard sister y^ to yield her heart to 
 Nithisdale; whom she has not seen, but 
 is doomed to behold in a vision, while 
 sleeping near the banks of the river in a 
 bower constructed with the rapidity of 
 lightning by the "sprite of dreams,'* 
 and beautifully decorated by magic 
 hands. 
 
 This is all conceived and expressed 
 with a poet's fire, and many of the 
 stanzas flow with peculiar ease : these 
 for instance ; 
 
196 
 
 ** It) Valft by foreign arts assail'd. 
 
 No foreign loves her breast beguile ; 
 And England's honest valour fail'd, 
 JPaid with a cold but courteous smile. 
 
 " ' Ah ! woe to thee, young Nithisdale, 
 
 That o*er thy cheeks those roses stray'd j 
 Thy breath, the violet of the rale. 
 Thy voice, the music of the shade: 
 
 *' * Ah ! woe to thee, that Ellen's love 
 Alone to thy soft tale would yield ; 
 For soon those gentle arms shall prove 
 The conflict of a ruder field 1 ' 
 
 " ^Twas thus a wayward sister spoke. 
 And cast a rueful glance behind. 
 As from her dihi-wood glen she broke. 
 And mounted on the moaning wind." 
 
 The lines descriptive of Ellen's re- 
 
199 
 
 tiring to slumber, and of the accom- 
 panying scenery, have always appeared 
 to me of almost unparalleled beauty, 
 and as conveying to the fancy a 
 painting worthy of the best Italian 
 master : 
 
 " *Twas when, on summer's softest eve. 
 Of clouds that wander'd west away. 
 Twilight with gentle hand did weave 
 Her fairy robe of night and day : 
 
 " When all the mountain-gales were still. 
 And the wave slept against the shore ; 
 And the sun, sunk beneath the hill. 
 Left his last smile on Lemmormore.'* 
 
 The allusion to the power presiding 
 over dreams, and its wonder-working in- 
 fluence, is very striking : 
 
200 
 
 '< There is some kind and courtly sprite 
 That o'er the realm of Fancy reigns. 
 Throws sunshine on the mask of night. 
 And smiles at slumber's powerless chains. 
 
 " 'lis told, and I believe the tale. 
 
 At this soft hour the sprite was there. 
 And spread with fairer flow'rs the vale. 
 And fill'd with sweeter sounds the air." 
 
 The miraculous bower is most fanci- 
 fully embellished : 
 
 " Yet it was wrought in simple show; 
 Nor Indian mine nor orient shores 
 Had lent their glories here to glow. 
 Or yielded here their shining stores. 
 
 " All round a poplar^s trembling arms 
 
 The wild-rose wound its damask flow'r ; 
 The woodbine lent its spicy charms. 
 That loves to weave the lover's bow'r. 
 
201 
 
 *' The ash, that courts the mountain-air. 
 In all its painted blooms array M; 
 The wilding's blossom, blushing fair, 
 Combin'd to form the flow'ry shade. 
 
 ** With thyme, that loves the brown hill's breast ; 
 The cowslip's sweet reclining head ; 
 The violet, of sky-woven vest. 
 Was all the fiiiry ground bespread." 
 
 At a time and in a place thus auspi-r 
 clous to love, the vision of Nithisdale, 
 with " hunter's spear and zvarrior's bow,'* 
 is presented to the fancy of the sleeping 
 Ellen ; — when the poet interrupts his 
 narrative by aa appeal to the experi- 
 ence of his reader ; of whom he asks, 
 whether he, too, has not been led by the 
 
203 
 
 sprite of dreams over embroidered lawns 
 and flowery valleys; and adds, 
 
 *' Hast thou not some fair object seen. 
 
 And, when the fleeting form was past. 
 Still on thy memVy found its mien. 
 And felt the fond idea last ? " 
 
 This is preparatory to the subse- 
 quent interview between Nithisdale and 
 Ellen, whose heart is thus prepossessed 
 in favour of him who is the ruler of her 
 destiny. She finds him sleeping; he 
 awakes while she gazes on him, and, 
 subdued by the eloquence with which 
 passion inspires her youthful lover, she 
 is irretrievably captivated. The meet- 
 
203 
 
 ing being observed by the jealous Earl 
 Barnard, who has fixed his affections 
 rather on the wealth than the charms of 
 Moray's heiress, it leads to the assassina- 
 tion of the lover; who, pierced with ar- 
 rows, sleeps for ever beneath the pop- 
 lar against which he leaned to me- 
 ditate on his mistress; who has parted 
 from him ; but returning with joyful im- 
 patience, and seeing Nithisdale, sup- 
 poses him asleep, approaches with gen- 
 tle step, and, discovering the truth, 
 faints upon the ground beside him — . 
 
 *' Her pillow swells not deep with down. 
 
 For her no balms their sweets exhale ; . : 
 
204 
 
 Her limbs are on the pale turf thrown, 
 Press'd by her lovely cheek as pale. 
 
 *' On that fair cheek, that flowing hair. 
 The broom its yellow leaf hath shed ; 
 And the cMll mountain's early air 
 
 Blows wildly o*er that beauteous head." 
 
 After long endurance of sufferings 
 and sorrow, and having given birth to 
 Owen in the solitude of a shepherd's 
 hut, where her son is brought up, and 
 his mother's jewels, " all unmeet for 
 her^'' delivered with him to the peasant 
 who is his protector, Ellen reaches her 
 father's castle -, and finally, by his com- 
 mand, marries the lord of Lothian, igno- 
 
205 
 
 rant that he was the murderer of 
 
 Nithisdale. 
 
 Owen grows up, arriving at that 
 
 period when 
 
 " Reason has lent her quiv'ring light, 
 And shown the chequer'd field of man ;** 
 
 and when he is described reflecting in 
 
 loneliness on the mystery that involves 
 
 him -y and, wandering through the woods 
 
 of Carron, is said to resemble Adam 
 
 while alone in Paradise: 
 
 " As the first human heir of earth 
 
 With pensive eye himself surveyed. 
 And all unconscious of his birth. 
 Sate thoughtful oft in Eden's shade ; 
 
 *' In pensive thought so Owen stray 'd 
 
206 
 
 From the wife of the peasant who 
 has reared him he hears, in her dying 
 moments, the history of his birth; hav- 
 ing anxiously inquired of her the story 
 of his mother's picture, which he has 
 long contemplated with excessive emo- 
 tion. The mournful eyes of the portrait, 
 he says, have wounded his heart, and 
 drawn down the unbidden tear. This is 
 the viejitis gratissimus erro7\ a trait 
 formed on the mistaken notion of what 
 is termed the force of blood. But it is 
 one of those errors which, in defiance of 
 reason, the wisest are almost unwilling 
 to resign, and hy the u^e <of which the 
 
207 
 
 author of Douglas has greatly increased 
 the pathos of one of his finest scenes. 
 At the first sight of Norval the breast of 
 Lady Randolph throbs with unaccounta- 
 ble violence; and on discovering him 
 to be her son, she exclaims to her com- 
 panion, " No wonder, Aniiay that my bo- 
 som burn'dr' 
 
 The hapless Owen having obtain- 
 ed the vvished-for information, is, as 
 may naturally be supposed, exceed- 
 ingly agitated by the disclosure. 
 The reflection the poet makes in 
 this place is very just and very affect- 
 ing: 
 
208 
 
 " T,he heart that, sorrow doom'd to share. 
 Has worn the frequent seal of woe. 
 Its sad impression learns to bear. 
 And finds full oft its ruin slow: 
 
 " But when the seal is first imprest, 
 
 when the young heart its pain shall try. 
 From the soft yielding, trembling breast 
 Oft seems the startled soul to fly ! " 
 
 On the death cf his protectress, 
 Owen hastens to Lothian's vale, and 
 sends a written message, and with it 
 " the well-informing bracelet," to his pa- 
 rent; but these fall into the hands of 
 the fierce earl, by whom the youth is 
 detected and slain as a rival; and the 
 tragedy is completed by the death of 
 
209 
 the wretched lady, to whom the shock 
 proves instant?*neously mortal. 
 
 It is more than singular that so in- 
 genious a composition as the above 
 should have ever ceased to be popular ; 
 nor does it redound much to the cre- 
 dit of their taste who profess themselveii 
 admirers of Light Readings that they 
 should be forward to applaud and en- 
 courage the frantic and discordant rav- 
 iiiffs of the Della'Criisca school the 
 effusions of Rosa Matildas, and Anna 
 Matildas, &c. &c., while Owen of Car- 
 ron is unread, and perhaps altogether 
 forgotten. 
 
210 
 
 Should the foregoing slight examina- 
 tion of this specimen of Doctor Lang- 
 horne's poetry persuade others, who 
 may not as yet have seen them, to 
 read the volumes published by his son, 
 I shall be found in my recommenda- 
 tion to have consulted their indulgence 
 at least as much as the reputation of 
 the author. 
 
 And now to conclude this inquiry: 
 I am conscious that in the course of 
 it I have not advanced any thing which 
 I do not think, nor any thing of which. 
 
211 
 
 morally speaking, I should be ashamed : 
 I am also thoroughly satisfied that my 
 motive for this attempt, as far as the 
 subject of novels is concerned, is closely 
 connected with public advantage, and, 
 as such, praiseworthy ; while, on the 
 other hand, I feel that to these superfi- 
 cial hints a great deal might be added, 
 and that what I have here endeavoured 
 to say might have been much better 
 said by many others. Yet I cannot but 
 wish — and my wishes almost amount to 
 hopes — that parts of this humble essay 
 may be the means of awakening some 
 serious reflections in the minds of those 
 p2 
 
212 
 
 who by nature or accident are the 
 guardians of the young ; and that 
 hereby they raay be induced to con- 
 sider the importance of their high and 
 holy ofTice , the inestimable value of 
 their hours to rational beings in early 
 life ; the good or evil consequences 
 arising to society from the proper em- 
 ployment or the waste of that precious 
 portion of existence ; and, finally, th-e 
 truth of a maxim JL have tried to en- 
 force, that light reodi?igy of a certain 
 kind, is, like procrastination, too fre- 
 quently, at least 
 
 "The thief of time;"* 
 
213 
 
 and, as the expression is usually under- 
 stood, essentially injurious to the growth 
 of private and public virtue. 
 
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