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became severe it expelled from fiction | foot of a slop ing hill, sheltered with a the coarseness of Smollett and the beautiful underwood behind, and a indecencies of Sterne; and the novel, prattling river before; on one side a in every respect moral, before falling meadow, on the other a green. into the almost prudish hands of Miss (It) consisted but of one storey, and Burney, passes into the noble hands of was covered with thatch, which gave it Goldsmith. His Vicar of Wakefield is an air of great snugness; the walls cu 'a prose idyl," somewhat spoilt by the inside were nicely whitewashed. phrases too rhetorical, but at bottom .. Though the same room served us as homely as a Flemish picture. Ob- for parlor and kitchen, that only made serve in Terburg's or Mieris' paintings it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept a woman at market or a burgomaster with the utmost neatness, the dishes. emptying his long glass of beer: the plates, and coppers, being well scoured, faces are vulgar, the ingenuousness is and all disposed in bright rows on the comical, the cookery occupies the place shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, of honor; yet these good folks are so and did not want richer furniture." * peaceful, so contented with their small They make hay all together, sit under ordinary happiness, that we envy them. the honeysuckle to drink a bottle of The impression left by Goldsmith's gooseberry wine; the girls sing, the book is pretty much the same. The two little ones read; and the parents excellent Dr. Primrose is a country "would stroll down the sloping field, clergyman, the whole of whose adven- that was embellished with blue bells tures have for a long time consisted in and centaury: 99 "But let us have one "migrations from the blue bed to the bottle more, Deborah, my life, and brown." He has cousins, "even to the Moses, give us a good song. What fortieth remove," who come to eat his thanks do we not owe to heaven for dinner and sometimes to borrow a pair thus bestowing tranquillity, health, and of boots. His wife, who has all the competence! I think myself happier education of the time, is a perfect cook, now than the greatest monarch upon can almost read, excels in pickling and earth. He has no such fireside, nor preserving, and at dinner gives the such pleasant faces about it." † history of every dish. His daughters aspire to elegance and even "make a wash for the face over the fire." His son Moses gets cheated at the fair, and sells a colt for a gross of green spectacles. Dr. Primrose himself writes pamphlets, which no one buys, against second marriages of the clergy; writes beforehand in his wife's epitaph, though she was still living, that she was "the only wife of Dr. Primrose," and by way of encouragement, places this piece of eloquence in an elegant frame over the chimney-piece. But the household continues the even tenor of its way; the daughters and the mother slightly domineer over the father of the family; he lets them do so, because he is an easy-going man; now and again fires off an innocent jest, and busies himself in his new farm, with his two horses, wall-eyed Blackberry and the other without a tail: "Nothing could exceed the nea ness of my enclosures, the elms and hedge-rows appearing with inexpressible beauty.

Such is moral happiness. Their misfortune is no less moral. The poor vicar has lost his fortune, and, remov. ing to a small living, turns farmer. The squire of the neighborhood se duces and carries off his eldest daugh ter; his house takes fire; his arm was burnt in a terrible manner in saving his two little children. He is put in prison for debt, amongst wretches and rogues, who swear and blasphemic, in a vile atmosphere, sleeping on straw feeling that his illness increases, fore seeing that his family will soon be without bread, learning that his daugh ter is dying. Yet he does not give way: he remains a priest and the head of a family, prescribes to each of them his duty; encourages, consoles, pro vides for, orders, preaches to the pris oners, endures their coarze jests, reforms them; establishes in the prison useful work, and "institutes fines for punishment and rewards for industry." It is not hardness of heart nor a mo Our

little habitation was situated at the

• The Vicar of Wakefield, ch. iv.
↑ Ibid. ch. xvii.

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IX.

rose temperamen which gives him reflection. Meditation which usually strength; he has the most paternal produces only phrases, results with Dr. soul, the most sociable, humane, open Primrose in actions. Verily reason to gentle emotions and familiar tender- has here taken the helm, and it has ness. He says: "I have no resent- taken it without oppressing other feelment now; and though he (the squire) | ings; a rare and eloquent spectacle has taken from me what I held dearer which, uniting and harmonizing in one than all his treasures, though he has character the best features of the manwrung my heart (for I am sick almost ners and morals of that time and to fainting, very sick, my fellow-pris- country, creates an admiration and love oner), vet that shall never inspire me for pious and orderly, domestic and with vengeance. If this (my) sub- disciplined, laborious and rural life. mission can do him any pleasure, let Protestant and English virtue has not him know, that if I have done him any a more approved and amiable exemp injury, I ain sorry for it. . . . I should lar. Religious, affectionate, rational, detest my own heart, if I saw either the Vicar unites predilections which pride or resentment lurking there. On seemed irreconcilable; a clergyman, a the contrary, as my oppressor has been farmer, a head of a family, he enhances once my parishioner, I hope one day those characters which appeared fit to present him up an unpolluted soul only for comic or homely parts. at the eternal tribunal."* But the hard-hearted squire haughtily repulses the noble application of the vicar, and We now come upon a strange char in addition causes his second daughter to be carried off, and the eldest son to acter, the most esteemed of his time, be thrown into prison under a false was his friend, and gave him essays for a sort of literary dictator. Richardson accusation of murder. At this mo- his paper; Goldsmith, with an artless ment all the affections of the father vanity, admires him, whilst suffering to are wounded, all his consolations lost, be continually outshone by him; Miss all his hopes ruined. "His heart weeps to behold" all this misery, he him as a father. Gibbon the historian, Burney imitates his style, and reveres was going to curse the cause of it all; Reynolds the painter, Garrick_the_acbut soon, returning to his profession and his duty, he thinks how he will tor, Burke the orator, Sir William Jones the Orientalist, come to his prepare to fit his son and himself for club to converse with him. Lord Cheseternity, and by way of being useful to terfield, who had lost his favor, vainly as many people as he can, he wishes tried to regain it by proposing to as at the same time to exhort his fellow-sign to him, on every word in the lanprisoners. He "made an effort to rise on the straw, but wanted strength, and was able only to recline against the wall; my son and his mother supported me on either side."† In this condition he speaks, and his sermon, contrasting with his condition, is the more moving. It is a dissertation in the English style, made up of close reasoning, seeking only to establish that "Providence has given to the wretched two advantages over the happy in this life," greater felicity in dying; and in heaven all that superiority of pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoyments. We see the sources of this virtue, born of Christianity and natural kindness, but long nourished by inner

The Vicar of Wakefield, ch. xxviii. + Ibid. ch. xxviii. 1 Ibid. ch. xxix.

Boswell dogs his steps, sets down his guage, the authority of a dictator.* opinions, and at night fills quartos with them. His criticism becomes law; men crowd to hear him talk; he is the arbiter of style. Let us transport in imagination this ruler of mind, Dr. Samuel Johnson, into France, among the pretty drawing-rooms, full of elegant philosophers and epicurean manners; the violence of the contrast will mark better than all argument the bent and predilections of the English mind

whose "person was large, robust, apThere appears then before us a man proaching to the gigantic, and grown

See, in Boswell's Life of Johnson, ed. Croker, 1853, ch. vi. p. 85, Chesterfield's com plimentary paper on Johnson's Dictionary printed in the World.

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unwieldy from corpulency," with a Thrale), talk no more of this; nonsense gloomy and unpolished air, "his coun- can be defended but by nonsense. tenance disfigured by the king's evil," "One thing I know, which you don't and blinking with one of his eyes, "in seem to know, that you are very una ful. suit of plain brown clothes," and civil." "In the intervals of articuwith not overclean linen, suffering from lating he made various sounds with his morbid melancholy since his birth, and mouth, sometimes as if ruminating, moreover a hypochondriac. † In com- sometimes giving a half whistle, pany he would sometimes retire to a sometimes making his tongue play lackwindow or corner of a room, and mut-wards from the roof of his mouth, as ter a Latin verse or a prayer. At if clucking like a hen. . . . Generally, other times, in a recess, he would roll when he had concluded a period, in the his head, sway his body backward and course of a dispute, . . he used to forward, stretch out and then convul- blow out his breath like a whale,” ‡ and sively draw back his leg. His biogra- swallow several cups of tea. pher relates that it "was his constant anxious care to go out or in at a door or passage,... so as that either his right or his left foot should constantly make the first actual movement; when he had neglected or gone wrong in this sort of magical movement, have seen him go back again, put himself in the proper posture to begin the ceremony, and having gone through it, walk briskly on and join his companion." § People are sitting at table, when suddenly, in a moment of abstraction, he stoops, and clenching hold of the foot of a lady, draws off her shoe. Hardly is the dinner served when he darts on the food; "his looks seemed rivetted to his plate; nor would he, unless when in very high company, say one word, or even pay the least attention to what was said by others; (he) indulged with such intenseness, that, while in the act of eating, the veins of his forehead swelled, and generally a strong perspiration was visible." If by chance the hare was high, or the pie had been made with rancid butter, he no longer ate, but devoured. When at last his appetite was satisfied, and le consented to speak, he disputed, ➡houted, made a sparring match of his conversation, triumphed no matter how, aid down his opinion dogmatically, and ill treated those whom he was refuting. Sir, I perceive you are a vile Whig ** My dear lady (to Mrs.

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Then in a low voice, cautiously, men would ask Garrick or Boswell the his tory and habits of this strange being. He had lived like a cynic and an eccentric, having passed his youth reading miscellaneously, especially Latin folios, even those least known, such as Macrobius; he had found on a shelf in his father's shop the Latin works of Petrarch, whilst he was looking for apples, and had read them; §"he published proposals for printing by subscription the Latin poems of Politian." || At twenty-five he had married for love a woman of about fifty, "very fat, with swelled cheeks, of a florid red, produced by thick painting, flaring and fantasti in her dress," T and who had children as old as himself. Having come to London to earn his bread, some people, seeing his convulsive grimaces, took him for an idiot; others, seeing his robust frame, advised him to buy a porter's knot.** For thirty years he worked like a hack for the publishers, who he used to thrash when they becam. impertinent; †t always shabby, having once fasted two days; ‡‡ content when he could dine on "a cut of meat for sixpence, and bread for a penny; "S$ having written Rasselas in eight nights, to pay for his mother's funeral. Now pensioned by the king, freed from * Ibid. ch. xxii. 201. ↑ Ibid. ch. lxviii. 628. Ibid. ch. xviii. 166. § Ibid. ch. ii. 12. Ibid. ch. iv. 22. Ibid. ch. iv. 26. Ibid. ch. v. 28, note 2. tt Ibid. ch. vii. 46. tt Ibid. ch. xvii. 159. SS Ibid. ch. v. 28. He had formerly put in his Dictionary the following definition of the word pension: "Pension-an allowance made to any one without an equivalent. In England it is gen erally understood to mean pay given to a statehireling for treason to his country." This drew of course afterwards all the sarcasms of **Ibid. ch. xxvi. 236. | his adversaries upon himself.

See, in Boswell's Life of Johnson, ed. Croker, 1853, ch. xxx. 269, Chesterfield's complimentary paper on Johnson's Dictionary, printed in the World.

+ Life of Johnson, ch. iii. 14 and 15. +Ibid. ch. xviii. 165, n. 4.

Ibid. ch. xviii. 166.

Ibid. ch. xlviii. 439, n. 3.
Ibid. ch. xvii. 159.

I would sooner sign a sentence for his transportation, than that of any felon who has gone from the Old Bai ley these many years. Yes, I should like to have him work in the plantations." *

It seems that in England people da not like philosophical innovators. Let us see if Voltaire will be treated better:

his daily labors, he gave way to his natural indolence, lying in bed often till mid-day and after. He is visited at that hour. We mount the stairs of a gloomy house on the north side of Fleet Street, the busy quarter of London, in a narrow and obscure court; and as we enter, we hear the scoldings of four old women and an old quack doctor, poor penniless creatures, bad" It is difficult to settle the proportion in health and in disposition, whom he has rescued, whom he supports, who vex or insult hin. We ask for the doctor, a negro opens the door; we gather round the master's bed; there are always many distinguished people at his levee, including even ladies. Thus surrounded, "he declaims, then went to dinner at a tavern, where he commonly stays late," * talks all the evening, goes out to enjoy in the streets the London mud and fog, picks up a friend to talk again, and is busy pronouncing oracles and maintaining his opinion till four in the morning.

of iniquity between them (Rousseau and Voltaire)." † In good sooth, this is clear. But can we not look for truth outside an Established Church? No; "no honest man could be a Deist; for no man could be so after a fair exami nation of the proofs of Christianity." ↑ Here is a peremptory Christian; the e are scarcely any in France so decisive. Moreover, he is an Anglican, with a passion for the hierarchy, an admirer of established order, an enemy of Dis senters. We see him bow to an archbishop with peculiar veneration.§ We hear him reprove one of his friends Whereupon we ask if it is the free- " for saying grace without mention of dom of his opinions which is fascina-the name of our Lord Jesus Christ." | ting. His friends answer, that there is no more indomitable partisan of order. He is called the Hercules of Toryism. From infancy he detested the Whigs, and he never spoke of them but as public malefactors. He insults them even in his Dictionary. He exalts Charles the Second and James the Second as two of the best kings who have ever reigned. He justifies the arbitrary taxes which Government presumes to levy on the Americans. ‡ He declares that" Whiggism is a negation of all principle;" § that "the first Whig was the devil; " || that "the Crown has not power enough;" ¶ that "mankind are happier in a state of inequality and subordination." ** Frenchmen of the present time, admirers of the Contrat Social, soon feel, on reading or hearing all this, that they are no longer in France. And what must they feel when a few moments later the Doctor says: I think him (Rousseau) one of the worst of men; a rascal who ought to be hunted out of society, as he has been.

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If we speak to him of a Quaker's meeting, and of a woman preaching, he will tell us that " a woman preaching is like a dog's walking on his hind legs; it is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all." He is a Conservative, and does not fear being considered antiquated. He went at one o'clock in the morning into St. John's Church, Clerkenwell, to interrogate a tormented spirit, which had promised to "give a token of her presence there by a knock upon her coffin." ** If we look at Boswell's life of him, we will find there fervent prayers, examinations of conscience, and rules of conduct. Amidst prejudices and ridicule he has a deep conviction, an active faith, a severe moral piety. He is a Christian from his heart and conscience, reason and practice. The thought of God, the fear of the last judgment, engross and reform him. He said one day to Garrick: "I'll come no me te behind your scenes, David, for the silk stockings and white bosoms of your actresses

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excite my amorous propensities." He reproaches himself with his indolence, implores God's pardon, is humble, has scruples. All this is very strange. We ask men what can please them in this grumbling bear, with the manners of a beadle and the inclinations of a constable? They answer, that in London people are less exacting than in Paris, as to manners and politeness; that in England they allow energy to be rude and virtue odd; that they put up with A combative conversation; that public opinion is all on the side of the constitution and Christianity; and that so ciety was right to take for its master a man who, by his style and precepts, best suited its bent.

We now send for his books, and after an hour we observe, that whatever the work be, tragedy or dictionary, biography or essay, he always writes in the same style. "Dr. Johnson," Goldsmith said one day to him, “if you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like whales."* In fact, his phraseology rolls ever in solemn and majestic periods, in which every substantive marches ceremoniously, accompanied by its epithet; grand, pompous words peal like an organ; every proposition is set forth balanced by a proposition of equal length; thought is developed with the compassed regularity and official splendor of a procession. Classical prose attains its perfection in him, as classical poetry in Pope. Art cannot be more finished, or nature more forced. No one has confined ideas in more strait compartments; none has given stronger relief to dissertation and proof; none has imposed more despotically on story and dialogue the forms of argumentation and violent declamation; none has more generally mutilated the flowing berty of conversation and life by anItheses and technical words. It is the completion and the excess, the triumph ina the tyranny of oratorical style.t We understand now that an oratorical

*Boswell's Life, ch. xxviii. 256.

† Here is a celebrated phrase, which will give some idea of his style (Boswell's Journal, ch. xliii. 381): "We were now treading that illustrious island, which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To

age would recogr ze him as a master and attribute to him in eloquence the mastery which it attributed to Pcpe in verse.

We wish to know what ideas have made him popular. Here the astonishment of a Frenchman redoubles. We vainly tarn over the pages of his Dic tionary, his eight volumes of essays, his many volumes of biographies, his numberless articles, his conversation so carefully collected; we yawn. His truths are too true; we already know his precepts by heart. We learn from him that life is short, and we ought to improve the few moments granted to us;* that a mother ought not to bring up her son as a fop; that a man ought to repent of his faults, and yet avoid superstition; that in every thing we ought to be active, and not hurried. We thank him for these sage counsels, but we mutter to ourselves that we could have done very well without them. We should like to know who could have been the lovers of ennui who have bought up thirteen thousand copies of his works. We then remember that sermons are liked in England, and that these Essays are sermons. We discover that men of reflection do not need bold or striking ideas, but palpable and profitable truths. They desire to be furnished with a useful provision of authentic examples on man and his existence, and demand nothing more. No matter if the idea is vulgar; meat and bread are vulgar too, and are no less good. They wish to be taught the kinds and degrees of happiness and unhappiness, the varieties and results of character and condition, the advantages and inconveniences of town and country, knowledge and ignorance, wealth and moderate circumstances, because they are moralists and utilitarians; because they look in a book for the knowl. edge to turn them from folly, and abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish if it were possible from me and from my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona."

Rambler 108, 109, 110, 111.

Far

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