in the ridiculous position just described, then wheels round on his heel, looks up at the firstfloor window, and, instead of going back into the house to mention what he has forgotten, bawls out fiercely from the middle of the walk: "Matilda!" I hear his wife's voice-a shockingly shrill one; but what can you expect of a woman who has been seen, over and over again, in a slatternly striped wrapper, as late as two o'clock in the afternoon-I hear his wife's voice answer from inside the house: "Yes, dear." "I said it was a south wind." "Yes, dear." "It isn't a south wind." "Lor', dear." "It's a sou'-east. I won't have Georgina taken out to-day. (Georgina is one of the first Mrs. Namby's family, and they are all weak in the chest.) Where's nurse?" "No, dear." "Pamby! Is there anything more? Here the domestic colloquy ends, for the time being. Will any sensitive personespecially a person of my own sex-please to imagine what I must suffer as a delicate single lady, at having all these family details obtruded on my attention, whether I like it or not, in the major's rasping martial voice, and in the shrill answering screams of the women inside? It is bad enough to be submitted to this sort of persecution when one is alone; but it is far worse to be also exposed to it—as I am constantly in the presence of visitors, whose conversation is necessarily interrupted, whose ears are necessarily shocked, whose very stay in my house is necessarily shortened, by Major Namby's unendurably public way of managing his private concerns. Only the other day, my old, dear, and most valued friend, Lady Malkinshaw, was sitting with me, and was entering at great length into the interesting story of her second daughter's unhappy marriage engagement, and of the dignified manner in which the family ultimately broke it off. For a quarter of an hour or so our interview continued to be delightfully uninterrupted. At the end of that time, however, just as Lady Malkinshaw, with the tears in her eyes, was beginning to describe the effect of her daughter's dreadful disappointment on the poor dear girl's mind and looks, I heard the door of the major's house bang as usual; and looking out of the window in despair, saw the major himself strut half way down the walk, stop, scratch violently at his roll of red flesh, wheel round so as to face the house, consider a little, pull his tablets out of his waistcoatpocket, shake his head over them, and then look up at the front windows, preparatory to bawling as usual at the degraded female members of his household. Lady Malkinshaw, quite ignorant of what was coming, happened, at the same moment, to be proceeding with her pathetic story, in these terms: "I do assure you, my poor dear girl behaved throughout with the heroism of a martyr. When I had told her of the vile wretch's behav iour, breaking it to her as gently as I possibly could; and when she had a little recovered I said to her ("A shoulder of mutton and onion sauce? And a devilish good dinner too.") was no protection to our ears—) -Major Namby | I have returned yours. You will find inside can roar through a brick wall. I apologized -I declared solemnly that my next door neighbour was mad-I entreated Lady Malkinshaw to take no notice, and to go on. That sweet woman immediately complied. I burn with indignation when I think of what followed. Every word from the Namby's garden (which I distinguish below by parentheses) came, very slightly muffled by the window, straight into my room, and mixed itself up with her ladyship's story in this inexpressibly ridiculous and impertinent manner: "Well," my kind and valued friend proceeded, "as I was telling you, when the first natural burst of sorrow was over, I said to her" The coarse wretch roared out those last shocking words cheerfully, at the top of his voice. Hitherto, Lady Malkinshaw had preserved her temper with the patience of an angel; but she began—and who can wonder? -to lose it at last. "It is really impossible, my dear," she said, rising from her chair, "to continue any conversation while that very intolerable person persists in talking to his family from his front garden. No! I really cannot go on-I cannot, indeed." Just as I was apologizing to my sweet friend "Yes, dear Lady Malkinshaw," I murmured, for the second time, I observed, to my great encouragingly. relief (having my eye still on the window), that the odious major had apparently come to the end of his domestic business for that morning, and had made up his mind at last to relieve us of his presence. I distinctly saw him put his tablets back in his pocket, wheel round again on his heel, and march straight to the garden gate. I waited until he had his hand on the lock to open it; and then, when "I said, my dearest, darling child("Nurse! how many errands did your mis- I felt that we were quite safe, I informed dear tress give me to do?") 666 My own love,' I said—" ("Pooh! Pooh! I tell you, I had four errands to do, and I've only got three of 'em written down. Check me off, all of you-I'm going to read my errands.") Lady Malkinshaw that my detestable neighbour had at last taken himself off, and, throwing open the window again to get a little air, begged and entreated her to oblige me by resuming the charming conversation. "Where was I!" inquired my distinguished "Your own proper pride, love,' I said, friend. 'will suggest to you ("Gray powder for baby.") "the necessity of making up your mind, my angel, to ("Row the plumber for infamous condition of back kitchen sink.") "to return all the wretch's letters, and "You were telling me what you recommended your poor darling to write inside her inclosure," I answered. "Ah, yes-so I was. Well, my dear, she controlled herself by an admirable effort, and wrote exactly what I told her. You will excuse a mother's partiality, I am sure-but I think I never saw her look so lovely-so mournfully ("Speak to the haberdasher about patching lovely, I should say--as when she was writing Jack's shirts.") those last lines to the man who had so basely trifled with her. The tears came into my eyes as I looked at her sweet pale cheeks; and I thought to myself ("Nurse! which of the children was sick, last time, after eating onion sauce?") He had come back again!-the monster had come back again, from the very threshold of the garden gate, to shout that unwarrantable, atrocious question in at his nursery window! Lady Malkinshaw bounced off her chair at the first note of his horrible voice, and changed towards me instantly-as if it had been my fault-in the most alarming and most unexpected manner. Her ladyship's face became awfully red; her ladyship's head trembled excessively; her ladyship's eyes looked straight into mine with an indescribable fierce ness. "Why am I thus insulted?" inquired Lady Malkinshaw, with a slow and dignified sternness which froze the blood in my veins. "What do you mean by it?" continued her ladyship, with a sudden rapidity of utterance that quite took my breath away. Before I could remonstrate with my friend for visiting her natural irritation on poor innocent me: before I could declare that I had seen the major actually open his garden gate to go away, the provoking brute's voice burst in on us again. Ha, yes?" we heard him growl to himself, in a kind of shameless domestic soliloquy. "Yes, yes, yes-Sophy was sick, to be sure. Curious. All Mrs. Namby's step-children have weak chests and strong stomachs. All Mrs. Namby's own children have weak stomachs and strong chests. I have a strong stomach and a strong chest. Pamby!" "I consider this," continued Lady Malkinshaw, literally glaring at me, in the fulness of her indiscriminate exasperation-"I consider this to be unwarrantable and unladylike. I beg to know——" "Where's Bill?" burst in the major from below, before she could add another word. "Matilda! Nurse! Pamby! where's Bill? I didn't bid Bill good-bye-hold him up at the window, one of you?" "My dear Lady Malkinshaw," I remonstrated, "Why blame me? What have I done?" "Done?" repeated her ladyship. "Done? -all that is most unfriendly, most unwarrantable, most unladylike, most "Ha ha! ha-a-a-a!" roared the major, shouting her ladyship down, and stamping about the garden in fits of fond paternal laughter. "Bill, my boy, how are you? There's a young Turk for you! Pull up his frock-I want to see his jolly legs Lady Malkinshaw screamed and rushed to the door. I sank into a chair, and clasped my hands in despair. "Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a! What calves the dog's got! Pamby! look at his calves. Aha! bless his heart, his legs are the model of his father's! The Namby build, Matilda: the Namby build, every inch of him. Kick again, Bill-kick out, like mad. I say, ma'am! I beg your pardon, ma'am! Ma'am? I ran to the window. Was the major actually daring to address Lady Mal kinshaw, as she passed indignantly, on her way out, down my front garden? He was! The odious monster was pointing out his-his, what shall I say?-his undraped offspring to the notice of my outraged visitor. "Look at him, ma'am. If you're a judge of children, look at him. There's a two-yearolder for you! Ha! ha! ha-a-a-a! Show the lady your legs, Bill-kick out for the lady, you dog, kick out!" COLIN'S COMPLAINT. [Nicholas Rowe, born at Little Berkford, Bedfordshire, 1673; died in London, 6th December, 1718. Dramatist, and appointed poet-laureate in 1716, on the death of Nahum Tate. The Fair Penitent, The Biter, Classes, Jane Shore, and Lady Jane Gray are the titles of a few of his plays. His poems consist of odes, epistles, pro logues and translations.] Despairing beside a clear stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid; To his sighs with a sigh did reply; Alas, silly swain that I was! Thus sadly complaining, he cry'd, When first I beheld that fair face, "Twere better by far I had dy'd. She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue; When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great. I listen'd, and cry'd, when she sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet? How foolish was I to believe She could doat on so lowly a clown, So kind and so constant would prove; What though I have skill to complain, Though the muses my temples have crown'd; What though, when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around. Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain; Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false one inclines to a swain Whose music is sweeter than thine And you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear, Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, encouragement to many others to undertake 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; 'Twas hers to be false and to change, 'Tis mine to be constant and die. If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found, Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, Is to shade me with cypress and yew; Then to her new love let her go, And frolic it all the long day; No more shall be talked of, or seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon, His ghost shall glide over the green. NOVEL-WRITERS. [Henry Fielding, born at Sharpham Park, Somersetshire, 22d April, 1707; died at Lisbon, 8th October, 1754. "The father of the English novel." Magistrate, dramatist, and novelist. He wrote twenty-five farces and comedies for the stage; but it was in satirizing the novels of Richardson that he discovered his true vocation. Joseph Andrews, Amelia, and Tom Jones (one of the introductory chapters of which we quote), notwithstanding much that is regarded as coarse in the present day, remain classic works of English fiction. "Of all the works of imagination to which English genius has given origin, the writings of Henry Fielding are, per haps, most decidedly and exclusively her own. Like many other men of talent, Fielding was unfortunatehis life was a life of imprudence and uncertainty; but it was while passing from the high society to which he was born to that of the lowest and most miscellaneous kind to which his fortune condemned him, that he acquired the extended familiarity with the English character, in every rank and aspect, which has made his name immortal as a painter of national manners."-Sir Walter Scott.] . Among other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute these several introductory chapters, I have considered them as a kind of mark or stamp which may hereafter enable a very indifferent reader to distinguish what is true and genuine in this historic kind of writing, from what is false and counterfeit. Indeed it seems likely that some such mark may shortly become necessary, since the favourable reception which two or three authors have lately procured for their works of this nature from the public, will probably serve as an the like. Thus a swarm of foolish novels and monstrous romances will be produced, either to the great impoverishing of booksellers, or to the great loss of time and depravation of morals in the reader; nay, often to the spreading of scandal and calumny, and to the prejudice of the characters of many worthy and honest people. I question not but the ingenious author of the Spectator was principally induced to prefix Greek and Latin mottoes to every paper, from the same consideration of guarding against the pursuit of those scribblers, who, having no talents of a writer but what is taught by the writing-master, and yet nowise afraid nor ashamed to assume the same titles with the greatest genius, than their good brother in the fable was of braying in the lion's skin. By the device, therefore, of his motto, it became impracticable for any man to presume to imitate the Spectators, without understanding at least one sentence in the learned languages. In the same manner I have now secured myself from the imitation of those who are utterly incapable of any degree of reflection, and whose learning is not equal to any essay. I would not be here understood to insinuate that the greatest merit of such historical productions can ever lie in these introductory chapters; but, in fact, those parts which contain mere narrative only, afford much more encouragement to the pen of an imitator than those which are composed of observation and reflection. Here I mean such imitators as Rowe was of Shakspeare, or as Horace hints some of the Romans were of Cato, by bare feet and four faces. To invent good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very rare talents, and yet I have observed few persons who have scrupled to aim at both; and if we examine the romances and novels with which the world abounds, I think we may fairly conclude that most of the authors would not have attempted to show their teeth (if the expression may be allowed me) in any other way of writing; nor could indeed have strung together a dozen sentences on any other subject whatever. Scribimus indocti doctique passim,1 may be more truly said of the historian and biographer than of any other species of writing; for all the arts and sciences (even criticism itself) require some little degree of learning and knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may perhaps be thought an exception; but then it demands numbers, or something like numbers; whereas, to the composition of novels and romances, nothing is necessary but paper, pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using them. This, I conceive, their productions show to be the opinion of the authors themselves; and this must be the opinion of their readers, if indeed there be any such. are both called by the collective name of genius, as they are of those gifts of nature which we bring with us into the world. Concerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very great errors, for by invention, I believe, is generally understood a creative faculty; which would indeed prove most romance writers to have the highest pretensions to it; whereas, by invention, is really meant no more (and so the word signifies) than discovery, or finding out; or to explain it at large, a quick and sagacious penetration into the true essence of all the objects of our con Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world, who always denominate the whole from the majority, have cast on all historical writers who do not draw their materials from records. And it is the appre-templation. This, I think, can rarely exist hension of this contempt that hath made us so cautiously avoid the term Romance; a name with which we might otherwise have been well enough contented. Though, as we have good authority for all our characters, no less indeed than Doomsday-book, or the vast authentic book of nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our labours have sufficient title to the name of history. Certainly they deserve some distinction from those works, which one of the wittiest of men regarded only as proceeding from a pruritus, or indeed rather from a looseness of the brain. But besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful as well as entertaining of all kinds of writing, there is just reason to apprehend that by encouraging such authors we shall propagate much dishonour of another kind; I mean, to the characters of many good and valuable members of society; for the dullest writers, no more than the dullest companions, are always inoffensive. They have both enough of language to be indecent and abusive. And surely, if the opinion just above cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so nastily derived should be nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make others so. To prevent, therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of leisure, of letters, and of the liberty of the press, especially as the world seems at present to be more than usually threatened with them, I shall here venture to mention some qualifications, every one of which are in a pretty high degree necessary to this order of historians. The first is genius, without a rich vein of which no study, says Horace, can avail us. By genius, I would understand that power, or rather those powers of the mind, which are capable of penetrating into all things within our reach and knowledge, and of distinguish ing their essential differences. These are no other than invention and judgment; and they without the concomitancy of judgment, for how we can be said to have discovered the true essence of two things, without discerning their difference, seems to me hard to conceive. Now this last is the undisputed province of judgment; and yet some men of wit have agreed with all the dull fellows in the world in representing these two to have been seldom or never the property of one and the same person. But though they should be so, they are not sufficient for our purpose without a good share of learning; for which I could again cite the authority of Horace, and of many others, if any was necessary to prove that tools are of no service to a workman, when they are not sharpened by art, or when he wants rules to direct him in his work, or hath no matter to work upon. All these uses are supplied by learning, for nature can only furnish us with capacity, or, as I have chose to illustrate it, with the tools of our profession; learning must fit them for use, must direct them in it; and lastly, must contribute, part at least, of the materials. A competent knowledge of history and of the belles-lettres is here absolutely necessary; and without this share of knowledge at least, to affect the character of an historian, is as vain as to endeavour at building a house without timber or mortar, or brick or stone. Homer and Milton, who, though they added the ornament of numbers to their works, were both historians of our order, were masters of all the learning of their times. Again, there is another sort of knowledge beyond the power of learning to bestow, and this is to be had by conversation. So necessary is this to the understanding the characters of men, that none are more ignorant of them than those learned pedants, whose lives have been entirely consumed in colleges and among books, for however exquisitely human nature may have been described by writers, the true prac tical system can only be learned in the world. |