jueves, 28 de abril de 2022

Exámenes de septiembre

 

El examen de septiembre de Literatura Inglesa II (grupos 1 y 2)  será el miércoles 7 de septiembre, 8,30-11,30, en el aula 1.4 del Inter II (al lado del edificio de Matemáticas).

 

Recordad que el examen consta de dos partes, teórica y práctica. La práctica (comentario de texto) sólo la tienen que hacer quienes no hayan entregado en febrero dos trabajos de curso.

La parte teórica, la que tiene que hacer todo el mundo, consta de preguntas de tipo test (multiple choice) y un tema, a elegir entre dos propuestos. Uno de los dos será uno de los principales autores, los que aparecen nombrados en el programa.  

En cuanto al test, un fallo no descuenta nada, pero cada dos fallos descuentan un acierto. (No contestar ni cuenta ni descuenta). Centraos para prepararlo en el conocimiento de los datos centrales sobre autores, obras y géneros.

 

miércoles, 27 de abril de 2022

William Drummond - A Discourse on Toleration (NIVEL AVANZADO)

 

Este discurso es un fragmento perteneciente a la History of Scotland de William Drummond of Hawthornden (publicada póstumamente en 1655). Lo pone Drummond en boca de un miembro del Consejo del rey Jacobo V, aconsejándole durante los primeros disturbios de la época de la Reforma en 1540. Según Robert Macdonald, editor de Poems and Prose de Drummond (Scottish Academic Press, 1976), Drummond revisó este texto varias veces durante la década de 1630, "and it was certainly intended as a comment upon the troubles of his own time". Tras el discurso del Consejero, la historia continúa: "But the King followed not this opinione…" (Macdonald 199).

El texto de Macdonald sigue un ejemplar de los manuscritos Hawthornden (N.L.S., MS 2057 ss., 202-8), con correcciones del propio autor, y titulado así, "A Speech on Toleration". No lo he encontrado en la Red, así que lo cuelgo y lo traduzco aquí.
Este texto es para mí uno de los hitos del pensamiento liberal y del laicismo, en una época de persecuciones, inquisiciones, quemas de herejes y guerras de religión, una época en la que se llevaba muy mal la tolerancia: era un concepto por redescubrir, y por teorizar. 

Es un texto, y una actitud, a redescubrir, pues hoy en día somos todos por supuesto muy democráticos y tolerantes, pero algunos sólo con quienes están de acuerdo con ellos contra un tercero (los terceros son "fascistas", o "nazis", o "fundamentalistas", o "inmigrantes ilegales", o "islamistas", o "extranjeros", o "separatistas"). Me llama la atención lo poco valorada que está hoy la tolerancia en muchos ámbitos: la gente la desprecia como algo "paternalista", y exige aceptación absoluta de sus opiniones (que son las correctas) y silenciamiento y represión de las del vecino si a su juicio son políticamente incorrectas.

Hay que tener en cuenta que en tiempos de Drummond la religión era el símbolo máximo de la ideología que constituye una comunidad como tal: decir "tolerancia con diversas creencias" es como hoy decir "tolerancia con el multiculturalismo" en la vida pública. El equivalente de "la única religión verdadera" es hoy "la democracia liberal y no confesional según el modelo occidental". Destaco una frase: tolerancia con todos aquellos que no tramen o lleven a la práctica nada que vaya contra las leyes del Reino. No exige Drummond que estemos de acuerdo con ellos en lo demás, ni ellos con nosotros. Y tampoco es preciso, por supuesto, que las minorías disidentes estén de acuerdo con las leyes: pero sí que las cumplan. Ay, there’s the rub, o la madre del cordero… las leyes. Sin leyes justas, no cabe hablar de tolerancia. Las leyes, y no sólo las actitudes, tienen que ser tolerantes, habría que recordarle a Drummond. Y a nuestros radicales de hoy en día, que no sólo las leyes, sino también las actitudes, tienen que ser tolerantes.


A Speech on Toleration


Sir, amongst the many blessings your Subjectes enjoye under this your Governement, this is not the least, that for the well of your Majestie, and the publicke good of the Kingdome, the meanest of your Subjectes may freelie open his minde and declare his opinione unto you his Soveraigne. And if ever there was a time in which grave, good and sound counsell should be delivered to your Majestie it is this, and the difficulyies of the Commonwealth doe now require it. Not ever in matteres of advice and consultatione can wee embrace and follow what is most reasonable, and what according to Lawes, Justice, Equitie should be, but what necessitye driveth us unto, and what is most convenient for the present time to be, and what wee may well and fairlie accomplish and bring to passe.

The Estate of your Kingdome is troubled with diversitie of opiniones concerning Religione; It is to be wished that the one onlie true Religion were in the heartes of all your Subjectes (Since diversitie of opiniones of Religione and heresies, are the verie punishment of God almightie upon men for their horrible vices and roring Sinnes. And when Men forsake his feare and true obedience, God abandoneth them to their owne opiniones and fantasies in Religion: out of which arise partialityes, factiones, divisiones, strife, intestine discords, which burst forth into civill warres, and in short time bring Kingdomes and Commonwealthes to their last Periodes). But matteres arising to such a hight and disorder, as by all appearances they are like to advance in this Kingdome, the number of the Sectaryes daylie increasing, without dissimulating my thoughts to your Majestie, the preservation of the People being the supresme and principall Law which God almightie hath enjoyned to all Princes, I hold it more expedient to give place to the exercise of both Religions, than under pretence and shadow of them to suffer the commone peace of your Subjectes to be torne in pieces. What can wisdome (Sir) advise youw to doe with these Separatists? Either they must be tollerated for a time or they must altogether be removed, and that by death or banishment? So soon as a Prince beginneth to spoyle, banish, kill, burne his people, for matters abstract from sence and altogether spirituall, hee becometh as it were a plague unto them. It is an errour of state in a Prince, for an opinione of pietie to condemne to death the adhereres to new doctrine. For, the constancie and patience of those who voluntarilie suffer all temporall miseryes and death it selfe for matteres of faith, stirre up and invite numberes, who at first and before they had suffered were ignorant of their faith and doctrine, not onlie to favour their cause but to embrace their opiniones; Pity and commiseration opening the gates: thus their Beleefe spredeth it selfe abroad, and their number daylie encreaseth. It is a no less errour of State to banish them: Banished Men are so manie Ennemyes abroad, reddye upon all occasiones to invade their native Countrie, to trouble the peace and tranquillitye of your Kingdome.

To take arms against Sectaries and Separatists will be a great enterprise, a matter hard and of many dangeres: Religione can not be preached by Armes; the first Christianes detested that forme of proceeding: force and compulsion may bring forth Hypocrites, not true Christianes. If there be any heresie amongst your people, this wound is in the Soule; our Soules being spirituall Substances upon which fire and iron can not worke, they must be overcome by spirituall armes: Love the Men and pittye their erroures? Who can laye upon a Man a necessitie to beleeve that which hee will not beleeve, or what hee will beleeve, or doth beleeve, not to beleeve. No Prince hath such power over the Soules and thoughts of Men, as hee hath over their Bodyes. Now to ruine and extirpate all those Sectaryes, what will it prove else than to cut off one of your armes, to the great prejudice of your Kingdome and weakening of the State? They daylie encreasing in number, and no Man being so miserable and mean, but that hee is a member of the State?

The more easie manner and nobler way were to tollerate both Religiones, and graunt a place to two Churches in the Kingdome till it shall please almightie God to reunite the mindes of your Subjectes, and turne them all of one will and opinione: Be content to keepe that which yee may, Sir, since yee can not that which yee would.

It is a false and erroneous opinione, that a Kingdome can not subsiste which tollerateth two Religiones: Diversitie of Religion shooteth up not societye, nor barreth civill conversatione amongst men. A little time will make persones of different Religiones contracte such acquaintance, custome, familiaritie together, that they will be intermixed in one Cittye, familie, yea mariage bed, State and Religione haveing nothing commoan. Why (I praye) may not two Religiones be suffered in a State (till by some sweet and easie meanes they be reduced to a right governement) since in the Church (which should be unione it selfe and of which the Romane Church much vanteth) all-most infinit Sectes and kyndes of Monkes are suffered; differing in their Lawes, Rules of governement, fashiones of living, dyet, apparell, maintenance and opiniones of perfectione, and who sequestree themselves from our publike unione? The Romane Empyre had its extensione, not by similitud and likenesse of Religione. Different Religiones, providing they enterprise or practise no thing against the politike Lawes of the Kingdome, maye be tollerated in a State.

The Murtheres, massacres, Battailles, which arise and are like daylie to encrease amongst Christians, all which are undertaken for Religione, are a thousand times more execrable, and be more open plaine flat impietie, than this libertye of diversitie of Religiones with a quiet peace can be unjust: for as much as the greatest part of those who flesh themselves in bloud and slaughter, and overturne by armes the peace of their Neighboures (whom they should love as themselves) spoyling and ravaging lyke famished Lyones, sacrifice their Soules to the infernall Poweres without further hopes or meanes of recoverye, and comming bake, when those otheres are in some way of Repentance.

In seeking libertie of Religione, these Men seeke not to beleeve any thing that may come in their Braines; but to use Religione according to the first Christiane institutiones, serving God and obeying the Lawes under which they were borne.

That Maxime so often echoed amongst the Church-Men of Rome, that the Chase and following of Heretikes is more necessarye than that of Infidelles, is well applyed for the inlarging and increasing of the dominiones, Souveraignitie, and power of the Pope, but not for the amplifying and extending of the Christiane Religione, and the Well and benefite of the Christian common wealth.

Kingdomes and Souveraignities should not be governed by the Lawes and interests of Priests, and Church-men, but according to the exigencie, need, and as the case requireth of the publick well, which often is necessitated to passe and tolerate some defectes and faults. It is the duetye of all Christian princes to endevoure and take paines that their Subjectes embrace the true faith, as that semblablye and in even partes they observe all Gods commandements, and not more one commandement than another. Notwithstanding when a vice cannot be extirpate and taken away without the ruine of the State, it would appear to humane judgements that it should be suffered: Neither is there a greater obligatione, bond, necessitye of Law, to punish heretickes more than fornicatores, which yet for the peace and tranquillitye of the State are tollerated and passed over. Neither can a greater inconveniencie and harme follow if wee shall suffer men to live in our Commonwealth who beleeve not nor embrace not all our opiniones. In an Estate manye thinges are for the time tollerated, because they can not without the totall ruine of the State be sudainlie amended and reformed.

These men are of that same nature and condition of which wee are; they worshippe as wee doe one God, they beleeve those very same holye Recordes; wee both aime at salvatione, wee both feare to offend God, wee both set before us one happinesse. The difference betwixt them and us hangeth on this one point, that they having found abuses in our church, require a Reformation: Now shall it be said for that wee runne diverse ways to one end, understand not rightlie otheres language, wee shall pursue otheres with fire and sword, and extirpate otheres from the face of the Earth. God is not in the bitter divisione and alienatione of affectiones, nor the raging flames of seditiones, nor in the Tempestes of the turbulent whirl-windes of contradictiones and disputationes, but in the calme and gentle breathinges of peace and concord. If any wander out of the high way, wee bring him to it again, if any be in darknesse, wee show him light, and kill him not; in musicall instruments if a string jarre and be out of tone, wee doe not freetinglie breake it, but leasurelie veere it about to a concord: and shall wee be so churlish, cruell, uncharitable, so wedded to our own superstitious opiniones, that wee will barbarouslye banish, kill, burne those who, by love and sweetnesse wee might reddilye winne and recall againe?

Let us win and demerite these men by reasone, let them be cited to a free councell, it may be they shall not be proven heretickes, neither that they maintaine opiniones condemned by the auncient Councelles. Let their Religion be compared and paraleled with the Religion of the first age of the Church.

Shall wee hold this people worse then the Jewes, which yet have their Synagoges at Rome it selfe? Let them receave instructiones from a free and lawful Councell, and forsake their erroures, when they shall be clealie and fairlie demonstrate unto them. Heresie is an errour in the fundamentall Grounds of Religion. Shisme intendeth a resolutione in separatione: Let a good Councell be convocated, and see if they be reddye or not to reunite themselves to us.

That which they beleeve is not evill, but to some it will appeare they beleeve not enough, and that there is in them rather a defect of good than anye habit of evill. Other pointes when they shall be considdered, shall be found to consiste in externall ceremonyes of the Church rather than in substance of doctrine, or what is esentiall to Christianitie. These men should be judged before condemned, and they should be heard before they be judged. Which being hollelyie and uprightlie done, wee shall find it is not our Religiones, but our private interestes and our passiones which troubleth us; and the State.



Discurso sobre la tolerancia


Señor, entre las muchas bendiciones de que vuestros súbditos gozan bajo vuestro gobierno no es la menor el hecho de que, para beneficio de Vuestra Majestad, y del bien público del Reino, el más insignificante de vuestros súbditos puede libremente exponer sus ideas y declarar su opinión ante vos, su soberano. Y si hubo jamás un momento en el que haya que dar a Vuestra Majestad un consejo serio, bueno y de fiar, es éste, y las dificultades de la nación lo hacen hoy necesario. En asuntos de consejo y consulta no siempre podemos abrazar y seguir lo que es más razonable, y lo que debería ser según las Leyes, la Justicia y la Equidad, sino aquello a lo que nos lleva la necesidad, y lo que es más conveniente que sea para el momento presente, y lo que podemos hacer que se cumpla y suceda con bien y con justicia.

El estado de vuestro Reino está inquieto con diversidad de opiniones sobre la Religión; sería de desear que la única religión verdadera estuviese en los corazones de todos vuestros súbditos (ya que la diversidad de opiniones en religión y las herejías son el castigo mismo de Dios todopoderoso a los hombres por sus horribles vicios y pecados escandalosos). Y cuando los hombres abandonan su temor y obediencia auténtica, Dios los abandona a ellos a sus propias opiniones y fantasías en religión: de las cuales surgen parcialidades, facciones, divisiones, lucha, discordias intestinas, que hacen brotar guerras civiles, y en poco tiempo llevan a los reinos y las naciones a sus últimos periodos).  Pero llegando los asuntos a tal altura y desorden, como según toda apariencia es posible que lleguen en este Reino, al crecer diariamente el número de sectarios, sin disimular mis pensamientos a vuestra Majestad, siendo la protección del Pueblo la ley suprema y principal que Dios todopoderoso ordena observar a todos los Príncipes, considero que es más conveniente hacer sitio a la práctica de ambas religiones, que hacer que con la excusa y apariencia de ellas se rompa en mil pedazos la paz común de vuestros súbditos. ¿Qué puede aconsejaros la sabiduría, Señor, que hagáis con estos separatistas? O bien deben ser tolerados durante un tiempo o deben ser completamente suprimidos, y eso  - ¿mediante la muerte o el destierro? Tan pronto como un príncipe empieza a despojar, desterrar, matar, quemar a su pueblo, por asuntos abstraídos de los sentidos y completamente espirituales, se vuelve como una peste para ellos. Es un error de Estado en un príncipe, que por cuestiones de opinión en materia de culto condene a muerte a los partidarios de una nueva doctrina. Porque la constancia y paciencia de quienes sufren voluntariamente todas las penalidades temporales y la muerte misma por cuestiones de fe agitan e invitan a muchísimos, que antes de esos sufrimientos eran ignorantes de su fe y doctrina, no sólo a favorecer su causa, sino a abrazar sus creencias, al abrirles la puerta la piedad y la conmiseración; así su creencia se extiende por todas partes, y su número a diario crece. Es un error político no menor el desterrarlos: los exiliados son otros tantos enemigos en el extranjero, dispuestos en todo momento a invadir su país natal, a turbar la paz y tranquilidad de vuestro Reino.

Tomar armas contra sectarios y separatistas sería una empresa enorme, un asunto difícil y con grandes peligros: la religión no se puede predicar con las armas; los primeros cristianos detestaban esa forma de proceder: la fuerza y la obligación pueden producir hipócritas, no auténticos cristianos. Si alguna herejía hay entre vuestros súbditos, esa herida está en el alma; al ser nuestras almas sustancias espirituales sobre las que el fuego y el hierro no pueden actuar, deben ser vencidas con armas espirituales: ¡Amad a los hombres y compadeceos de sus errores! ¿Quién puede imponer a un hombre la obligación de creer lo que no quiere creer, o de no creer lo que quiere creer, o cree? Ningún gobernante tiene semejante poder sobre las almas y pensamientos de los hombres como el que tiene sobre sus cuerpos. Y arruinar y extirpar a todos esos sectarios, ¿qué resultará ser sino cortaros uno de vuestros brazos, para gran perjuicio de vuestro reino y debilitamiento del Estado? ¿Siendo que cada día crecen en número, y que no hay hombre tan despreciable e insignificante que no sea un miembro del Estado?

La manera más fácil y vía más noble sería tolerar ambas religiones, y conceder un sitio a dos Iglesias en el reino, hasta que plazca a Dios todopoderoso reunir las mentes de vuestros súbditos, y volverlos a todos de una misma voluntad y opinión: Contentaos con mantener lo que podéis, Señor, ya que no podéis aquello que quisierais.

Es una opinión falsa y errónea, la de que no puede subsistir un reino que tolere dos religiones. La diversidad de religión no destruye la sociedad, ni impide el trato civilizado entre los hombres. Un poco de tiempo hará que personas de diferentes religiones adquieran tal trato, costumbre, familiaridad, que puedan mezclarse unos con otros en una misma ciudad, familia, y hasta lecho de matrimonio, al no tener nada en común el Estado y la Religión. ¿Por qué (suplico se me diga) no pueden dos religiones tolerarse en un Estado (hasta que de alguna manera suave y amable se reduzcan a un gobierno adecuado) si en la Iglesia (que debería ser la unión misma, y de lo cual mucho se jacta la Iglesia romana) se toleran casi infinitas sectas y clases de monjes, que difieren en sus leyes, reglas de gobierno, maneras de vivir, dieta, vestido, economía e ideas sobre la perfección, y que se aíslan de nuestra unión pública? El Imperio Romano no logró su extensión mediante la similitud y uniformidad de religión. Diferentes religiones, con tal de que no tramen ni practiquen nada contra las leyes políticas del Reino, pueden tolerarse en un Estado.

Los asesinatos, matanzas, combates, que surgen y probablemente irán a más a diario entre los cristianos, todos ellos emprendidos por causa de la religión, son mil veces más execrables, y son más claramente una mera impiedad, de lo injusta que pudiese ser esa libertad de diversidad de religiones con una paz tranquila: porque en la misma medida la mayoría de quienes se hacen a la sangre y a la matanza, y alteran con armas la paz de sus vecinos (a quienes deberían amar como a sí mismos), rapiñando y arrasando como leones hambrientos, sacrifican sus almas a los poderes infernales sin esperanza ni medio de recobrarlas ni de volver atrás, cuando aquellos otros están camino del arrepentimiento.
Al buscar la libertad religiosa, esos hombres no buscan creer cualquier cosa que se les pueda meter en los sesos, sino usar de la religión conforme a las primeras instituciones cristianas, sirviendo a Dios y obedeciendo a las leyes bajo las cuales nacieron.

Esa máxima tan a menudo repetida entre los eclesiásticos de Roma, que la persecución y detección de los herejes es más necesaria que la de los infieles, está bien aplicada para el crecimiento y aumento de los dominios, soberanía y poder del Papa, pero no para ampliar y extender la religión cristiana, ni para el bienestar y beneficio de la comunidad cristiana.
Los reinos y principados no deberían gobernarse por las leyes e intereses de los sacerdotes y eclesiásticos, sino según la exigencia, necesidad y como requiera el caso del bien público, que a menudo se ve obligado a aceptar y tolerar algunos defectos y faltas. Es deber de todos los príncipes cristianos esforzarse y cuidar mucho para que sus súbditos abracen la auténtica fe, de modo que semejantemente y por partes iguales observen todos los mandamientos de Dios, y no un mandamiento más que otro. Sin embargo, cuando un vicio no puede extirparse y suprimirse sin la ruina del Estado, parece razonable a los juicios humanos que haya de tolerarse. Ni hay mayor obligación, compromiso, ni necesidad legal, de castigar a los herejes más que a los fornicadores, que sin embargo por la paz y tranquilidad del Estado se toleran e ignoran. Ni ha de seguirse mayor inconveniencia y daño si toleramos que vivan en la comunidad hombres que no creen ni se adhieren a todas nuestras opiniones. En un Estado muchas cosas se toleran por el momento porque no pueden reformarse ni enmendarse súbitamente sin la ruina total del Estado.

Estos hombres tienen nuestra misma naturaleza y condición; adoran como nosotros a un Dios, creen en las mismas Escrituras sagradas; tanto ellos como nosotros aspiramos a la salvación, ambos tememos ofender a dios, ambos ponemos ante nosotros la misma felicidad. La diferencia entre ellos y nosotros gira sólo en este punto, que ellos, habiendo encontrado abusos en nuestra iglesia, exigen una reforma. Ahora bien, ¿habrá de decirse que como vamos por caminos distintos a un mismo fin, o como no comprendemos bien el idioma del otro, habremos de perseguir al otro con fuego y espada, y extirparlo de la faz de la Tierra? Dios no se halla en la amarga división y enajenación de los afectos, ni en las llamas rabiosas de la sedición, ni en las tempestades y torbellinos turbulentos de contrarréplicas y disputas, sino en los alientos suaves y tranquilos de la paz y la concordia. Si alguno se sale del camino, lo traemos otra vez a él, si alguno está en la oscuridad, le mostramos la luz, y no lo matamos. En los instrumentos musicales, si una cuerda suena desafinada y fuera de tono, no la rompemos enojados, sino que con calma la afinamos hasta que suena con las otras: y seremos tan toscos, crueles, faltos de caridad, tan maridados a nuestras propias opiniones supersticiosas, que bárbaramente habremos de desterrar, matar, quemar a aquellos a quienes con amor y amabilidad podríamos fácilmente convencer y hacer venir con nosotros?

Convenzamos y quitemos la razón a estos hombres con la razón; que se les convoque a un concilio libre; puede que no resulten ser herejes, ni mantengan opiniones condenadas por los antiguos concilios. Que se compare y se coteje su religión con la religión de la primera época de la Iglesia.

¿Habremos de tener a esta gente en peor consideración que a los judíos, que sin embargo tienen sus sinagogas en la misma Roma? Que reciban instrucciones de un concilio libre y legítimo, y que abandonen sus errores cuando con claridad y justicia se les demuestren a ellos. La herejía es un error en la base fundamental de la religion: el cisma intenta buscar la solución en la separación. Que se convoque un buen Consejo, y veamos si están dispuestos o no a reunirse con nosotros.

Lo que creen no es malo, pero a algunos les parecerá que no creen lo suficiente, y que hay en ellos más bien una falta de bien que hábito alguno de mal. Otros extremos cuando se examinen se verá que consisten en ceremonias externas de la Iglesia, más bien que en la sustancia de la doctrina, ni en cosas esenciales para el Cristianismo. Estos hombres deberían ser juzgados antes de ser condenados, y deberían ser escuchados antes de ser juzgados. Y si se hace santamente y con justicia, encontraremos que no son nuestras religiones sino nuestros intereses privados y nuestras pasiones las que nos alteran, a nosotros y al Estado.

Notes on Ian Watt's THE RISE OF THE NOVEL

  1: Realism and the Novel Form

The novel arises in the 18th c. because of favourable social conditions. it's a new literary genre; we must define its characteristics.

Realism. This term has come to mean "fiction that portrays low life" (from Flaubert). But the novel's realism doesn't reside in the kind of life it presents, but in the way it presents it—a scientific scrutiny of life. Epistemological value: in the 18th ce. universals have been rejected; truth comes through the senses (Locke, Descartes). But the method is more important: for the realists, the individual investigator studies the particulars of experience. Importance is given to the relation between words and reality. Descartes followed an individualist method. For the novel, individual experience is always unique, new. It can't be analyzed by referring it to the accepted models. Traditional plots are rejected for the first time (Shakespeare, Milton, the Greeks, the Romans—all considered human life basically unchangeable adn complete). Plot, character and morals are still not perfectly interpenetrated in Defoe, Richardson and Fielding. Tradicional characters (universals) are also rejected (cf. Berkeley: "everything that exists is particular"). Shaftesbury still rejects particularity and the taste of the peculiar. But in Defoe and Richardson we find a particularity of descriptions of characters and environmnet. Individual identity is a matter of controversy to the philosophers of this time. Characters are given particular names and surnames, not generic or descriptive names. (Nevertheless, Richardson's and Fielding's characters still preserve msome of that tradition. But that is a secondary function already. In Amelia names are natural, assigned in a random manner.

Locke and Hume analyze personal identity, and identify it with the identity of consciousness through duration. Both ideas and characters become general by separating them from their particular circumstances of time and place.The novel uses stories set in time: past experience is the cause of present action; time scale is more minutely discriminated. Realism is associated to the slowness of virtual time (stream of consciousness carries it to an extreme). Also, a respect arises for a coherent time-scheme which didn't exist in the classics. Defoe's plots are rooted in time; in Richardson we find a date at the heading of each letter. Fielding mocks Richardson's exactitude, but uses a time-coherent scheme: the Jacobite rebellion in 1745 and the phases of the moon in Tom Jones, etc. Time and space are inseparable. Defoe is the first writer to use a definite space and objects. In Richardson provides description of interiors: settings are, like in Balzac, a pervasive force. Fielding is more conventional, but gives an exact topography. Prose must be adapted to give an air of authenticity. Up to them, rhetoric ws used to embellish in an artificial way. Locke attacks the deceitfulness of rhetoric. Defoe and Richardson are often clumsy, because they want to be real. Fielding is more orthodox and polished But his stylistic virtues bring a selectiveness of vision which is far from the uncompromising application of the realist point of view in Richardson and Defoe. Like La Fayette and Laclos, he is too stylized to be authentic. The novel works more by exhaustive presentation than by selection—more so than other genres. It is also more translatable.

The formal realism of the novel is, too, a convention, but it allows a more immediate imitation of actual experience than other literary forms. It makes less demands on the audience. Predecessors of the novel: Homer, Chaucer, Apuleius's The Golden Ass, Aucassin et Nicolette... But this aesthetic had never been followed systematically. 

2: The Reading Public and The Rise of the Novel

There is a gradual extension of the reading class. About 80,000 in the 1690s— unreliable figures perhaps? But it's still a progress. There was a very limited distribution of literacy. School for the lower classes was intermittent and limited. It was not a necessity to learn. Books were very expensive: circulating libraries appear. The middle class grows, and there are more and more women readers. They read mostly religious works: readers of fiction are a different group. Readers of periodicals, too—a miscellaneous taste, a mixture of improvement and entertainment. Booksellers achieve a strong fiinancial standing, and can influence authors, who are their employees. Richardson was commissioned by them; Johnson was promoted by them. The commercial laws favour prose and copiousness rather than verse: this helps the novel. Writers are independent and not oriented to the Court as in France: there is a lesser force of tradition.


3: Robinson Crusoe. Individualism and the Novel

The novel's concern for the individual depends on
- the society's hight valuation of the individual
- variety of belief and action among ordinary people, to make them intereseing.
In modern society there is a value of the individual apart from society or tradition. Two historical causes: the rise of modern capitalism, and the spread of Protestantism.

Capitalism. Capitalism is linked to economic specialization,  and to more democracy; it promotes freedom of choice. Social arrangements typical of capitalism are individual, not collective (as they were in the family, the guild, the church...). There is a slow rise of capitalim from the 16th to the 19th century. Shakespeare, Jonson, Dryden, etc. defend the traditional order. Now, the contrary is the case. Hobbes stresses individualism. Locke speaks of the rights of the individual. Defoe is in this line of thought; there is a link between individualism and the rise of the novel. Robinson is homo oeconomicus. All of Defoe's heroes pursue money, according to a profit-and-loss bookkeeping technique. They enter continuous contractual relationships. Traditional relationships (family, town, nation...) appear weakened. Defoe's heroes have no family, or leave them to better their situation. The argument between his parents and Crusoe is not one of filial duty or religion, but one of material advantages. Religion has an obstructive role: the contrary appears in Defoe's moral pamphlets. Xeenophobia appears only where there are no economic virtues; "with money in the pocket one is at home everywhere." The plot of Robinson Crusoe is rooted in the realities of the time; merchants, colonists... Sex is placed under strict control as a non-rational factor: there is no romantic love, and little sexual satisfaction. Matrimony is an investment. Crusoe desires a male slave. The story of Xury is significant: relationships are treated in terms of their commodity value. With Friday, Robinson establishes egocentric master-slave relations. Only when he receives mone does he feel deep feelings. His friends are those that secure his economic interests. Crusoe and Defoe are blind to aesthetic experience. The natural scenery is exploited, not admired. If he plays with his animals, he doesn't dance with them. We find Crusoe's adventure intereesting because capitalist economic specialization has deprived us from a lot of daily life experiences. We only do one thing, and enjoy others through printed matter. Crusoe experiences the Dignity of Labour: an absolute equivalence between individual effort and individual reward. Labour is varied and inspiring. This is a Calvinistic idea: labour is a religious and ethical obligation. Friday doesn't bring relaxation, but extended productivity. Defoe cofuses religious and material values: a sophistic creed. There is still a religious framework, but this will disappear in other authors.

Protestantism. Protestantism is associated to individualism. It promotes a direct contact between man and God. Protestants emphasize self-scrutiny; journals are kept, and extreme egocentricity is promoted. Defoe was a Dissenter with no fixed creed. Crusoe has Puritan tendencies: toward self examination, Bibliolatry, interpretation of natural phenomena in an egotistic way. But Crusoe is intended to be a neutral character, a man for whom we could all substitute ourselves. Democratic individualism of Defoe—no high birth for Robinson, etc. Defoe nonetheless subordinates allegory to reality (i.e. he is a novelist, while Bunyan doesn't). Religion in his work is perfunctory: there is an unconscious secularization, due to economic and social progress. Ties with the Church are loosened, resulting in individualism.

Crusoe is a Western myth: the man who can manage on his own, without any social restrictions, and usfulness as the rule, a philosophy of laissez-faire. But it is a false myth: Defoe has disregarded the social nature of all human economies and the psychological effects of solitude. Moreover Robinson has tools: he is not a primitive or a proletarian, but a capitalist. Crusoe turns his disgrace into a triumph: solitude is the prelude to the fuller realization of the individual's potentialities. Defoe is conscious of this meaning, and he even hints that it is an allegory of his own life. An ethics of resolution against bad circumstances; praise of personal alienation from society. Communication is false, only a mockery. The first novel presents us with the annihilation of the relationships of the traditional social order: new relationships have to be built up.


4. Defoe as novelist: Moll Flanders

This is Defoe's most typical novel. Moll is a product of modern individualism; her crimes are rooted in the dynamics of economic individualism, she's not a picaro. (The picaro is not interesting in himself; it is a literary convention for the presentation of satiric observations and comic episodes). The reader identifies with Moll. Indigence is shameful: we see again Economic Man, similar to Robinson. Defoe has little control over his narrative: there are unconscious blunders, and little consistency. There is no authorial conscience—this is ephemeral writing. Most novelists concentrate on a few pictures and reduce synopses of action to a minimum. Defoe does the contrary, which weakens the force of the narrative. But it gives an impression of authenticity. He writes unadorned prose, with many Anglo-Saxon words, and focusing on the primary qualities of objects (there are no colours, sound or taste)—related to the scientific and rational outlook of the eighteenth century. It is popular fiction, highly readable, and of a journalistic nature ("Mr Review", Defoe's editorial character in "The Review", is similar to Moll Flanders as a narrator.

There is formal realism, but an incoherent structure. 2 parts, with a long first part—Moll's career as a wife. The second tells her criminal activities and their consequences. Five marriages, rather rudimentary interlockings. Her criminal adventures lead to her meeting in prison a former husband; later she returns to her family in Virginia. There is a unifying mechanism, similar to "Roxana", based on relationships, both have inconclusive endings. Unity comes through the central character, as in biographies (cf. Hume on identity) —due to a desire to be realistic, or to an inability to be otherwise? According to Aristotle, history is concerned with what actually happened, and poetry with the propable or necessary. Defoe then writes pseudo-history, as a liar.

Moll Flanders is a novel of character without any psychological analysis: elections are made quickly and aptly, automatically. He assumes the heroine's character withougt describing it. But we are told contradictory things; she has hidden information, etc. Is she a loving wife? A heartless mother? Is she affectionate? She enters self-centered relationships with other characters. Moll is similar to Defoe: her feminine traits are superficial. The novel was admired by Virginia Woolf because Moll shows no unconscious feminine traits. She is, according to Defoe, a public-minded citizen who has had bad luck. She doesn't like vice for its own sake. But Moll is also unaffected by her surroundings.

A middle-class notion of gentility reigns, a restless and amoral individualism. There is an unconscious identification between the author and the character. Defoe claims that it is a moral story, that crime doees not pay, but this is unsubstantiated. Moll is not repentant—that would impair the delight the reader takes in the action, and it would also be less immediate. Didactic commentaries fail to be clearly placed at any stage of moral development. Formal realism appears here as an end, not as a means: there is no moral. Morals will later be expressed through the control of the point of view; Defoe has no such control. Claims are sometimes made that he did have it—that he is morally detached from his heroine, e.g. in the ironical preface (Virginia Woolf, Coleridge, E. M. Forster). There is often a bathetic transition from sentiment to action (money, rhum); but the irony has a dubious status, there is no consistent ironical attitude throughout the novel. Defoe cannot ironize—only impersonate (as in "The Shortest Way with the Dissenters"). Only in an ahistorical view can Moll Flanders be considered a masterpiece, by judging it by the standards of our time—which is a tribute to Defoe's vitality as a writer. His formal realism mixes many traditions (tragedy, comedy, history journalism); irony can be achieved by contrasting the attiudes peculiar to them, but Defoe doesn't know that. There is a lack of moral or formal pattern, a weakness of construction, an inattention to detail. But he has a supreme talent as a realist portrayer of episodes. Richardson will have both assets—which is why he is the real founder.

Defoe, like Marlowe, produces unconsciously autobiographic works, episodic in nature—ego vs. mundum.  As in Stendhal, individualism rules: an energetic and unwise vision of life. There is a kind of moral: an energetic stoicism, a comfortable vitality. The chance mingling of attitudes and situations is original, and will influence later novels. Defoe creates both a new subject and a new literary form to embody it.

5. Love and the Novel: Pamela

Richardson solves some of Defoe's failures: he gives the novel a plot. The traditional theme of courtship is exploited in a new way, to give his novels unity, not episodity.

I. Love as a positive value arises in Provence. Like individualism, it has its roots in Christianity (the courtship of the Virgin). However, courtly love was too conventionalied to be a novel plot. In England, a new conception of marriage arises, through puritan influence. Marriage as God-given unity, difficult for women to achieve. In Pamela we find romantic love combined with social class conflicts, and conflicts between sexual instinct and the moral code.

II. The values of courtly love and those of marriage can only be combined when there is consent, free choice. Early modern England was more liberal to women than other countries. Romantic love and matrimony are the correlative of the elementary family and the disgregation of the patriarchal system. In Defoe and Richardson, there is a tendency to the assertion of individual freedom from family ties. But women are under Roman law; they can't realize economic individualism. Roxana is a clear example. The need of a dowry was unfavourable to women.

III. There was a popular concern for these facts. The status of unmarried women declined; they come to be seen as ridiculous: the word 'spinster' appears. They had to accept badly-paid jobs or dependence: there were no convents available for high-class spinsters. Richardson advocates such convents. Bachelors appear as socially deplorable and morally dangerous (especially for Puritans). Richardson's Grandison declares: "I am for having everybody marry." Pamela symbolizes the aspirations of all women in that period, and has been followed by many (in similar conditions). The marriage ceremony goes on for 200 pages; at that time, the terms of marriage aren't still well defined. Mr. B tries to delude Pamela with a mock marriage. Puritans support this view of marriage—even if it means that they must get married in an Anglican church.

IV. Feminine reading public: a taste for fiction and moral works. Pamela has both. Richarson has feminine tastes; domestic detail is an enjoyement to women. The plot provides flattery on women, and discipline on men. The woman rises socially.

V. A clash of two attitudes on sex and marriage, represented by Richarson and Fielding.  Richardson adjusts language to the new feminine code. There is a decarnalization of the public feminine role, and a systematic bowdlerizing. (Richardson's prudery).

VI. These changes explain Pamela's unity and its combination of moral purity and impurity. A departure from Stiltrennung—a combination of high and low motives, e.g. chastity is valued by a servant-girl. The psychological and moral content is deeper than ever: barriers are not social, but psychological. Puritanism builds a bridge between flesh and spirituality, through marriage (Courtly love doesn't). But woman must wait until she is engaged to feel love—in Pamela, when she is going away. Both characters recognize themselves. The plot includes a peripety and recognition which coincide (the best for Aristotle). This is made possible because of the unprecedented disparity between social roles and feelings. This has led to contradictory interpretations—is Pamela a hypocrite? It is social circumstances that forbid openness. It is a sex-centered work; taboo is always the centre of attention and interest. The novel appears as an initiation site to the fundamental mystery of society. Pamela is a combination of sermon and strip-tease.

Chapter 7- Richardson as Novelist - Clarissa

Richardson is a conscious innovator: he hopes that Pamela will induce a new species of writing. Clarissa revolves better the problems of the unification of narrative mode, plot, characters, and morals. There are no digressions: the themes spring from the subject (Richardson says).

I. A better use of the letter form. In Pamela, there is the dange of one-sidedness, compromising the credibility of the heroine. It ends up in a journal; the editor is a clumsy device. In Clarissa the epistolary narrative carries the whole burden. It is a dramatic narrative rather than a history, Richardson claims. The formal division rests on the dichotomy of the sexual roles: Clarisa and Lovelace write to people with their own morals, in an uninhibited way. There is a relationship between the action and the narrative mode. In the first and second volumes, only Clarissa writes; then both, at last only Clarissa. The tempo varies (e.g. in the rape scene). There is a careful characterization: Lovelace did not seem a complete villain at the time. Clarissa sees that he has good sense at the bottom, and it is that which makes her fall in his power. The moral is that both parties were wrong—her parents ought'ntto have forced Mr Solmes on her, and she shouldn't have gone away. Christian morals. As in Pamela, virtue is rewarded—but in Heaven. In spite of this, Clarissa is a tragedy. Knowledge of religion is weak, and there is a sense of defeat at the end. One third of the book is taken up by the funeral. Funeral literature was fashionable at the time; even Puritans allowed rich funerals. In her death, Clarissa collaborates with God, who has marked her for his own.

II. Richardson's moralizing, like Defoe's, is unpalatable. Fielding and Sterne are satirists: we don't judge their values. But Richardson's identification with these values makes Clarissa coherent. An obsession for class distinctions. In Pamela, there is a colliding respect for nobility and a contempt for Mr B's morals. In Clarissa, both belong to a similar class: wealthy landed gentry with aristocratic connections—Clarissa's a little less aristocratic. For James, daughters are chickens brought up for the tables of other men. He is an ally of Solmes—he doesn't want Clarissa to have a a high dowry. Solmes belongs to a lower class, but he is rich, and he only wants her father's estate (which is already hers, given her by her grandfather). Lovelace appears as attractive and motivated by attraction, while Solmes is moved by money. Clarissa is alone: both family authority and economic individualism go against her. She escapes to be free, not because of love. And to Lovelace, one of the two must be a prize. He believes at first that women have no souls—at last he acknowledges hers as superior. All others, except for Clarissa, use people as means (which Kant will forbid to do). Lovelace fears her when she is in his power, because of her inner inviolability. Lovelace believes women's bashfulness to be hypocritical—a Cavalier attitude, whereas Clarissa's is puritan.

Clarissa doesn't want to marry Lovelace—an assertment of the seriousness of the code. A reformed rake will is not a good husband (compare here the plot of Pamela). Lovelace becomes convinced that she loved virtue for its own sake.

Sexual repression can lead to self-deception (as in Pamela). In Clarissa, psychological tension arises from this self-deception. She gradually discovers that she is in love with Lovalce, something which Anna Howe knew all along. Lovelace's sophistries, on the contrary, are conscious: his honour consists in telling the truth to men and lying to women. Sadism is the extreme attitude of Lovelace's position. A sadistic sexual male vs. a masochistic asexual female (the violation episode is one of extreme passivity). Clarissa has a sexual dream in which Lovelace stabs her: an equation of sex and death by Clarissa. And she knows she's not wholly blameless.

There are various perverse deviations of sexual impulse in Clarissa's funeral. Diderot hails Richardson as the first who discovered the frightening reality of unconscious life even in virtuous persons. Evil and good are mitigated; there is a denser psychological pattern. Lovelace's villainy is conscious, buth there is a stifled goodness beneath. Their attitudes are extreme; human love is impossible because Clarissa doesn't recognize the flesh nor Lovelace the spirit; he recognizes himself only through his rakery. They are star-crossed lovers: the barriers between them are psychological—the result of internalized social forces. In theory, the novel offers flat didacticism, but actually there is deep penetration and an insight into the final ambiguity of human life.



Fielding as Novelist: Tom Jones

A widely different conception of the novel in Fielding and Richardson: two outlooks on life. Johnson condemns Fielding as coarse, although he is nearer to his own neo-classicism. He was a friend of Richardson, and finds in Fielding "superficial characters of manners". It is not so much a contrast between physical description vs. psychology as a matter of sketchiness vs. detail in both aspects. Fielding has less characterization and relies heavily on a complicated plot (Coleridge speaks of the plot of Tom Jones as one of the three best plots in literature together with Oedipus and Volpone; a return to norm in Fielding). In Moll Flanders money determines the action. In Fielding it is a plot device. Birth is a determining factor (in Defoe it was money, in Richardson virtue): Fielding is a classist. Tom doesn't discuss the appropriateness of the custom that forbids him to marry Sophia. In Richardson, the individual is crucified by society; Tom Jones adapts successfully. In Richardson, character changes and proximity drive the plot; in Fielding, a kind of law over the individual. Individuals are individual manifestations of the great pattern of Nature; they are not individuals but a species [cf. Johnson's neoclassicism.] Fieldings objective is taxonomic. Also, Richardson's approach is a breach of decorum, an intentional one. But it leads to emotional artificiality—exaggerated reactions in order to show feelings. There is little psychological development in Fielding. Has Tom learned anything? We have to believe Fielding on this issue.

An Aristotelian view of character in Fielding. Actions are not the consequences of moral behaviour; personal relationships are unimportant. Neither can touch a fixed character. There is a lack of communication between characters. Sub-plots are episodes which are dramatic variations of the central theme. There is an explicit authorial control over a fictional world. Tom thinks of Sofia but goes with Molly: he is merely a puppet to desmonstrate an idea of Fielding's. The importance of plot in the novel in general is in inverse proportion to that of character. A complicated plot leads to passive agents, but happily contrived secondary characters, those not hampered by the needs of the narrative design (the protagonists sometimes do actions which are at variance with their authors' intentions).

To Johnson, Fielding makes immoral people attractive. But Fielding's morals are more Shakespearean. He broadens our moral senses: sex is accepted in the tradition of the comedy. The author as omniscient chorus; essayistic digressions, which produce a distancing effect. An ironical attitude rowards the reality of his own creation. Moral sense is conveyed mainly through the author's speech, not through action—a defect. Fielding goes far from formal realism, but gives a wider view of mankind and society. Not of the individual, though.


Realism and the Later Tradition: A Note

Sterne conciliates Richardson and Fielding, with both internal and external approaches to character: formal realism of time, place, and persons, and lifelike action. Great detail. But it is a parody, not a novel. Narration in the present of the author's mind (as in Richardson)—but it is past because of its subject. External time as in Fielding (allusions to Flanders). Contrast between literature and reality; the time of reading, life, and the time of writing. Mental life gives flexibility and accounts for durée. There is a freedom to comment, as in Fielding, but no unrealistic effect because it is autobiographic. Contrastive scenes in order to assess (artificial in Fielding) are natural in Sterne because of the stream of consciousness. Toby is benevolent as Clarissa, but there is also irony (Widow Wadman, similar to Lady Booby in Fielding). Characters are shown in detail, but they are humours. An undermining or a reconciliation of Fielding and Richardson?

Jane Austen and Fanny Burney: Similar to Grandison, emphasis on daily life). Minute presentation of everyday life, but a detached attitude. Authorial narration, not a participant narrator. But they do not produce an inauthentic effect, distancing is discreet. And the point of view is close to the subjective world. The themes too: social and moral problems of economic individuals and the middle-class quest for status. They are centered on the feminine role, marriage.



Notes from Ian Watt's book 

 The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson and Fielding. (Berkeley: U of California P; London: Chatto & Windus, 1957) Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1963.


martes, 26 de abril de 2022

Thomas Robert Malthus (NIVEL AVANZADO)

 

The Eighteenth-Century Novel (Saintsbury)

 

From George Saintsbury's A History of English Literature.
Book IX: Middle and Later Eighteenth-century Literature.  

 Ch. II, "The Eighteenth-century Novel"

Richardson - Fielding - Smollett - Sterne - Minor novelists - Walpole - Beckford - Mrs. Radcliffe - Lewis


Some reference has been made earlier to the differences, or rather the hesitations, of opinion in reference to the exact history of the English novel (1). But for general purposes these may be neglected. The early prose romance, the Euphuist innovation, major and minor, the philosophical or Utopian fantasy, the brief Elizabethan tale, the long-winded translations or imitations of the Scudéry Heroic story, the picaresque miscellany, and the like, are stages obvious as the general history unfolds itself. As to the exact position which the great names of Bunyan and of Defoe hold, difference may be agreed to with resignation. What is certain is that about the beginning of the second quarter of the eighteenth century, the period immediately succeeding the appearance of Defoe's work, there began a development of the prose novel, and that this, partly though by no means wholly owing to one group of great writers in the style, had made very great progress by the beginning of the third, about which time we find lady Mary Wortley Montagu in Italy receiving boxes full of new novels from her daughter in England.
(1) This history has been put briefly, but with much knowledge and grace, in Mr. W. A. Raleigh's The English Novel (London, 1894).

It is so difficult to mark out the precise stages by which the modern novel came into being, that the wisest critics have abstained from attempting it. We can only say that, for the nearly three generations which passed between the Restoration and the publication of Richardson's Pamela, there was an ever greater determination and concentration towards completed prose fiction; and that the use of the general form in two such different ways by two such different men as Swift and Defoe is sufficient proof how near, by the end of the second decade or so, that completed form was. But there was not much general practice of it (1). Mrs. Manley and Mrs. Haywood, women of no very good reputation, followed in the footsteps of Afra Behn, and achieved a certain popularity, but the novels of the former are thinly-veiled political libels. The earlier books of Mrs. Haywood are in seventeenth-century styles, and though she lived to do better in Betsy Thoughtless (1751) and Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy (1753), these were not published till long after the three great re-creators of the novel had shown the way. To them, therefore, we may as well turn at once. 
(1) The minor novels of the eighteenth century are not generally accessible save in the original editions. There is, indeed, one useful and rather full collection, Harrison's Novelists, but, as a whole, it is very bulky, and duplicates much that every one has on his shelves in other forms. Richardson has been sometimes, Fielding, Smollett, Sterne, and Miss Burney have been often, reprinted.

Richardson

Samuel Richardson, by a great deal the oldest, by a little the precursor in actual publication, and indirectly the inspirer of his greatest and nearest successor, was born in 1689 in Derbyshire, his father being a joiner, his mother of rather higher rank. He went to Charterhouse, and was apprenticed in 1706 to a printer, whose daugher he afterwards married. After setting up for himself he became very prosperous, had a house in Salisbury Court, Fleet Street, and another, first at North End, then at Parson's Green, was Master of the Stationers' Company in 1754, and King's Printer in 1761. A year later he died of apoplexy. He was contented for many years to print books without writing them, and he was past fifty when a commission or suggestion from two well-known London publishers, Rivington and Osborne, for a sort of Model Letter-writer (he had in his youth practised as an amateur in this art) led to the composition of Pamela, which (at least the first part of it) was published in 1740, and became very popular. Richardson had already made some acquaintance with persons of a station superior to his own, and the fame of his book enlarged this, while it also tempted him to fly higher. In 1748 he produced Clarissa, which is usually considered his masterpiece, and in 1753 Sir Charles Grandison. Except one paper in The Adventurer, he published nothing else, but left an enormous mass of correspondence. Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, gives the story of a girl of low degree who, resisting temptation, marries her master, and in the second and less good part reclaims him from irregular courses; Clarissa, that of a young lady of family and fortune, who, partly by imprudence, partly by misfortune, falls a prey to the arts of the libertine Lovelace and, resisting his offers of marriage, dies of a broken heart, to be revenged in a duel by her cousin; Sir Charles Grandison, that of a young man of still higher family and larger fortune, who is almost faultless, and constantly successful in all his endeavours, and who, after being the object of the adoration of two beautiful girls, the Italian Clementina della Porretta and the English Harriet Byron, condescends to make the latter happy. Richardson's expressed, and beyond the slightest doubt his sincere, purpose in all was, not to produce works of art, but to enforce lessons of morality. Yet posterity, while pronouncing his morals somewhat musty and even at times a little rancid, has recognised him as a great, though by no means an impeccable, artist. It is noteworthy that his popularity was as great abroad as at home—indeed, it far exceeded that which any English writer, except Scott and Byron, has obtained on the Continent during his lifetime. His adoption of the letter-form influenced novelists very powerfully, and though his style and spirit were less imitable, there is no doubt that they practically founded the novel of analysis and feeling, as distinguished from the romance of adventure.

His fault is an excessive long-windedness (Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison are by far the longest novels of great merit in English, if not in any language), an inability, which grew upon him, to construct a stroy with any diversified and constantly lively interest, an almost total lack of humour, and a teasing and meticulous  minuteness of sentimental analysis, and history of motive and mood. To those Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, a formidable critic, added, justly enough, though not so importantly from our point of view as from hers, an ignorance of the society which, in his two later novels, he endeavours to depict. His merits, on the other hand, are a faculty of vivid, though too elaborate, presentation of the outward accessories of his scenes; a real, though somewhat limp, grasp of conversation; an intense, though not very varied or extensive, mastery of pathos; and, above all, a one-sided, partial, but intimate and true, knowledge of human motive, sentiment, and even conduct, his time being considered. The proviso is necessary; and the overlooking of it (with perhaps some personal reasons) was at the bottom of Johnson's now almost incomprehensible preference of Richardson over Fielding. Richardson knew the feminine character of his time with a quite extraordinary thoroughness and accuracy, though his men are much less good; whereas Fielding knew both men and women first, eighteenth-century men and women only afterwards, and however well, in a minor degree. Nor, though Johnson had plenty of humour himself, was he likely to resent the absence of it in Richardson, as he resented the presence of a kind different from his own in Fielding.

Great, however, as are Richardson's qualities, and immense as was the impetus which his popularity and his merits combined gave to the English novel, he cannot be said to have given that novel anything like a final or universal form. The scheme of letters, though presenting to the novelist some obvious advantages and conveniences, which have secured it not merely immediate imitation but continuance even to the present day, has disadvantages as obvious, and can never rise to the merits of prose narrative from the outside (1). But it is one of not the least curiosities of literature that the attainment of the true and highest form actually resulted from an exercise in parody, which certainly, cannot be regarded as in itself a very high, and has sometimes been regarded as almost the lowest, form of literature. It is less curious, and much less unexampled, that the author of this parody was a man who had already tried, with no very distinguished success, quite different kinds of writing.
(1) In combination it can do wondrously, as in Redgauntlet.


Fielding

Henry Fielding was born at Sharpham Park, in the south of Somerset, on 22nd April 1707. His birth was higher than that of any mano of letters of all work who had preceded him. The house of Fielding claimed kindred with that of Hapsburh; it had ranked among English gentry since the twelfth century; and in the century before the novelist's birth it had been ennobled by two peerages, the earldom of Denbigh in England and that of Desmond in Ireland. Herny Fielding himself was great-grandson of the first Earl of Desmond of this creation, but was, of course, unconnected with the great Geraldines who came to an end when they rebelled against Elizabeth. His grandfather was a canon of Salisbury, his father a general in the army who had seen service under Marlborough; his mother's father was a Justice of the King's Bench, and it was at his house that the novelist was born. Nor is it to be omitted that he was a near cousin of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, whose mother was a Fielding.

But though his pedigree was thus undeniable, his immediate forebears had for two generations been younger sons, and his own patrimony was little or nothing. He was, indeed, well educated at Eton and at Leyden, but he seems to have found himself at twenty-one in London with a nominal allowance and no particular interest for any profession, though, like other young gentlemen, he was of the Inns of Court. He turned to the stage, and for not quite ten years produced a large number of plays, neither very bad nor very good, of which Tom Thumb, a burlesque "tragedy of tragedies," is perhaps the best, and certainly the only one which has kept any reputation. About 1735 he seems to have married a Miss Charlotte Craddock, who was very beautiful, very amiable, and an heiress in a small way; but whether, as legend asserts, Fielding really set up for a country gentleman on the strength of her fortune, and spent it on hounds and showy liveries, is quite uncertain. His theatrical enterprises being interfered with by some new legislation in 1737, he turned seriously to the law, was called to the Bar, and practised or at least went on circuit, while in 1739 he contributed largely to the Champion, a paper on the Spectator pattern (1). His first published, though probably not his first written novel, The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams, appeared in February 1742, when its author was almost exactly thirty-five. It was successful, and next year Fielding published three volumes of Miscellanies, the important parts of which are A Journey from this World to the Next, in the Lucianic manner which Tom Brown had made popular, and the mighty ironic story of Jonathan Wild. His wife died soon after this publication, and he married again but not for some years afterwards. He returned to periodical essay-writing (the True Patriot and the Jacobite's Journal) in '45 on the Whig side, and in 1759 he produced his third and greatest novel, Tom Jones. Meanwhile, Lyttelton had obtained for him the position of Bow Street Magistrate, as it was called, or Justice of the Peace for Westminster, an office which, though poorly paid, was of enormous importance, for its holder practically had the police of London, outside the City, in his hands. He dischrged its duties to admiration, and found time not merely to publish his last novel, Amelia, in 1751, but to conduct the Covent Garden Journal for the greater part of 1752. His health, however, was ruined, and, trying to restore it by travel, he undertook in June 1754 the voyage to Lisbon which forms the subject of his last book, issued after his death. He reached the Portuguese capital in August, but died on the 8th of October.
(1). Fielding's dramatic, periodical, and miscellanous works must be sought in their original editions, the best of which is in 4 vols. 4to (London, 1762), or in the great édition de luxe of Mr. Leslie Stephen. The present writer attempted a selection from them in the last volume of an issue of the novels, the Journey, and the Voyage, which he superintended (12 vols. London, 1893).

Fielding's first novel started as a deliberate burlesque of Pamela. Its hero is the brother of Richardson's heroine, and her trials are transferred to this Joseph. Nor did Fielding ostensibly give up his scheme throughout the book; but his genius was altogether too great to allow him to remain in the narrow and beggarly elements of parody, and after the first few Chapters, we forget all about Richardson's ideas and morals. The great character of Mr. Abraham Adams—a poor curate, extremely unworldly, but no fool, a scholar, a tall an of his hands, and a very Good Samaritan of ordinary life—is only the centre and chief of a crowd of wonderfully lifelike characters, all of whom perform their parts with a verisimilitude which had never been seen before off the stage, and very seldom there; while the new scheme of narrative gave an infinitely wider and more varied scope than the stage ever could give. Moreover, one of the instruments of this vivid presentation—an instrument the play of which not seldom sufficed in itself to make the literary result—was a very peculiar irony, almost as intense as Swift's, though less bitter, indeed hardly bitter at all, and dealing with life in a fashion which, but for being much more personal and much less poetic, is very nearly of the same kind as Shakespeare's.

In his next published book, Jonathan Wild, this irony predominates, and is more severe. The hero was a historical personage, an audacious and ingenious blend of thief and thief-taker, who had been hanged ten years earlier. Fielding's ostensible object in composing an imaginary party-history of him was to satirise the ideas of "greatness" entertained by the ordinary historian—a design showing not imitation of, but sympathy with, certain ways of thought diversely illustrated by Swift and Voltaire. But his genius, intensely creative, once more broke away from this ideal—though the ironic side of Jonathan Wild is stronger than anything else in English or any literature outside the Tale of a Tub, and so strong that the book has probably on the whole shocked, pained, or simply puzzled more readers than it has pleased. But it is really as full of live personages as Joseph Andrews itself; and if these, being drawn almost entirely from the basest originals, cannot be so agreeable as the not more true but far more sympathetic characters of the earlier-published novel, they are, as literature, equally great, and perhaps more astonishing.

It was, however, in his third and longest novel, Tom Jones, that Fielding attained a position unquestionable by anything save mere prejudice or mere crotchet. Joseph Andrews had been, at least in inception, only a parody, and Jonathan Wild mainly a satire; the former, though not destitute of plot, had had but an ordinary and sketchy one, and the latter chiefly adapted actual facts to a series of lifelike but not necessarily connected episodes. Tom Jones, on the contrary, is as artfully constructed as the most nicely proportioned drama, and, long as it is, there is hardly a character or an incident (with the exception of some avowed episodic passages, made tolerable and almost imperative by the taste of the day and the supposed example of the classical epic) which is not strictly adjusted to the attainment of the story's end. To us, perhaps, this is a less attraction than the vividness of the story itself, the extraordinarily lifelike presentation of character, and (though this is a charm less universally admitted) the piquancy of the introductory passages. In these (after a manner no doubt copied from the parabases or addresses to the audience in the chorus of the older Attic comedy, and itself serving, beyond all doubt likewise, as a model to the later asides of Thackeray — Fielding takes occasion sometimes to discuss his own characters, sometimes to deal with more general points. But the characters themselves, and the vivacity with which they are set to work, are the thing. The singular humanity of Tom Jones himself, a scapegrace even according to the ideas of his time, but a good fellow; the benevolence, not mawkish or silly, of Allworthy; the charms and generosity of Sophia; the harmless foibles of Miss Western, the aunt, and the coarse but not offensive clownishness of her brother, the Squire, with the humours of Partridge the schoolmaster, and others, have always satisfied good judges. Even among the black sheep, Lady Bellaston, shameless as she is, is a lady; and at the other end of the scale, Black George, rascal as he is, is a man. Only perhaps the villain Blifil is not exactly human, not so much by reason of his villainy, as because Fielding, for some reason, has chosen to leave him so.

There is somewhat less power and life in Amelia, though its sketches of London society in the lower and middle classes are singularly vivid, and though the character of the heroine as an amiable wife, not so much forgiving injuries as signoring their commission, has been almost idolised by some. But no other novelist of the time — and by this the novelists were numerous — could have written it.

On the whole, if we are to pronounce the novel as such present for the first time in the pages of any writer, it must be in those of Fielding rather than in those of Richardson. Johnson, in his prejudice, endeavored to set the latter above the former by comparing Fielding to a man who can only tell the time, and Richardson to one who can put together the watch. The point may be very stoutly argued; but if it be admitted, it can be turned against Johnson. For Fielding does tell the clock of nature with absolute and universal correctness, while Richardson's ingenious machinery sometimes strikes twenty-five o'clock, and constantly gives us seconds, thirds, and other troublesome details instead of putting us in possession of the useful time of day. And in fact the comparison itself will not really hold water. Fielding does not parade his mechanism as Richardson does, but his command of it is every whit as true, and in reality as delicated. He first in English (1), he thoroughly, and he in a manner unsurpassable, put humanity into fictitious working after such a fashion that the effect hitherto produced only by the dramatist and poet, the practical re-creation and presentation of life, was achieved in the larger and fuller manner possible only to the prose novelist.
(1) "In English," for, as he himself was eager to confess, Cervantes in Spanish had not merely preceded him, but had served as his model.

Smollett

The novels of Tobias George Smollett relapse in appearance and general plan upon a form — that of the "picaresque" or adventure-novel — older than that of Fielding or even of Richardson; but in reality they contributed largely to the development of the new fiction. Their author was born in 1721 at Dalquhurn, in the West of Scotland, and was a member of a good family, of which, had he lived a little longer, he would have become the head. He was born, however, the younger son of a younger son, and the harsh treatment of Roderick Random by his relations has been thought to reflect upon his own grandfather, Sir James Smollett of Bonhill, Judge of the Commissary Court of Scotland, M.P., and Commissioner for the Union. However this may be, Smollett, though well educated, had to make his own way in the world, and was apprenticed to a Glasgow surgeon. He practised at different times during his life, but his real profession was literature, by which he set out to make his fortune in London at the age of eighteen. He did not make it with a bad and boyish tragedy, The Regicide (1), but took the place of surgeon's mate on board a man-of-war in the Carthagena expedition of 1640. He does not seem to have served long, but remained for some years in the West Indies, and probably they married his wife, Anne Lascelles, a small heiress. Returning to England he tried poems and plays with no success, and then in 1748 turned to novel-writing with a great deal, as the deserved reward of Roderick Random. 

From this time onward, Smollett was a novelist by taste and genius, and a man of letters of all work by necessity. In the former capacity he wrote and published Peregrine Pickle (1751), Ferdinand, Count Fathom (1753), Sir Lancelot Greaves in 1760, and in 1771 Humprey Clinker. In the latter he edited the Critical Review, wrote a very popular and profitable History of England, gave an account, in an ill-tempered but not uninteresting book, of his Travels in France and Italy, and did a great deal of miscellaneous work, including a fierce and foul, but rather dull, political lampoon, The Adventures of an Atom. His health, between hard work and the hard living then usual, brok down early, and making a second visit to italy, he died at Leghorn in October 1771.
(1) Smollett's plays and poems are seldom reprinted with the numerous editions of his novels, but may be found in Chalmers; his History is on all the stalls; his criticism and miscellaneous works have never been, and are never likely to be collected in full. The Travels, which are worth reading, have been more than once reprinted.

Smollett's miscellaneous work, though almost always competent, and sometimes much more, need not detain us; his novels, excellent in themselves, are of the highest historical importance. It has been said that he fell back on the adventure-scheme. Plot he hardly attempted; and even, as regards incident, he probably, as Thackeray says, "did not invent much," his own varied experiences and his sharp eye for humorous character giving him abundant material. In Roderick Random he uses his naval experiences, and perhaps others, to furnish forth the picture of a young Scotchman, arrogant, unscrupulous, and not too amiable, but bold and ready enough; in Peregrine Pickle he gives that of a spendthrift scapegrace, heir to wealth; in Fathom he draws a professional chevalier d'industrie. The strange fancy which made him attempt a sort of "New Quixote" in Sir Launcelot Greaves has seldom been regarded as happy, either in inception or inresult; but in Humphrey Clinker we have the very best of all his works. It is written in the letter form, the scenes and humours of many places in England and Scotland are rendered with admirable picturesqueness, while the book has seldom been excelled for humorous character of the broad and farcical kind. Matthew Bramble, the testy hypochondriac squire who is at heart one of the best of men, and in head not one of the foolishes; his sour-visaged and greedy sister Tabitha; her maid Winifred Jenkins, who has learnt the art of grotesque misspelling from Swift's Mrs. Harris, and has improved upon the teaching; the Scotch soldier of fortune, Lismahago, — these are among the capital figures of English fiction, and in the earlier books are the Welsh surgeon's mate Morgan, Commodore Trunnion, and others.

Besides this conception of humorous if somewhat rough character, and a remarkable faculty of drawing interiors which acompanies it, and in which he perhaps even excels Fielding, Smollett made two very important contributions too the English novel. The first was the delineation of national types in which he, almost for the first time, reduced and improved the stock exaggerations of the stage to a human and artistic temper. The second, not less important, was the introduction, under proper limitations, of the professional interest. He had, though less of universality than Fielding, yet enough of it to be successful with types in which he had only observation, not experiment, to guide him, but he was naturally most fortunate with what he knew from experience, sailors and "medical gentlemen." Until his time the sailor had been drawn almost entirely from the outside in English literature. Smollett first gives him to us in his habit as he lived, and long continued to live. To these great merits must be added one or two drawbacks — a hardness and roughness of tone approaching ferocity, and not more distinguished from the somewhat epicene temper of Richardson than from the manly but kindly spirit of Fielding, and an exreme coarseness of imagery and language — a coarseness which can hardly be called immoral, but which is sometimes positively revolting.


Sterne 


One element, however, or one special conmixture of elements, remained to be added in fiction, and then (if we except such minor varieties as the terror-novel to be handled shortly) it remained with no important addition or progress until the day of Scott and Miss Austen within the present [19th] century. This was supplied, that the three kingdoms might be separately and proportionately represented, by Laurence Sterne (1), an Irishman by birth at least, and something of an Irishman in temperament.
(1) The standard edition of Sterne — novels, sermons and not quite complete letters — is in 10 vols. The work other than the novels has been often omitted in reprints; but, as in the case of Fielding, the present writer has arranged a selection from it in 2 vols (London, 1894).


 The Sternes were an East-Anglian family which, after a member became Archbishop of York in the seventeenth century, was chiefly connected with Yorkshire. Laurence was the son of Roger Sterne, a captain in the army, who was the younger son of Simons Sterne of Erlington, third son of the Archbishop, and he was born at Clonmell, where his father was quartered, in 1713, was educated at Halifax, and went thence to Jesus College, Cambridge, of which, many years before, the Archbishop had been Master. He took his degree in 1736, and orders soon afterwards, receiving the livings of Sutton and Stillington as well as minor preferment in York chapter. He married Elizabeth Lumley in 1741, and for some twenty years seems to have felt, or at any rate indulged, no literary ambition. But on New Year's Day 1760 there appeared in York and London the first volume of The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gent. It was immediately popular, it made its author a lion in the capital and it turned his attention definitely to literary work, society, and foreign travel. During the remaning nine years of his life he continued Tristram Shandy at intervals, issued some volumes of Sermons, travelled and resided abroad, and embodied some of the results of this travel in A Sentimental Journey. This last appeared only just before his death, after some previous escapes from long disease, on 18th March 1768.

Sterne's work — his Sermons  even to some degree, his two novels to a much greater — is the most deliberately and ostentatiously eccentric in the higher ranges of English literature; and being so, contains an element of mere trick, which inevitably impairs its value. If a man will not, and does not, produce his effects withouth such mechanical devices as continual dashes, stars, points, and stopped sentences, even blank pages, blackened pages, marbled pages, and the like, he must lay his account with the charge that he cannot produce them without such apparatus. The charge, however, is in Sterne's case unjust; for though the "clothes-philosophy" of his style is fantastically adjusted, there is a real body both of style and of matter beneath.

Tristram Shandy, the pretended history of a personage who rarely appears, is, in fact, a "rigmarole" of partly original, partly borrowed, humour, arranged in the syle which the French call fatrasie, and of which Rabelais' great books are the most familiar, though not quite the normal, type. Although Tristram himself is the shadow of a shade, Sterne manages to present the most vivid character-pictures of his father, Walter Shandy, and his Uncle Toby (the latter the author's most famous, if not his greatest, creation), together with others, not much less achieved, of Corporal Trim, Uncle Toby's servant and comrade in the Marlborough wars, Mrs. Shandy, Widow Wadman, Dr. Slop, and others. And he thus gives a real novel-substance to a book which coould otherwise hardly pretend to the title of a novel at all. The Sentimental Journey, a pretended (and no doubt partly real) autobiographic account of a journey through France to the Italian frontier, is planned on no very different general principles, and has its own medallions of character, though they are less elaborately worked and less closely grouped.

Both books depend for their literay effect on a large number of means — out-of-the-way reading, of which Sterne availed himself with a freedom which has brought upon him the charge of plagiarism; very real though occasionally exaggerated pathos; a curiosly fertile though not extremely varied fancy; and a considerable indulgence, not in coarseness of the Smollettian kind, but in indecent hint and innuendo.  But their main appeal lies in two things — a kind of humour which, though sometimes artificial and seldom reaching the massive and yet mobile humanity of Fielding, has a singular trick of grace, and a really intimate knowledge of human nature, combined and contrasted with a less natural quality, to which Frnace at the time gave the name of "Sensibility" and England that of "Sentiment." It was this last which gave Sterne his immediate popularity, though perhaps for a generation or two past that popularity has been rather endangered by it; and it is still this which gives him his most distinct place, though not his greatest value, in literary history. For it, like the prominence of a less definite kind of the same quality in Richardson, shows the reaction from the rather excessive hardness and prosaic character of the earlier decades. This reaction was not yet directed in the right way. It was still powdered and patched, deliberate, artificial, fashionable. It bore to true passion very much the same relation which the mannerism of Ossian bore to true romance, and Strawberry Hill Gothic to real Pointed architecture. It was theatrical and mawkish; it sometimes toppled over into the ludicrous, or the disgusting, or both. But it shows at worst a blind groping after something that could touch the heart as well as amuse the head. 

Minor novelists

Perhaps it was the popularity of Richardson and Fielding, as early as the first years of the fifth decade of the century, but more probably the aura or prevalent tendency of general thought, which brought about a great expansion and multiplication of the novel about 1750 (1).
(1) Most of the books mentioned from this point to the end of the chapter will be found in the above-noted collection of Harrison, or in Scott's Ballantyne novels, sometimes in both. The latter, in ten capacious but unwieldy volumes, contains all the four great novelists (including Smollett's translations), the Adventures of a Guinea, Johnson's, Walpole's, and Goldsmith's novels, Mackenzie, Bage, Mrs. Radcliffe, Gulliver's Travels, Cumberland's Henry, and Clara Reeve's Old English Baron. 
Few of the minor results of this retain much reputation even with students of the subject, and most are not over-accessible.Some of them have obtained an additional prop from the mention and criticism of Lady Mary (vide supra et infra). We have mentioned Mrs. Haywood's books. Francis Coventry's Pompey the Little (1751) was the most amusing, as Charles Johnstone's Chrysal, or The Adventures of a Guinea (1760) was the most powerful, of a kind of personal fiction whereof a memorable example survives in the Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, inserted (one regrets to say for money) by Smollett in Peregrine Pickle, and doubtless rewritten by him from the materials of the beautiful and liberal Viscountess Vane. The too notorious Dr. Dodd attempted to combine Sterne and Smollett, and succeeded in combining the most objectionable parts of each without any of their genius, in The Sisters; Dr. Hawkesworth followed Dr. Johnson with steps of his usual inequality in Almoran and Hamet (1761). But the most interesting work in fiction of the middle of the century is to be found in two books, eccentric in more senses than one. John Buncle (1750-66) and The Fool of Quality (1766-70). The first was the work, though by no means the only work, of a curious Irishman named Thomas Amory, who was born in 1691 and died in 1788, who assures us that he was intimate with Swift, and on whom it would be extremely interesting to have Swift's opinion. Amory began in 1755, with a book, not improbably composed on French models and called Memoirs of Several Ladies of Great Britain. But this, though interesting, pales before the Life of John Buncle, Esq. The hero is an enthusiastic Unitarian, the husband of seven wives of surpassing beauty, a man of letters in a way, a man of science and distinctly marked with the madness which no doubt existed in a temperate and intangible form in his creator. The book, which is entirely sui generis, fascinated Hazlitt, and has been reprinted, but never widely read.

A much more respectable and an almost equally interesting book, though a worse novel, seeing that it attempts innumerable things which the novel cannot manage, is The Fool of Quality. The author of this, Henry Brooke, was like Amory and Irishman, was born in County Cavan in 1703, and died at Dublin in 1783. He was, also like Amory, mad, and died so. He had money, education, and abundant ability, while in his earlier manhood he was familiar with the best literary society of London. In 1735 he published a poem called Universal Bounty, which is worth notice, though it has been too highly praised; four years later a play, Gustavus Vasa. The Fool of Quality, or The Adventures of Henry, Earl of Morland, is a wholly unpractical book and a chaotic history, but admirably written full of shrewdness and wit, and of a singularly chivalrous tone. Nor must we leave out the really exquisite Peter Wilkins, of an almost unknown author, Robert Paltock, which appeared in 1751. In conception it was a sort of following of Gulliver, but Paltock has little satire and no misanthropy, and the charm of his book, which once was a boys' book, and now delights some men, depends on his ingenious wonders, and on the character of the flying girl Youwarkee, the only heroine (except Fielding's) of the eighteenth-century novel who has very distinct charm.

Walpole 

The contributions of Johnson and Goldsmith to the novel will be best mentioned with their other work. But the history, as we can give it here, of eighteenth-century fiction proper is incomplete without a notice of the curious terror-novel which, anticipated by Horace Walpole, had its special time in the last decade of the century, the work of Fanny Burney, that of Mackenzie, and some others. Walpole himself will occupy us later. The incongruity of most of his work and character with the Castle of Otranto has always attracted and puzzled critics; nor is there perhaps any better explanation than that the Castle, momentous as its example proved, was mainly an accident of that half-understood devotion to "the Gothick" which was common at the time (1764) and of which Walpole as a dilettante, if not as a sincere disciple, was one of the chief English exponents. The story is a clumsy one, and its wonders are perpetually hovering on the verge of the burlesque. But its influence, though not immediate, was exceedingly great.

Its nearest successor, the Old English Baron of Clara Reeve in 1777, imitated rather Walpole's Gothicism than its ghostliness. Nor can the extremely remarkable and almost isolated novelette of Vathek (1783) be set down to Walpolian influence thoguh it undoubtedly did exemplify certain general tendencies of the day. Its author, William Beckford, was the son of a rather prominent politician in the city of London, and inherited very great wealth. He travelled a good deal, leaving much later literary memorials of his travels; he collected books; he built two gorgeous palaces, one in England, at Fonthill in Wiltshire, and another in Portugal, at Cintra; and he in many respects was, and perhaps deliberately aimed at being, the ideal English "milord" of continental fancy—rich, eccentric, morose, generous at times, and devoted to his own whimsical will. Such a character is generally contemptible in reality, but Beckford possessed very great intellectual ability, and Vathek stands alone. Its debts to the old Oriental tale are more apparent than real, those to the fantastic satirical romance of Voltaire, though larger, do not impair its main originaly; and a singular gust is imparted to its picture of unbridled power and unlimited desire by the remembrance that the author himself was, in not such a very small way, the insatiable voluptuary he draws. The picture of the Hall of Eblis at the end has no superior in a certain slightly theatrical, but still real, kind of sombre magnificence, and the heroine Nouronihar is great.

Mrs. Radcliffe

Mrs. Radcliffe (Anne Ward)—who was born in 1764, and did not die until 1822, but who published nothing after the beginning of the nineteenth century, though some work of hers appeared posthumously—produced in the course of a few years a series of elaborate and extremely popular work, which has not retained its vitality so well as has Vathek—The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne (1789), A Sicilian Romance (1790), The Romance of the Forest (1791), the celebrated Mysteries of Udolpho (1795), and The Italian (1797). Mrs. Radcliffe is prodigal of the mysteries which figure in the title of her most famous work, of castles and forests, of secret passages and black veils; but her great peculiarity is the constant suggestion of supernatural interferences, which conscientious scruple, or eighteenth-century rationalism, or a mere sense of art, as constantly leads her to explain by natural causes.

Lewis

Matthew Lewis, her successor, and (though he denied it) pretty certainly her imitator, had no such scruples, and in his notorious Monk and other stories and dramas simply lavished ghosts and demons. This department of the novel, unless Vathek be ranked in it, nothing of very high literary value, but its popularity was immense, and it probably did some real good by enlarging the sphere and quickening the fancy of the novelist. 

There are more than a few names of note who might be criticized if space permitted, and who must at any rate be mentioned. Henry Mackenzie (1745-1831), who followed Sterne in sentiment, though not in other ways, drew floods of tears with The Man of Feeling (1771), The Man of the World, and Julia de Roubigné; the political philosopher Godein, who will reappear, produced, besides his still famous Caleb Williams (1794), other novels, St. Leon (1799), Fleetwood, Mandeville, etc.; Holcroft the dramatist (1745-1809) gave Alwyn, Hugh Trevor,  and especially Anna St. Ives (1792); Robert Bage, a freethinking Quaker and a man of business, wrote no less than six fictions, some of them of great lenght; Mrs. Inchbald (1753-1821), a beauty, an actress, a dramatist, and a novelist, gave to her Simple Story a certain charm; Hannah More (1745-1833), who was petted by Johnson in her youth, and petted the child Macaulay in her age, wrote Cœlebs in Search of a Wife, a moral novel not untinged with social satire. The Zeluco of Dr. John Moore (1719-1802) is not insignificant. But the most important, though far from the most gifted, novelist of the latter years of the century was Frances Burney (1752-1840), the daughter of a historian of music, who was the intimate friend of Johnson and most of the men of letters of his time, a pet of the great lexicographer and of the society of the Thrales, for some time a member of the household of Queen Charlotte, and then the wife of a French refugee. From him she took the name Madame D'Arblay, by which she is more commonly known as a diarist, though almost the whole of that delightful part of her work deals with her maiden years. Miss Burney wrote in Evelina (1778) a not very well-arranged but extremely lively picture of the entrance of a young girl into society; in Cecilia (1781) a much more ambitious and regular but less fresh story of love and family pride. Her later novels, Camilla (1796) and The Wanderer (1814) were, the former, a partial, the latter a complete, failure. Her importance, however, consists in the fact  that, at any rate in youth, she had a singular knack of catching the tone and manners of ordinary and usual society, and that by transferring these to her two first books she showed a way which all novelists have followed since. Her great predecessors of the middle of the century had not quite done this. Some of the stock ingredients of the older novel are indeed thrown in for Evelina's benefit—the discovery of parentage, the bold attempts of unscrupulous lovers, etc. — but they are of no real importance in the story, which draws its entire actual interest from the faithful presentation of the most possible, probable, and ordinary events and characters.



—oOo—

Exámenes de septiembre

  El examen de septiembre de Literatura Inglesa II (grupos 1 y 2)  será el miércoles 7 de septiembre, 8,30-11,30, en el aul...