Chapter IX: The Age of Transition (3)

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=4. William Godwin (1756–1836)= is a prominent example of the revolutionary man of letters of the time. He was the son of a dissenting minister, and intended to follow the same profession, but very soon drifted away from it. He then devoted himself to the pursuit of letters, in which he developed his extreme views on religion, politics, sociology, and other important themes. His _Political Justice_ (1793) was deeply tinged with revolutionary ideas, and had a great effect on many young and ardent spirits of the age, including Shelley. His novel _Caleb Williams_ (1794) was a dressing of the same theories in the garb of fiction. Godwin is worth notice because he reveals the spread of the revolutionary doctrines that were so strongly opposed by Burke.

=5. Gilbert White (1720–93)= deserves mention as the first naturalist who cast his observations into genuine literary form. He was born at Selborne, Hampshire, studied at Oxford, and took holy orders. He settled at his native place, and published _The Natural History of Selborne_ (1789). The book is a series of genuine letters written to correspondents who are interested in the natural history of the place. White reveals much closeness and sympathy of observation, and he can command a sweet and readable style. He shows the “return to nature” in a practical and praiseworthy form. (See p. 355.)

THE DEVELOPMENT OF LITERARY FORMS

This, being an age of transition, is an age of unrest, of advance and retreat, of half-lights and dubious victories. But if we bring together the different types of literature, and mark how they have developed during the period, we can see that the trend of the age is quite clear.

=1. Poetry.= In 1740 we have Pope still alive and powerful, and Johnson an aspiring junior; in 1800, with Burns and Blake, Romanticism has unquestionably arrived. This great change came gradually, but its stages can be observed with some precision.

(_a_) The first symptom of the coming change was the _decline of the heroic couplet_, the dominance of which passed away with its greatest exponent, Pope. Toward the middle of the century a large number of other poetical forms can be observed creeping back into favor.

(_b_) The change was first seen in the free use of the _Pindaric ode_ in the works of Gray and Collins, which appeared in the middle years of the century. The Pindaric ode is a useful medium for the transitional stage, for it has the double advantage of being “classical” and of being free from the more formal rules of couplet and stanza. Gray’s _The Bard_ (1757) and Collins’s ode _The Passions_ (1747) are among the best of the type.

(_c_) Another omen was the revival of the _ballad_, which was due to renewed interest in the older kinds of literature. The revived species, as seen in Goldsmith’s _The Hermit_ and Cowper’s _John Gilpin_, has not the grimness and crude narrative force of the genuine ballad, but it is lively and often humorous. Another ballad-writer was =Thomas Percy (1729–1811)=, who, in addition to collecting the _Reliques_ (1765), composed ballads of his own, such as _The Friar of Orders Grey_. Chatterton’s _Bristowe Tragedy_ has much of the fire and somberness of the old ballads.

(_d_) The _descriptive and narrative poems_ begin with the old-fashioned _London_ (1738) of Johnson; the development is seen in Goldsmith’s _Traveller_ (1764) and _Deserted Village_ (1770), in which the heroic couplet is quickened and transformed by a real sympathy for nature and the poor; the advance is carried still further by the blank-verse poems of Cowper (_The Task_) and Crabbe (_The Village_) and the Spenserian stanzas of minor poets like Shenstone (_The Schoolmistress_).

(_e_) Finally there is the rise of the _lyric_. The Pindarics of Collins and Gray are lyrics in starch and buckram; the works of Chatterton, Smart, Macpherson, Cowper, and, lastly, of Burns and Blake show in order the lyrical spirit struggling with its bonds, shaking itself free, and finally soaring in triumph. Romanticism has arrived.

=2. Drama.= In this period nothing is more remarkable than the poverty of its dramatic literature. Of this no real explanation can be given. The age was simply not a dramatic one; for the plays that the age produced, with the exceptions of a few notable examples of comedy, are hardly worth noticing.

Tragedy comes off worst of all. The sole tragedy hitherto mentioned in this chapter is Johnson’s _Irene_ (1749), which only the reputation of its author has preserved from complete oblivion. A tragedy which had a great vogue was _Douglas_ (1754), by =John Home (1722–1808)=. It is now almost forgotten. =Joanna Baillie (1762–1851)= produced some historical blank-verse tragedies, such as _Count Basil_ (1798) and _De Montfort_ (1798). Her plays make fairly interesting reading, and some of their admirers, including Scott, said that she was Shakespeare revived.

Among the comedies we have the sprightly plays of Goldsmith, already noticed, Fielding’s _Tom Thumb_, and the work of =Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751–1816)=.

Sheridan was an Irishman, and became a prominent wit and politician. His wit is admirably revealed in his three brilliant prose comedies. _The Rivals_ (1775), _The School for Scandal_ (1777), and _The Critic_ (1779). The three all resemble the best of the Restoration comedies, without the immorality that taints their models. The plots are ingenious and effective, though they depend largely on a stagy complexity of intrigue; the characters, among whom are the immortal figures of Mrs. Malaprop, Bob Acres, and Sir Fretful Plagiary, are stage types, but they are struck off with daring skill; and the dialogue is often a succession of brilliant repartees. The worst that can be said against the plays is that they are artificial, and that the very cleverness of them becomes fatiguing. With the work of Sheridan the artificial comedy reaches its climax.

=3. Prose.= The prose product of the period is bulky, varied, and of great importance. The importance of it is clear enough when we recollect that it includes, among many other things, possibly the best novel in the language (_Tom Jones_), the best history (_The Decline and Fall_), and the best biography (_The Life of Doctor Johnson_).

(_a_) _The Rise of the Novel._ There are two main classes of fictional prose narratives, namely, the tale or romance and the novel. The distinction between the two need not be drawn too fine, for there is a large amount of prose narrative that can fall into either group; but, broadly speaking, we may say that the tale or romance depends for its chief interest on incident and adventure, whereas the novel depends more on the display of character and motive. In addition, the story (or _plot_, or _fable_) of the novel tends to be more complicated than that of the tale, and it often leads to what were called by the older writers “revolutions and discoveries”--that is, unexpected developments in the narrative, finishing with an explanation that is called the _dénouement_. The tale, moreover, can be separated from the romance: the plot of the tale is commonly matter-of-fact, while that of the romance is often wonderful and fantastic.

There is little doubt that the modern novel has its roots in the medieval romances, such as _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ and those dealing with the legends of King Arthur. Another source of the novel were the collections of ballads telling of the adventures of popular heroes of the type of Robin Hood. These romances were written in verse; they were supplied with stock characters, like the wandering knight, the distressed damsel, and the wicked wizard; they had stock incidents, connected with enchanted castles, fiery dragons, and perilous ambushes; and their story rambled on almost interminably. They were necessary to satisfy the human craving for fiction, and they were often fiction of a picturesque and lively kind.

The age of Elizabeth saw the rise of the prose romance. We have examples in the _Euphues_ (1579) of Lyly and the _Arcadia_ of Sidney. As fiction these tales are weighed down with their fantastic prose styles, and with their common desire to expound a moral lesson. Their characters are rudimentary, and there is little attempt at a plot and love-theme. Yet they represent an advance, for they are fiction.

They are interesting from another viewpoint. They show us that curious diffidence that was to be a drag on the production of the novel even as late as the time of Scott. Authors were shy of being novelists for two main reasons: first, there was thought to be something almost immoral in the writing of fiction, as it was but the glorification of a pack of lies; and, secondly, the liking for fiction was considered to be the craving of diseased or immature intellects, and so the production of it was unworthy of reasonable men. Thus if a man felt impelled to write fiction he had to conceal the narrative with some moral or allegorical dressing.

A new type of embryo novel began to appear at the end of the sixteenth century, and, becoming very popular during the seventeenth, retained its popularity till the days of Fielding and Smollett.

This class is known as the _picaresque_ novel, a name derived from the Spanish word _picaron_, which means a wandering rogue. As the name implies, it is of Spanish origin. For hero it takes a rascal who leads a wandering life, and has many adventures, most of them of a scandalous kind. The hero is the sole link between the different incidents, and there is much digression and the interposing of other short narratives. In Spain the picaresque type originated in parodies of the old romances, and of such parodies the greatest is the _Don Quixote_ (1604) of Cervantes. In France the type became common, the most famous example of it being the _Gil Blas_ (1735) of Le Sage.

In England the picaresque novel had an early start in _Jack Wilton, or The Unfortunate Traveller_, by Nash, (1567–1601), whose work often suggests that of Defoe. Nash’s work is crude, but it has vigor and some wit. A later effort in the same kind is _The English Rogue_ (1665), by Richard Head. The book is gross and scandalous to an extreme degree, but it has energy, and, as it takes the hero to many places on the globe, the reader obtains interesting glimpses of life in foreign parts.

Another type that came into favor was the heroic romance. This was based on the similar French romances of Mademoiselle Scudéri (1607–1701) and others. This class of fiction was the elegant variety of the grosser picaresque novel, and it was much duller. The hero of a heroic romance was usually of high degree, and he underwent a long series of romantic adventures, many of them supernatural. There was much love-making, involving long speeches containing “noble sentiments, elegantly expressed.” The length of these romances was enormous; the _Grand Cyrus_ of Mademoiselle Scudéri ran to ten large volumes. Popular English specimens were Ford’s _Parismus, Prince of Bohemia_ (1598) and _Parthenissa_ (1654), by Roger Boyle. It is worth noting that the artificial heroic romance collapsed about the end of the seventeenth century, whereas the picaresque class, which in spite of its grave faults was a human and interesting type of fiction, survived and influenced the novel in later centuries.

By the end of the seventeenth century the novel is dimly taking shape. =Aphra Behn (1640–89)= wrote stories that had some claims to plot, character-drawing, and dialogue. Her _Orinooko, or The Royal Slave_ shows some power in describing the persecution of a noble negro, a kind of Othello, at the hands of brutal white men. The work of Bunyan (1628–88) was forced to be allegorical, for the Puritans, of whom he was one, abhorred the idea of writing fiction, which they regarded as gilded lies. Yet _The Pilgrim’s Progress_ abounds in qualities that go to make a first-rate novel: a strong and smoothly working plot, troops of human and diverse characters, impressive descriptive passages, and simple dialogue dramatically sound. His other works, notably _The Life and Death of Mr. Badman_, are also very close to the novel proper.

In the eighteenth century we see another development in the Coverley papers (1711) of Steele and Addison. There is little plot in this essay-series, and only a rudimentary love-theme; but the allegorical fabric is gone, there is much entertaining character-sketching, and the spice of delicate humor. We should note also that we have here the beginnings of the society and domestic novel, for the papers deal with ordinary people and incidents.

The genuine novel is very near indeed in the works of Defoe (1659–1731). His novels are of the picaresque type in the case of _Captain Singleton_ (1720), _Moll Flanders_ (1722), and _Colonel Jack_ (1722). They have many of the faults of their kind: the characters are weakly drawn, the plots are shaky and sprawling, and much of the incident is indecorous; yet they have a virile and sustaining interest that is most apparent in the best parts of _Robinson Crusoe_ (1719).

Then, toward the middle of the century, came the swift and abundant blossoming of the novel, raising the type to the rank of one of the major species of literature. The time was ripe for it. The drama, which had helped to satisfy the natural human desire for a story, was moribund, and something had to take its place. Here we can only summarize very shortly the work of the novelists already discussed in this chapter. Richardson’s _Pamela_ (1740) had the requisites of plot, characters, and dialogue, and these of high merit; but the diffidence of the early fiction-writer possessed him, and he had to conceal the novel-method under the clumsy disguise of a series of letters. Fielding’s robust common sense had no such scruples, and his _Tom Jones_ (1749) shows us the novel in its maturity. Later novelists could only modify and improve in detail; with Fielding the principles of the novel were established.

The modifications of Fielding’s immediate successors can be briefly noticed. Smollett reverted to the picaresque manner, but he added the professional sailor to fiction, and gave it types of Scottish character that Scott was to improve upon; Sterne made the novel sentimental and fantastic, and founded a sentimental school; the Radcliffe novels, popular toward the end of the century, made fiction terrific; while in _The Vicar of Wakefield_ (1766) Goldsmith showed us what the novel can do in respect of a simple yet effective plot, human and lovable personages, dialogue of a dramatic kind, and a tender and graceful humor. Johnson’s _Rasselas_ (1759), which reverted to the methods of _Euphues_, was pure reaction, but it possesses an interest as a reversion to a long-dead type.

(_b_) _The Rise of the Historical Work._ The development of history came late, but almost necessarily so. The two main requirements of the serious historian are knowledge of his subject and maturity of judgment. Before the year 1750 no great historical work had appeared in any modern language. Raleigh’s _History of the World_ (1614) is not a real history; it is only the fruit of the mental exertions of an imprisoned man who seeks relaxation. Clarendon’s _History of the Great Rebellion_, which was not published till 1704, is largely the record of his own personal experiences and opinions. He makes little attempt at an impartial and considered judgment or at placing the rebellion in its proper perspective.

The general advance in knowledge and the research into national affairs which were the features of eighteenth-century culture quickly brought the study of history into prominence. France led the way, and the Scots, traditionally allied to the French, were the first in Britain to feel the influence. Hence we have Hume’s _History of England_ (1754) and the works of Robertson. These books excelled in ease and sense, but the knowledge displayed in them was not yet sufficient to make them epoch-making. Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_ (1776) in knowledge, in method, and in literary style is as near perfection as human frailty can attain. Thus within twenty or thirty years the art of writing history in English advanced from a state of tutelage to complete development.

(_c_) _Letter-writing._ The habit of writing letters became very popular during the eighteenth century, and flourished till well into the nineteenth, when the institution of the penny post made letter-writing a convenience and not an art. It was this popularity of the letter that helped Richardson’s _Pamela_ into public favor.

A favorite form of the letter was a long communication, sometimes written from abroad, discussing some topic of general interest. Such a letter was semi-public in nature, and was meant to be handed round a circle of acquaintances. Frequently a series of letters was bound into book-form. Collections of this kind were the letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689–1762), written to Pope and others from Constantinople, and of Thomas Gray, from the Lake District and the Continent. Sometimes the letters contain comments on political and social matters, as in the famous compositions of Lord Chesterfield to his son, which we have already noticed. We give an extract from one of Chesterfield’s letters, for it is valuable as an example of witty and polished prose. A letter of the type of Chesterfield’s is really an essay which is given a slightly epistolary form.

LONDON, _May 27, 1753_
... You are now but nineteen, an age at which most of your
countrymen are illiberally getting drunk in Port at the
University. You have greatly got the start of them in learning;
and, if you can equally get the start of them in the knowledge
and manners of the world, you may be very sure of outrunning
them in Court and Parliament, as you set out so much earlier
than they. They generally begin but to see the world at
one-and-twenty; you will by that age have seen all Europe.
They set out upon their travels unlicked cubs; and in their
travels they only lick one another, for they seldom go into
any other company. They know nothing but the English world,
and the worst part of that too, and generally very little of
any but the English language; and they come home, at three or
four-and-twenty, refined and polished (as is said in one of
Congreve’s plays) like Dutch skippers from a whale-fishing.
The care which has been taken of you, and (to do you justice)
the care you have taken of yourself, has left you, at the age
of nineteen only, nothing to acquire but the knowledge of the
world, manners, address, and those exterior accomplishments.
But they are great and necessary acquisitions, to those who
have sense enough to know their true value; and your getting
them before you are one-and-twenty, and before you enter upon
the active and shining scene of life, will give you such an
advantage over all your contemporaries, that they cannot
overtake you: they must be distanced. You may probably be placed
about a young prince, who will probably be a young king. There
all the various arts of pleasing, the engaging address, the
versatility of manners, the brilliant, the Graces, will outweigh
and yet outrun all solid knowledge and unpolished merit. Oil
yourself therefore, and be both supple and shining, for that
race, if you would be first, or early, at the goal.

A type of letter which is frankly a work written for publication is well represented by the famous _Letters of Junius_, which caused a great stir in their day. They are what are called “open letters”--that is, they are for general perusal, while they gain additional point by being addressed to some well-known personage. The public, as it were, has the satisfaction of looking over the shoulder of the man to whom they are addressed. “Junius” is now supposed to have been =Sir Philip Francis (1740–1818)=, though the identity of the writer was long concealed. They began to appear in _The Public Advertiser_ in 1769, and by their immensely destructive power they shook the Government to its base. In force and fury they resemble Swift’s _Drapier’s Letters_, but they tend to become petty and spiteful.

The more intimate and private letters of this period, of which there is a large and interesting collection, are of a deeper significance to us now, for they contain a human interest by revealing the nature of the people who wrote them. In _The Life of Doctor Johnson_ Boswell published many of Johnson’s letters, the most famous of which is that containing the snub to Chesterfield. It is quoted in the exercises attached to this chapter. Horace Walpole, as we have already noted (p. 323), left a voluminous correspondence which for wit, vivacity, and urbane and shallow common sense is quite remarkable. The private letters of Cowper are attractive for their easy and unaffected grace and their gentle and pervasive humor. We add an extract from a letter by Cowper. The style of it should be compared with that of Chesterfield.

(_To William Hayley._)

WESTON, _February 24, 1793_
... Oh! you rogue! what would you give to have such a dream
about Milton, as I had about a week since? I dreamed that
being in a house in the city, and with much company, looking
toward the lower end of the room from the upper end of it, I
descried a figure which I immediately knew to be Milton’s.
He was very gravely, but very neatly attired in the fashion
of his day, and had a countenance which filled me with those
feelings which an affectionate child has for a beloved father,
such, for instance, as Tom has for you. My first thought was
wonder, where he could have been concealed so many years; my
second, a transport of joy to find him still alive; my third,
another transport to find myself in his company; and my fourth,
a resolution to accost him. I did so, and he received me with a
complacence, in which I saw equal sweetness and dignity. I spoke
of his _Paradise Lost_, as every man must, who is worthy
to speak of it at all, and told him a long story of the manner
in which it affected me, when I first discovered it, being at
that time a schoolboy. He answered me by a smile and a gentle
inclination of his head. He then grasped my hand affectionately,
and with a smile that charmed me, said, “Well, you for your part
will do well also”; at last recollecting his great age (for I
understood him to be two hundred years old), I feared that I
might fatigue him by much talking; I took my leave, and he took
his, with an air of the most perfect good breeding. His person,
his features, his manner, were all so perfectly characteristic,
that I am persuaded an apparition of him could not present him
more completely. This may be said to have been one of the dreams
of Pindus,[169] may it not?... With Mary’s kind love, I must now
conclude myself, my dear brother, ever yours,
LIPPUS[170]

(_d_) _The Periodical Essay._ Compared with the abundance of the earlier portion of the century, the amount produced later seems of little importance. The number of periodicals, however, was as great as ever. Johnson wrote _The Rambler_ and _The Idler_, and contributed also to _The Adventurer_ and others; Goldsmith assisted _The Bee_ during its brief career. _The Connoisseur_, to which Cowper contributed for a space, _The Mirror_ and _The Lounger_, published in Edinburgh by Mackenzie, “the Man of Feeling,” _The Observer_ and _The Looker On_ all imitated _The Spectator_ with moderate success, but show no important development in manner or matter.

(_e_) _Miscellaneous Prose._ The amount of miscellaneous prose is very great indeed, and a fair proportion of it is of high merit. We have already given space to the political and philosophical writings of Burke, whose work is of the highest class, as represented in _The Sublime and Beautiful_ and _Reflections on the French Revolution_. Political writing of a different aim is seen in Godwin’s _Political Justice_; and the religious writings of Paley, the critical writings of Percy, and the natural history of Gilbert White are all to be included in this class.

THE DEVELOPMENT OF LITERARY STYLE

=1. Poetry.= In poetical style the transitional features are well marked. The earlier authors reveal many artificial mannerisms--for example, extreme regularity of meter and the frequent employment of the more formal figures of speech, such as personification and apostrophe. The Pindaric odes of Gray and Collins are examples of the transitional style:

Ye distant spires! ye antique towers!
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry’s holy shade;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor’s heights the expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way.
GRAY, _Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College_

In this verse there are the conventional personifications of Science and the Thames, and such stock phrases as “the watery glade.” The whole poem, however, is infused with a new spirit of mingled energy and meditation.

As the century draws to a close we have many of the newer styles appearing: the more regular blank verse of Cowper; the lighter heroic couplet of Goldsmith; the archaic medley of Chatterton; and the intense simplicity of Burns and Blake. As a further example of the new manner we quote a few stanzas from a poem by Fergusson, who, dying in the year 1774 (ten years before the death of Johnson), wrote as naturally as Burns himself:

As simmer rains bring simmer flowers,
And leaves to cleed the birken bowers;
Sae beauty gets by caller showers
Sae rich a bloom,
As for estate, or heavy dowers
Aft stands in room.

What makes auld Reekie’s dames so fair
It canna be the halesome air;
But caller burn, beyond compare,
The best o’ ony,
That gars them a’ sic graces skair[171]
An’ blink sae bonny.

On Mayday, in a fairy ring,
We’ve seen them roun’ Saint Anthon’s spring,
Frae grass the caller dew-draps wring,
To weet their e’en,
An’ water, clear as crystal spring,
To synd[172] them clean.
_Caller Water_

=2. Prose.= As in poetry, we have in prose many men and many manners. The simplest prose of the period is found chiefly in the works of the novelists, of whom Fielding and Smollett are good examples. Smollett’s prose, as in the following example, is almost colloquial in its native directness.

After we had been all entered upon the ship’s books, I inquired
of one of my shipmates where the surgeon was, that I might
have my wounds dressed, and had actually got as far as the
middle deck (for our ship carried eighty guns) in my way to the
cockpit, when I was met by the same midshipman, who had used
me so barbarously in the tender: he, seeing me free from my
chains, asked, with an insolent air, who had released me? To
this question, I foolishly answered with a countenance that too
plainly declared the state of my thoughts; “Whoever did it, I am
persuaded did not consult you in the affair.” I had no sooner
uttered these words, than he cried, “Damn you, I’ll teach you to
talk so to your officer.” So saying, he bestowed on me several
severe stripes, with a supple jack he had in his hand: and going
to the commanding officer, made such a report of me, that I was
immediately put in irons by the master-at-arms, and a sentinel
placed over me.
_Roderick Random_

The excellent middle style of Addison, the prose-of-all-work, survives, and will continue to survive, for it is indispensable to all manner of miscellaneous work. Goldsmith’s prose is one of the best examples of the middle style, and so is the later work of Johnson, as well as the writings of the authors of miscellaneous prose already mentioned in this chapter. The following passage from Goldsmith shows his graceful turn of sentence and his command of vocabulary. The style is clearness itself.

The next that presented for a place, was a most whimsical figure
indeed. He was hung round with papers of his own composing, not
unlike those who sing ballads in the streets, and came dancing
up to the door with all the confidence of instant admittance.
The volubility of his motion and address prevented my being able
to read more of his cargo than the word _Inspector_, which
was written in great letters at the top of some of the papers.
He opened the coach-door himself without any ceremony, and was
just slipping in, when the coachman, with as little ceremony,
pulled him back. Our figure seemed perfectly angry at this
repulse, and demanded gentleman’s satisfaction. “Lord, sir!”
replied the coachman, “instead of proper luggage, by your bulk
you seem loaded for a West India voyage. You are big enough,
with all your papers, to crack twenty stage-coaches. Excuse me,
indeed, sir, for you must not enter.”
_The Bee_

The more ornate class of prose is represented by the _Rambler_ essays of Johnson and the writings of Gibbon and Burke. Of the three Johnsonese is the most cumbrous, being overloaded with long words and complicated sentences, though it has a massive strength of its own. Gibbon bears his mantle with ease and dignity, and Burke has so much natural vitality that his style hardly weighs upon him at all; he does stumble, but rarely, whereas it is sometimes urged as a fault of the prose of Gibbon that it is so uniformly good that the perfection of it becomes deadening.

TABLE TO ILLUSTRATE THE DEVELOPMENT OF LITERARY FORMS

A fresh and highly interesting style is the poetic prose of Macpherson’s _Ossian_. Macpherson’s style is not ornate, for it is drawn from the simplest elements; it possesses a solemnity of expression, and so decided a rhythm and cadence, that the effect is almost lyrical. In the passage now given the reader should note that the sentences are nearly of uniform length, and that they could easily be written as separate lines of irregular verse:

Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son descended from
the hill; rough in spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his
side; his bow was in his hand; five dark grey dogs attend his
steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore; he seized and bound
him to an oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his
limbs; he loads the wind with his groans. Arindal ascends the
deep in his boat, to bring Daura to land. Amar came in his
wrath, and let fly the grey-feathered shaft. It sunk, it sunk in
thy heart, O Arindal my son; for Erath the traitor thou diedst.
The oar is stopped at once; he panted on the rock and expired.
What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy
brother’s blood! The boat is broken in twain. Amar plunges
into the sea, to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from
the hill came over the waves. He sunk, and he rose no more.

EXERCISES

1. The first extract given below is in Johnsonese, the second
is written in Johnson’s later manner. Compare the
two with regard to their vocabulary and sentence-construction,
and say which is the more ornate and which is the
clearer and more vigorous. Which of the two do you
prefer?

(1) In this work, when it shall be found that much is omitted,
let it not be forgotten that much likewise is performed; and
though no book was ever spared out of tenderness to the author,
and the world is little solicitous to know whence proceeded the
faults of that which it condemns, yet it may gratify curiosity to
inform it, that the English Dictionary was written with little
assistance of the learned, and without any patronage of the great;
not in the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of
academic bowers, but amid inconvenience and distraction, in sickness
and in sorrow. It may repress the triumph of malignant
criticism to observe, that if our language is not here fully displayed,
I have only failed in an attempt which no human powers
have hitherto completed. If the lexicons of ancient tongues, now
immutably fixed, and comprised in a few volumes, be yet, after
the toil of successive ages, inadequate and delusive; if the aggregated
knowledge and co-operating diligence of the Italian
academicians did not secure them from the censure of Beni; if
the embodied critics of France, when fifty years had been spent
upon their work, were obliged to change its economy, and give
their second edition another form, I may surely be contented without
the praise of perfection.
JOHNSON, _Preface to “Dictionary,”_ 1755

(2) It is not to be inferred that of this poetical vigour Pope
had only a little, because Dryden had more; for every other
writer since Milton must give place to Pope; and even of Dryden
it must be said, that if he has brighter paragraphs he has not
better poems. Dryden’s performances were always hasty, either
excited by some external occasion, or extorted by domestic
necessity; he composed without consideration, and published
without correction. What his mind could supply at call, or
gather in one excursion, was all that he sought, and all that he
gave. The dilatory caution of Pope enabled him to condense his
sentiments, to multiply his images, and to accumulate all that
study might produce or chance might supply. If the flights of
Dryden therefore are higher, Pope continues longer on the wing.
If of Dryden’s fire the blaze is brighter, of Pope’s the heat is
more regular and constant. Dryden often surpasses expectation,
and Pope never falls below it. Dryden is read with frequent
astonishment, and Pope with perpetual delight.
JOHNSON, _Lives of the Poets_, 1780

2. Compare the following passage with the example of Johnsonese given in the last question. Which is the more abstract, and which is the more ornate? Is there any resemblance between the two in sentence-construction and vocabulary?

There are few great personages in history who have been more
exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adulation of friends,
than Queen Elizabeth, and yet there is scarce any whose
reputation has been more certainly determined by the unanimous
consent of posterity. The unusual length of her administration,
and the strong features of her character, were able to overcome
all prejudices; and obliging her detractors to abate much of
their invectives, and her admirers somewhat of their panegyrics,
have at last, in spite of political factions, and, what is
more, of religious animosities, produced an uniform judgment
with regard to her conduct. Her vigour, her constancy, her
magnanimity, her penetration, vigilance, address, are allowed
to merit the highest praises, and appear not to have been
surpassed by any person who ever filled a throne: a conduct less
rigorous, less imperious, more sincere, more indulgent to her
people, would have been requisite to form a perfect character.
By the force of her mind, she controlled all her more active
and stronger qualities, and prevented them from running into
excess. Her heroism was exempt from all temerity, her frugality
from avarice, her friendship from partiality, her active temper
from turbulency and a vain ambition. She guarded not herself
with equal care or equal success from lesser infirmities--the
rivalship of beauty, the desire of admiration, the jealousy of
love, and the sallies of anger.
HUME, _The History of England_

3. The following poetical extracts, which are arranged in chronological order, are meant to show the transition from the classical to Romantic methods. In each examine the subject, style, and the attitude of the author, and explain how the transition is revealed.

(1) For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned,
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round:
On shining altars of Japan they raise
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze:
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,
While China’s earth receives the smoking tide;
At once they gratify their scent and taste,
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.
Straight hover round the fair her airy band:
Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned;
Some o’er her lap their careful plumes displayed,
Trembling and conscious of the rich brocade.
POPE, _The Rape of the Lock_, 1712

(2) In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem,
By the sharp tooth of cank’ring eld defaced,
In which, when he receives his diadem,
Our sov’reign prince and liefest liege is placed,
The matron sate; and some with rank she grac’d,
(The source of children’s and of courtier’s pride!)
Redress’d affronts, for vile affronts there pass’d;
And warn’d them not the fretful to deride,
But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

Right well she knew each temper to decry;
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise;
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high,
And some entice with pittance small of praise;
And other some with baleful sprig she frays;
Ev’n absent, she the reins of power doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways;
Forewarn’d, if little bird their pranks behold,
’Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.
SHENSTONE, _The Schoolmistress_, 1742

(3) But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper’d promis’d pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail;
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call’d on Echo still, through all the song:
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope enchanted smil’d, and wav’d her golden hair.
COLLINS, _The Passions_, 1747

(4) There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed
With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound.
A serving-maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea, and died.
Her fancy followed him through foaming waves
To distant shores, and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers; fancy, too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death,
And never smiled again.
COWPER, _The Task_, 1785

(5) How sweet I roamed from field to field,
And tasted all the summer’s pride;
Till I the Prince of Love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide.

He showed me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow:
He led me through his gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet,
And Phœbus fired my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.
BLAKE, _Songs of Innocence_, 1789

4. (_a_) Classify the styles of the following extracts into plain, ornate, or middle, and give reasons for your classification in each case. (_b_) How far does the style of each suit the subject? (_c_) Give a short account of each of the authors represented. (_d_) How far does the style in each case reveal the character of the author?

(1) Sir, your throne cannot stand secure upon the principles
of unconditional submission and passive obedience; on powers
exercised without the concurrence of the people to be governed;
on Acts made in defiance of their prejudices and habits; on
acquiescence procured by foreign mercenary troops, and secured
by standing armies. These may possibly be the foundation of
other thrones; they must be the subversion of yours. It was
not to passive principles in our ancestors, that we owe the
honour of appearing before a sovereign, who cannot feel that
he is a prince without knowing that we ought to be free. The
Revolution was a departure from the ancient course of the
descent of this monarchy. The people, at that time, re-entered
into their original rights; and it was not because a positive
law authorised what was then done, but because the freedom
and safety of the subject, the origin and cause of all laws,
required a proceeding paramount and superior to them. At that
ever-memorable and instructive period, the letter of the law
was superseded in favour of the substance of liberty. To the
free choice, therefore, of the people, without either king
or parliament, we owe that happy establishment, out of which
both King and Parliament were regenerated. From that great
principle of liberty have originated the statutes, confirming
and ratifying the establishment from which your majesty derives
your right to rule over us. Those statutes have not given us our
liberties; our liberties have produced them. Every hour of your
majesty’s reign your title stands upon the very same foundation,
on which it was at first laid; and we do not know a better, on
which it can possibly be placed.
BURKE, _Address to the King_

(2) (_Evelina, a demure young miss, is describing her
experiences in a letter to her friend Miss Mirvan._)

I burst into tears: with difficulty I had so long restrained
them; for my heart, while it glowed with tenderness and
gratitude, was oppressed with a sense of its own unworthiness.
“You are all, all goodness!” cried I, in a voice scarce
audible; “little as I deserve,--unable as I am to repay, such
kindness,--yet my whole soul feels,--thanks you for it!”

“My dearest child,” cried he, “I cannot bear to see thy
tears;--for my sake dry them; such a sight is too much for me;
think of that, Evelina, and take comfort, I charge thee!”

“Say then,” cried I, kneeling at his feet, “say then that you
forgive me! that you pardon my reserve,--that you will again
suffer me to tell you my most secret thoughts, and rely upon my
promise never more to forfeit your confidence!--my father!--my
protector!--my ever-honoured,--ever-loved--my best and only
friend!--say you forgive your Evelina, and she will study better
to deserve your goodness!”

He raised, he embraced me: he called me his sole joy, his only
earthly hope, and the child of his bosom! He folded me to his
heart: and while I wept from the fulness of mine, with words of
sweetest kindness and consolation, he soothed and tranquillised
me.

Dear to my remembrance will ever be that moment when, banishing
the reserve I had so foolishly planned, and so painfully
supported, I was restored to the confidence of the best of men!
BURNEY, _Evelina_

(3) (_The courtship of Tom Jones and Sophia Western is
interrupted by the entrance of Sophia’s father, a bluff old
squire._)

At this instant, Western, who had stood some time listening,
burst into the room, and with his hunting voice and phrase,
cried out, “To her, boy, to her, go to her.---- That’s it,
little honeys, O that’s it! Well! what, is it all over? Hath
she appointed the day, boy? What, shall it be to-morrow or next
day? It shan’t be put off a minute longer than next day, I am
resolved.” “Let me beseech you, sir,” says Jones, “don’t let
me be the occasion”---- “Beseech--,” cries Western. “I thought
thou hadst been a lad of higher mettle than to give way to a
parcel of maidenish tricks.---- I tell thee ’tis all flimflam.
Zoodikers! she’d have the wedding to-night with all her heart.
Would’st not, Sophy? Come, confess, and be an honest girl
for once. What, art dumb? Why dost not speak?” “Why should I
confess, sir?” says Sophia, “since it seems you are so well
acquainted with my thoughts?”---- “That’s a good girl,” cries
he, “and dost consent then?” “No, indeed, sir,” says Sophia,
“I have given no such consent.”--“And wunt not ha un then
to-morrow, nor next day?” says Western.---- “Indeed, sir,”
says she, “I have no such intention.” “But I can tell thee,”
replied he, “why hast nut; only because thou dost love to be
disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father.”--“Pray, sir,”
said Jones, interfering---- “I tell thee thou art a puppy,”
cries he. “When I forbid her, then it was all nothing but
sighing and whining, and languishing and writing; now I am vor
thee, she is against thee. All the spirit of contrary, that’s
all. She is above being guided and governed by her father, that
is the whole truth on’t. It is only to disoblige and contradict
me.” “What would my papa have me do?” cries Sophia. “What would
I ha thee do?” says he, “why gi’ un thy hand this moment.”----
“Well, sir,” says Sophia. “I will obey you.--There is my hand,
Mr Jones.”
FIELDING, _Tom Jones_

(4) Thus kites and buzzards sail round in circles with wings
expanded and motionless; and it is from their gliding manner
that the former are still called in the north of England gleads,
from the Saxon verb _glidan_ to glide. The kestrel,
or windhover, has a peculiar mode of hanging in the air in
one place, his wings all the while being briskly agitated.
Hen-harriers fly low over heaths or fields of corn and beat the
ground regularly like a pointer or setting-dog. Owls move in a
buoyant manner, as if lighter than the air; they seem to want
ballast. There is a peculiarity belonging to ravens that must
draw the attention even of the most incurious--they spend all
their leisure time in striking and cuffing each other on the
wing in a kind of playful skirmish; and, when they move from
one place to another, frequently turn on their backs with a
loud croak and seem to be falling to the ground. When this odd
gesture betides them, they are scratching themselves with one
foot, and thus lose the centre of gravity. Rooks sometimes dive
and tumble in a frolicsome manner; crows and daws swagger in
their walk; wood-peckers fly _volatu undoso_, opening and
closing their wings at every stroke, and so are always rising or
falling in curves.
WHITE, _The Natural History of Selborne_

5. The following are three examples of the heroic couplet, arranged in chronological order. Examine the meter, vocabulary, and subject of each, and state if any development is noticeable.

(1) Enlarge my life with multitude of days!
In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays;
Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know,
That life protracted is protracted woe.
Time hovers o’er, impatient to destroy,
And shuts up all the passages of joy:
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour,
The fruit autumnal and the vernal flow’r;
With listless eyes the dotard views the store:
He views, and wonders that they please no more.
Now pall the tasteless meats and joyless wines,
And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns.
JOHNSON, _The Vanity of Human Wishes_, 1749

(2) Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild:
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher’s modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
GOLDSMITH, _The Deserted Village_, 1770

(3) When Plenty smiles--alas! she smiles for few--
And those who taste not, yet behold her store,
Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore--
The wealth around them makes them doubly poor.
Or will you deem them amply paid in health,
Labour’s fair child, that languishes with wealth?
Go, then! and see them rising with the sun,
Through a long course of daily toil to run;
See them beneath the Dog-star’s raging heat,
When the knees tremble and the temples beat;
Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o’er
The labour past, and toils to come explore;
See them alternate suns and showers engage,
And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;
Then own that labour may as fatal be
To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.
CRABBE, _The Village_, 1783

6. We give first Johnson’s famous letter in which he refuses to accept the tardy patronage of Lord Chesterfield. Show how the style is appropriate to the subject, and how the letter reveals the life and character of Johnson. Compare the style and temper of this letter with those of the one that follows. In this extract Horace Walpole describes the burial of George II. From this brief extract, what can you tell of the character of Walpole?

(1)
_February 7, 1755_

MY LORD,
I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of _The World_,
that two papers, in which my _Dictionary_ is recommended to the
public, were written by your Lordship. To be so distinguished is
an honour which, being very little accustomed to favours from
the great, I know not well how to receive or in what terms to
acknowledge.

When, with some slight encouragement, I first visited your
Lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the
enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish
that I might boast myself _le vainqueur du vainqueur de la
terre_,--that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the
world contending; but I found my attendance so little encouraged
that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue
it. When I had once addressed your Lordship in public, I had
exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly
scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is
well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little.

Seven years, my Lord, have now passed since I waited in your
outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time
I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which
it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the
verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of
encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not
expect, for I never had a patron before. The shepherd in Virgil
grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the
rocks. Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on
a man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached
ground, encumbers him with help?

The notice you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it
been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am
indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot
impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is
no very cynical asperity, not to confess obligations when no
benefit has been received; or to be unwilling that the public
should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence
has enabled me to do for myself.

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A history of English literatureChapter IX: The Age of Transition (3)

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