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and political problems. It is excellently written; it is clear from it that Brooke (who was for a time actually mad) did not belie the connection of great wits with madness. But it is, perhaps, most valuable as an evidence of the unconquerable set of the time towards novel. Of this, however, as of some other points, we have greater evidence still in the shape of two books, each of them, as nothing else yet mentioned in this chapter can claim to be, a permanent and capital contribution to English literature--Johnson's Rasselas (xxxx) and Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield (xxxx). It is not from the present writer that any one need look for an attempt to belittle Johnson: and there is no doubt (for the Lives of the Poets is but a bundle of essays) that Rasselas is Johnson's greatest book. But there may be, in some minds, as little doubt that attempts to defend it from the charge of not being a novel are only instances of that not wholly unamiable frenzy of eagerness to "say not ditto to Mr. Burke" which is characteristic of clever undergraduates, and of periods which are not quite of the
greatest in literature. Rasselas is simply an extended and glorified moral apologue--an enlarged "Vision of Mirza." It has no real story; it has no real characters; its dialogue is "talking book;" it indulges in some but not much description. It is in fact a prose Vanity of Human Wishes, admirably if somewhat stiffly arranged in form, and as true to life as life itself. You will have difficulty in finding a wiser book anywhere; but although it is quite true that a novel need not be foolish, wisdom is certainly not its determining differentia. Yet for our purposes Rasselas is almost as valuable as Tom Jones itself: because it shows how imperative and wide?ranging was the struggle towards production of this kind in prose. The book is really--to adapt the quaint title of one of the preceding century--Johnson al Mondo: and at this time, when Johnson wanted to communicate his thoughts to the world in a popular form, we see that he chose the novel. The lesson is not so glaringly obvious in the Vicar of Wakefield, because this is a novel, and a very delightful one. The only point of direct
contact with Rasselas is the knowledge of human nature, though in the one book this takes the form of melancholy aphorism and apophthegm, in the other that of felicitous trait and dialogue?utterance. There is plenty of story, though this has not been arranged so as to hit the taste of the martinet in "fable;" the book has endless character; the descriptions are Hogarth with less of peuple about them; the dialogue is unsurpassable. Yet Goldsmith, untiring hack of genius as he was, wrote no other novel; evidently felt no particular call or predilection for the style; would have been dramatist, poet, essayist with greater satisfaction to himself, though scarcely (satisfactory as he is in all these respects) to us. That he tried it at all can hardly be set down to anything else than the fact that the style was popular: and his choice is one of the highest possible testimonies to the popularity of the style. Incidentally, of course, the Vicar has more for us than this, because it indicates, as vividly as any of the work of the great Four themselves, how high and various the capacities of
the novel are--how in fact it can almost completely compete with and, for a time, vanquish the drama on its own ground. Much of it, of course--the "Fudge!" scene between Mr. Burchell and the town ladies may be taken as the first example that occurs--is drama, with all the cumbrous accessories of stage and scene and circumstance spared. One may almost see that "notice to quit," which (some will have it) has been, after nearly a century and a half, served back again on the novel, served by the Vicar of Wakefield on the drama. At the same time even the Vicar, though perhaps less than any other book yet noticed in this chapter, illustrates the proposition to which we have been leading up--that, outside the great quartette, and even to a certain extent inside of it, the novel had not yet fully found its proper path--had still less made up its mind to walk freely and firmly therein. Either it has some arriere pensee, some second purpose, besides the simple attempt to interest and absorb by the artistic re?creation of real and ordinary life: or, without exactly doing this, it shows signs of