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September 15, xxxx
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large and too various to be all mere imitation. As a result, however, of their influence, there certainly came over the whole kind a very remarkable change. Even before them the nisus towards it, which has been noticed in the chapter before the last, is observable enough. Mrs. Manley's rather famous New Atlantis (xxxx) has at least the form of a key?novel of the political sort: but the whole interest is in the key and not in the novel, though the choice of the form is something. And the second, third, and fourth decades of the century saw other work testifying to the vague and almost unconscious hankering after prose fiction which was becoming endemic. A couple of examples of this may be treated, in passing, before we come to the work--not exactly of the first class in itself--of a writer who shows both the pre?Richardsonian and the post?Richardsonian phases of it most interestingly, and after a fashion to which there are few exact parallels. A book, which counts here from the time of its appearance, and from a certain oddity and air of "key" about it, rather than from much merit as literature,
or any as a story, is the Adventures of Gaudentio di Lucca by Simon Berington.[8] It appeared in xxxx, between Defoe and Swift on the earlier, and Richardson on the later side, while the English world was to the novel as an infant crying for the light--and the bottle--at once. It begins and ends with adventures and discoveries of an ordinary romantic type. But the body consists of a revelation to certain Italian Inquisitors (who are not at all of the lurid type familiar to the Protestant imagination, but most equitable and well?disposed as well as potent, grave, and reverend signers) of an unknown country of "the Grand Pophar" in the centre of Africa. This country is civilised, but not yet Christianised: and the description of it of course gives room for the exercise of the familiar game of contrast--in this case not so much satiric as didactic--with countries nearer home which are at least supposed to be both civilised and Christian. It is a "respectable" book both in the French and the English sense: but it is certainly not very amusing, and cannot even be called very interesting in any
way, save historically. [8] The not infrequent attribution of this book to Berkeley is a good instance of the general inability to discriminate style. The other example which we shall take is of even less intrinsic attraction: in fact it is a very poor thing. There are, however, more ways than one in which corpora vilia are good for experiment and evidence: and we may find useful indications in the mere bookmaking of the time. Lowndes, the fortunate publisher of Evelina, some dozen years before that windfall came, had issued, or reissued, a collection called The Novelist and professedly containing The select novels of Dr. Croxall [the ingenious author of The Fair Circassian and the part destroyer of Hereford Cathedral] and other Polite Tales. The book is an unblushing if not an actually piratical compilation; sweeping together, with translations and adaptations published by Croxall himself at various times in the second quarter of the century and probably earlier, most of the short stories from the Spectator class of periodical which had appeared during the past two?thirds of a century. Most
of the rest are obvious (and very badly done) translations from the French and even from Cervantes' Exemplary Novels; seasoned with personal and other anecdotes, so that the whole number of separate articles may exceed The English Novel 51 four?score. Of these a few are interesting attempts at the historical novel or novelette--short sketches of Mary Queen of Scots (very sympathetic and evidently French in origin from the phrase "a temple which was formerly a church"), Jane Shore (an exquisitely absurd piece of eighteenth?century middle?class modernising and moralising), Essex, Buckingham, and other likely figures. There are cuts by the "Van?somethings and Back?somethings" of the time: and the whole, though not worthy of anything better than the "fourpenny box," is an evident symptom of popular taste. The sweetmeats or hors d'oeuvre of the older caterings for that taste are here collected together to form a piece de resistance. It is true that The Novelist is only a true title in the older sense--that the pieces are novelle not "novels" proper. But they are fiction, or fact treated like