THE love of Truth is natural to man; and adherence to it, his indispensable duty. But to frame a fabulous narrative, for the purpose of instruction or of harmless amusement, is no breach of veracity, unless one were to obtrude it on the world for truth. The fabulist and the novel-writer deceive nobody; because, though they study to make their inventions probable, they do not even pretend that they are true: at least, what they may pretend in this way is considered only as words of course, to which nobody pays any regard. Fabulous narrative has accordingly been common in all ages of the world, and practised by teachers of the most respectable character.

It is owing, no doubt, to the weakness of human nature, that fable should ever have been found a necessary, or a convenient, vehicle for truth. But we must take human nature as it is: and, if a rude multitude cannot readily comprehend a moral or political doctrine, which they need to be instructed in, it may be as allowable to illustrate that doctrine by a fable, in order to make them attend, and understand it, as it is for a physician to strengthen a weak stomach with cordials, in order to prepare it for the business of digestion. Such was the design of Jotham's parable of the trees choosing a king, in the ninth chapter of the book of Judges: and such that famous apologue, of a contention between the parts of the human body, by which Menenius Agrippa satisfied the people of Rome, that the welfare of the state depended on the union and good agreement of the several members of it. In fact, the common people are not well qualified for argument. A short and pithy proverb, which is easily remembered; or little tales, that

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appeal as it were to their senses, weigh more with them than demonstration.

We need not wonder, then, to find, that, in antient times, moral precepts were often delivered in the way of proverb or aphorism, and enforced and exemplified by fictitious narrative. Of those fables that are ascribed to Esop, some are no doubt modern, but others bear the stamp of antiquity. And nothing can he better contrived, than many of them are, for the purpose of impressing moral truth upon the memory, as well as the understanding. The disappointment, that frequently attends an excessive desire of accumulation, is finely exemplified in the fable of the dog and his shadow; and the ruinous and ridiculous nature of ambition is with equal energy illustrated in that of the frog and the ox. These little allegories we are apt to undervalue, because we learned them at school; but they are not for that reason the less valuable. We ought to prize them as monuments of ancient wisdom, which have long contributed to the amusement and instruction of mankind, and are entitled to applause, on account of the propriety of the invention.

The Greek apologues ascribed to Esop, and the Latin ones of Phedrus, are masterpieces in this way of writing; and have hardly been equalled by the best of our modern fabulists. They are (at least many of them are, for some are trifling) remarkable for the simplicity of the style; and for the attention, which their authors have generally given, to the nature of the animals, and other things that are introduced as agents and speakers. For in most of the modern fables, invented by Gay, La Fontaine, L'Estrange, Poggio, and others, the contrivance is less natural; and the language, though simple, is quaint, and full of witticism. That a dog should snap at the shadow of a dog, and by so doing lose the piece of flesh that was in his own mouth, is suitable to the character of the animal, and is indeed a very probable story: but that an

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elephant should converse with a bookseller about Greek authors, or a hare entreat a calf to carry her off on his back, and save her from the hounds, is a fiction wherein no regard is had to the nature of things. In this, as in the higher, sorts of fable, it is right to adhere, as much as may be, to probability. Brute animals, and vegetables too, may be allowed to speak and think: this indulgence is granted, from the necessity of the case; for, without it, their adventures could neither improve nor entertain us: but, with this exception, nature should not be violated; nor the properties of one animal or vegetable ascribed to a different one. Frogs have been seen inflated with air, at least, if not with pride; dogs may swim rivers; a man might take a frozen viper into his bosom, and be bit to death for his imprudence; a fox might play with a tragedian's headpiece; a lamb and a wolf might drink of the same brook, and the former lose his life on the occasion: but who ever heard of an elephant reading Greek, or a hare riding on the back of a calf?

The wisdom of antiquity was not satisfied with conveying short lessons of morality in these apologues, or little tales. The poets entered upon a more extensive field of fable; in order to convey a more refined species of instruction, and to please by a more exquisite invention, and a higher probability. But I confine myself at present to prose fable.

One of the first specimens of Fabulous History, that appeared in these western parts of the world, is the Cyropedia of Xenophon. This work, however, we are not to consider as of the nature of Romance; for the outlines of the story are true. But the author takes the liberty to feign many incidents; that he may set in a variety of lights the character of Cyrus, whom he meant to exhibit as the model of a great and good prince. The work is very elegant and entertaining, and abounds in moral, political, and military knowledge. It is, nevertheless, to be regretted, that we have no certain role for distinguishing what is historical in it, from what

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is fabulous. The history of Cyrus the Great, the founder of the Persian empire, who has the honour to be mentioned by name in the Old Testament, is surely worth knowing. Yet we are much in the dark in regard to it. The account given of him by Herodotus differs greatly from Xenophon's; and in many instances we know not which to prefer. It is observable however, that Xenophon's description of the manner in which Cyrus took Babylon, by turning aside the course of the Euphrates, and entering, through the empty channel, under the walls of the city, agrees very well with several intimations of that event, which we find in the prophecies of Jsaiah, Jeremiah, and Daniel.

Allegorical Fables were not unknown in the days of Xenophon. The Table, or Picture, of Cebes the Theban was written about this time; as well as the Story of Hercules conversing with Virtue and Vice, and preferring the honours promised by the former to the pleasures offered by the latter. Cebes's Picture of human life excels in accuracy of description, justness of allegory, and a sweet simplicity of style. The fable of Hercules, as originally written by Prodicus, is lost, and seems not to have been extant in the time of Cicero*; but Xenophon gives a full and elegant abstract of it, in the beginning of his second book of Memorabilia.

Excepting some Allegorical fables scattered up and down in Plato, I do not recollect, among the Classick productions of Greece and Rome, any other remarkable specimen of prose fable: for the heathen mythology, though full of allegories, I am not to touch upon in this place, on account of its connection with poetry; and because my chief purpose is, to inquire into the origin and nature of the Modern Romance.

Another thing remarkable in these eastern tales, is, that their authors expatiate, with peculiar delight, in the description of magnificence; rich robes, gaudy furniture, sumptuous entertainments, and palaces shining in gold, or sparkling with diamonds. This too is conformable to the character and circumstances of the people. Their great men, whose taste has never been improved by studying the simplicity of nature and art, pique themselves chiefly on the splendour of their equipage, and the vast quantities of gold, jewels, and curious things, which they can heap together in their repositories.

The greatest, indeed the only collection, that I am acquainted with, of Oriental fables, is the Thousand and one tales, commonly called The Arabian Nights Entertainment. This book, as we have it, is the work of Mons. Galland of the French Academy, who is said to have translated it from the Arabick original. But whether the tales be really Arabick, or invented by Mons. Galland, I have never been able to learn with certainty. If they be Oriental, they are translated with unwarrantable latitude; for the whole tenour of the style is in the French mode: and the Caliph of Bagdat, and

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the Emperour of China, are addressed in the same terms of ceremony, which are usual at the court of France. But this, though in my opinion it takes away from the value of the book, because I wish to see Eastern manners in an Eastern tale, is no proof, that the whole work is by M. Galland: for the French are so devoted to their own ceremonies, that they cannot endure any other; and seldom fail to season their translations, even of the gravest and most ancient authors, with the fashionable forms of Parisian civility.

As the Arabian Nights Entertainment is a book which most young people in this country are acquainted with, I need not draw any character of it, or remark that it exactly answers the account already given of Oriental fable. There is in it great luxury of description, without any elegance; and great variety of invention, but nothing that elevates the mind, or touches the heart All is wonderful and incredible; and the astonishment of the reader is more aimed at, than his improvement either in morality, or in the knowledge of nature. Two things, however, there are, which deserve commendation, and may entitle it to one perusal. It conveys a pretty just idea of the government, and of some of the customs, of those eastern nations; and there is somewhere in it a story of a barber and his six brothers, that contains many good strokes of satire and comick description. I may add, that the character of the Caliph Haroun Alraschid is well drawn; and that the story of forty thieves destroyed by a slave is interesting, and artfully conducted. The voyages of Sindbad claim attention: they were certainly attended to, by the author of Gulliver's Travels.

Tales in imitation of the Oriental have oft been attempted by English, and other European, authors: who, together with the figurative style, and wild invention of the Asiaticks, (which, being extravagant, are easily imitated) endeavour also to paint the customs and manners of that people. They give us good store of gold and jewels; and eunuchs, slaves, and necromancers in abundance: their

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personages are all Mahometan, or Pagan, and subject to the despotick government of Caliphs, Visirs, Bashaws, and Emperours; they drink sherbet, rest on sofas, and ride on dromedaries. We have Chinese Tales, Tartarian Tales, Persian Tales, and Mogul Tales; not to mention the Tales of the Fairies and Genii; some of which I read in my younger days: but, as they have left no trace in the memory, I cannot give any account of them.

In the Spectator, Rambler, and Adventurer, there are many fables in the eastern manner; most of them very pleasing, and of a moral tendency. Rasselas, by Johnson, and Almoran and Hamet, by Hawkesworth, are celebrated performances in this way. The former is admirable in description, and in that exquisite strain of sublime morality by which the writings of this great and good man are so eminently distinguished:—of the latter, the style is rhetorical and solemn, and the sentiments are in general good, but the plan is obscure, and so contrived as to infuse perplexing notions of the Divine Providence; a subject, which the elegant writer seems to have considered very superficially, and very confusedly*.—Addison excels in this sort of fable. His vision of Mirzah, in the second volume of the Spectator, is the finest piece of the kind I have ever seen; uniting the utmost propriety of invention with a simplicity and melody of language, that melts the heart, while it charms and soothes the imagination.

I. The Fabulous Historical Allegory exhibits real history disguised by feigned names, and embellished with fictitious adventures. This sort of fable may also be subdivided into the Serious and the Comick.

1. Of the former, the best specimen I know is the Argenis; written in Latin, about the beginning of the last century, by John Barclay a Scotchman: and supposed to contain an allegorical account of the Civil wars of France during the reign of Henry the third. I have read only part of the work: and what I read I never took the trouble to decypher, by means of the key which in some editions is subjoined to it, or to compare the fictitious adventures of Meleander and Lycogenes with the real adventures that are alluded to. I therefore am not qualified to criticise the performance: but can freely recommend it, as in some places very entertaining, as abounding in lively description, and remarkable for the most part, though not uniformly, for the elegance of the language.

2. We have a Comick specimen of the Historical Allegory, in the History of John Bull; a pamphlet written by the learned and witty Dr. Arbuthnot, and commonly printed among the works of Swift. It was published in Queen Anne's time: and intended as a satire on the Duke of Marlborough, and the rest of the whig ministry, who were averse to the treaty of peace that was soon after concluded at Utrecht. The war, which the Queen carried on against the French and Spaniards, is described under the form of a law-suit, that John Bull, or England, is said to have been engaged in with some litigious neighbours. A candid account of facts is not to be expected in an allegorical tale, written with the express design to make a party ridiculous. The work, however, has been much read,

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and frequently imitated. It is full of low humour, which in this piece the author affected; but which he could have avoided if he had thought proper; as he undoubtedly possessed more wit and learning, as well as virtue, than any other writer of his time, Addison excepted. In John Bull, great things are represented as mean; the style is consequently burlesque, and the phraseology, and most of the allusions, are taken from low life. There is a key printed, in the late editions, at the foot of each page, to mark the coincidence of the fable with the history of that period.

II. The second species of modern fabulous prose I distinguished by the name of the Moral Allegory. Moral and Religious Allegories were frequent in Europe about two hundred and fifty years ago. Almost all the Dramatick exhibitions of that time were of this character. In them, not only human virtues and vices personified, but also angels both good and evil, and beings more exalted than angels, were introduced, acting and speaking, as persons of the drama. Those plays, however, notwithstanding their incongruity, were written for the most part with the laudable design of exemplifying religious or moral truth; and hence were called Moralities. The publick exhibition of them in England ceased about the time of Shakspeare, or in the end of the sixteenth century: but several of the English Moralities are extant, and may be seen in some late collections of Old Plays. In Spain and Italy they continued longer in fashion. When Milton was on his travels, he happened to witness a representation of this kind, written by one Andrieno, and called Original Sin; from which, rude as it was, he is said to have formed the first draught of the plan of Paradise Lost.

Those were poetical allegories: but I confine myself to such as are in prose, and assume something of the historical form.—John Bunyan, an unlettered, but ingenious man, of the last century, was much given to this way of writing. His chief work is the

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Pilgrim's Progress; wherein the commencement, procedure, and completion of the Christian life, are represented allegorically, under the similitude of a journey. Few books have gone through so many editions, in so short a time, as the Pilgrim's Progress. It has been read by people of all ranks and capacities. The learned have not thought it below their notice: and among the vulgar it is an universal favourite. I grant, the style is rude, and even indelicate sometimes; that the invention is frequently extravagant; and that in more than one place it tends to convey erroneous notions in theology. But the tale is amusing, though the dialogue be often low: and some of the allegories are well contrived, and prove the author to have possessed powers of invention, which, if they had been refined by learning, might have produced something very noble. This work has been imitated, but with little success. The learned Bishop Patrick wrote the Parable of the Pilgrim: but I not satisfied, that he borrowed the hint, as it is generally thought he did, from John Bunyan. There is no resemblance in the plan; nor does the Bishop speak a word of the Pilgrim's Progress, which I think he would have done, if he had seen it. Besides, Bunyan's fable is full of incident: Patrick's is dry, didactick, verbose, and exceedingly barren in the invention*.

But I must not be understood to praise the whole indiscriminately. The last of the four voyages, though the author has exerted himself in it to the utmost, is an absurd, and an abominable fiction. It is absurd: because, in presenting us with rational beasts, and irrational men, it proceeds upon a direct contradiction to the most obvious laws of nature, without deriving any support from either the dreams of the credulous, or the prejudices of the ignorant. And it is abominable: because it abounds in filthy and indecent images; because the general tenour of the satire is exaggerated into absolute falsehood; and because there must be something of an irreligious tendency in a work, which, like this, ascribes the perfection of reason, and of happiness, to a race of beings, who are said to he destitute of every religious idea.—But, what is yet worse, if any thing can be worse, this tale represents human nature itself

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as the object of contempt and abhorrence. Let the ridicule of wit be pointed at the follies, and let the scourge of satire be brandished at the crimes, of mankind: all this is both pardonable, and praiseworthy; because it may be done with a good intention, and produce good effects. But when a writer endeavours to make us dislike and despise, every one his neighbour, and be dissatisfied with that Providence, who has made us what we are, and whose dispensations towards the human race are so peculiarly, and so divinely beneficent; such a writer, in so doing, proves himself the enemy, not of man only, but of goodness itself: and his work can never he allowed to be innocent, till impiety, malevolence, and misery, cease to be evils.

III. I come now to the second species of modern prose fable, to which I gave the appellation of Poetical, to distinguish it from the former Allegorical species, In reading the Allegorical Prose Fable, we attend not only to the fictitious events that occur in the narrative, but also to those real events that are typified by the allegory: whereas in the poetical prose fable we attend only to the events that are before us. Thus, in the Tale of a Tub, I not only mind what is related of three brothers, Peter, Martin, and Jack, but also keep it constantly in view, that those three brothers are by the author meant to be the representatives of the Romish, English, and Presbyterian churches: whereas, when I read Robinson Crusoe, or Tom Jones, I attend singly to the narrative; and no key is necessary to make me comprehend the author's meaning.

Considering this as the chief part of my subject, I dispatched the former parts as briefly as I could, that I might have the more time to employ upon it. The rise and progress of the Modern Romance, or Poetical Prose Fable, is connected with many topicks of importance, which would throw (if fully illustrated) great light upon the history and politicks, the manners, and the literature, of these latter ages.—Observe, that I call this sort of fable poetical, from the nature of the invention; and prose, because it is not in verse. Prose and Verse are opposite, but Prose and Poetry may be consistent. Tom Jones, and Telemachus, are epick, or narrative poems, though written in prose; the one Comick, the other Serious and Heroick.

The subversion of the Roman empire, by the Goths, Huns, Vandals, and other northern nations, was followed or rather accompanied, with an universal neglect of learning, which continued for some centuries. During this long night of intellectual darkness, the classick writers of Greece and Rome were quite forgotten in

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these western parts of Europe; and many ancient authors perished irrecoverably. To read and write was then a rare accomplishment. Even the clergy, who performed the service in Latin, according to the usage of the Church of Rome, seldom understood the words they pronounced. Nay, it was no uncommon thing for persons of rank, when they had occasion to sign papers of business, to employ a notary to subscribe for them, because they themselves had not learned to write. The very phrase of signing a paper came from the practice of putting a mark to it, instead of a name; and this mark was commonly the sign of the Cross. Alfred the great, king of England, a prince of excellent parts, and who afterwards made considerable attainments in learning, was twelve years old, before a master could be found to teach him the alphabet.—The very implements of writing were so rare in those days, that the monks would often obliterate valuable manuscripts, by erasing the letters, that they might have the parchment to write upon. Of this a remarkable evidence appeared a few years ago. A scrap of parchment was found, on which part of the book of Tobit had been written, but which, on being narrowly inspected, seemed to have been originally inscribed with something else; and this was at length discovered to be a fragment of Livy. The fragment is now published.

Men are generally credulous, proportion as they are ignorant. But want of books, and of the knowledge of letters, was not the sole cause of the ignorance that prevailed in the period of which I now speak. There was little, or no commerce in Europe; navigation and industry were neglected; and, except on pilgrimage to the shrines of saints, people seldom travelled beyond the bounds of their native country, or native province. The consequence may easily be guessed at. Not having the means of knowing what had happened in other ages, and being equally uninformed of what was now happening in other countries, they would without scruple give

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credit to any fabulous reports that might be told them, concerning what was to be seen in foreign parts. Hence arose a thousand wild ideas, of giants, and dwarfs, dragons, and enchantments, of fairies, ghosts, witches, and hobgoblins. And when once people were satisfied, that such things were common in other lands, it was natural for them to believe, that they were not uncommon in their own. And the same extravagance of fancy, and love of superstition, may always be expected in times of ignorance; especially in countries, where traditions remain concerning ancient history and fable; and where the priests, deluded themselves with visionary legends, not wholly destitute of knowledge, and living retired in gloomy and lonely habitations, find it their interest to deceive, amuse, and terrify the vulgar.

The credulity of mankind in those dark ages is now matter of astonishment. As late as the thirteenth century, when modern literature had made some progress, Dante, a famous Italian poet, published a work in verse, which he called Inferno; wherein he gave a description of the infernal regions, which he says, in the poem, that lie had passed through, in company with Virgil: and this poem the common people of that time took for a real history, and seriously believed that Dante went down to hell from time to time. Sir John Mandeville, an Englishman of learning, set out on his travels in the year one thousand three hundred and twenty; employed thirty years in visiting foreign countries; and, at his return to Europe, published the history of his adventures in three languages, Latin, English, and Italian. His book, before publication, was presented to the Pope, who, after comparing it with the Mappa Mundi, was pleased to give it the sanction of his authority: a proof, that it not only was believed by the author, and by His Holiness, but was also thought credible enough according to the notions of those times. Yet this book, though Mandeville seems to have been an honest, and by no means an ignorant man,

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contains the most absurd fables. The author gravely tells us, that he saw the rock to which Andromeda was chained, when they delivered her to the sea monster; and adds, that Andromeda lived before the flood. With equal gravity he speaks of a Lady, who had been transformed into a serpent, or dragon, by a goddess called Diana, and was then confined in a dungeon, in the island of Cyprus, if I mistake not*. He does not say, that he saw this lady; but he mentions it as a fact, which he had heard; and he seems not to disbelieve it. He speaks too of a nation of men fifty feet high, who inhabited an island in the East Indies, and of another race of mortals, who had their eyes in their shoulders: and all this, and much more, of the same kind, he appears to have credited, merely because he had been so informed.—There is reason to think, that Caxton, one of the first English printers, mistook a French translation of Virgil's Eneid for a true history;—if he did not use the word history in a sense different from what it now bears. Nay, a Swedish navigator, who lived not two hundred years ago, has affirmed, that in the islands of Nicobar, in the gulf of Bengal, he discovered a race of men, with long tails, like those of cats. The islands of Nicobar, and their inhabitants, are now well known to Europeans; but the cats tails are no where to be found.

While the ignorance and credulity of this western world were so great, we may well suppose, that, in their histories (if they had any) little regard would be paid to truth; and none at all to probability, or even to possibility, in their fables. In fact, the first productions in the way of romance, that appeared in Europe, were in the highest degree extravagant.

The word is Spanish, and signifies the Spanish Tongue: and the name is suitable enough to the nature of a language, whereof the greater part is derived from the ancient Latin or Roman. It seems, the first Spanish books were fabulous: and, being called Romance, on account of the tongue in which they were written, the same name was afterwards given, by the other nations of Europe, not to Spanish books, which is the proper application of the term, but to a certain class of fabulous writings.

Some have thought, that the nations, who destroyed the Roman empire, were obliged to leave their own country, and establish themselves by force elsewhere; because at home their numbers were so great, that the soil was insufficient to support them. But this, I presume, is a mistake. Those northern regions, where the climate is inhospitable, may produce a hardy race of men, but cannot be supposed to produce them in very great numbers. In fact, the population in such countries has generally been found rather deficient, than excessive. I therefore think, that they left their native land, because it was uncomfortable; and because they had heard, that the conveniences of life were more easily obtained in the southern parts of the world. Accordingly, there is no evidence, that they sent out colonies, or that one part of the nation went in quest of settlements, while the other remained at home: it rather

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appears, that a whole people emigrated at once, men, women, and children; without any purpose to return.

One of their first expeditions, that we read of, happened about the six hundred and fiftieth year of Rome; when the Cimbri and Teutones (who are supposed to have come from Denmark, and the northern parts of Germany) invaded the Roman Province with an army of three hundred thousand men, besides women and children, and were overthrown by Caius Marius, with prodigious slaughter. Their countrymen were more successful in the decline of the empire: and at length they wrested a great part of Europe out of the hands of the Romans; establishing themselves in the conquered provinces; the Franks and Normans in Gaul, the Goths and Vandals in Spain, and the Lombards in Italy.

There are, in the character of this extraordinary people, several particulars that deserve attention. We may call them one people, because a great similarity in manners, opinions, and government, prevailed among them; though they occupied many wide regions in the northern part of the continent of Europe.

Secondly: They were fierce and courageous. This was owing, not only to their activity and necessitous life, but also, in part, to their religion; which taught them to undervalue life, and to wish rather to die in battle, or by violence, than in the common course of nature. For they believed, that the souls of those who fell in war or were put to death, had a better right than others to happiness in a future life; and passed immediately into the hall of Odin (so in latter times they called heaven), where they were to be regaled with feasting and festivity through innumerable ages. Agreeably to which opinion, in some of the nations adjoining to Hudson's bay, who are thought to be of the same race, it is still customary, for the old men, when they become unfit for labour, to desire to be strangled; a service, which they demand as an act of duty from their children; or, if they have no children, request, as a favour, of their friends.*

Another thing remarkable in the Gothick nations, was an invincible spirit of liberty. Warm and fruitful countries, by promoting indolence and luxury, are favourable to the views of tyrannical princes; and commonly were in ancient, as many of them are in modern times, the abode of despotism. But the natives of the north, more active and valiant, are for the most part more jealous of their privileges. Exceptions may be found to all general theories concerning the influence of climate in forming the human character: but this will be allowed to have been true of the antient Germans, and those other nations, whereof I now speak. All the Gothick institutions were, in their purest form, favourable to liberty. The kings, or generals, were at first chosen by those who were to obey them: and though they acknowledged, and indeed introduced, the distinction of superiour and vassal, they were careful to secure the independence, and respective rights of both, as far as the common safety would permit. To them there is reason to believe that we are indebted for those two great establishments, which form the basis of British freedom, a parliament for making laws, and juries for trying criminals, and deciding differences.

These four peculiarities, in the character of the northern conquerors, it will be proper to keep in mind; that we may the better understand some things that are to follow. They were bold and hardy: they despised death, or rather, they thought it honourable and advantageous to fall in battle; they were indulgent and respectful to their women: and they were animated with a spirit of liberty and independence.

When they left their own country to go in quest of a better, it is probable they made choice of the general and other officers who were to command them. They were volunteers in the service; and they served without pay, or at least without any pecuniary acknowledgment. All the recompense they looked for, was to have a share in the lands of such countries as they might conquer. No other indeed could have been given them, as their commander had no money to bestow; nor can we conceive, how he could have forced them into the serve, if they had been unwilling.

Be careful not to confound this with another English term of the same sound and letters, feud, which denotes contention, or quarrel: the one is a simple term of Saxon original; the other is compounded, and derived, as above, from another language.

As the vassal's property was feudal, that of the Sovereign, who held of no superiour, was called Allodial, from all, totum, and odh, property; to intimate, that it was wholly his own, and that he owed no reward nor acknowledgment to any person for it. A sovereign might indeed be feudatory to another sovereign for certain lands or provinces; but, in regard to these, the feudatory was a vassal, and obliged to do homage to his superiour: as we find that the kings of Scotland often did, for some of their southern territories, to the kings of England; and the kings of England to the kings of France for some of their foreign dominions.

In conformity to the feudal institutions and language, our law still supposes every tenure in land, pertaining to a subject, to be derived either from another subject, or from the sovereign. But, in this last case, the tenure is really allodial; for those lands are said to hold of the Crown, which do not hold of any subject.

The state of a feudal lord resembled that of his sovereign in other respects. He retained part of his territory in his own hands, for the support of his dignity and household; and the rest, with consent of the king, he divided among his own vassals, according to the same feudal tenure, by which he himself held his lands of the sovereign. The secondary vassals were afterwards known, in some countries, by the name of Armigeri, or Esquires; which in the original signification denoted Armour-bearers, or Bearers of shields, On being invested with their respective fiefs, they did homage to their immediate superiour, swore allegiance to him, and promised at their own charges to attend him in war, when summoned for that purpose. They, like their superiours the Great Barons, had jurisdiction within their own territories; and, in the economy of their household, would no doubt imitate them, as far as they were able.

The Secondary Barons, like the Primary, had their vassals, to whom they gave lands on the same feudal conditions: and by whom they were served and attended in war, even as they themselves served and attended the nobility, and the nobility the king. In times of peace, and when military attendance was not required, the lowest order of vassals would sometimes make a payment of corn, cattle, or money, in return for their lands; and this in time became general, and was the origin of rents.

I hinted, that the whole nation was trained to the use of arms. In the beginning it would probably be so: but, when the Gothick system had been for some time established, this was not the case. All the free men, indeed, were warriours; but the lower sort of people, who supplied their betters with food, cloaths, armour, and other necessaries, had not that honour, and were in fact no better than slaves, though all were not equally servile.

For a nation, when once conquered, and subjected to this form of policy, it was scarce possible to throw off the yoke, or even attempt to regain their freedom. The truth is, that the vanquished soon came to incorporate with the victors; who seemed, when they made their first appearance in the southern parts of Europe, to found their political ideas on the natural equality of mankind.

What passes for the history of those dark ages is in many particulars little better than conjecture. It is however certain, that the Feudal plan of subordination became at length almost universal in Europe. Those islands and provinces, that had not been conquered, or invaded, by the northern warriors, found their account in adopting it: partly, no doubt, from a desire to imitate the rest

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of the world; and partly too, that they, might, by establishing the same military arrangements, acquire the same military vigour, and be able to maintain independency in the midst of their warlike neighbours. The feudal system, in its full extent, was not brought into England, till the Conquest by William duke of Normandy; who imported it from his own country, where it had been long established; and introduced it into the southern part of this island, with the consent of the Great Council of the nation. At what time it came into Scotland, is not yet, so far as I know, determined among antiquaries. But that it was adopted by the Scots, and maintained its influence longer in North, than in South Britain, is well known.*

These corruptions of the old feudal system were gradually introduced, in consequence of the aspiring genius of the nobles, and want of power in the kings. The lands of the former were honoured with privileges, that allowed an extensive, and something even of royal, authority, to the proprietor. Before him, or judges appointed by him, all causes, civil or criminal, were tried, which concerned any of his vassals: and if the vassal of a baron was summoned before any of the king's courts, the lord of that vassal might refuse to give him up, reserving to himself the right of trying him; and might even punish his vassal, if he submitted to other jurisdiction, than that of his immediate superiour. Thus, it is easy to see, that the influence of the crown would be very weak, except within the king's own territory: and that contests would take place between him and his nobles, wherein the latter might have the advantage. And hence, a wealthy baron, who had a great number of dependants, might vie, in the splendour of his economy, even with the sovereign himself, and learn to set him, and his power, at defiance: whence would arise insolent demands from the nobles; and mean-spirited concessions on the part of the king. In fact, the history of modern Europe contains, for several ages, little more, than a detail of dissensions between the kings and their nobility. For, in process of time, the power of the feudal barons, increased by legacies, lucrative marriages, and imprudent concessions from the crown, became offensive, and even intolerable, to

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their sovereigns: who were thus obliged, in self-defence, to devise expedients for checking that ambition, which gave them so much uneasiness. Some think, that the Crusades took their rise from this principle.

The Crusades were military expeditions into Palestine, undertaken by the Christian princes of Europe, with a view to exterminate, as they pretended, from the Holy Land, those Turks and Saracens, who were then in possession of it. For they gave that it was a reproach to Christendom, to permit infidels to live and reign in a country, which in ancient times, belonged to the posterity of Abraham, and had been honoured with the presence of our Saviour, while he sojourned among men. These warlike enterprises, warranted and encouraged by the Pope, were well suited to the enthusiastick valour of the feudal times, as well as to the religious opinions that prevailed while popery and ignorance were universal in the western world. The nobility and people, therefore, engaged in them with eagerness. They believed, that they should perform an acceptable service to God, by destroying, or at least by conquering, the enemies of the Christian faith; and that the reward of their labour would be military renown in this life, and a crown of glory in the next. The pope claimed, and was allowed to have, power to remit the sins of the whole world: and a general remission of sin, together with many advantages of a secular nature*, was offered to all who would enlist in those armaments.

The honours acquired by the heroes of the Crusade were not inconsiderable: though attended with great expense, both of treasure, and of blood. They conquered Palestine, and drove the Saracens out of it: and Godfrey of Bologne, or Bouillon, was actually crowned king of Jerusalem, about the year eleven hundred. Those who had distinguished themselves in these wars, expressed their atchievements by some emblematical device, engraven, or painted, on their shield: and this is said to have been the origin of Armorial Ensigns; which, though they may now be purchased with money, were antiently attainable by valour only. For the defensive armour then in use was of a particular kind, and quite different from that of the Greeks and Romans. The Feudal baron cased his whole body in steel or brass: and the helmet was so contrived, as to cover upon occasion every part of his face, except the eyes; so that in the field he could not be known, but by the figures on his target, or by the make or colour of his arms. And by these the warriors of that time were often distinguished. Edward the Black Prince, a name famous in the English history, was so called from the colour of his armour, which is still preserved in the Tower of London.

I said, that the figures, which the Crusader displayed on his shield, were the origin of ensigns armorial. And this is the opinion of many authors: but it can be true of such figures only, as were according to the system of modern heraldry. For devices on shields are more antient: witness the shield of Hercules by Hesiod; that of Achilles by Homer; and those of the seven chief at Thebes particularly described by Eschylus. Some fancy, that they are of still higher antiquity, and were known to Noah, Abraham, and Jacob;

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and that the twelves tribes of Israel were distinguished by their respective ensigns. But this is foreign from the present purpose.

That spirit of valour and religion, and that passion for travelling and strange adventures, to which the crusades were so favourable, gave rise to Chivalry; which now began to appear in the world, and in time produced very important consequences, in politicks, in manners, and in literature. I am not ignorant, that some authors assign it an earlier date; and are rather inclined to derive the crusades from chivalry, than chivalry from the crusades. The dispute is not very material. Certain it is, that Chivalry was first known about the time of the crusades; and that the romantick enthusiasm, wild fancy, and desperate valour, which characterised the knights who professed it, were much inflamed, and partly produced, by the reports then circulating through a credulous world, concerning the adventures that were believed to have befallen the heroes of the holy war.

The word chivalry is derived from the French chevalier; which, like the Latin eques, properly signifies a man who serves in war on horseback. As the poorer sort served on foot, Eques in Latin, and Chevalier in French, became titles of honour, corresponding nearly, but not perfectly, with the English term knight.

Chivalry was a military profession. The man, who wished to be distinguished in this way, dressed himself in a suit of the armour of that time: and, girding on a sword, and grasping a spear, mounted his horse, and set out on some warlike enterprise. He could not, however, be considered as a complete cavalier, till he had received the honour of knighthood. This none can now confer, but a sovereign prince; but any man, who was himself a knight, could then confer it; and a sovereign would condescend to accept of it from the hands of a subject. The person, who was invested with this honour, received it on his knees; and many ceremonies, both warlike and religious, were performed on the

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occasion.—There are several things remarkable in the character of the knights of chivalry; which may be partly accounted for, from the preceding observations.

1. The first is, their Religious character. The authority of the church of Rome was then unbounded and universal in Europe; and the wars undertaken to rescue the holy land infused a religious enthusiasm into all who took part in those expeditions, that is, into every European, who aspired to military fame. Hence piety, as well as valour, was considered as indispensably requisite to form a gallant soldier. Some parts, too, of Europe, particularly Spain, had suffered from the invasion of Saracens and other infidel nations, who by their cruelty had rendered themselves, and their religion, objects of horror to all Christendom. When a knight, made captive by those unbelievers, was prevailed on, by threats, punishment, or exhortation, to abandon the true faith, he was branded among Christians with the name of a Recreant, that is, of an Apostate Knight: a term of the bitterest reproach. For every knight, at his installation, swore to maintain the Catholick faith, in opposition to every danger. And therefore this term implied, in the language of Chivalry, nothing less than an impious, perjured, and profligate coward.*

Consider, too, the political circumstances of the feudal barons. They lived apart, in their respective territories, where their power was like that of petty kings; and in their own fortified castles, where they kept a train of valiant friends and followers: and, in the economy and splendor of their household, they imitated royal magnificence. An offender, who had made his escape, either from the publick justice of his country, or from the vengeance of some angry chief, was sure of a place of refuge, if he could find admittance into the castle of any other lord. Hence publick justice was eluded, and the authority of the law despised: and a wicked

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and powerful baron, secure within his own castle, would even defy the power of the sovereign himself, or perhaps with hostile intention meet him in the field at the head of an army of determined followers. William earl of Douglas was generally attended, on solemn occasions, by a body of two thousand horse. Such a man it might be unsafe, even for a king, to provoke. As late as the reign of Mary queen of Scots, we read of a court of law held near the border of England; and are told, that the inhabitants of eleven counties were summoned by royal proclamation, to defend the persons of the judges, and enforce their decrees.*

4. They were also distinguished by a zeal for justice: and, as the laws were so ineffectual, professed to take up arms in vindication of the rights of mankind; to punish the oppressor; to set at liberty the captive; to succour the distressed damsel; and to rid the world of those false knights, who wandered about in armour, to accomplish wicked purposes. These were noble designs; and, while society was so insecure, and the law so openly violated, must have been attended with good effects.—If you ask, how this heroick part of their character is to be accounted for; I answer, that they seem to have derived it, partly from their northern ancestors, who were lovers of liberty, and generous in their behaviour to the weaker sex; and partly from their attachment to the Christian religion, whereof they were the declared champions, and which disfigured as it then was by superstition, would still be a restraint upon the passions of those who were willing to attend to its dictates.

The gallant behaviour of these knights may further be accounted for, from that religious ardour, which prompted them to signalize themselves as the champions of the faith, and to fulfil those duties of benevolence and kindness, which are no where so earnestly recommended as in the Gospel, and which form the most substantial, and indeed the only substantial, part of true politeness.

Politeness and courtesy take their rise among those who stand in awe of one another. For this reason, Monarchy, where different

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ranks of men are established, has always been thought more favourable to elegant manners, than any of the republican forms of government, in which all the citizens are supposed to be equal, or nearly so. In his own court, that is, in his castle, the feudal baron was a monarch in miniature; and polite manners, like those that take place where kings have their residence, would naturally be diffused through his whole household. You easily know by one's behaviour, whether one has been much in the company of one's superiours. A man of spirit contracts no servility from that circumstance: but he acquires the habit of attending to the wants and wishes of those with whom he converses, of complying with their innocent humours, of adapting himself to their views of things, and their peculiar ways of thinking; and he also acquires the habits of unassuming speech, elegant phraseology, and easy motion.—It has been remarked. by several writers, that the true Scotch highlander is distinguished by a gentility of behaviour, which does not generally display itself in the lower ranks of mankind The fact, I believe, is true; and may be accounted for, if not from the feudal, at least from the patriarchal, policy of the people; from the relation of clanship subsisting between the lord and his vassal, which entitles the latter to the company of the former, and occasions a more familiar intercourse, than is elsewhere met with, between the gentry and the commonalty.—And therefore it is not surprising, that there should have been, notwithstanding the rudeness of the times, so much courtesy in the castle of a feudal baron; especially among those who appeared there in a military character, and still more especially among the knights of chivalry.

Besides, the character of a true knight was very delicate: and single combat was a thing so familiar to him, and withal accounted so honourable, that he never failed to resent in a hostile manner any reproachful word that might be thrown out against his virtue, particularly against his faith, or his courage. Hence reproachful

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words would in general be avoided; which would promote courtesy, by refining conversation. And hence the origin of Duelling: a practice, unknown to Greece and Rome; which took its rise in the feudal times, and probably among the sons of chivalry; and which, though in many respects, absurd and wicked, is allowed to have promoted politeness, by making men cautious of offending one another.

The knight errant was the declared enemy of the oppressor, the punisher of the injurious, and the patron of the weak. And as women were more exposed to injury, than men; and as ladies of rank and merit were, for reasons already given, the objects of veneration to all men of breeding; the true knight was ambitious, above all things, to appear the champion of the fair sex. To qualify himself for this honour, he was careful acquire every accomplishment that could entitle him to their confidence: he was courteous, gentle, temperate and chaste. He bound himself, by solemn vows, to the performance of those virtues: so that, while he acted with honour in his profession, a lady might commit herself to his care, without detriment to her character; he being, in regard to those virtues, as far above suspicion, as a clergyman is now. And, that women of fashion might confide in him with the more security, he commonly attached himself to some one lady, whom he declared to be the sole mistress of his affections, and to whom he swore inviolable constancy. Nothing is more ridiculous than Don Quixote's passion for Dulcinea del Toboso, as Cervantes has described it: and yet, it was in some sort necessary for every knight errant to have a nominal mistress: because, if he had not acknowledged any particular attachment, nor made any vows in consequence of it, his conduct, where women were concerned might have been suspected; which would alone have disqualified him for what he justly thought the most honourable duty annexed to his profession. In a word, the chastity of a knight errant was to be no

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less unimpeachable, than the credit of a merchant now is, or the courage of a soldier.

I have endeavoured to trace out the distinguishing features of that extraordinary character, a Knight Errant; and to account for each of them, from the nature of the institution, and the manners of the times. The true Knight was religious, valiant, passionately fond of strange adventures, a lover of justice, a protector of the weak, a punisher of the injurious; temperate, courteous, and chaste; and zealous, and respectful, in his attentions to the fair sex. And this is the character assigned him in all those old romances and poems, that describe the adventures of chivalry.

Knight-errantry, however respectable in its first institution, soon became dangerous. The Gothick armour was a complete covering to the whole person: and under that disguise many warriours went through the world as knights errant, who were really nothing better than robbers; and who, instead of being patrons of mankind, were pests of society. The true knight, therefore, thought himself bound in honour to inquire into the character of those who might appear in the same garb; so that two knights, who were strangers to each other, could hardly meet without fighting. And we may warrantably suppose, that even the better sort of these wanderers would sometimes attack an innocent man, without necessity, in order to signalize their valour, and do honour to the lady of their affections. Nay, in time it came to be a sufficient cause for combat, if the strange knight refused to acknowledge the beauty of his adversary's mistress superiour to that of his own. The law, therefore, would find it necessary to interpose; first, in subjecting chivalry to certain restraints, to which a knight would not willingly submit; and, at last, in declaring the profession itself unlawful. Before the publication of Don Quixote, knight errantry had been prohibited in several countries; and was indeed become unnecessary, from the alterations, that (as will appear in the next paragraph)

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had been gradually introduced into the feudal system; as well as inconvenient, from the absurd conduct of the knights themselves.

Of all those, who repined at the encroachments of the feudal barons, the kings of Europe were the most impatient, and indeed the greatest, sufferers. They could summon their subjects in arms to the field; but having little to give them, could not easily keep them together for more than a few weeks. And, in time of peace, the royal power being almost confined to the royal territory, the greater barons were continually opposing the views of the sovereign, despising his authority, extorting from him new privileges, and counteracting the influence of the law. This was more or less the state of every feudal kingdom. The fashion of crusading was now over. And a feudal prince, unable to devise employment in foreign parts, for his turbulent nobility, was obliged, in self-defence, to exert all his power and policy, in controuling them at home; with a view to resume, if possible, some of those privileges that had been wrested from him. Many years were passed in struggles of this kind, between the kings and the nobles; to which nothing could put a period, but a change in the form of government. That happened in some countries sooner, and in others later: but the kings at length prevailed, and the feudal system was broken in pieces. Its laws, however, and its manners, are still observable in every European kingdom.

As the power of the nobles was contracted, that of the kings became more extensive. This might be unfavourable to the independence, or rather to the licentiousness, of the grandees: but it promoted peace, and re-established the authority of law. Society became more regular, and more secure. The knight-errant was no longer of any use. He was even found troublesome; and the law considered him as a vagrant.

But the old spirit of chivalry was not extinguished: and what remained of it was inflamed by the books called Romances, which

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were now common in Europe; and, being written in the vulgar tongues, and filled with marvellous adventures, could not fail to be eagerly sought after and read, at a time when books were rare, and men credulous.

To investigate all the causes that brought about the revival of letters, is now impossible. The ages immediately preceding this great event were profoundly ignorant; and few memorials of them remain. The crusades, bloody and unnatural as they were, seem to have given a new, and a favourable, impulse to the human soul. For the heroes of those wars, who lived to return home, brought along with them marvellous accounts of Asia, and of the misfortunes, triumphs, and other adventures that had there befallen them. Thus, it may be supposed, that the imagination of Europeans would be elevated, their memory stored with new ideas, and their curiosity awakened. The human mind, thus prepared, naturally betakes itself to invention. Or if we believe the dawn of modern literature to have been previous to, or coeval with, the first crusade, it is not absurd to imagine, that the same spirit of activity, however raised, which made men think of signalizing themselves in feats of arms at home, or in quest of adventures abroad, might also stimulate the mental powers, and cause genius to exert itself in new ways of thinking, as well as of acting. The wars of Thebes and of Troy are undoubtedly to be reckoned among the causes that gave rise to the literature of Greece.*

The word Troubadour, in its etymological sense, differs not much from the Greek word poet; the one denoting an inventor, and the other a maker. In Italian, trovare signifies to find, or to invent; trovatore is a finder, inventor, or composer of poetry: and trovatore and troubadour are plainly of the same origin. The troubadours made verses in the Provençal tongue; which (as might be conjectured from the situation of the country) resembled partly the Italian, and partly the French, and is said to have had in it many Greek words and idioms, which it owed, no doubt, to the neighbouring city of Marseilles. It seems to have been the first modern tongue that was put in writing, or employed in composition. And the rank of some of those who composed in it (for many of the Troubadours were princes*) and the wandering life which others of them led, made it quickly circulate through the western world.

No poets were ever held in higher esteem, than the Troubadours. Raimond the fifth, count of Provence, exempted them from taxes. They went through many nations; and, wherever they went, they found patrons and pratronesses. The Ladies were particularly ambitious of being celebrated by them; and would rather submit to be teased with the importunities of their love, than venture by rejecting them to incur their hatred: for as the troubadour was extravagant in panegyrick, he could be equally so in satire, when he thought himself affronted or despised.—This passion for that sort of renown, which poets pretend to give, may be accounted for, perhaps, from the ignorance of letters, which then prevailed in all ranks, and especially among the fair sex. Bernard de Ventadour mentions it as one of the accomplishments of Queen Eleanor, who was married first to Louis the Seventh of France, and afterwards to Henry the Second of England, that she could read.*

Petrarch's passion for Laura, though disinterested, seems to have been in some degree fictitious, or at least, not quite so serious a matter as many people imagine. “He was wretched to show he had wit,” as the song says: he loved after the Provensal fashion: he wanted to make passionate verses; and Laura, being a beautiful lady, and a married one too, with a pretty romantick name, suited his poetical purposes as well as Dulcinea del Toboso did the heroick views of Don Quixote. Had his heart been really engaged, he could not have gone on, from day to day, in the same strain of elegant and elaborate whining: a sincere passion would have allowed him neither time or tranquillity for such amusement.—What is observed, in the old aphorism, of violent grief, that it is silent, and of slight sorrow, that it vents itself in words, will be found to hold true of many of our affections. Hammond was not in love, when he wrote his elegies; as I have been informed on good authority: and Young, while composing the most pathetick parts of the Night-thoughts, was as chearful as at other times. These are not the only instances that might be mentioned.*

Love was not the only theme of the Provensal poets. They occasionally joined their voices to those of the pope, and the monks, and the kings Europe, to rouse the spirit of crusading. Satire, religious and political, as well as personal, and little tales or novels, with portions of real history, and even theological controversy, were also interwoven in their compositions. But in every form their poetry pleased; and, by the industry of those who composed, and of those who sung it, obtained a very extensive circulation.

A book, or a poem, in a living language, was at this period an extraordinary appearance. All Europe attended to it. The Provensal tongue, and mode of writing, became fashionable: and the neighbouring nations wished to know, whether their languages could not also be applied to the same, or to similar purposes.

The fourteenth century produced also the illustrious Geoffry Chaucer; who, though not the first who wrote in English, is the first of our great authors, and may be truly called the father of our language and literature. His writings are chiefly translations, or imitations, of the Provensal and Italian writers then known. But he has imitated and translated with the greatest latitude, and added many fine strokes of character, humour and description: so that we ought to consider him as an original; since he does in fact exhibit, especially in his Canterbury Tales, a more natural picture of the English manners of that age, than is to be met with in any other writer. He did not, however, fix the English tongue, as his contemporaries Petrarch and Boccacio had fixed the Italian. Many of his words soon fell into disuse: and his language at present is not well understood, except by those who have taken some pains to study it. He died in the year fourteen hundred. Some of his poems, particularly his Knight's Tale, which is well modernized by Dryden, are written in the taste of Chivalry; but not in that extravagant mode of invention, which now began to display itself in the Spanish and French romances; and which was afterwards adopted, and adorned with every grace of language and of harmony, by Ariosto in Italy, and by Spenser in England.

The origin of the Old Romance, which, after this long historical deduction, we are now arrived at, has been already accounted for. It was one of the consequences of chivalry. The first writers in this way exhibited a species of fable, different from all that had hitherto appeared. They undertook to describe the adventures of those heroes who professed knight-errantry. The world was then ignorant and credulous, and passionately fond of wonderful adventures, and deeds of valour. They believed in giants, dwarfs, dragons, enchanted castles, and every imaginable species of necro-

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mancy. These form the materials of the Old Romance. The knight errant was described as courteous, religious, valiant, adventurous, and temperate. Some enchanters befriended, and others opposed him. To do his mistress honour, and to prove himself worthy of her, he was made to encounter the warrior, hew down the giant, cut the dragon in pieces, break the spell of the necromancer, demolish the enchanted castle, fly through the air on wooden or winged horses; or with some magician for his guide, to descend unhurt through the opening earth, and traverse the caves in the bottom of the ocean. He detected and punished the false knight, overthrew or converted the infidel, restored the exiled monarch to his dominions, and the captive damsel to her parents: he fought at the tournament, feasted in the hall, and bore a part in the warlike procession: or, when the enchanter who befriended his enemy prevailed, he did penance in the desart, or groaned in the dungeon; or, perhaps, in the shape of a horse or hart, grazed in the valley, till some other valiant knight broke the spell, and restored to him his form, his arms, and his freedom. At last, after innumerable toils, disasters, and victories, he married his mistress, and became a great lord, a prince or perhaps an emperor.

It will appear, from this account, that nature, probability, and even possibility, were not much attended to, in those compositions. Yet with them all Europe was intoxicated: and in every nation that had pretensions to a literary character, multitudes of them were written, some in verse, and others in prose. To give a list is unnecessary, and would be tedious. Amadis de Gaul was one of the first; and is, in the opinion of Cervantes, one of the best. Several others are mentioned and characterised, by that excellent author, in his account of the purgation of Don Quixote's library.

While the taste continued for every thing that was incredible and monstrous, we may suppose, that true learning, and the natural simplicity of the Classicks, would not be held in general estimation.

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Accordingly, though the knowledge of Greek and Latin was now advancing apace in the western world, Homer, Virgil, Cicero, and all the most elegant authors, were much neglected. The first accounts, that circulated among us concerning the siege of Troy, seem to have been taken, not from Homer, but from Dares Phrygius and Dictys Cretensis, two writers in prose, who have given a fabulous and marvellous history of it: and, as late as the age of George Buchanan, our modern Latin poets, Vida excepted, were, if I mistake not, more ambitious to imitate Claudian, than Virgil, in their hexameters. Ovid, too, was a favourite author; partly on account of the astonishing fables of the Metamorphosis, and partly, no doubt, for the sake of his love-verses, so well adapted to the gallantry of this period.*

The passion for romance was attended with other bad consequences. Men of warlike genius and warm fancy, charmed to infatuation with the supposed achievements of knights errant, were tempted to appear in that character; though the profession was now considered as a nuisance, and proscribed by law, in some parts of Europe. This folly seems to have been most prevalent in Spain: which may be thus accounted for. The first romances were written in the language of that kingdom. The Spaniards were then, as they are now, a valiant and enterprising people. And they had long been enslaved by the Moors from Africa, whom, after a seven hundred years war (according to the historians), and after fighting three thousand and seven hundred battles, they at last drove out of Spain. This produced many wonderful adventures; made them fierce, romantick, and haughty; and confirmed their attachment to their own religion, and their abhorrence of that of their enemies.

But the final extirpation of chivalry and all its chimeras was now approaching. What laws and force could not accomplish, was brought about by the humour and satire of one writer. This was the illustrious Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. He was born at Madrid in the year one thousand five hundred and forty-nine. He seems to have had every advantage of education, and to have been a master in polite learning. But in other respects fortune was not very indulgent. He served many years in the armies of Spain, in no higher station than that of a private soldier. In that capacity he fought at the battle of Lepanto, under Don John of Austria, and had the misfortune, or, as lie rather thought, the honour, to lose his left hand. Being now disqualified for military service, he commenced author; and wrote many Dramatick pieces, which were acted with applause on the Spanish theatre, and acquired him both money and reputation. But want of economy and unbounded generosity dissipated the former: and he was actually confined in prison for debt, when he composed the first part of The History of Don Quixote; a work, which every body admires for its humour; but which ought also to be considered as a most useful performance, that brought about a great revolution in the manners and literature of Europe, by banishing the wild dreams of chivalry, and reviving a taste for the simplicity of nature. In this view, the publication of Don Quixote forms an important era in the history of mankind.

Don Quixote is represented as a man, whom it is impossible not to esteem for his cultivated understanding, and the goodness of his heart: but who, by poring night and day upon the old romances, had impaired his reason to such a degree as to mistake them for history, and form the design of going through the world, in the character, and with the accoutrements, of a knight errant. His distempered fancy takes the most common occurrences for adventures similar to those he had read in his books of chivalry. And thus, the extravagance of those books being placed as it were, in

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the same groupe with the appearances of nature and the real business of life, the hideous disproportion of the former becomes so glaring by the contrast, that the most inattentive observer cannot fail to be struck with it. The person, the pretensions, and the exploits, of the errant knight, are held up to view in a thousand ridiculous attitudes. In a word, the humour and satire are irresistible; and their effects were instantaneous.

This work no sooner appeared, than chivalry vanished, as snow melts before the sun. Mankind awoke as from a dream. They laughed at themselves for having been so long imposed on by absurdity; and wondered they had not made the discovery sooner. It astonished them to find. that nature and good sense could yield a more exquisite entertainment, than they had ever derived from the most sublime phrensies of chivalry. For, that this was indeed the case: that Don Quixote was more read, and more relished, than any other romance had ever been, we may infer, from the sudden and powerful effect it produced on the sentiments of mankind; as well as from the declaration of the author himself; who tells us, that upwards of twelve thousand copies of the first part were sold, before the second could be got ready for the press: an amazing rapidity of sale, at a time when the readers and purchasers of books were but an inconsiderable number compared to what they are in our days. “The very children, (says he) handle it, boys read it, men understand, and old people applaud, the performance. It is no sooner laid down by one, than another takes it up: some struggling, and some entreating, for a sight of it. In fine, (continues he) this history is the most delightful, and the least prejudicial, entertainment, that ever was seen; for, in the whole book, there is not the least shadow of a dishonourable word, nor one thought unworthy of a good catholick.”*

Don Quixote occasioned the death of the Old Romance, and gave birth to the New. Fiction henceforth divested herself of her gigantick size, tremendous aspect, and frantick demeanour; and, descending to the level of common life, conversed with man as his equal, and as a polite and chearful companion. Not that every subsequent Romance-writer adopted the plan, or the manner, of Cervantes: but it was from him they learned to avoid extravagance, and to imitate nature. And now probability was as much studied, as it had been formerly neglected.

But before I proceed to the New Romance, on which I shall be very brief, it is proper just to mention a species of Romantick narrative, which cannot be called either Old or New, but is a strange mixture of both. Of this kind are the Grand Cyrus, Clelia, and Cleopatra; each consisting of ten or a dozen large volumes, and pretending to have a foundation in ancient history. In them, all facts and characters, real and fabulous; and all systems of policy and manners, the Greek, the Roman, the Feudal, and the modern, are jumbled together and confounded: as if a painter should represent Julius Cesar drinking tea with Queen Elizabeth, Jupiter, and Dulcinea del Toboso, and having on his head the laurel wreath of antient Rome, a suit of Gothick armour on his shoulders, laced ruffles at his wrist, a pipe of tobacco in his mouth, and a pistol and tomahawk stuck in his belt. But I should go beyond my depth, if I were to criticize any of those enormous compositions. For, to confess the truth, I never had patience to read one half of one of the volumes; nor met with a person, who could give me any other account of them, than that they are intolerably tedious, and unspeakably absurd.

The New Romance may be divided into the Serious and the Comick: and each of these kinds may be variously subdivided.

I. 1. Of Serious Romances, some follow the historical arrangement; and, instead of beginning, like Homer and Virgil, in the

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middle of the subject*, give a continued narrative of the life of some one person, from his birth to his establishment in the world, or till his adventures may be supposed to have come to an end. Of this sort is Robinson Crusoe. The account commonly given of that well known work is as follows.

Some have thought, that a love tale is necessary to make a romance interesting. But Robinson Crusoe, though there is nothing of love in it, is one of the most interesting narratives that ever was written; at least in all that part which relates to the desert island: being founded on a passion still more prevalent than love, the desire of self-preservation; and therefore likely to engage the curiosity of every class of readers, both old and young, both learned and unlearned.

I am willing to believe, that Defoe shared the profits of this publication with the poor seaman: for there is an air of humanity in it, which one would not expect from an author who is an arrant cheat. In the preface to his second volume, he speaks feelingly enough of the harm done him by those who had abridged the first, in order to reduce the price. “The injury,” says he, “which these men do to the proprietors of works, is a practice all honest men abhor: and they believe they may challenge them to show the difference between that, and robbing on the highway, or breaking open a house. If they cannot show any difference in the crime, they will find it hard to show, why there should be any difference in the punishment.” Is it to be imagined, that any man of common prudence would talk in this way, if he were conscious, that he himself might be proved guilty of that very dishonesty which he so severely condemns?

Be this however as it may, for I have no authority to affirm any thing on either side, Robinson Crusoe must be allowed, by the most rigid moralist, to be one of those novels, which one may read, not only with pleasure, but also with profit. It breathes throughout a spirit of piety and benevolence: it sets in a very striking light, as I have elsewhere observed, the importance of the mechanick arts, which they, who know not what it is to be with-

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out them, are so apt to undervalue: it fixes in the mind lively idea of the horrors of solitude, and consequently, of the sweets of social life, and of the blessings we derive from conversation, and mutual aid: and it shows, how, by labouring with one's own hands, one may secure independence, and open for one's self many sources of health and amusement. I agree, therefore, with Rousseau, that this is one of the best books that can be put in the hands of children.—The style is plain, but not elegant, nor perfectly grammatical: and the second part of the story is tiresome.

2. A second species of the Modern Serious Romance is that, which follows the poetical arrangement; and, in order to shorten the time of the action, begins in the middle of the story. Such, partly, are Sir Charles Grandison, and Clarissa Harlowe, by Mr. Richardson. That author has adopted a plan of narrative of a peculiar kind: the persons, who bear a part in the action, are themselves the relaters of it. This is done by means of letters, or epistles; wherein the story is continued from time to time, and the passions freely expressed, as they arise from every change of fortune, and while the persons concerned are supposed to be ignorant of the events that are to follow. And thus, the several agents are introduced in their turns, speaking, or, which is the same thing in this case, writing, suitably to their respective feelings, and characters: so that the fable is partly Epick, and partly Dramatick. There are some advantages in this form of narrative. It prevents all anticipation of the catastrophe; and keeps the reader in the same suspense, in which the persons themselves are supposed to be: and it pleases further, by the varieties of style, suited in the different tempers and sentiments of those who write the letters. But it has also its inconveiences. For, unless the fable be short and simple, this mode of narration can hardly fail to run out into an extravagant length, and to be encumbered with repetitions. And indeed, Richardson himself, with all his powers of invention, is apt to be

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tedious, and to fall into a minuteness of detail, which is often unnecessary. His pathetick scenes, too, are overcharged, and so long continued, as to wear out the spirits of the reader. Nor can it be denied, that he has given too much prudery to his favourite women, and something of pedantry or finicalness to his favourite men.—Clementina was, no doubt, intended as a pattern of female excellence: but, though she may claim veneration as a saint, it is impossible to love her as a woman. And Grandison, though both a good and a great character, is in every thing so perfect, as in many things to discourage imitation; and so distant, and so formal, as to forbid all familiarity, and, of course, all cordial attachment. Alworthy is as good a man as he: but his virtue is purely human; and, having a little of our own weakness in it, and assuming no airs of superiority, invites our acquaintance, and engages our love.

For all this, however, Richardson is an author of uncommon merit. His characters are well drawn, and distinctly marked; and he delineates the operation of the passions with a picturesque accuracy, which discovers great knowledge of human nature. His moral sentiments are profound and judicious; in wit and humour he is not wanting; his dialogue is sometimes formal; but many of his conversation-pieces are executed with elegance and vivacity. For the good tendency of his writings he deserves still higher praise; for he was a man of unaffected piety, and had the improvement of his fellow-creatures very much at heart.

Yet, like most other novel-writers, he represents some of his wicked characters as more agreeable than was necessary to his plan; which may make the example dangerous. I do not think, that an author of fable, in either prose or verse, should make his bad characters completely bad: for, in the first place, that would not be natural, as the worst of men have generally some good in them: and, secondly, that would hurt his design, by making the tale less captivating; as the history of a person, so very worthless as to have

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not one good quality, would give disgust or horrour, instead of pleasure. But, on the other hand, when a character, like Richardson's Lovelace, whom the reader ought to abominate for his crimes, is adorned with youth, beauty, eloquence, wit, and every other intellectual and bodily accomplishment, it is to be feared, that thoughtless young men may be tempted to imitate, even while they disapprove, him. Nor is it a sufficient apology to say, that he is punished in the end. The reader knows, that the story is a fiction: but he knows too, that such talents and qualities, if they were to appear in real life, would be irresistibly engaging; and he may even fancy, that a character so highly ornamented must have been a favourite of the author. Is there not, then, reason to apprehend, that some readers will be more inclined to admire the gay profligate than to fear his punishment?—Achilles in Homer, and Macbeth in Shakspeare, are not without great and good qualities, to raise our admiration, and make us take concern in what befals them. But no person is in any danger of being perverted by their example: their criminal conduct being described and directed in such a manner, by the art of the poet, as to show, that it is hateful in itself, and necessarily productive of misery, both to themselves, and to mankind.

I may add, that the punishment of Lovelace is a death, not of infamy, according to our notions, but rather of honour; which surely he did not deserve: and that the immediate cause of it is, not his wickedness, but some inferiority to his antagonist in the use of the small sword. With a little more skill in that exercise, he might, for any thing that appears in the story, have triumphed over Clarissa's avenger, as he had done over herself, and over the censure of the world. Had his crime been represented as the necessary cause of a series of mortifications, leading him gradually down to infamy, ruin, and despair, or producing by probable means an exemplary repentance, the fable would have been more useful in a moral view, and perhaps more interesting. And for the execu-

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tion of such a plan, the genius of Richardson seems to me to have been extremely well formed.—These remarks are offered, with a view rather to explain my own ideas of fable, than to detract from an author, who was an honour to his country, and of whose talents and virtues I am a sincere admirer.

His Epistolary manner has been imitated by many novel writers; particularly by Rousseau in his New Eloisa; a work, not more remarkable for its eloquence, which is truly great, than for its glaring and manifold inconsistencies. For it is full of nature and extravagance, of sound philosophy and wild theory, of useful instruction and dangerous doctrine.

II. 1. The second kind of the New Romance is the Comick; which, like the first, may, with respect to the arrangement of events, be subdivided into the Historical and the Poetical.

Of the Historical form are the novels of Marivaux, and Gil Blas by M. le Sage. These authors abound in wit and humour; and give natural descriptions of present manners, in a simple, and very agreeable, style. And their works may be read without danger; being for the most part of a moral tendency. Only Le Sage appears to have had a partiality for cheats and sharpers: for these are people whom he introduces often; nor does he always paint them in the odious colours, that properly belong to all such pests of society. Even his hero Gil Blas he has made too much a rogue: which, as he is the relater of his own story, has this disagreeable effect, that it conveys to us, all the while we read him, an idea that we are in bad company, and deriving entertainment from the conversation of a man whom we cannot esteem.

Smollet follows the same historical arrangement in Roderick Random and Peregrine Pickle: two performances, of which I am sorry to say, that I can hardly allow them any other praise, than that they are humourous and entertaining. He excels, however, in drawing the characters of seamen; with whom in his younger days

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he had the best opportunities of being acquainted. He seems to have collected a vast number of merry stories; and he tells them with much vivacity and energy of expression. But his style often approaches to bombast; and many of his humourous pictures are exaggerated beyond all bounds of probability. And it does not appear that he knew how to contrive a regular fable, by making his events mutually dependent, and all cooperating to one and the same final purpose.—On the morality of these novels I cannot compliment him at all. He is often inexcusably licentious. Profligates, bullies, and misanthropes, are among his favourite characters. A duel he seems to have thought one of the highest efforts of human virtue; and playing dexterously at billiards a very genteel accomplishment. Two of his pieces, however, deserve to be mentioned with more respect. Count Fathom, though an improbable tale, is pleasing, and upon the whole not immoral, though in some passages very indelicate. And Sir Launcelot Greaves, though still more improbable, has great merit; and is truly original in the execution, notwithstanding that the hint is borrowed from Don Quixote.

2. The second species of the New Comick Romance is that, which, in the arrangement of events, follows the poetical order; and which may properly enough be called the Epick Comedy, or rather the Comick Epick poem: Epick, because it is narrative; and Comick, because it is employed on the business of common life, and takes its persons from the middle and lower ranks of mankind.

Some have said, that Joseph Andrews is the best performance of Fielding. But its chief merit is parson Adams; who is indeed a character of masterly invention, and, next to Don Quixote, the most ludicrous personage that ever appeared in romance. This work, though full of exquisite humour, is blameable in many respects. Several passages offend by their indelicacy. And it is not easy to imagine, what could induce the author to add to the other faults of his hero's father, Wilson, the infamy of lying and cowardice; and then to dismiss him, by very improbable means, to a life of virtuous tranquillity, and endeavour to render him upon the whole a respectable character. Some youthful irregularities, rather hinted at than described, owing more to imprudence and unlucky accident than to confirmed habits of sensuality, and followed by inconvenience, perplexity, and remorse, their natural consequences, may, in a comick tale, be assigned even to a favourite personage, and, by proper management, form a very instructive part of the narration: but crimes, that bring dishonour, or that betray a hard heart, or an injurious disposition, should never be fixed on a character whom the poet or novel-writer means to recommend to our esteem. On this principle, Fielding might be vindicated in regard to all the censurable conduct of Tom Jones, provided he had been less particular in describing it: and, by the same rule, Smollet's system of youthful profligacy, as exemplified in some of his libertines, is altogether without excuse.

Tom Jones and Amelia are Fielding's best performances; and the most perfect, perhaps, of their kind in the world. The fable of the latter is entirely poetical, and of the true epick species; begin-

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ning in the middle of the action, or rather as near the end as possible, and introducing the previous occurrences, in the form of a narrative episode. Of the former, the introductory part follows the historical arrangement; but the fable becomes strictly poetical, as soon as the great action of the piece commences, that is, if I mistake not, immediately after the sickness of Alworthy: for, from that period, the incidents proceed in an uninterrupted series to the final event, which happens about two months after.

Since the days of Homer, the world has not seen a more artful Epick fable. The characters and adventures are wonderfully diversified: yet the circumstances are all so natural, and rise so easily from one another, and co-operate with so much regularity in bringing on, even while they seem to retard, the catastrophe, that the curiosity of the reader is kept always awake, and, instead of flagging, grows more and more impatient as the story advances, till at last it becomes downright anxiety. And when we get to the end, and look back on the whole contrivance, we are amazed to find, that of so many incidents there should be so few superfluous; that in such variety of fiction there should be so great probability; and that so complex a tale should be so perspicuously conducted, and with perfect unity of design.—These remarks may be applied either to Tom Jones or to Amelia: but they are made with a view to the former chiefly; which might give scope to a great deal of criticism, if I were not in haste to conclude the subject. Since the time of Fielding, who died in the year one thousand seven hundred and fifty-four, the Comick Romance, as far as I am acquainted with it, seems to have been declining apace from simplicity and nature, into improbability and affectation.

Let not the usefulness of Romance-writing be estimated by the length of my discourse upon it. Romances are a dangerous recreation. A few, no doubt, of the best may be friendly to good taste and good morals; but far the greater part are unskilfully written,

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and tend to corrupt the heart, and stimulate the passions. A habit of reading them breeds a dislike to history, and all the substantial parts of knowledge; withdraws the attention from nature, and truth; and fills the mind with extravagant thoughts, and too often with criminal propensities. I would therefore caution my young reader against them: or, if he must, for the sake of amusement, and that he may have something to say on the subject, indulge himself in this way now and then, let it be sparingly, and seldom.