:

receiving the least direction from Manfred. As little was he attentive to the ladies who remained in the chapel on the contrary, without mentioning the unhappy princesses, his wife and daughter, the first sounds that dropped from Manfred's lips were, 'Take care of the lady Isabella.'

OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774). For biographical details see Chapter VI, p. 144.

THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD

TOWARDS the end of the week, we received a card from the town ladies; in which, with their compliments, they hoped to see all our family at church the Sunday following. All Saturday morning, I could perceive, in consequence of this, my wife and daughters in close conference together, and now and then glancing at me, with looks that betrayed a latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd proposal was preparing for appearing with splendour the next day. In the evening, they began their operations in a very regular manner, and my wife undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, she began thus: 'I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a good company at our church to-morrow.' 'Perhaps we may, my dear,' returned I; 'though you need be under no uneasiness about that: you shall have a sermon, whether there be or not.' That is what I expect,' returned she; but I think, my dear, we ought to appear there as decently as possible; for who knows what may happen?' 'Your precautions,' replied I, are highly commendable. A decent behaviour and appearance in church is what charms me. We should be devout and humble, cheerful and serene.' 'Yes,' cried she, 'I know that; but I mean, we should go there in as proper a manner as possible, not altogether like the scrubs about us.' 'You are quite right, my dear,' returned I,

and I was going to make the very same proposal. The proper manner of going, is to go there as early as possible, to have time for meditation before the service begins.' 'Phoo, Charles,' interrupted she, 'all that is very true, but not what I would be at; I mean, we should go there genteelly. You know the church is two miles off; and I protest I don't like to see my daughters trudging up to their pew, all blowzed and red with walking, and looking for all the world as if they had been winners at a smockrace. Now, my dear, my proposal is this: there are our two plough-horses, the colt that has been in the family these nine years, and his companion Blackberry, that have scarce done an earthly thing for this month past, and are both grown fat and lazy. Why should not they do something as well as we? And let me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little, they will not be so contemptible.'

To this proposal I objected, that walking would be twenty times more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the colt wanted a tail; that they had never been broke to the rein, but had a hundred vicious tricks; and that we had but one saddle and pillion in the whole house. All these objections, however, were overruled; so that I was obliged to comply. The next morning I perceived them not a little busy in collecting such materials as might be necessary for the expedition: but as I found it would be a business of much time, I walked on to the church before, and they promised speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in the reading-desk for their arrival; but, not finding them come so speedily as I expected, I was obliged to begin, and went through the service, not without some uneasiness at finding them absent. This was increased when all was finished, and no appearance of the family. I

therefore walked back by the horse-way, which was five miles round, though the foot-way was but two; and when got about half-way home, perceived the procession marching slowly forward, towards the church; my son, my wife, and the two little ones, exalted upon one horse, and my two daughters upon the other. I demanded the cause of their delay; but I soon found by their looks they had met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses had at first refused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat them forward for about two hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps of my wife's pillion broke down, and they were obliged to stop to repair them before they could proceed. After that, one of the horses took it into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor entreaties could prevail with him to proceed. It was just recovering from this dismal situation that I found them: but perceiving everything safe, I own their present mortification did not much displease me, as it might give me many opportunities of future triumph, and teach my daughters more humility.

CHAPTER VIII

THE NATURE-POETRY

WE have seen that the main force of our eighteenthcentury literature was concentrated on the study of man, and that its most typical forms of expression are the satire, the periodic essay, and the novel of manners and incident. Side by side with this there grew, tentatively at first and with little recognition, a movement towards the appreciation of the beauties of Nature. Thomson's Spring was published in 1726, the same year as Gulliver, and the rest of the Seasons were completed by 1730. Within the next twenty years followed Shenstone, Akenside, Collins, and the earlier poems of Gray; Goldsmith's Traveller appeared in 1765, and his Deserted Village in 1770; thirteen years later Crabbe began his tales of country life and his descriptions of country scenery. It was all as yet sporadic and intermittent, the work not of a school but of a few isolated observers; yet as the century progressed it gathered in depth and intensity, and so bore its part in preparing the way for Wordsworth.

Thomson, if the parallel be not fantastic, has something in common with Pepys: the same childlike interest, the same delight in every detail of the panorama. He has little reflection, little insight, but he enjoys everything, and he calls on us frankly and openly to share his enjoyment. All comes alike to him: the birds in the hedgerow, the sunset, the sheep-shearers across the meadow, the fisherman poising his fly from the brookside; he stops to look at them all, and touches our elbow that we may miss no detail of the scene. Sometimes, it is true,

he fails in sense of proportion: a poet of greater tact would not have celebrated the worm or the robin with such pomp of blank verse; but he has a seeing eye and a kindly temper, and if we sometimes smile at his echoes of Milton we are more often pleased with his good-natured and garrulous companionship. One point in his work deserves to be specially noted-the feeling for animals not merely as the victims or drudges of human needs, but as creatures with lives of their own and rights which deserve respect. It is not as yet clearly phrased but it carries forward a tradition of English character which we may find gradually developed in Gray, in Christopher Smart (see the stanzas quoted in the present chapter), and in the whole lyric poetry of Blake.

There is no need to trace in detail the further advance of this early Nature-poetry. Collins's Ode is as still and quiet as evening itself, full of atmosphere and sober colouring and a great peace. Gray, tender, scholarly, exquisitely felicitous in phrase, describes his country churchyard with a deeper and more human insight. In the opening stanza of his Elegy we may catch the actual transition: the first three lines are pure landscape, the fourth adds a touch of personal feeling and romance. Christopher Smart's hymn is impossible to classify: it is as much an exception in its period as it was in its author's life; indeed, it was altogether excluded, by a timorous publisher, from the first edition of his poems. It is a series of remarkable vignettes, some odd, some audacious, some extremely beautiful and suggestive; and it deserves a far higher reputation than has customarily been accorded to it. With Goldsmith and Crabbe we return again to description, but it is drawn from another point of view. Nature is now definitely a background, the setting of a human situation or story; the whole scene is