LITERATURE. FIELDING AND HIS TIMES. (From the Atlas.)

Daily Southern Cross, Volume XIII, Issue 959, 5 September 1856, Page 4

LITERATURE. FIELDING AND HIS TIMES. (From the Atlas.)

The Life of Henry Fielding ; with Notices of his ' Writings, his Times, and his Contemporaries. By Fbederick Lawrence. Hall, Virtue, and Co. Next to Foster's "Goldsmith," this is one of the best biographies we have read for many a long day. It is shorto rt and to the point, yet nothing is left in obscurity or doubt ; while the picture of the times in which Fielding lived, and of the society among which he moved, are sufficient to aid us in forming a correct judgment of the man as well as of the author. Henry Fielding was a gentleman by birth. His education, begun at home under a Mr. Oliver, the original of Parson Trulliber, was completed at Eton, where among his schoolfellows and companions were Lord Lyttelton, William Pitt, now better known as the F.arl of Chatham, his rival Henry Fox, and Hanbury Williams, the famous squib-writer. From Eton he was transferred to Leyden to study civil law, but was compelled to leave it for the best of all reasons— the stoppage of his pecuniary supplies. He hardly counted twenty years when he entered upon all the dissipation of a London life, and resolved to gain a livelihood by his pen. His first literary effort was a comedy entitled "Love in several Masks," •which met with such success, that in the same yea* (1728) he published an indifferent poem, '♦The Masquerade," written against Count Heidegger, a man as ugly as he was profligate. Natural tasie, no less than the society into which he was thrown, kept Fielding true to the dramatic muse. The first piece in which he exhibited his peculiar skill of character-painting was "The Coffee house Politician," followed in the same year (1730) by that unrivalled burlesque "Tom Thumb," which proved so successful that it was extended from one act to three — a very doubtful experiment both in the dramatic and ship-building art : — "Bj this time Fielding had acquired something like an established reputation as a wit and dramatic author. Such a reputation proved to him a mo-t unfortunate possession. It bound him to London, and to the frivolities and dissipations of a town life ; it enlarged his acquaintance with the worthless and profligate, and prevented him from following the true bent of his genius. His hours were mostly passed in the green-room and the tavern ; and when he put pen to paper, his only object was to find the means of gratifying the demands of the moment's prodigality. Under such circumstances, he threw off many light, sketchy performances, that are little worth the pains of criticism, and which he scarcely took the trouble to correct after the framework had been once committed to paper. The author's devotion to pleasure did not, indeed, leave him much time to cultivate the graces of composition. Some of his smaller pieces were the result of only two or three mornings' work, and he often held the pen before he had slept off the fumes of the last night's champagne. . . . . Writing was a drudgery to which he only resorted whem impelled by necessity. He lived a careless prodigal of Heaven's best gifts — health, genius, cheerfulness. His fine animal spirits enabled him to endure without repining the ills of poverty, as the penalty which he was content to pay for hours of riot and extravagance. Duns might knock at his door — if they could find it ; his personal liberty might be threatened: he might be driven to the humiliation of begging or borrowing a guinea ; his apparel might be parted with to furnish a meal ; but still nothing could repress his buoyant good humour, or induce him to regard his worldly position in a desponding spirit. Never was poet or playwright prouder of his debts, his garret, and careless expenditure. He was content to look on "suffering as a badge of all his tribe," and to make a jest of penury." This is a sad picture, bat it is a faithful one. Among other things,he wrote for the amusement of the holiday folks at Bartholomew fair, and in 1793 had a booth there, in which he was countenanced by the most celebrated actors and actresses of the day. Alas ! how are the mighty fallen ! Play now followed play in rapid succession, the most remarkable being " Don Quixote In England," which he had projected while yet a student at Leyden. The high seasoning of these pieces may be in part accounted for by the nature of the audience. The Jeam.es' s of that age were a formidable body in a playhouse : — ' " They enjoyed, to the great annoyance of managers, free access to the theatres, where they filled the upper-gallery, from which they excluded all other visitors. Their behaviour in this exalted position was not characterised by forbearance or modesty, and both actors and authors dreaded their opposition. So intolerable did their presence at length become, that, in 1 737, Fleetwood, the manager of Drury Lane, deprived them of their privilege. This led to a serious riot. The footmen of London assembled in vast numbers ; broke open the doors of the -theatre ; fought their way into the house, and' prevented (the reading of a proclamation by the magistrate, Colonel de Veil. Several of the ringleaders were, upon this occasion, taken and committed to Newgate ; many more were wounded ; whilst the spectators (amongst whom were the Prince and Princess of Wale) were much terrified." But there was another side to this picture :—: — " When a new play was produced, the pit was almost entirely filled with critics, who congregated there, and gave the signal for applause or condemnation. The boxes were altogether reserved for the quality — for persons of rank, note, and fashion. The beaux all attended in full dress, and came to &cc and to be seen, rather than attend to the play. The ladies conducted themselves in the manner described by Fielding an one of his farces, where a country-bred lady innocently inquires what they do ' at your what-dy"ye-call-'ems — your plays ? ' ' Why, if they can,' she is answered, ' they take a stage-box, where they let the footman sit the first two acts, to show his livery, then they came to show themselves, spread their fans upon the spikes, make curtsies to their acquaintance, and then talk and laugh as loud as they are able.' The • vulgar and indifferent' being excluded from the pit and boxes, found refuge in the lower-gallery, where ■they occasionally amused themselves with catcalls and other discordant noises : — " Tis not the poet's wit affords the jest, But who can cat-call, hiss, or whistle best." Such were the audiences which then condemned or applauded plays. A critical pit, filled with the gay Templars and prosperous merchants,who had little sympathy for an indigent author ; a bevy of frivolous belles and gallanls in the boxes, all ogling, criticising, or scandalising each other ; and an upper-gallery crammed with liveried coxcombs, imitating the listless indifference of their masters." The end of Fielding's seven years' apprenticeship (1728 — 1735), to the precarious trade of dramatic authorship was an important era in his l'fe. He was never insensible to female charms, And on his return from i«eyden he went to LymeRegia, for thje purpose of carrying off his cousin, Miss Andrew, a wealthy heiress. Her prudent guardian sent her out of the way, and her pasiionate wooer sought to forget his disappointment by libelling all her sex, In 173 d that sex

was avenged in the person of Miss Charlotte Cradock, whose least charm was the £1500 she brought him in dowry. He now resolved to lead a country life, but with what success the followlowing passage will show: — "The experiment was attended with some difficulties, and unluckily stumbled at the very outset. Though neither qualified by nature or education for a hermit, a life of comparative privacy and seclusion was that best adapted to bis limited means and intellectual tastes Instead of this, he preposterously resolved to become a Squire of the first magnitude. His ambition was to be talked about. He determined to show the rude Squirearchy of Dorset how superior to their order was the London-bred gentleman. Family pride also whispered to him the expediency of keeping up an appearance corresponding to the dignity of the distinguished race from whence he sprang. Accordingly, Squire Fielding soon began to create a sensation in the country. His mansion was the scene of profuse hospitality and riotous enjoyment. His horses and hounds were numbered amongst the glories of the neighbourhood. His equipage oulvied in splendour and elegance the carriages of his richer neighbours, and the yellow liverirs of his serving-men wore long held in remeinbiance. The selection of such a colour was characteristic of Fielding's thoughtless extravagance. Yellow plush, however splendid, proved by no means an ecouomical article of attire for a careless lackey. Directly the glories of a suit were dimmed or soled, it was thrown aside ; for the rustic flunkeys considered it their duty to keep up the Squire's character by the lustre of their personal appearance. Such was Fielding's household! It may be asked how it was that Mrs. Fielding — the Salisbury beauty — did not, with a woman's quick sense of propriety, interfere to check thfi& ridiculous extravagance. Alas ! it is to be feared that, from vauity or weakness, she abetted him in his follies, or at the most, confined herself to a timid remonstrance, without venturing on a fiim expostulation. Poor girl; her fortune was soon dissipated to the winds ; run away with by horses and hounds ; lavished on yellow plush inexpressibles for idle flunkeys , banqueted on by foolish squires, or consumed by other senseless extravagances. Not being a strongminded woman — that is pretty clear — but rather, it would seem, a fond and foolish one, she was dazzled by this brief dream of pride and pleasure; and though the futuie might have worn ' to her eye a lowering aspect, she was too much j gratified by her husband's popularity, and too j proud of his wit and agreeable qualities, to check him in his mad career The day of reckoning j came. In a very short time Fielding found that ( all was spent and gone — all swallowed up in the ' abyss of ruin ! It seemed like a dream, a wild, j incoherent vision. The roar of mirth, the deafening cheer, the splendid liveries, prancing horses, • staring rustics, full-mouthed dogs, faded before ' him like some "insubstantial pageant." Ho had been generous, hospitable, profuse j and what was his reward? Those who had sat at meat with him now ridiculed his extravagance. Even the gaping boors of the neighbourhood cracked their heavy jokes at his expense. The prudent gentlemen and ladies who had not scrupled to sit at his jovial board, and partake of his cheer, now shook their heads, and giavely condemned his prodigality Those of n's more ambitious neighbours whom he had recently outshone in splendour, re joiced in his downfall, without attempting toconjeal their satisfaction. In the midst of all these untoward circumstances, he had to escape from tits creditors as best he might, and to seek for happiness and a livelihood in some other sphere." He was now compelled to return to London and begin again his haphazard existence, in which he was courageously supported by a wife whom he dearly lovei. Among other schemes he took the Haymarket Theatre, when his troupe, under the title of "The Great Mogul's Company of Comedians," startled the world of London with "Pasquin," a violent political satire which ran fifty nights. This was followed by "The Historical Register," when the Tapers and Tadpoles grew so alarmed that in the following year (1737) the Licensing Act was passed, notwithstanding the opposition and the inimitable sarcastic speech of Lord Chesterfield. This ruined the manager's prospects, and he began resolutely to study the law and to write essays in the Champion. In 1740 he was called to the bar, and chose the Western Circuit district, in which he had many friends and family connections. But hi* success in the law was not great, and as briefs were rare he applied himself more earnestly to literature. The result was his first novel, "Joseph Andrews," written to counteract the unwholesome morality of that darling of the kitchen-maids, " Pamela.'' It became popular at once, and put £300 into the writer's pocket. Three editions were called for in less than twelve , months. His next venture, the comedy of" The Wedding Day," although supported 'by Garrick, ' Macklin, Mrs. Pritchard, and Mrs. Woffiington, | was a failure. His friend Garrick, then a young ! actor, had pointed out an objectionable scene and ' begged it to be altered, but without effect.-: — " The actor's forebodings, however, turned out to be well-founded. The objectionable passage was met with a storm of hisses, and Garrick, who was peculiarly sensitive on such matters, retired from the stage in a huff, and sought for consolation in the gos&ip'Of the green-room. There he found Fielding, sitting over a bottle of Champagne, of which he had drunk rather freely. " What's the matter, Garrick?" he exclaimed, as the actor entered the room in a somewhat excited state; " what are they hissing now ?" He Was angrily informed it was the scene he had been advised to retrench. " Oh," said the author, with an oath, coolly resuming his pipe of tobacco, " they have found it out, have they V " The friendship between these two men, so dissimilar in character, was remarkable ; the prodigal Fielding more than once trying to correct the pernicious disposition of the niggardly actor : — " Garrick had given a dinner at his lodgings to Fielding, Macklin, Havard (the comedian), Mrs. Cibber, and others ; and vails to servants being then much in fashion, Macklin, and most of the company, gave Garrick's nan (David, a Welshman) something at parting— some a shilling, some half-a-crown, whilst Fielding very formally slipped a piece of paper into his hand, with something folded in the inside. When the company were all gone, David seeming to be in high glee, Garrick asked him how much he got? ' I can't tell you yet, sir,' said David ; ' here's half-a-crown from Mrs. Cibber, God pless her — here's a shilling fro-n Mr. Macklin — here is two from Mr. Havard — and here is something more from the poet, G«»t pless his merry heart.' By this time David had unfolded the paper, when, to his great astonishment, he saw it contained no more than one penny. Garrick felt nettled at this, and next day spoke to Fielding about the impropriety of jesting with a sevant. 'Jesting!' said Fielding, with apparent surprise j 'so far from it, I meant to do the fellow a real piece of service ; for had I given him a shilling or a halfcrown, I know you would have taken it from him: but by giving him only a penny, he had a chance of calling it his own.' " Three volumes of miscellanies, including the "Jonathan Wild,'" was his next literary labour,

interrupted by the severest domestic affliction, the loss of his be)oved wife :— " His grief was so excessive that his friends feared the consequences might be fatal to his reason It maj be that, with the tears of sorrow which he shed over his wife's early grave, mingled those of reinoise. Though a fond and faithful, had he not also been a reckless and imprudent husband ? Had he not brought misery and misfortune upon himself and her who was no I more, which common prudence might have averted ? Never harsh or cruel in word or thought, had he not been so practically in act and deed ? It is a beautifiul trait in the human character, as every one who has lost a dear friend or relative must know, that when death strikes down a beloved objt-ct, the first feelings which rend the heart and aggravate the tide of grief, are those of self-accusation. Then it is that the accusing spirit within reminds us of every selfish sin which brought disquietude, care, or misery upon the dear departed one. Not only for what we have dune do we then reproach ourselves, but for what we have undone — for words unspoken, for duties unperformed, for self unsactificed Reflections like these added, in all probability, to the poignancy of Fielding's sufferings. But, beyond this, his calamity had another circumstance of aggravation In his painful struggles with adversity he had hitherto been supported by womanly sympathy, and the consolation which a loving wifo kuows so well how to administer iv the hour of misfortune and disappointment; now he must labour on alone — a dark night bad closed around, and a cheerless path lay before him." Put his narrow circumstances allowed of no repose — no long indulgences in the " luxury of woe." The " True Patriot" called for alibis energies, while his household was again charmed by the presence and tender cares of a secoud wife. She had been the servant of the first, "an excellent creature, devotedly attached to her mistress, and almost brokeu-heaited for her loss." In this secouJ marriage he was as happy as in his first. j In December 1747 he begun 'The Jacobite Journal.' As the 'Patriot' had been founded two years before to support the cause of good government against the Stuart faction, so this new paper was begun "to discredit the shattered remains of that party," by covering it with ridicule, and holding it up to national contempt. This called clown upon him, as on his previous attempt, many most virulent personal attacks, which did not, however, divert him from his purpose. It was just at this time, when he was in his fortieth year, and frequent fits of gout had taught him how precarious were his means of existence, that through the intercession of Lord Lyttelton he^was appointed justice of the peace for Middlesex and Westminster, in other words, a Bow-street magistrate. This office, in which he soon earned credit and distinction, was held ,in no high estimation ; most of his friends j "looked upon his acceptance of it as a degradaj tion, whilst his enemies affected to compassionate [ him." Mr. Lawrence gives a very interesting i account of Fielding's duties and of his labours. j Such was the severity of ihe penal laws at the time of George 11. , that " The life of man was rated by the legislature as a thing of slight importance, when compared I with the preservation of property. Whenever j any offence against private property increased to I an inconvenient degree, — such as forgery, shoplifting, nay, even the wilful destruction of trees t planted for ornament, or the cutting a hop-bind in a hop-plantation, — it was made capital. George IL is said to have expressed an opinion that a fine young oak-tree was worth more than a man's life ; the oak could not be replaced, the man might. At every assize scores oi men — aye, and of boys and women — were "told off" for the gallows with the utmost indifference. The greatest mischief which resulted from this extreme severity of the laws, was the reluctance naturally felt by judges, juries, and prosecutors to carry them into execution. Technical objections of the most absuid description were permitted to prevail — in favorem mice. Juries stultified themselves, and disiegarded the oath they had taken by refusing to convict on the clearest evidence, or by committing the pious falsehood of finding a one-pound note of less value than one shilling. . . .. With a pedantic barbarity, as shocking as it was absurd, female offenders, in a particular class of cases which came under the denomination of treasons, were burnt alive. Coining was one of these offences, and so late as 1777, Sir William Meredith related in Parliament an instance of a little gh'l, not fourteen years of age, who, for an alleged participation in this offence, was on the point of undergoing this cruel punishment- - . . The following brief notice of an execution in the year 1750, seems to speak trumpet-tongued against the administration and execution of the laws in the reign of George 11. : — "Executed at Tyburn, July 6, Elizabeth Banks, for stripping a child ; Catherine Conway, for forging a seaman's ticket ; and Margaret Harvey, for robbing her master. They were all drunk, contrary to the express order of the Court of Aldermen against serving them with strong liquors." " In February of the following year (1 749) ''Tom Jones" made his appearance — the labour of many years, and those not the brightest of the author's life. Like "Don Quixote," it was penned amidst "disheartening struggles" and bitter worldly conflicts. Its popularity was equal to its worth, and the language of panegyric was exhausted in its praise. Gibbon has described it as "the first of ancient or modern romances ; Laharpe calls it "le premier roman dv monde et le livre le mieux fait de I'Angleterre." High praise, indeed, coming from such a quarter ! Byron speaks of Fieluing as "the prose Homer ;" the eccentric Lord Monboddo says, it is a "poem with more of character in it than in any work, ancient or modern, that I know ;" and Coleridge exclaimed, "What a master of composition Fielding was ! Upon my word, I think the CEdipus Tyrannus, the Alchemist, and Tom Jones the three most perfect plots ever planned." It has been translated into almost every language, and had the singular honour of being prohibited in France as a work of immoral tendency ! But we must hasten on. Notwithstanding his magisterial duties Fielding's pen was not idle. In 1751 "Amelia" was published, the copyright of which he sold for £1,000, Tom Jones having brought him only £700. The heroine, the loving, gentle, true-hearte I Amelia, is said to be a portrait of his first wife. In her history we can trace many incidents of her days of genteel poverty. By the way, our Administrative Reformers will see by consulting book xi., chap. 2, how far Fielding had anticipated many of their doctrines. Amelia has been called Fielding's Odyssey ; Dr. Johnson spoke of it as the only book within human recollection of which, being published in the morning, a new edition was called for befoTe night ; and the same old Titan of learning, who called the author of "Joseph Andrews" a "barren rascal," and said that there was "more knewledge of the heart in one letter of Richardson's than in all Tom Jones," was so delighted with the new tale, that he read it through from beginning to end without pausing. But the end is at hand. The hero had done his work, and though he did not entirely lay aside his pen, it was employed on ephemeral subjects. His justice business began to fell se-

v erely on his constitution. Gout brought on dropsy, to which tapping gave very little relief. Country air was tried, and the metaphysical specific of tar water. But these were only brief palliatives. On the 27th June, 1754 he quitted his house never to return. Lisbon was the place selected for his residence, and the journey of his voyage to that city is the last flickering flame of the dying lamp. In that he appears as cheerful as ever ; there is not a word of repining, but many a kind and gentle thought. Some of his pictures of character are equal to any he ever penned. He reached Lisbon about the middle of August, and on the Bth of October, 1754, he expired without a groan in the arms of his devoted wife and affectionate child. He died full of fame, not full of years, for he was not fortyeight. The French Consul was the first to propose erecting a monument over his remains, which roused the English residents in Lisbon to a sense of their duty. The tomb having fallen into decay was replaced in 1830 by a handsome sarcophagus, bearing the inscription : — Henhicus Fielding. Luget Beitatstnia gremio non datum foveue natum. Doddriclge, a writer of a very different class, lies in the same cemetery with poor Fielding. Separated in their lives, in death they were united. We know not if any monument has been erected in his native land to the incomparable novelist. We are generally lavish of such memorials on those who would otherwise hardly be remembered after tlieir dc.aths. Fielding would blush to find himself in such company ; but so long as our language lasts, he will have a monument more glorious and more![durable than a mountain of bronze or marble.

Pleasures or Contentment. — I have a right neighbour, that is always so busy that he has no leisure to laugh. We see but the outside of the rich man's happiness ; few consider him to be like the silk worm, that, when she seems to play, is at the very same time spinning her own bowels, and consuming herself. And this many rich men do — loading themselves with corroding cares, to keep what they have already got. Let us therefore be thankful for health and competence, and above all, for a quiet conscience. Childhood. — There is a magic charm in its winning ways — honesty and truth in its expression of affection ; there is something grand and lofty in that young untainted soul, which should pass through life uncorrupted by the deception and sensuality of the world. Vice is ever seeking to poison the beauty of virtue. The ■vicious man, when looking upon the frank and open countenance of a child, finds something to rebuke the workings of his guilty soul, while the virtuous man sees something in it to love and admire ; but in the former, the influence too often loses its effect, while the latter feels an elevation of the soul in coming in contact with the innocence and purity of childhood. We ever wish to have the spirit of the child combined with the can- ! dour and honesty of manhood. We can shed a tear of regret when we turn back to those years of simplicity, and find how much of its purity we have lost. Who's A traid or Work ?— A person once said to a father, whose son «vas noted for laziness, that he thought his son was very much afraid of work. "Afraid of work !" replied the father, " not at all ; he will lie down and go to sleep by the side of it." Girrs. — The best thing to give your enemy is forgivene«s; to your opponent tolerance ; to a friend, your heart ; to your child, a good example ;to a father, deference ; to your mother, conduct that will make her pioud of you ; to yourself, respect ; to all men, charity. Hakly Ri&inq. — I would inscribe on the curtains of your bed, and the walls of your chamber, " If you don't lise early, you can make progress in nothing. If you do not set apart your hours of reading, if you suffer yourself, or any one else, to break in upon them, your days will slip through your hands unprofitable, frivolous, and unenjoyed by youiself." A child, when asked why a certain tree grew crooked, replied, " Somebody trode upon it, I suppose, when it was little." i Pr.uvERSENESs. — One perverse disposition destroys ! the peace of a family, as one jarring instruments poils a whole concert. Measure your life by acts of goodness, not by years. Knowledge of our duties is the most useful part of philosophy.