The Virginia Gazette

An Essay on the Modern Novel.

It is a Misfortune incident to human Nature that its finest Qualities may be perverted to the most destructive Ends. Love, the brightest Spark that enlightens the Soul, burns frequently for the impurest Purposes; and lends its Rays too often to inflame the Eyes of Lust, and to light the Adulterer to his Couch. Having erected his Empire, in a greater or less Degree, in every Breast; he reigns every Where. There is never a Mother's Son between this and the Antipodes, from beardless sixteen up to gray Beard sixty, who has not struggled at some Period of his Life in the Cytherean Net, and confessed the Power of the blind God. But let them describe the Impulses that push them forward into the Snare, and you will find they have Worshipped some other Deity than real Love; some Usurper, who has borrowed his Name and Authority. From the Beginning it has been so, and so to the End it will continue so; or the present Age, with all its Refinements, is more distant from the Knowledge of real Love than were our Forefathers of the fifth Century.

It would be an amusing Study, to a speculative Mind, to observe how this fascinating Something has played upon the Folly and Invention of Mankind through all Ages. He has exhibited its Pranks and Whimseys in a Thousand different Scenes, and, in every Shape that Vanity or Fancy could devise, has paid its Addresses to the Feast. Love is the Proteus of Heaven; and had the Ancients known the full Extent of its Qualities, and seen what we have seen, no Doubt they had given him the proper Attributes of that Character.

But of all the Artillery which Love has employed to brighten Eyes, and soften Hearts, the most effectual and forcible is the modern Novel. Of all the Arrows which Cupid has shot at youthful Hearts, this is the keenest; there is no resisting it. It is the literary Opium, that lulls every Sense into delicious Rapture; and, respecting the Bias of a young Lady's Mind, One may venture to turn out the Nobles and Parsons - with Half a Dozen of their greasy combustible Duodecimos, against the Nurse, the Mother, and the Common Prayer Book; ay, and they would conquer them too. These Gentlemen are real Patriots, never failing Friends to the Propagation of the human Species. They have counteracted all the Designs of the British Senate against Matrimony; and, in Contempt of the Marriage Act, Post Chaises and young Couples run smoothly on the North Road. All this, and more, we owe to Novels; which have operated like Electricity on the great national Body, and have raised the humble Spirit of Citizens to a Parallel with the veriest Romp of Quality in the Coterie.

But, what charms all Ranks of People in these Productions, is the Manner. Unrestrained by that disgusting Simplicity, that timid Coyness, which checked the Fancies of former Ages, the modern Muses are stark naked; and it were no vague Assertion to declare, that they have contributed, more than any other Cause, to debauch the Morals of the Young of the fair Sex. Novels, according to the Practice of the Times, are the powerful Engines with which the Seducer attacks the female Heart; and, if we judge from every Day's Experience, his Plots are seldom laid in vain. Never was there an apter Weapon for so black a Purpose. Tricked out in the Trappings of Taste, a loose and airy Dis habille, with a taggering Gait and a wanton Eye, the modern Muse trips jauntily on, the true Child of Fashion and Folly. By tickling the Ear, she approaches the Heart, and soon ruins it; for, like all other Prostitutes, she is plausible and insinuating, and has her winning Ways. A wretched Levity of Thought, delivered at Random in an incoherent Style, passes current for Sentiment; and so alertly has this mental Jargon played its Part, that our young Ladies begin to throw out Steele and Addison to make Room for H- and De Vergy. An ingenious Author of this Age has given us, in a few Lines, the following admirable Receipt to make a modern Novel:

Take a Subject that's grave, with a Moral that's good,
Throw in all the Temptations that Virtue withstood;
And pray let your Hero be handsome and young,
Taste, Wit, and fine Sentiment, flow from his Tongue;
And his delicate Feelings be sure to improve
With Passion, with tender soft Rapture, and Love.
Add some Incidents too, which I like above Measure,
Such as those, I have read, are esteem'd as a Treasure
In a Book that's entitled The Woman of Pleasure;
Mix well, and you'll find twill a Novel produce
Fit for modest young Ladies, to keep it for Use.

To do Justice to the Bard, he has chalked out the Outlines very gracefully, and justly described the Ingredients for making this literary Pill operate against Morality. But, lest any Reader should mistake the Author's Meaning, here follows a Letter, worked up to the very Humour of the Times, and stamped with the true current Mark and Signature of a Novel. It is fraught with Style, Manner, and Sentiment; and the next Worthy Gentleman who gives a three Guinea Novel, in two Volumes, is welcome to insert it in his Work.

Lady Juliana Glanville to Miss Henrietta Wentworth.

Ah! ha! Wentworth! who would have thought it? What a Fool Thing in a fond fluttering Heart! How often have you told me what Metal mine was made of! Hard as it was, O'Brien's Eyes have melted it. The dear Youth saw, and conquered. Your Friend is no longer free. O the dear enchanting Scenes around Glanville Castle, that once delighted my innocent Hours! Ye lowering Forests, Myrtle Shades, Crystal Streams, and cooing Turtles, ye have no more Charms for me; move, unless O'Brien be there.

Rocks, from your Caves, repeat the plaintive Strains,
And let the mournful Tale be echo'd o'er the Plains.

And so, my Dear, I'll tell you how it was; I went last Night to the Play in Company with the Miss Seymours and that Fright Blushy. By the Bye, my Dear, is not that Fellow a dreadful Creature? Ugly and horrid! how I hate him! So, my Dear, as I was saying, we went to the Play. I dressed in my white Satin and Silver, and my Hair done up with new Barbadoes Brilliant (a-propos, how do you like my last Suit of Brussels?) and, just as we were going to cross the Stile, who should I see peeping in on the other Side of the Hedge but O'Brien! lovely and enchanting as he was when I saw him last Winter at Carlisle House! Instantly feigned illness, and turned up the Lane to return; when O'Brien, with an Angel's Swiftness, flew over the Hedge, and we both dissolved in Tears. Oh, sweet Sensibility! why was my Heart formed with more than Woman's Softness! why was O'Brien formed with more than manly Grace! It was in a Bower composed of Honeysuckles and Jasmine that we reclined; the dear Youth spoke Thousand tender Things with his Eyes, and I answered him with Sighs and with Blushes. Seated in a deep-embowering Shade, Lips trembling, Hearts beating, locked in each other's Arms, what a dangerous Situation! and the Discourse on Love!

And oh! his charming Tongue
Was but too well acquainted with my Weakness!
He talk'd of Love, and all my melting Heart
Dissolved within my Breast.

Do you know, Wentworth, that I was violently inclined to play the Fool? We found ourselves lavishing Encomiums on disinterested Love, and a Cottage. His Description was animated, to the last Degree. My whole Attention was engrossed. He held my Hand, tenderly pressed between his, while I listened to his soothing Tale. His Eyes were still more eloquent than his bewitching Tongue. I was almost a lost Woman; when, fortunately for me, the Idea of squalling Brats, and matrimonial Bitters, darted across my Thoughts. Up I sprang. A fine Day for a Walk, cried I; and away I tripped. I had Nothing for it but Flight. He followed me, dejected, his Arms folded. He looked amazingly handsome. But Prudence kept her Seat in my Breast. Prudence, you know, is the Foil of Love. We strolled towards the House, without any other Conversation, except expressive Sighs on his Side; Half-stifled Ones, and stolen Glances, on mine! I flew to the Harpsichord, to rouse my Spirits. He drew a Chair near me; and, leaning on the Instrument, fixed his languishing Eyes on my Face. My Fingers involuntarily touched soft plaintive Notes. Instead of sprightly Air, out came a Ditty as melancholy as 'The Babes in Wood.' He perceived my swimming Eyes; he perceived my Confusion; and, snatching the Moment of Love, he threw himself on his Knees, looked moving, and swore that,

While youthful Splendour lighten'd in my Eyes;
Clear as the smiling Glory of the Skies,
More white than Flax my curling Tresses flow'd,
My dimpled Cheeks with rosy Beauty glow'd.

Enchanting Lines! are not they, Wentworth? Well! and what followed, you ask me. Ay, there's the Rub; but positively you mustn't know till my next Letter. Heigh, ho! Adieu, Henrietta! and tell me how your Affair with the Baronet goes on. Adieu, my Dear, and remember your sighing, and almost ruined Cousin,

JULIANA GLANVILLE

What Effects such graceless Raptures, and broken Periods, may produce on untutored Minds, let ten Thousand Boarding Schools witness. This Contagion is the more to be dreaded, as it daily spreads through all Ranks of People; and Miss, the Taylor's Daughter, talks now as familiarly to her Confidant, Miss Polly Staytape, of Swains and Sentiments, as the accomplished Dames of genteel Life. In a Word, if Man of Sense has an Inclination to choose a rational Woman for his Wife, he reaches his grand Climacteric before he can find a fair One to trust himself with; So universal is the Corruption! These are the fatal Consequences of Novels!