Blackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine, No. CCCXXXII. by Various

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What the Etching Club are about, we know not; but the subject has been
taken up by Mr Mulready; and we now feel it incumbent upon us to notice
this new and illustrated edition of that immortal work. Immortal it must
be; manners pass away, modes change, but the fashion of the heart of man
is unalterable. The "Vicar of Wakefield" bears the stamp of the age in
which it was written. Had it been laid aside by the author, discovered,
and now first brought out, without a notice of the author, or of the
time of its composition, received it must have been indeed with delight,
but not as belonging to the present day. It differs in its literature
and its manners. It is at once a most happy work for illustration, and
the most difficult. It is universally known. Who has not shed previous
and heart-improving tears over it? Taking up the tale now, for the
hundredth time, we are become, from somewhat morose, tender as a
lamb--propitious condition for a critic! We opened upon the scene where
Mr Burchell so cruelly tries poor Sophia, by offering her a husband in
Mr Jenkinson; we know the whole transaction perfectly, the bitter joke,
the proposal

"impares
Formas atque animas in juga ahenea
Saevo mittere cum joco."

Yet how strangely are we moved! Had the taxman at the moment called for
the income-tax, he would have concluded we were paying the last farthing
of our principal. What art is this in a writer, that he should by one
and the same passage continue to move his readers, though they know the
trick! Readers, too, that would have turned the cold shoulder to real
tales of greater distress, and met suspicion that all was a cheat
halfway; but the acknowledged fictitious they yield to at once their
whole hearts, throwing to the winds their beggarly stint. Never was
there a writer that possessed to so great a degree as did Goldsmith this
wondrous charm; and in him it is the more delightful in the light and
pleasant _allegria_ with which he works off the feeling. The volume is
full of subjects that so move; and in this respect it is most admirable
for illustration, inviting the ablest powers. But the difficulty,
wherein does that lie? Look at all illustrations that have hitherto
appeared in print, and you cry out to all--Away with the failure!
Certain it is that but slender abilities have been hitherto employed;
and when we hear of better artists coming to the undertaking, we are
hardened against them. And then, how few come fresh to the tale. To
those who do, perhaps a new illustration may have a tenfold charm; but
to any one past five-and-twenty, it must come "with a difference." It is
very difficult to reconcile one to a new Dr Primrose, a new Mrs
Primrose. Beauty ever had the power of beauty, and takes us suddenly; we
can more readily dismiss the old idea and pitch on the new, so that the
Miss Primroses are more reconcilable and transferable creatures, than
the Vicar and his wife, or the incomparable Moses and the unyielding Mr
Burchell. We cannot pretend to tell how all these characters would have
fitted their images given by Mr Mulready, had the work now first come
into our hands. As it is, we can only say they are new to us. It
requires time to reconcile this. In the meanwhile we must take it for
granted, that they actually do represent those in Mr Mulready's vision,
and he is a clear-sighted man, and has been accustomed to look into
character well. His name as the illustrator, gave promise of success.
Well do we remember an early picture by him--entitled, we believe, the
Wolf and the Lamb. It represented two schoolboys--the bully, and the
more tender fatherless child. The history in that little picture was
quite of the manner of Goldsmith. The orphan boy's face we never can
forget, not the whole expression of his slender form, though it is many
years ago that we saw the picture. So that when the name of Mulready
appeared as illustrator, we said at once, That will do--down came the
book, and here it is before us. The pages have been turned over again
and again. We cannot, nevertheless, quite reconcile our ideas to the new
Dr and Mrs Primrose; but in attempting to do so, so many real artistical
beauties have beamed from the pages, that we determined at once to pour
out our hearts to Maga, and turn over page after page once more. The
illustrations are thirty-two in number; one to head each chapter,
though, and which we think a defect, the subject of the illustration is
not always in the chapter at the head of which it is. The first is the
choice of a wife--"and chose my wife as she did her wedding-gown." The
intended bride is a very beautiful graceful figure, with a most sweet
simplicity of countenance. This never could have resembled Mrs Deborah
Primrose; the outline is most easy and graceful, even as one of
Raffaelle's pure and lovely beings. The youth of the bride and
bridegroom, fresh in their hopes of years of happiness, is happily
contrasted with the staid age of the respectable tradesman, evidently
one of honest trade and industrious habits--the fair dealer, one of the
old race before the days of "immense sacrifices" brought goods and men
into disrepute. The little group is charming; every line assists
another, and make a perfect whole.

"The Dispute between the Vicar and Mr Wilmot."--"This, as may be
expected, produced a dispute, attended with some acrimony." Old Wilmot
is capital; there is acrimony in his face, and combativeness in his
fists--both clenching confidently his own argument, and ready for
action; the very drawing back of one leg, and protrusion of the other,
is indicative of testy impatience. The vicar is a little too loose and
slovenly, both in attitude and attire; the uniting of the figures
(artistically speaking) is with Mr Mulready's usual ability.

"The Rescue of Sophia from Drowning by Mr Burchell."--"She must have
certainly perished, had not my companion, perceiving her danger,
instantly plunged in to her relief." This is altogether a failure, yet
it is a good subject; nor has Mr Mulready been at all happy in the
female beauty. The vicar stands upon the bank too apathetic; and the
group in the vehicle, crossing the stream above, seem scarcely conscious
of the event, though they are within sight of it. Mr Mulready has here,
too, neglected his text. Sophia fell from her horse; all the party set
out on horseback; there is no carriage mentioned.

"The Vicar at Home, with Neighbour Flamborough and the Piper."--"These
harmless people had several ways of being good company; while one
played, the other would sing some soothing ballad." The happy father,
with his children climbing up his chair, and clinging to him, is a
beautiful group, and quite worthy of Mr Mulready's pencil.

"Squire Thornhill."--"At last a young gentleman, of a more genteel
appearance than the rest, came forward, and for a while regarding us,
instead of pursuing the chase, stopped short, and giving his horse to a
servant who attended, approached us with a careless, superior air." The
family are sweetly grouped--the story well told--the easy assurance of
the squire undeniable. The father holds his two boys, one on his lap,
the other between his knees; but is he "_the_ vicar?"

"Mr Burchell and Sophia"--A most charming illustration. It is the
haymaking scene. "I could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity of
Mr Burchell, in assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task."
Sophia is a lovely creature, just what she should be. We are not quite
sure of Mr Burchell: possibly he may look too young; he was a character,
and must have borne about him some little acquired oddity, sturdy, and
not undignified. In the illustration he is too prettily genteel; but we
do not wish to see any but Sophia--delightful, loving, lovable Sophia.
In the background, Moses lies on the ground with his book, and the vicar
has rather too suspicious a look; but we can forgive him that, and, for
Sophia's sake, forgive Mr Mulready that he has paid less attention to
her admirer--for at present he is no more. But his admiration is better,
and more to the purpose than other men's love.

"Moses defeated in Argument, or rather borne down by the arrogant,
ignorant volubility of the Squire."--"This effectually raised the laugh
against poor Moses." It is well grouped; but the only successful figure
is Moses. The squire is not the well-dressed, designing profligate. If
the story were not well told by the grouping, we might have taken the
squire for an itinerant "lecturer." The squire is so prominent a person
in the tale, that we think there should have been a well-studied
representation of the accomplished villain and fine gentleman.

No. 8.--Beyond the skill in grouping, Mr Mulready has not attempted any
great interest in this illustration. It represents the family, with
their friend Burchell, interrupted in their enjoyment by the chaplain,
or rather the chaplain's gun; for that only presents its muzzle. "So
loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters; and I could perceive
that Sophia, in the fright, had thrown herself into Mr Burchell's arms
for protection." We do not recognize the alarmed and lovely Sophia--here
she might be any miss; so that the greatest miss is Mr Mulready's, for
he has missed an opportunity of showing the beauty of the sweet sisters
in alarm. In this chapter, we have Goldsmith's delightful ballad, "Turn,
gentle hermit of the dale." Surely this was worthy an illustration or
two; and if Mr Mulready felt himself confined to the heads of chapters,
might he not, for once, have made his digression from the tale, as
Goldsmith has done, and given us that charming episode?

"The Family Group on Horseback, going to Church."--"And when I got about
halfway home, perceived the procession marching slowly forward towards
the church." "The colt that had been nine years in the family, and
Blackberry, his companion," are not the best horse-flesh. Mr Mulready
does not draw the horse like Mr Herring; so, having failed in the feet
of the colt, he has, though rather awkwardly, hidden Blackberry's behind
a convenient stone, which yet makes us fear that the "family pride" will
have a fall, and spare the Vicar's reproof. The party on Blackberry is
good; and the patient, blind face of the animal is well attempted.

"The Visit to Neighbour Flamborough's on Michaelmas Eve."--"But
previously I should have mentioned the very impolitic behaviour of Mr
Burchell, who, during this discourse, sat with his face turned to the
fire; and, at the conclusion of every sentence, would cry out, 'Fudge!'"
This is scarcely the subject of the illustration, for Mr Burchell is
quite in the background. We should like to have seen his face. Miss
Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs is good; Lady Blarney is not the
overdressed and overacting peeress. The whole is very nicely grouped.
Perhaps we are not so pleased with this illustration, remembering
Maclise's more finished picture of the subject.

Moses departing for the "Fair." Hopeful and confident are the group, and
not least so Moses himself. We fancy we recognize in Moses a similar
figure in a sweet picture exhibited last year by Mr Stonhouse, one of
the "Etching Club." We are not quite satisfied with the other
figures--they all hide their faces, as well they might, for their
simplicity in trusting to the "discreet boy" that can "buy and sell to
very good advantage"--so off go Moses and the colt that had been nine
years in the family. "We all followed him several paces from the door,
bawling after him good-luck! good-luck! till we could see him no
longer."

No. 12 exhibits simplicity upon a larger scale, and shows the head of
the family, verifying the old proverb, "like father like son"--though it
should be here like son like father. The colt was fitly turned over to
the son, grave blind Blackberry was a horse for the father's art and
wisdom. "By this time I began to have a most hearty contempt for the
poor animal myself, and was almost alarmed at the approach of every
customer." Poor Blackberry! He is quite conscious of his depreciation;
he is a wise animal, and can see that "with half an eye." Alas! we fear
he has not that half. Blackberry is good--yet will he sell for nothing;
how patiently he lets them handle his leg, and a handle it is; we can
imagine the creature thinking, "pray, sir, would you like to look at the
other poor thing of a leg?" The rascally Fair, in which Mr Mulready has
shown, according to his author, that the Vicar ought not to have been,
is well given; but we should have liked a full length portrait of Mr
Jenkinson pronouncing [Greek: Anarchon ara chai atelentaion to pan.]

The reading the letter, the well-known letter of Mr Burchell to "The
Ladies." "There seemed, indeed, something applicable to both sides in
this letter, and its censures might as well be referred to those to whom
it was written, as to us; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and we
went no further." This, as usual, is well grouped; the Vicar ponders,
and cannot tell what to make of it. We should have preferred, as a
subject, the Vicar confronting Mr Burchell, and the cool effrontery of
the philosopher turning the tables upon the Vicar, "and how came you so
basely to presume to break open this letter?" or better still, perhaps,
the encounter of art between Mr Burchell and Mrs Deborah Primrose. And
why have we not Dick's episode of the dwarf and the giant? Episodes are
excellent things, as good for the illustrations as for the book. No. 14,
the contrivance of Mrs Primrose to entrap the squire, properly belongs
to another chapter. "Then the poor woman would sometimes tell the squire
that she thought him and Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both
stand up to see which was tallest." The passage is nicely told; there
is, however, but one figure to arrest attention, and that is quite
right, for it is Olivia's, and a sweet figure it is. Dear Olivia! We
have not seen her portrait before, and we shall love her, beyond "to the
end of the chapter," to the end of the volume, and the more so, that
hers after all was a hard fate. It is the part of the tale which leaves
a melancholy impression; Goldsmith has so determined it--and to his
judgment we bow implicitly. Had any other author so wretchedly disposed
of his heroine, in a work not professedly tragic, we should have been
pert as critics usually are. Mrs Primrose is certainly here too young.
We cannot keep our eyes off Olivia; and see, the scoundrel has slyly
taken her innocent hand, and the other is put up to her neck in such
modest doubt of the liberty allowed. Here, as in other instances, the
squire is not the well-dressed man of the world, whose gold lace had
attracted Dick's attention. We could linger longer over this
illustration, but must pass on--honest Burchell has been dismissed,
villany has full sway. We must leave poor Olivia to her fate, and turn
to the family picture "drawn by a limner;" capital--"limner" well
suiting the intended satire--some say a good-natured, sly cut at Sir
Joshua. We should certainly have had Mrs Primrose as Venus, and the two
little ones as Cupids, and the Vicar presenting to her his books on the
Whistonian controversy, and the squire as Alexander. Whoever wishes to
see specimens of this kind may see some ludicrous ones at Hampton
court--particularly of Queen Elizabeth, and the three goddesses abashed
by her superiority. We thought to leave poor Olivia to her fate--Mr
Mulready will not let us give her up so easily, and takes us to the
scene of her quitting her home for her betrayer; and this is the subject
of--

"Yes, she is gone off with two gentlemen in a post-chaise; and one of
them kissed her, and said he would die for her;" and there she is,
hiding her beautiful face with her hands, and poor good Dick is pulling
her back by her dress, that she may not go; but a villain's hand is
round her waist, and one foot he has upon the step of the chaise, and
the door is open. Poor Dick, you have nothing left you to do but to run
home as fast as you can; and there you will find such a scene of
innocent enjoyment, how to be marr'd! at the very moment, too, that the
good Vicar had been feeling and saying, "I think myself happier now than
the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such fireside, nor such
pleasant faces about it. We are descended from ancestors that knew no
stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of children behind
us. While we live they will be our support and our pleasure here, and
when we die they will transmit our honour untainted to posterity. Come,
my son, we wait for a song: let us have a chorus. But where is my
darling Olivia? That little cherub's voice is always sweetest in the
concert." O Dick, Dick! at such a moment as this to run in and tell him
to be miserable for ever; for that his cherub, his Olivia is gone, and
gone, as it appears, to infamy, a thousand times more grievous than
death. Was there ever so touching a scene?--Mr Mulready feared it. That
is a wonderful chapter--the happiness is so domestically heightened,
that the homefelt joy may be more instantly crushed. We know we shall
not see dear darling Olivia again for a long, long time; and feel we
want a pause and a little diversion--so we will go back to Bill the
songster for amusement, and take it if we can; and here is for the
purpose Bill's "Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog," alas! taught him, too,
by honest Mr Williams; we only hope young, sturdy farmers have strong
nerves, and don't break their hearts in love's disappointments. Here is
Dick's Elegy; and as we, too, have a Moses at home of a "miscellaneous
education," we will put on the Vicar's simplicity, and cheerful
familiarity with his own flesh and blood--and thus we address our Moses,
"Come, my boy, you are no hand at singing, so turn the Elegy another
way: let us have a little Latin, for your music is Hexameter and
Pentameter." Our Moses, "That's a hard task, sir, for one that cannot
mount to Parnass Hill without his 'Gradus ad Parnassum.'" "Well, then
get your Gradus, and put your foot in that first step of the ladder."
Our Moses, waggishly--"I must mind my feet, sir, or they will be but
lame verses, and go halting and hobbling--but I suppose you won't be
very particular as to Latinity. I have heard you tell how Farmer
Williams"--"No," said we, "not Williams, any other farmer you please;
poor Williams is not likely to have any children; yet I know what you
were going to say." "Farmer any body, then," said our Moses, "when he
took his boy to school, left him with the master; and shortly returned
to inform him, that, discoursing upon the subject at the 'public,' he
had heard that there were two sorts of Latin, and so he brought the
master a gammon of bacon, for he wished his son to have the best: now I
think, sir, one of these two sorts must be 'dog Latin,' and that must be
best fitted for the Elegy in question." Our Moses beats the Vicar's
hollow in waggery, so we are proud of him. He takes after his mother. We
condescended to be familiar enough to laugh. Now, then, Moses, to _your_
task and we to _ours_. And here we are at--

The scene of Mr Arnold and his family breaking in upon his butler
personating his master, we are rather inclined to think a failure. There
is Mr Mulready's good grouping, but somehow or other it is rather flat
for so piquant an incident; "I was struck dumb with the apprehension of
my own absurdity, when whom should I next see enter the room but my dear
Miss Arabella Wilmot." We should like to have seen, in illustration, the
political butler ordering the Vicar out of his house, or at least a more
decided portrait of Arabella Wilmot. "Beauty is," as Miss Skeggs said of
virtue, "worth any price;" and we are sorry to look about, and continue,
in her words, "but where is that to be found?" What had Mr Mulready to
do, that he would not let us have a sight of Arabella Wilmot. We,
therefore, pass on to her lover, the Vicar's eldest son George,
delivering his letter of recommendation to the nobleman's footmen, with
his fee, which brings us to--

"However, after bribing the servants with half my worldly fortune, I was
at last shown into a spacious apartment, my letter being previously sent
up for his lordship's inspection." The Vicar's son is a fine fellow in
the illustration: we are glad to see him, but rather wish Mr Mulready
had chosen a better subject. George's adventures were written with a
nice satire; for Goldsmith knew what and whom he had to describe. The
reasons why he would not do for an usher, are well put. Is it not
possible that Mr Dickens took his first hint of Do-the-boys' Hall from
reading this passage in Goldsmith? Indeed, there may be a suspicion that
Mrs Primrose gave the idea of Mrs Nickleby, though he has made her an
original. But to return to the traveller--we should like to have seen an
"illustration" of his interview with the principal of the College of
Louvain, a passage quite in the spirit of Le Sage. "The principal seemed
at first to doubt my abilities; but of these I offered to convince him,
by turning a part of any Greek author he should fix upon into Latin.
Finding me perfectly earnest in my proposals he addressed me thus, 'You
see, young man,' continued he, 'I never learned Greek, and I don't find
that I have ever missed it. I have had a doctor's cap and gown without
Greek; I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek; and, in short,'
continued he, 'as I don't know Greek, I do not believe there is any good
in it.'"

The office of Mr Crispe, who fitted becoming situations upon every body.
"There I found a number of poor creatures, all in circumstances like
myself, expecting the arrival of Mr Crispe, presenting a true epitome of
English impatience." And there is Mr Crispe himself, in the distance
indeed, but certainly the principal figure. The expectants are good
enough, but Mr Crispe, with his audacious, confident, deceitful face, is
excellent; the fellow rattling the money in both his pockets, with
fraud, successful laughing fraud filling out both his cheeks. The
audacious wretch! little cares he for the miserable expectants whom he
means to ship off to America and slavery. Preferring to see the Vicar's
son among "the harmless peasants of Flanders," we turn over the leaves.

Here is a delightful group,--a fine sturdy fellow holding his dog by a
handkerchief through his collar, and how naturally the honest brute
leans against his master, as claiming a sort of kindred--the expression
of the young woman with the child in her arms, is attention and
admiration. It is not quite certain that one of the loungers is pleased
with that admiration. This is a pleasant scene, and happily illustrated.
"I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now turned
what was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence." That is
a pleasant, happy scene, though the personages are the poorest. Of
another character is the next scene, and quite other personages act in
it; for we come again to poor Olivia in her distress, grossly, brutally
insulted by the wealthy profligate.

The profligate scoundrel in the very lowest baseness of his
character.--It is poor Olivia speaks. "Thus each day I grew more
pensive, and he more insolent, till at last the monster had the
assurance to offer me to a young baronet of his acquaintance." This
scene is not fit for picture; it is seemingly nothing but successful
villany, and of too gay a cast to be pathetic. The chapter from which it
is taken would have furnished a much better one--the meeting between the
Vicar and his poor Olivia. We can bear the suffering of a Cordelia,
because all in that is great though villany be successful; but there is
a littleness in mere profligacy that infects even the victim. We could
have wished that Mr Mulready had taken the "Meeting" for his
illustration. How exquisitely beautiful is the text! The first impulse
of affection is to forget, or instantly palliate the fault. "Welcome,
any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my treasure, to your poor old
father's bosom!" Then how exquisite her observance of the effect of
grief upon the parent's appearance. "Surely you have too much wisdom to
take the miseries of my guilt upon yourself." How timely has Goldsmith
thrown in this, when we are most willing to catch at a straw of excuse
for the lovely sufferer! No, we say, she never contemplated the misery
she has inflicted; and then how natural is the instantaneous remembrance
of her guilt! The taking it up and laying it down at a moment's call,
from affection, is most touchingly beautiful. "Our wisdom, young woman,"
replied I--"Ah, why so cold a name, papa?" cried she. "This is the first
time you ever called me by so cold a name." "I ask pardon, my darling,"
returned I; "but I was going to observe that wisdom makes but a slow
defence against trouble, though at last a sure one." Admitting the
subject chosen by Mr Mulready, we do not approve of his manner of
telling it; we scarcely know which is the principal figure. Nor is
Olivia's good. It has nothing of the madness the text speaks of. "My
answer to this proposal was almost madness." We are glad to quit the
scene, though our next step is into deeper misery; and--

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