To the Artist
author: Elizabeth Inchbald
source date: June 13 1807

Elizabeth Inchbald TO THE ARTIST. [The Artist; a Collection of Essays, Relative to Painting, Poetry, Sculpture, Architecture, the Drama, Discoveries of Science, and Various Other Subjects. Edited by Prince Hoare. Vol. 1, no. 14, Saturday, June 13, 1807, pp. 9-19. Laura DeWitt and Mary A. Waters co-edited this edition for The Criticism Archive.]

Sir,

IF the critical knowledge of an art was invariably combined with the successful practice of it, I would here proudly take my rank among artists, and give instructions on the art of writing Novels.—But though I humbly confess that I have not the slightest information to impart, that may tend to produce a good novel; yet it may not be wholly incompatible with the useful design of your publication, if I show—how to avoid writing a very bad one.

Observe, that your hero and heroine be neither of them too bountiful. The prodigious sums of money which are given away every year in novels, ought, in justice, to be subject to the property tax; by which regulation, the national treasury, or every such book, would be highly benefited.

Beware how you imitate Mrs. Radcliffe, or Maria Edgeworth; you cannot equal them; and those readers who most admire their works, will most despise yours.

Take care to reckon up the many times you make use of the words "Amiable," "Interesting," "Elegant," "Sensibility," "Delicacy," "Feeling." Count each of these words over before you send your manuscript to be printed, and be sure to erase half the number you have written;—you may erase again when your first proof comes from the press—again, on having a revise—and then mark three or four, as mistakes of the printer, in your Errata.

Examine likewise, and for the same purpose, the various times you have made your heroine blush, and your hero turn pale—the number of times he has pressed her hand to his "trembling lips," and she his letters to her "beating heart"—the several times he has been "speechless" and she "all emotion," the one "struck to the soul;" the other "struck dumb."

The lavish use of "tears," both in "showers" and "floods," should next be scrupulously avoided; though many a gentle reader will weep on being told that others are weeping, and require no greater cause to excite their compassion.

Consider well before you introduce a child into your work. To maim the characters of men and women is no venial offence; but to destroy innocent babes is most ferocious cruelty: and yet this savage practice has, of late, arrived at such excess, that numberless persons of taste and sentiment have declared—they will never read another novel, unless the advertisement which announces the book, adds (as in advertisements for letting Lodgings) There are no children.

When you are contriving that incident where your heroine is in danger of being drowned, burnt, or her neck broken by the breaking of an axle-tree—for without perils by fire, water, or coaches, your book would be incomplete—it might be advisable to suffer her to be rescued from impending death by the sagacity of a dog, a fox, a monkey, or a hawk; any one to whom she cannot give her hand in marriage; for whenever the deliverer is a fine young man, the catastrophe of your plot is foreseen, and suspense extinguished.

Let not your ambition to display variety cause you to produce such a number of personages in your story, as shall create perplexity, dissipate curiosity, and confound recollection. But if, to show your powers of invention, you are resolved to introduce your reader to a new acquaintance in every chapter, and in every chapter snatch away his old one; he will soon have the consolation to perceive—they are none of them worth his regret.

Respect virtue—nor let her be so warm or so violent as to cause derision:—nor vice so enormous as to resemble insanity. No one can be interested for an enthusiast—nor gain instruction for a madman.

And when you have written as good a novel as you can—compress it into three or four short volumes at most; or the man of genius, whose moments are precious, and on whose praise all your fame depends, will not find time to read the production, till you have committed suicide in consequence of its ill reception with the public.

There are two classes of readers among this public, of whom it may not be wholly from the purpose to give a slight account. The first are all hostile to originality. They are so devoted to novel-reading, that they admire one novel because it puts them in mind of another, which they admired a few days before. By them it is required, that a novel should be like a novel; that is, the majority of those compositions; for the minor part describe fic- titious characters and events merely as they are in real life:—ordinary representations, beneath the concern of a true voracious novel-reader.

Such an one (more especially of the female sex) is indifferent to the fate of nations, or the fate of her own family, whilst some critical situation in a romance agitates her whole frame! Her neighbour might meet with an accidental death in the next street, the next house, or the next room, and the shock would be trivial, compared to her having just read—"that the amiable Sir Altamont, beheld the interesting Eudocia, faint in the arms of his thrice happy rival."

Affliction, whether real or imaginary, must be refined,—and calamity elegant, before this novel-reader can be roused to "sympathetic sensation." Equally unsusceptible is her delicate soul to vulgar happiness. Ease and content are mean possessions! She requires transport, rapture, bliss, extatic [sic] joy, in the common occurrences of every day.

She saunters pensively in shady bowers, or strides majestically through brilliant circles. She dresses by turns like a Grecian statue and a pastoral nymph: then fancies herself as beautiful as the undone heroine in " Barbarous Seduction; " and has no objection to become equally fortunate.

To the healthy, that food is nourishment, which to the sickly proves their poison. Such is the quality of books to the strong, and to the weak of understanding.—Lady Susan is of another class of readers, and has good sense.—Let her therefore read certain well-written novels, and she will receive intimation of two or three foibles, the self-same as those, which, adhering to her conduct, cast upon all her virtues a degree of ridicule.—These failings are beneath the animadversions of the pulpit. They are so trivial yet so awkward, that neither sermons, history, travels, nor biography, could point them out with propriety. They are ludicrous, and can only be described and reformed by a humourist.

And what book so well as a novel, could show to the enlightened Lord Henry——the arrogance of his extreme condescension? Or insinuate to the judgment of Lady Eliza——the wantonness of her excessive reserve?

What friend could whisper so well to Lady Autumnal—that affected simplicity at forty, is more despicable than affected knowledge at fifteen?—And by what better means could the advice be conveyed to Sir John Egotist—to pine no more at what the world may say of him; for that men like himself are too insignificant for the world to know.

A novel could most excellently represent to the valiant General B—, that though he can forgive the miser's love of gold, the youth's extravagance and even profligacy; that although he has a heart to tolerate all female faults, and to compassionate human depravity of every kind; he still exempts from this his universal clemency—the poor delinquent soldier.

The General's wife, too, forgives all injuries done to her neighbours: those to herself are of such peculiar kind, that it would be encouragement to offenders, not to seek vengeance.—The lovely Clarissa will pardon every one—except the mantua-maker who spoils her shape.—And good Sir Gormand never bears malice to a soul on earth—but to the cook who spoils his dinner.

That Prebendary is merciful to a proverb—excluding negligence towards holy things—of which he thinks himself the holiest. Certain novels might make these people think a second time.

Behold the Countess of L——! Who would presume to tell that once celebrated beauty—that she is now too wrinkled for curling hair; and her complexion too faded for the mixture of blooming pink? Should her husband convey such unwelcome news, he would be more detested than he is at present! Were her children or her waiting-maid to impart such intelligence, they would experience more of her peevishness than ever!—A novel assumes a freedom of speech to which all its readers must patiently listen; and by which, if they are wise, they will know how to profit.

The Novelist is a free agent. He lives in a land of liberty, whilst the Dramatic Writer exists but under a despotic government.—Passing over the subjection in which an author of plays is held by the Lord Chamberlain’s office, and the degree of dependence which he has on his actors—he is the very slave of the audience. He must have their tastes and prejudices in view, not to correct, but to humour them. Some auditors of a theatre, like some aforesaid novel-readers, love to see that which they have seen before; and originality, under the opprobrious name of innovation, might be fatal to a drama, where the will of such critics is the law, and execution instantly follows judgment.

In the opinion of these theatrical juries, Virtue and Vice attach to situations, more than to characters: at least, so they will have the stage represent. The great moral inculcated in all modern plays constantly is—for the rich to love the poor. As if it was not much more rare, and a task by far more difficult—for the poor to love the rich.—And yet, what author shall presume to expose upon the stage, certain faults, almost inseparable from the indigent? What dramatic writer dares to expose in a theatre, the consummate vanity of a certain rank of paupers, who boast of that wretched state as a sacred honour, although it be the result of indolence or criminality? Who dares to show an audience, the privilege, of poverty debased into the instrument of ingratitude?—"I am poor and therefore slighted"—cries the unthankful beggar; whilst his poverty is his sole recommendation to his friends; and for which alone, they pay him much attention, and some respect.

What dramatist would venture to bring upon the stage—that which so frequently occurs in real life—a benefactor living in awe of the object of his bounty; trembling in the presence of the man whom he supports, lest by one inconsiderate word, he should seem to remind him of the predicament in which they stand with each other; or by an involuntary look, seem to glance at such and such obligations?

Who, moreover, dares to exhibit upon the stage, a benevolent man, provoked by his crafty dependant—for who is proof against ungratefulness?—to become that very tyrant, which he unjustly had reported him?

Again.—The giver of alms, as well as the alms-receiver, must be revered on the stage.—That rich proprietor of land, Lord Forecast, who shall dare to bring him upon the boards of a theatre, and show—that, on the subject of the poor, the wily Forecast accomplishes two most important designs? By keeping the inhabitants of his domain steeped in poverty, he retains his vast superiority on earth; then secures, by acts of charity, a chance for heaven.

A dramatist must not speak of national concerns, except in one dull round of panegyrick. He must not allude to the feeble minister of state, nor to the ecclesiastical coxcomb.

Whilst the poor dramatist is, therefore, confined to a few particular provinces; the novel-writer has the whole world to range, in search of men and topics. Kings, warriors, statesmen, churchmen, are all subjects of his power. The mighty and the mean, the common-place and the extraordinary, the profane and the sacred, all are prostrate before his muse. Nothing is forbidden, nothing is withheld from the imitation of a novelist, except—other novels.

E. I.