Review of Men and Manners
author: Elizabeth Moody
source date: February 1800

Elizabeth Moody Art. V. Men and Manners. By Francis Lathom. 12mo. 4 Vols. 14s. sewed. Wright, &c. 1799. [Monthly Review , second series, volume 31, February 1800, pages 136-141. Benjamin Nangle identifies Elizabeth Moody as the author of this review from an editor's marked copy of The Monthly Review . See Nangle, The Montly Review, Second Series, 1790-1815: Indexes of Contributors and Articles , Clarendon Press, 1955. This edition of this review was prepared for The Criticism Archive by Maegan Bull and Mary A. Waters.]

T he title of this production leads us to examine the dramatis personæ as a painter examines the several pictures of a collected groupe of figures, representing a variety of characters; and, according to this mode of examination, we shall pass our strictures on the pictures exhibited on this canvas. The most prominent figure of the piece is Sir Gilbert Oxmondeley; who, from having been born plain Gilbert Oxmondeley, and been bred to the trade of a glover and hosier in Cheapside, is turned round on the sportive wheel of fortune, and thrown into the rank of baroner, with the appendage of four thousand pounds in a year. Such a change in circumstances naturally produces a change of manners; which are well described in the author's own words:

The baronet, as is natural to suppose, in a man undergoing so sudden a change of circumstances, lost what few good qualities he had ever possessed, in such vicious ones, as he had never before dreamt of;—his sentiments and manners underwent as speedy a metamorphose, as the house and furniture of Goody Baucis and her good man Philemon. [From Jonathan Swift's Baucis and Philemon, Imitated from Ovid (1709).] The counter-bow and smirk, with the indiscriminately applied sentences of, "much obliged to your ladyship,"—"thank you, sir," were converted into a stiff gait and sneer at the little world below him, with a continual grumbling cough in his throat, which seemed to say, "dam'me, don't you know who I am?"

This is a good painting.—Miss Eliza, Sir Gilbert's daughter, has educated herself principally by the assistance of novels, and consequently marries the first man who asks the honor of her fair hand, reduces herself to poverty, and flies from her creditors to the stage.—This, though not an original, is a good copy.—The family of the Hutchinbuncks is well executed; and the Dutch boy, or man in miniature, is alive:—but the foundling Rachel is too formal, sententious, and affected, for a country girl bred up in a parsonage-house with the good simple Mr. Morden: the colours are therefore not natural.

Jonathan Parkinson, the quaker and no quaker, (being only so called by the world because he wore plain clothes and a flat crown'd hat, lest he should offend the memory of his ancestors; and who retained also for the same reason the peculiarity of that stiff phraseology used by the sect,) forms the picture which pleases us the least in the piece. It may be that, as Jonathan Parkinson is not friendly to our court of criticism, he must allow for our being a little piqued that a man, who is exalted by the liberality of his sentiments, should so set his face against poor Reviewers as to refuse all acquaintance with us, and to judge us severely without knowing us: for Jonathan's own words are, on being presented by a bookseller with two new Reviews,—"I do thank thee, friend, for thy civility, but I do never read those books."—Now human creatures are not always good Christians, and so disposed to forgive as they ought to be; it may therefore be considered as a venial sin, if we exult a little over the fallible virtue of this preacher and pattern of moral rectitude; and if we smile when we see him peeping over the shoulder of the frail Miss Darlington, who presents him with two illegitimate pledges of an illicit amour. The costume of this portrait is ill preserved.

The dashing Cranberry, the cold-blooded Alfred, the gamester Lady Paragon, the swindler Blackman, the travell'd Sir Bauble, and many others, are rather daubings than good pictures;—the colours are unnatural.—We give the following chapter as a specimen of the work:

In the evening, a clod-pole, who had been employed by Miss Oxmondeley to carry Emily's letter to her brother, returned with the answer; and having received his promised reward from the hand of Eliza, she flew with the letter to Emily, for whom it was directed.

It contained the wished for information, that the beaus, as Eliza called them, were highly flattered by the invitation, and would be at Fairford early in the morning.

"Dear me," said Emily, "what will Sir Gilbert say to their coming so soon in the morning?"

"Oh," said Miss Oxmondeley, "I'll tell him they come early on purpose to see the lions."

"Dear me," returned Emily, "why you have no lions here, have you?"

When Miss Oxmondeley could suppress her laughter sufficiently to explain herself, Emily much approved of her friend's intention; but Rachel said she feared it was a hazardous plan, as she hardly imagined the gentlemen would investigate the curiosities of Fairford with the leisure or attention Sir Gilbert would expect, from the account she had just given him of their taste.

"Oh!" replied Eliza, "leave that to me, I know every step my father takes in the morning, and will lead them a different way from that I know he has taken; and when we meet, which I'll contrive shan't be till dinner, I'll tell him, I have been forced to show them all about myself, as I could not find him."

"But should the deceit be discovered"—said Rachel.

"I'll contrive some excuse, I warrant me, to bring us off," said Miss Oxmondeley.

"And if it should not"—continued Rachel hesitatingly.

"Why all the better," replied Eliza, insensible to the very gentle reproof Rachel ventured to give to her improper conduct.

"I was quite frightened at dinner," said Emily, "when you told your papa about their coming."

"Oh, I know how to cuff him over," replied Eliza, half ashamed she did not possess absolute dominion over her father.

"And now he does not know Alfred is to be here," returned Emily.

"I have a trick to introduce him with," replied Eliza.

"I think you run great risks, Miss Oxmondeley," said Rachel, "of incurring Sir Gilbert's displeasure, to obtain a gratification which the anxiety that its purchase occasions must, in my opinion, in a great measure outweigh."

"Oh! that's half the pleasure," returned Miss Oxmondeley; "it is so romantic to impose on a father, and so delightful to plan schemes and stratagems for seeing the pretty fellows."

Rachel durst admonish no farther, on so slight an acquaintance, with one acknowledged by the world so far her superior in rank, and remained silent. Emily Morden, who never thought for herself, was always of opinion of the last speaker.

On the succeeding day, Sir Gilbert, as was his usual custom, walked into his grounds immediately after breakfast; he had strolled nearly the round, had rested once in the hermitage, and stopped twice to admire the Chinese temple, (his favorite building, because it had cost the largest sum in erecting,) when proceeding, he arrived within a few paces of the ruin, which represented the angle of a gothic building, with a dilapidated window supported between two mouldering pillars; as he stood viewing the venerable structure, a voice behind it called out "Here's at your cock robin," and immediately a large stone flew over his head.

"Hollo! hollo!" exclaimed the astonished baronet.

"Hollo! hollo!" repeated a voice.

"What's here, an echo?" cried another speaker. "Hollo! hollo! again."

The baronet was mean while rapidly approaching, and distinctly heard his daughter say, "Oh Lud a mercy, it's papa, I dare say! I hope he did not see us."

"I'll climb up these stones and peep," said the first voice.

In a few seconds, a face appeared through the frame-work of the window; and in less than in an instant the fragment of antiquity, in reality no more firmly built than it was really meant to appear, yielded to the weight imposed upon it, crumbled, fell, and carried with it to the ground the person in question.

The scene fallen, the actors behind it became conspicuous; and Miss Oxmondeley, Mr. Cranberry, and Rachel, appeared standing in various attitudes of terror and surprise—Miss Emily and Alfred sitting on the grass, at a short distance from the scene of action, and John Morden lying prostrate amongst the ruined ruins.

"Here's a pretty spot of work!" cried the baronet, "the mouldering walls of my abbey all in ruins!—How the devil came you to climb up it, you imp of vexation?"

"Have you hurt yourself," said Eliza, advancing to John.

"Oh, no!" said he, rising gently, while he held one hand on his back, and rubbed his left knee with the other.

"If you had broken your neck, I should not have pitied you," cried the baronet.

"If he had," returned Eliza, "it would have signified little to him, whether you had or not—your compassion would be of much more consequence to him now, for I'm sure he's hurt."

"Here's at your cock Robin, indeed!" exclaimed Sir Gilbert, settling the flaps of his waistcoat with both his hands, and moving about his fingers in painful agitation.

"Give me leave to introduce Mr. Cranberry to you, papa."

Cranberry bowed, scraped, muttered a great deal, and said nothing.

"How do you do, sir?" said Sir Gilbert impatiently.— "If it had been my Chinese temple, instead of this ruin, I'd have broken your neck for you, myself, puppy!" he continued, turning to John.

"Is there a Chinese-temple in these gardens?" asked Cranberry with affected eagerness and pleasure.

"Yes sir, yes sir," answered Sir Gilbert, placidity returning to his bow.

Cranberry had already received his cue from Eliza, and now turning quickly round to Rachel, exclaimed, "Oh, you cruel creature, not to point it out to me, when you know my partiality for those buildings!"

John Morden, advancing to Sir Gilbert, said, "I beg pardon, Sir Gilbert, but I thought those mock ruins had always been built stronger."

"Well, well," said the baronet, "it is some consolation that I can afford to build another."

"If I might be allowed to speak," said Cranberry, "I think it gives the idea it was meant to convey much more forcibly in its present state than it did before."

"Indeed!" replied the baronet, "Surely not:" he gave a moment's pause to observation, then added, "let me stand where you do a minute, sir, if you please."

Eliza ran up to her father, and peeping over his shoulder, "Oh, decidedly, decidedly," she cried.

"Decidedly, what?" asked the baronet.

"More mutilated, papa," answered she.

"Oh, infinitely more ruinous and dilapidated," added Cranberry.

"But my robin is lost," said Sir Gilbert, with a sigh; "I don't like that."

"Ay, flown away," cried John, still holding his knee; "it would have been a good thing for me, if I could have taken wing like it:" a wink to Eliza and Cranberry followed this sentence.

"Why, did you really think it was alive?" asked the baronet, with pleasure sparkling in his eyes.

"Why was it not?" said John, with affected surprise.

"Ha! ha! ha!" exclaimed Sir Gilbert, unable to contain his extacy; "you were really taken in then, ha! ha! ha! you are not the first that has been taken in about that robin."

"No, nor the last neither," said Eliza, looking archly at her companions.

"No, no, no," returned the baronet; "I can't help laughing though at the thoughts of it;—I can easily have the ruin mended, and another bird put up."

"Besides you can vary your subject, and the deception will have the better effect," remarked Cranberry.

"True, sir, true, so it will; those that have seen it before, will think the robin has flown away, indeed," returned the baronet.

"But the Chinese temple, Sir Gilbert—"

"I'm on the road to it now," answered the exulting baronet; "walk you behind Eliza," continued he, "you have seen it often enough, and it is not worth a pin, without you have a clear view of it breaking upon you from amongst the trees;—walk on, sir, walk on, the path will lead you to it;" and on they moved, Eliza and John rejoicing in the happy change John's maneuver had worked on the baronet's temper.

We are sorry that we have not been more entertained with the whole of this novel: but we readily acknowledge that we have occasionally received pleasure from the comic powers of Mr. Lathom; and that we have met with scenes not unworthy of the drama, where the ridicule is well painted which resulted from pride, ostentation, and vanity, grafted on low birth, mean education, and defective intellects. Prolixity is the great fault of this author, and it is indeed too common an error. It is to be wished that writers of all descriptions would study the multum in parvo, [Much matter within a small compass.] and the happy art of compressing. How to begin, and how to finish, are points of difficulty: but when to finish requires the most resolution.