[In the following essay, Gardiner argues that The Female Quixote should be read as literary criticism.]

The Female Quixote (1752) has remained a fairly marginal text in twentieth-century histories of the novel because any number of critics have explicated it as primarily revealing Charlotte Lennox's and women's vexed relationship to the romance.² These readings neglect, however, Lennox's more complex argument about the way in which the term romance functions in her novel. In The Female Quixote, Lennox points to eighteenth-century literary culture's use of romance as a tool with which to exclude readers and writers from participation in the new profession of literary reviewership on the basis of class and gender.³ In this essay, I will read The Female Quixote not as romance, but as a form of literary criticism.

The mid-eighteenth century saw the birth of the professional critic,⁴ and that critic was no longer necessarily, as in the past, the best writer. Now that anyone could write for money, so could anyone be a critic. A consequence of the professionalization of writing and reading was that the new professionals began to argue explicitly and implicitly that certain types of people (educated, upper-middle or middle-class, and male) could better perform the labor of reading. Novelists such as Lennox attempt to wrest the authority for literary judgment from both aristocratic dilettantes and upstart Grub Street hacks by presenting themselves as performing the labor of criticism in their novels-proper.

The self-ascribed business of the eighteenth-century critic was to instruct society on its reading habits, to offer suggestions about which type of literature would best teach moral behaviors and principles to its audience even as it entertained them.⁵ In her novel, Lennox argues that in order to enter the business of criticism a critic must not only be capable of recognizing immoral texts, but also must show that he or she can reform them, too—in the form of a moral narrative, such as the one she herself writes, The Female Quixote.

As literary criticism, The Female Quixote is not simply about the need to control and contain women's desire for the romance; it also represents the literary establishment's desire and need to control men's desire for it. Few have noticed that while the pivotal women characters, all women of leisure, are described as avid readers in the novel, the only male character who reads is a man who also writes: Sir George.

Romance was the scapegoated discourse of the period that saw the rise of the novel; it was that discourse which the dominant critics of the period argued needed to be morally reformed into “novel” discourse. Lennox implies that there is another motivation beyond the moral one that impels the dominant writers and critics of the period to denigrate publicly the practice of reading the romance: reading the romance produces the desire to write. All the major writers of the period use romances as source material for their own writing.

In her struggle for power, authority, and economic security as a writer and critic, Lennox exposes the economic, class, and gender biases that operate within the field of letters. But she also shares some of those biases—particularly those that involve class. The ability to write is perceived by other members of society as giving one the legitimate right to read authoritatively, to make public that judgment and to influence other readers' choices and practices—to be, that is, a professional critic. I want here, then, to focus also on what Lennox contributes to the discussion of who does or does not belong in the literary profession designated “criticism,” by reading the way that Lennox writes the relationship between men and romance in The Female Quixote.

A crucial scene of reading occurs about midway through the novel. The character, Sir George, literally constructs a romance story in the attempt to woo the heroine, Arabella. As the only male character who actually reads, Sir George is also a nefarious and deceitful upper-class gentleman of leisure. Like Arabella, he has read romances and is aware of all the ways other novelists have used them in their work. Hence, he considers himself both a writer and a “very accurate Critic,” and consequently criticizes Dryden “for want of Invention, as it appeared by his having recourse to [romance] for the most shining Characters and Incidents in his Plays.”⁶ Given Sir George's glaring lack of integrity throughout the rest of the novel, no reader trusts his negative appraisals of Dryden's borrowings from and re-writings of romance plots. Importantly, though, Lennox here shows that both the rakish and immoral Sir George and well-respected middle-class writers like Dryden feed off the romance, while those same writers argue that the world in general, but particularly women, should not take them at all seriously.

After Sir George relates his romance to an audience that includes Arabella, Mr. Glanville, Miss Glanville and Arabella's uncle, Sir Charles, there follows a scene in which this audience interprets and passes judgment on it. Sir Charles does not “penetrate into the Meaning of Sir George's story” (p. 253). Rather than addressing the plot of Sir George's “romance,” he exclaims, “it is a pity you are not poor enough to be an Author; you would occupy a Garret in Grub-street, with great Fame to yourself and Diversion to the Public” (p. 252). Because Sir Charles believes writing is economically motivated, in his mind there is no reason to publish one's writing unless one needs the financial recompense that such scribblings will bring. He probably holds this view because fiction serves no useful purpose for him—his previous occupation had not required that sort of literacy. He was a soldier in his youth, “and Soldiers, you know, never trouble themselves much with reading” (p. 63). But while he does not see any useful purpose for Sir George's story, neither does he really see the danger it poses for Arabella or his son. Having never read romances, he does not recognize them as tools of seduction, whether that seduction be political or erotic.

His son and Arabella's would-be beau, Mr. Glanville, recognizes that Sir George's romances pose a threat—but Mr. Glanville does not see it as being directed toward himself or Arabella. When Sir George tells Sir Charles that he has in fact produced a number of stories that he would consider publishing, Glanville angrily protests that Sir George's attempts at fiction are an attack on middle-class professional writers and critics:

Nay, then, interrupted Mr Glanville, you are qualified for a Critic at the Belford Coffee-house; where, with the rest of your brothers, Demy-wits, you may sit in Judgment upon the productions of a Young, a Richardson, or a Johnson; rail with premeditated Malice at the Rambler; and, for the want of Faults, turn even its inimitable Beauties into Ridicule.

(Pp. 252-53)

Glanville's response calls attention to the fact that writing is power in this culture. His criticism also reinforces the notion that during this period of history for the professional writer, writing and reading are not separate activities. In the same way that Sir George implies that for many writers romances are a popular reading material, Glanville implies that many readers and writers of the romance are also therefore “critics,” to the degree that writing the romance gives them the power to judge others' writing in the public and male space of coffee-houses and periodicals. Lennox fully implicates a certain group of men in the production and reproduction of romances in eighteenth-century culture. At the same time, she shows that the form that dominant male voices decry as immoral reading material for women is an important part of those male writers' libraries because the romance is the very source of male writing, novelistic and critical. That is, Lennox yokes the terms “romance” and “men” in the same way that much of eighteenth-century popular discourse yokes the term “romance” with “women.”

Furthermore, she reveals a motivation for this derogatory stereotype of women readers of the romance. From a gendered perspective, if the romance is the source of all sorts of male-authored writing, it might also be the source of all sorts of female writing. Accordingly, if women read romances productively like Sir George and the Grub Street hacks, they may attempt, like both Sir George and the hacks, to “sit in Judgment upon the productions of a Young, a Richardson, or a Johnson.” They may begin to write professionally as critics, thereby influencing those who would buy writers' books. Glanville's speech on one level valorizes the bourgeois ideology of morality, but uncovers a different sort of ideology on another. The suppression of romance for most readers rests on the capitalist economic desire to polarize the roles of women and men in language usage. It arises from culture's sense that romance discourse engages in a political power struggle. Moreover, those who write wish to create “consumers” for their products, rather than “producers.” That is, the desire to suppress romance may also arise from an anxiety felt by all writers who are fighting for a piece of the pie: if men like Glanville were to actually pick up a book and read it, they might give up their day jobs and become writers, or—even worse for women like Lennox who have no other means of economic support available to them—do both, as did Henry Fielding, magistrate, and Samuel Richardson, printer.

While Glanville protests that Sir George mistakenly believes he is qualified to be a critic because he has read and written romances, the romance has actually taught Arabella superior critical judgment.⁷ Moreover, her male relatives' responses show that she has the potential to use that judgment influentially within the public sphere. When she responds critically to the stories of others, characters are quick to praise her: “I protest, Lady Bella … you speak like an Orator.” Her cousin, Mr. Glanville, likewise expresses his admiration of her critical acumen: “One would not imagine … that my Cousin could speak so accurately of a Quality she never practices: And 'tis easy to judge, by what she has said, that nobody can railly finer than herself, if she pleases” (p. 269).

Had Arabella been a male reader of romances who used the skills learned from these books to construct such speeches, she might have been elected to a seat in parliament. In fact, Sir Charles is so impressed with Arabella's wit that he exclaims: “if she had been a Man, she would have made a great Figure in Parliament, and … her Speeches might have come perhaps to be printed in time” (p. 311)—i.e., she would have become a writer of some power and repute. Sir Charles's comment indicates that for all of these characters, language is power; that all of them believe that orators' or writers' discourses are attempts to elevate the perspective of a particular group or class of individuals. As a writer who competes for some of this power, Lennox would want to discourage men from reading romances for professional as well as for so-called moral reasons. Despite the fact that she convincingly shows the romance's power to produce superior judgment, none of her male characters takes advantage of this, not even Mr. Glanville who will supposedly make the best mate for Arabella.

Certainly Mr. Glanville fails to recognize the romance's educational potentials and, as certain events in the story reveal, his judgment suffers as a result. When early in the novel Arabella asks him to read one of her romances, he refuses because of the labor it involves. Counting the pages, he decides that to read these romances requires too much work; he only pretends to read, and provokes Arabella's anger when she discovers his deception (pp. 50-51). Because neither Glanville nor his uncle's vocation requires that they read, neither feels the same desire to read that Arabella feels. Of course, neither man has been raised in isolation, or has ever had as much leisure time as Arabella. The important thing to note, though, is that Glanville seems to have neither the ability nor the desire to judge Sir George's story itself. His lack of reading practice leads him to assume the wrong motivation for its production—that is, he completely misses the point as a reader when he assumes that Sir George's story is a means of demonstrating Sir George's superiority as a writer. Glanville does not realize that the story is actually an attempt to woo Arabella away from him. Because Glanville does not interpret well he can never be the author of Arabella's reform from a literal reader of romance to a woman who rejects romances as unsuitable reading material. It is important to note that because of Lennox's own professional and class loyalties, Lennox herself wishes to persuade her readers that there are very few men who can dispel romance, that is, very few men demonstrate superior critical judgment, very few men are suited to the new professional office of critic.⁸

In her depiction of male characters as readers, Lennox also directs our attention to the role of desire in men's reading and its potential to inhibit their literary judgment. The commonly held and related beliefs that passion makes one lose one's head and that romance supposedly leads to the build up of erotic passions produce the male anxiety that the discourse most associated with women is more than capable of seducing men away from the “real” world of work, or inhibiting their performance within that world.⁹ Mr. Glanville is consistently divided between his desire to accommodate his behavior to Arabella's, his desire to give in to the power that her “form” has over him sexually, and his desire to reform her. Mr. Glanville knows that “since [Arabella] was to be his Wife, it was his Business to produce a Reformation in her” (p. 64). While Glanville continually expresses his discomfort at her odd behavior, he seems incapable of reforming her himself. Since Glanville does not himself read, there is already good enough reason for Lennox, an aspiring member of the club of middle-class writers who want to monopolize the business of social reform, to imply that he has no business making it his business to reform Arabella. But even if Glanville could be the agent of her reform, it is important to note that, in fact, he often resists reforming her. What attracts him to her are the qualities of a romance heroine.

Even while he despairs at the way she experiences the world, she arouses in him the passions associated with the lover of the romance heroine. He resists reforming her, perhaps, because he realizes that to change Arabella will be to change the nature of his love for her. When Arabella's father wants to burn her library because her books are causing her to behave so excessively, Glanville prevents him from doing so in order to gain Arabella's approval, despite her father's warning that to save the books from the fire will continue to encourage his daughter in her folly (p. 56).¹⁰ His desire for Arabella prevents him from properly carrying out his role in society. His infatuation with Arabella threatens to change his value system, to cause him to give priority to the language of emotion rather than to the discourse of economics, politics, and bourgeois morality that normally shapes his actions and motivates his behavior. Moreover, his infatuation eventually leads him to disobey patriarchal law. When he resists reforming Arabella, when he is seduced by her though she behaves like a romance heroine, and when he behaves as her romance lover, Mr. Glanville recapitulates romance. He begins himself to re-write and then eventually to read the world in romantic fashion. For instance, when Arabella calls upon Glanville to take on the role of the romance hero, to defend her against one of her former suitors, Harvey, he is angry at her. When Glanville encounters him, Harvey begins to ridicule Arabella, enraging Glanville. Glanville winds up defending her anyway and strikes Harvey, eschewing the role of gentleman that society assigns him and acting instead the part of a romance hero.

The most dangerous instance of Glanville's recapitulation of romance occurs when Arabella refuses to see him after she hears Mr. Glanville is an unfaithful gigolo. As I noted above, Mr. Glanville is not himself a very skillful reader and has not been any more capable of reading Sir George's artifices than anybody else, despite his superior posturing throughout the novel. Imagine his outrage, then, when told of this romance plot: he finally realizes that all along, Sir George has been conspiring to usurp his place in Arabella's heart. Lennox makes it clear that it is not Arabella's romance that incites him, but Sir George's:

Sir George's Behaviour to her rushed that Moment into his Thoughts: He instantly recollected all his Fooleries, his History … probably done with a View to some other Design upon her.

These reflections … convinc'd him [that Sir George] was the Author of their present Mis-understanding … he stamp'd about his room, vowing Revenge upon Sir George, execrating Romances, and cursing his own Stupidity, for not discovering Sir George was his Rival, and knowing his plotting Talent, not providing against his Artifices.

(P. 354)

Sir George, not Arabella, as previous critics have tended to imply, “authors” the romance plot that causes Mr. Glanville to seek revenge.

Glanville himself erroneously constructs a romance between Sir George and Arabella where none exists. In an attempt to catch Sir George in the act of romantic deception, he looks out his window into the garden. There, “he thought he saw his cousin [Arabella], covered with her Veil as usual,” romancing Sir George. Instead of making sure that Arabella is in fact the person he sees with Sir George, Mr. Glanville, “[t]ransported with Rage at this Sight … snatch'd up his Sword, flew down the Stairs into the Garden, and came running like a Madman up the Walk in which the Lovers were” (p. 357). He “penetrates” Sir George with his sword and almost kills him before he realizes his mistake; Sir George is talking to Glanville's sister.

Interestingly, he wants to lay part of the blame on her: “Mr Glanville, with a Heart throbbing with remorse for what he had done, gaz'd on his Sister with an accusing Look …” (p. 357). Time and again, men use language to deceive women in The Female Quixote, and yet when they are themselves the dupes of other men's or their own language, they invariably blame it on the women. Existentially speaking, the male characters of this novel have trouble accepting responsibility for their own behavior and actions. And with this scene Lennox suggests that their guilt over reading romances and being taken in by them leads many male writers of the period to blame women for the continued popularity and production of romances. A case in point is Samuel Johnson, who enjoyed reading romance “while blaming them [in private] for ‘that unsettled turn of mind which prevented his ever fixing in any profession.’”¹¹ In periodicals like The Rambler, Johnson spent a lot of time decrying romance as the production and corruption of women.

With this incident, Lennox implies that what men fear most is not female, but male desire. Glanville's and middle-class critics' desire to “reform” or re-write the romance; their desire to obliterate them as texts arises because romance novels have the power to seduce men into believing these texts possess truth. When Glanville literalizes the romance, he obeys Arabella's romantic maxim that “the Law has no Power over Heroes” (p. 129). In almost murdering Sir George, he disobeys the Christian, moral code of culture, as well as the law of the king. Those who have power in culture fear that any material reproduction of romance ideology will lead to anarchy. The language associated with women, the language associated with the erotic discourse of the romance, must be repressed therefore in order for the language of middle-class patriarchy, the order that maintains control within the socio-economic and political spheres, to remain intact.

Lennox's more implicit emphasis on the economics of reading uncovers another reason why it is necessary for Arabella to be reformed. The anxiety shown by the male characters in this text is directed toward the power of women's language of experience to reform their behavior, and by extension to reform the power structures by subverting the laws of patriarchy.¹² Once women are allowed to speak their judgments, to read productively like Arabella rather than as passive consumers, men's control of positions of power may very well change. The men of this text believe that reading is part of the labor of writing. To allow women to be productive readers would also give them some measure of power and perhaps control within the economic world of work, and by extension within the political sphere. Arabella must be reformed so that she reads only books, like Clarissa for instance, which will teach her the value of keeping quiet (to see the value of the silent moral exemplar, to see reading as a contemplative, meditative but silent activity of consumption).

The only figure who can reform Arabella, then, is the character of the learned divine—a nameless symbol of what the culture sees as best in patriarchy. Mr. Glanville's earlier speech, in which he railed against writers like Sir George, foreshadows Lennox's vision of the ideal literary critic and also prepares us for the shift in style within the penultimate chapter, a shift to a more pedantic and ponderous language. The ideal reader that Mr. Glanville defined in his speech was the learned divine whose language might be described, like the criticism of a Young, a Richardson or a Johnson, as “stiff, laboured and pedantic”; because he preaches a moral system of reading, his discourse contains “the finest system of ethic yet extant … for over propping virtue.” Lennox perhaps places the responsibility for Arabella's reform in the learned divine's hands because his position at the very center of society has exposed him to both the poor and ignorant, the wealthy and knowledgeable. His reading of scholarly texts gives him the ability to write and re-write, a skill that, as Arabella's maid, Lucy, points out to the reader early in the novel, lies primarily within the realm of an individual like the learned divine.

The character called the learned divine reforms Arabella by echoing the words—almost verbatim—of middle-class critics like Samuel Johnson.¹³ Romances, he asserts, are dangerous, and “if they are at any time read with safety, owe their Innocence only to their Absurdity” (p. 374). He recommends to Arabella Clarissa because it conveys “the most solid Instructions, the noblest Sentiments, and the most exalted piety in the pleasing dress of a Novel, and, … ‘Has taught the Passions to move at the Command of Virtue’” (p. 377). What separates the learned divine from other characters in the text is that he reads fiction for moral instruction as well as diversion, seeing the language of certain texts as “Truth,” as “Lectures of moral and domestic Wisdom.” He represents those in society who argue that their novels are reformative—and the learned divine is asexual to boot. Like those dry moral conduct books, he can teach Arabella to adopt the role of the “tasteful consumer,” because she will never make the mistake of reading him as a romance hero.

One cannot forget at this point that the antecedent text for Lennox's novel is Don Quixote: Lennox re-writes Cervantes to give an account of the romance's influence on female experience. In the earlier novel, Don Quixote poses a real physical danger to those whom he encounters—characters get hurt because Quixote literalizes the romance as heroic battle in encounters with ordinary and often defenseless contemporaries. Like Quixote, Arabella poses a danger to other characters, but the danger is that she has the power to transform other characters into literal readers who restore the legitimacy of romance as a discourse of power and authority.

One of the saddest incidents in Cervantes' novel is when Don Quixote falls ill, repents and reforms, and dies. Lennox offers a parallel structure: Arabella becomes ill, is reformed by a learned divine, but then marries. Don Quixote's reformation causes sadness; Sancho Panza begs him not to give up his romantic illusions. Arabella's reformation produces great joy in the men, but shame in her. If we read Lennox's transformation of the final scene of Quixote ironically, we can read Arabella's marriage as a form of death. Glanville's silent partner, she must give up all autonomy and access to the public realm; she must retreat into obscurity. She has little suspected that she could not control her own passions, and her reformation can only be successful when she can correctly interpret her own behavior in the context of the society in which she lives: “Arabella … continued, for near two Hours afterwards wholly absorb'd in the most disagreeable Reflections on the Absurdity of her past Behaviour, and the Contempt and Ridicule to which she now saw plainly she had exposed herself” (p. 423). That culturally correct interpretation leads to her silence. Hence, “the cure of Arabella is as much to be mourned as the death of Don Quixote.”¹⁴

By revealing her own critical acumen in her treatment of the romance and its misreaders, Lennox gains a certain positive critical reputation among the established critics of her period—men like Johnson, for instance. Her allegory of reading, if you will, gives her the power and authority to produce the first full-length critical study of Shakespeare ever written by a woman: Shakespear Illustrated (1753). And interestingly enough, in that text, she examines Shakespeare's debt to the romance writers of his time and then critically evaluates his use of those authors. Those who argue that Lennox loses her power and authority as a writer when she silences Arabella ignore that she herself represents, with her own career, an Arabella who has to give up neither her romances nor her voice.

Heretofore, The Female Quixote has been treated either as a woman's novel or as a novel that examines women's relationships to romance. My reading of this novel indicates that it may be more useful to read Lennox's novel as one that similarly participates in the eighteenth-century critical debate described by Linda Zionkowski.¹⁵ Lennox makes a significant contribution to that debate when she exposes the primarily economic motivation behind the eighteenth-century literary profession's attempts to devalue romance for certain groups of writers and readers.

Notes

1. I gratefully acknowledge all those who read and responded to earlier drafts of this essay, particularly the reader for Studies in the Novel, Deborah Barker, and Greg Shelnutt.

2. See also Deborah Ross, “Mirror, Mirror: The Didactic Dilemma of The Female Quixote,” SEL 27 (1987): 455-73; James J. Lynch, “Romance and Realism in Charlotte Lennox's The Female Quixote,” Essays in Literature 14 (1987): 51-63; and Margaret Anne Doody, “Shakespeare's Novels: Charlotte Lennox Illustrated,” Studies in the Novel 19 (Fall, 1987): 296-310.

3. In “Territorial Disputes in the Republic of Letters: Canon Formation and the Literary Profession,” The Eighteenth Century: Theory and Interpretation 31 (Spring, 1990), Linda Zionkowski argues persuasively that in their novels authors like Fielding and Goldsmith engage in a debate that centers on the formation of a literary canon. Those writers wished to be considered part of that canon, Zionkowski notes further, so that they might enjoy power; they “could [then] participate in shaping social, political and aesthetic beliefs” (p. 4). I am arguing that novelists like Fielding, Goldsmith, and Lennox were interested in shaping readerly practices as well as readerly values. All recognized consumers' desire for romance and incorporated romance into their texts. Calling attention to the ways in which their novels “reformed” romance, they devalued romantic discourse so that they might encourage most readers to be ashamed, as Arabella is at the end of the novel, to admit that they either read or enjoyed it.

4. See Terry Eagleton, The Function of Criticism (New York, Verso Press, 1984).

5. Ibid.

6. Charlotte Lennox, The Female Quixote; or, The Adventures of Arabella, intro. Margaret Dalziel; app. Duncan Isles (London: Oxford Univ. Press, 1970), pp. 129-30. Hereafter, all references to this book will be listed parenthetically in the text.

7. As Henry Fielding points out in Tom Jones, the word critic is derived from the Greek word for judgment. To judge well is to be a good critic; to speak of the ability to judge is to speak of the ability to be a critic.

8. See Laurie Langbauer, Women and Romance: The Consolations of Gender in the English Novel (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1990). Langbauer asserts ruefully that Lennox ultimately loses control of her novel because she cannot avoid reproducing romance. She argues that when Lennox chooses the learned divine as the reformer of her main character, she abdicates her authority to write to the dominant male voices of the period: “Just as Arabella, once in this sphere, loses her voice, when Lennox calls on the male sphere in the penultimate chapter of The Female Quixote, so does she. Like Arabella's voice with the Doctor's, Lennox blends with Dr. Johnson's so much so that it is impossible to know who really wrote the chapter—but whether Dr. Johnson wrote it or whether he influenced a most faithful pastiche is immaterial. What is important is that Lennox herself, literally or figuratively must disappear. Power and authority can enter her text only as a man; only a man can dispel romance” (pp. 82-83). I don't think it's useful to argue that women writers lose their power and authority when they collaborate with men. Collaboration was a common practice in the eighteenth century (as it is now, for that matter). Moreover, no one suggests that Henry Fielding loses his voice when he calls on the female sphere (his sister Sarah) for the Leonora chapter in Joseph Andrews.

9. Desire is a critical force in the shaping of an ideology of reading. My discussion of the desires that motivate characters' readings owes much to the work of Roland Barthes. For a further discussion of Barthes' theory of the erotics of reading, see The Rustle of Language, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1986); The Pleasure of the Text, trans. Richard Miller. With a note on the text by Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1975); and Criticism and Truth, trans. and ed. Katrine Pilcher Keuneman; fwd. Philip Thody (Minneapolis: Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1987).

10. See Roland Barthes' discussion of libraries in The Rustle of Language, p. 38. Like Barthes, Arabella's male relatives expect that the library left behind by Arabella's mother will have no function within the social, cultural milieu. They consciously perceive her books as pure “fragments of desire,” but again like Barthes, they on some level understand that these romances have an economic aspect to them.

11. Qtd. in Ross, p. 470.

12. To further substantiate this point, see footnote above—Johnson's criticism of the romance therein reveals the male anxiety that romance discourse, in its power to persuade men that there is a reality outside that of the world of economics and politics, can inhibit a man's ability to perform properly within that socio-economic world. See also Leland Warren's “Of the Conversation of Women: The Female Quixote and the Dream of Perfection,” SECC [Studies in Eighteenth-Century Culture] 11 (1982): 367-80.

13. See, for example, The Rambler, no. 97.

14. Ross, p. 470.

15. See Note 2 above.