Thomas Deloney

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Introduction to The Novels of Thomas Deloney

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SOURCE: Introduction to The Novels of Thomas Deloney, Indiana University Press, 1961, pp. xi–xxiii.

[In the following excerpt, Lawlis emphasizes some distinctive and innovative qualities of Deloney's novels: the dramatic presentation of scenes, the idiomatic dialogue, and the abundance of colorful characters.]

1. Deloney as Novelist: His Use of the Drama and the Jestbook

By the time Thomas Deloney in the last few years of the sixteenth century turned to what we now call the novel form, he knew what his public wanted. All four of his novels immediately became so popular that the early editions of them were read completely out of existence. To the twentieth-century reader such a flattering catastrophe is not at all difficult to understand, for Deloney's writing is still fresh and exciting.

His characters come alive quickly and easily. How, the reader asks, did he learn to write crisp and life-creating dialogue? Unfortunately, our knowledge of Deloney's life, as we shall see below, is very sketchy; and when we turn to the novels written by his contemporaries, we find little evidence that he so much as glanced at them.

True, such idealized characters as Duke Robert and Margaret in Thomas of Reading may remind us vaguely of Musidorus and Pamela in Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia (1590 and 1593). But the resemblance is entirely superficial. In his only specific reference to Arcadia, Deloney has Tom Drum remark that the place abounds in asses. Tom may not have Sidney's romance in mind, but his incidental remark nevertheless serves to remind us that Sidney and Deloney are poles apart. The Arcadia, Old or New, has little to offer a novelist who is concerned primarily with the everyday life of artisans.

Yet the realism of Thomas Nashe and Robert Greene apparently was not to his taste either. Nashe's witty, biting, satirical manner in his pamphlets and in The Unfortunate Traveler (1594) is alien to Deloney; and although he frequently calls a spade a spade, Deloney is not interested in the ramifications of the underworld that Greene describes in his pamphlets about conies and cony-catchers (1591–92).

Nor did John Lyly offer a suitable model. That Deloney was well acquainted with euphuism is clear, but by 1597 there was no need to read Euphues (1578) to become acquainted with it. By the end of the century Lyly's influence was so pervasive that Deloney, along with many another writer, must have felt its impact. Yet his only direct borrowings are not from Lyly, but from such compendiums as Thomas Fortescue's translation of The Forest (1571). In The Forest Deloney found various bits of information, usually erroneous and often fantastic, phrased neatly in paramoion and isocolon.

Deloney's novels contrast so strongly with Euphues, and with other Elizabethan novels, that the reader immediately recognizes them as something new, as a different order of fiction. Jack of Newbury (1597 or 1598) is the first really dramatic novel in English. It is dramatic in every sense. A story more vivid and exciting would be difficult to find. Deloney's vision of life is dramatic: he chooses to write about people of action, people in the act of accomplishing certain material things. Perhaps his basic attitude toward people is what attracted him to the drama and what then led him to make his novels dramatic in the sense of drama-like.

To understand Deloney's use of the play form, all one has to do is contrast Shakespeare's use of the novel form. When Shakespeare borrows from Thomas Lodge's Rosalynde and Robert Greene's Pandosto for As You Like It and The Winter's Tale, he takes not only the incident but the actual wording. Yet it is clear that he already knows what genre he is going to write in: it is the play. Different as the play is from the novel, especially in Elizabethan times, there is not the slightest tendency in Shakespeare to write in the manner of Lodge and Greene. Whatever he uses he "makes his own," as we say, because the novel and the play are so different in form and structure that his act of creation is not diminished by the extensive literal borrowing.

Deloney's indebtedness to the drama is of another kind. He never filches a whole scene; nor does he copy the dialogue word for word. He likes the dramatic form so well that he simply takes it over. He puts a scene before us the way a playwright does; and, especially in the first three novels, he seldom analyzes omnisciently in his own words. Although Jack of Newbury begins with omniscient analysis, the point of view quickly changes; and we rarely get Jack's thoughts any longer. Instead, we are an audience viewing a stage, and we know only what we see and hear.

But if the view usually is limited, as in a play, Deloney nevertheless finds one way of letting a character express his own thoughts and feelings directly to the reader. He uses the soliloquy, an accepted device in plays. Meg's catechism on grief, in Chapter III of The Gentle Craft, Part II, is a good example:

Meg being merily inclined, shooke off sorrow in this sort, and gently taking the willow Garland, said: wherefore is griefe good? can it recall folly past? no: can it helpe a matter remedilesse? no: can it restore losses, or draw us out of danger? no: what then? can griefe make unkind men curteous? no: can it bring long life? no: for it doth rather hasten our death, what then can it do: can it call our friends out of their graves? no: can it restore virginity if we chance to lose our maidenhead? no: Then wherefore should I grieve? except I went to kill my selfe: Nay seeing it is so, hang sorrow, I will never care for them that care not for me, and therefore a Figge for the Cocke of Westminster.

The actual wording of her soliloquy is different from the wording of Falstaff's soliloquy on honor in I Henry IV (V, i, 128 ff.). Yet there can be little question, as Alexis F. Lange and others have pointed out, that Deloney has Falstaff's questions and answers in mind. The pattern is exactly the same. Meg is on a "stage" before us, and for the moment she has forgotten Casteler, Robin, and Gillian in her successful effort to engage the reader's sympathy for her plight.

Again and again Deloney seems to have a stage in mind as he groups his characters for an important scene. He learned well what no other Elizabethan novelist learned: some episodes in a novel need to be emphasized more than others; and an episode that is to be emphasized in prose fiction needs to be handled the same way it is handled on the stage—by giving the reader a close view of the characters through a carefully defined and well limited setting. Often Deloney arranges a duologue. First he describes a homely setting that is easy to visualize—a bedroom, a dining room, a shop, or a tavern—and then he has two persons engage each other in conversation. The exchange between Meg and Gillian in Chapter I of The Gentle Craft, Part II, is typical.

Wherefore then doe you not marry (quoth Margaret)! in my opinion it is the most pleasingst life that may be, when a woman shall have her husband come home and speake in this sort vnto her. How now Wife? how dost thou my sweet-heart? what wilt thou have? or what dost thou lacke? and therewithall kindly embracing her, gives her a gentle kisse, saying: speake my prettie mouse, wilt thou have a cup of Claret-wine … ? O how sweet doe these words sound in a womans eares? But when they are once close betweene a paire of sheetes, O Gillian then, then.

Why what of that (quoth she)?

Nay nothing (saith Margaret) but they sleep soundly all night.

This interchange is characteristic of stage humor. There is the careful build-up to Gillian's "straight line," which is followed promptly by Margaret's "punch line."

When Jack first meets his prospective father-in-law, there is a brief description of the old man's arrival in Newbury from Alesbury in Buckinghamshire. After looking over Jack's estate, including the warehouses with various kinds of cloth in them, the old man accosts Jack:

Sir (quoth the olde man) Iwis che zee you bee bominable rich, and cham content you shall haue my daughter, and Gods blessing and mine light on you both.

But Father (quoth lack of Newbery) what will you bestow with her?

Mary hear you (quoth the old man) I vaith cham but a poore man, but I thong God, cham of good exclamation among my neighbours, and they will as zoone take my vice for any thing as a richer mans: thicke I will bestowe, you shall haue with a good will: because che heare very good condemnation of you in euery place, therefore chill giue you twenty Nobles and a weaning Calfe, and when I dye and my Wife, you shall haue the reuelation of all my goods.

As Ernest A. Baker has noted, this bit of dialogue is historically important; it contains the first use of dialect and the first use of malapropism in English prose fiction.1

Deloney employs dialogue so naturally, and so much the way we are accustomed to it in the twentieth-century novel, that his achievement at first escapes us. More than four-fifths of Jack of Newbury is in dialogue form. The story begins with two brief paragraphs of introduction. Then comes a chorus-like interchange, a distant "quoth one" and "quoth another." But before long Jack is sitting on a cushion beside the widow, his employer; and what we "hear" is an intimate conversation as racy and colloquial as a scene from The Alchemist. Some chapters, like Chapter X of Jack—the wonderful episode in which Tweedle gets sweet revenge on Mistress Frank—are entirely in dialogue except for a brief comment at the beginning and the end.

Often Deloney prefers even to introduce characters through dialogue. Instead of giving the reader brief analyses of Tom Drum and Harry Nevell, he simply has the two characters meet and start talking. They introduce themselves.

Deloney is best at comedy and farce; but he has one excellent tragic scene, and dialogue is the making of it. In Chapter XI of Thomas of Reading the innkeeper and his wife are about to murder Thomas Cole. The three of them are alone at the inn. Feeling premonitions of death, Cole looks at his host, starts back, and exclaims:

What aile you to looke so like pale death? good Lord, what haue you done, that your hands are thus bloudy?

What my hands, said his host? Why you may see they are neither bloudy nor foule: either your eies do greatly dazell, or else fancies of a troubled mind do delude you.

Alas my hoast, you may see, saide he, how weake my wits are, I neuer had my head so idle before. Come, let me drinke once more, and then I will to bed, and trouble you no longer.

With that he made himselfe vnready, and his hostesse was very diligent to warme a kerchefe, and put it about his head.

Good Lord said he I am not sicke, I prayse God, but such an alteration I find in my selfe as I neuer did before.

With that the scritch owle cried pitteously, and anone after the night rauen sate croking hard by his window.

Iesu haue mercy vpon me, quoth he, what an ill fauored crie do yonder carrion birds make!

And therewithall he laid him downe in his bed, from whence he neuer rose againe.

There would seem to be a few "echoes" here from such Jacobean tragedies as Macbeth and The Duchess of Malfi. But of course Thomas of Reading was written at least eight years before Macbeth and fifteen years before The Duchess of Malfi; if any borrowing is involved, Shakespeare and Webster are the borrowers.

Whether the scene to be emphasized is comedy or tragedy, Deloney always manages to be vivid. His focus is on the details of everyday life. The dialogue, in fact, is so concrete that it is a mine of information about the artisans of the Elizabethan period. Love and marriage are the main topics of conversation; but since Deloney is a materialist to the core, his characters talk freely of money, food, and other business and household matters.

Like Dickens, Deloney has such a gift for particularity that he occasionally is able to give us the very heart of a situation without benefit of analysis. Consider the opening chapter of Thomas of Reading. Deloney nowhere says, in his own words or through the dialogue of his characters, that the rise of the middle class came with the development of certain industries, such as the clothing industry in the days of Henry I. The action speaks for itself. As King Henry I rides along the narrow road from London to Wales, he sees cartloads of cloth coming from the opposite direction. Instinctively, he gets off the road and into the hedge—and watches the carts go by. The scene is historically inaccurate, of course, as Deloney must have known; but it is dramatically perfect.

Still another aspect of Deloney's vividness derives from his use of the contemporary jestbook, the best model of the period for racy, vigorous, and often scatological concreteness. That he was the "T.D." who translated Des Périers' Les contes in 1583 is a real possibility, as we shall see below. But whether he was the translator or not, it is clear that he was well acquainted with "detached jests" as well as "jest-biographies," to use the generally accepted terminology of Ernst Schulz.2

The collection of detached jests and the jest-biography are basically much alike. In the latter the tales or anecdotes relate to one person, but otherwise they are as unconnected structurally as they are in a collection of detached jests, in which the subject and characters differ from one tale to the next. The Merie Tales of Skelton (1567), for example, is almost as loose in form as A C. mery Talys (1525). An exception is the anonymous Dobsons Drie Bobbes (1607), a jest-biography in which the hero's character develops convincingly from boyhood to manhood as he moves about in Durham and Cambridge. As F. P. Wilson has contended, Dobsons Drie Bobbes leads very naturally to Defoe's long biographical novels.3

In structure, Deloney's first three novels are similar to jest-biographies. Occasionally he inserts completely irrelevant episodes; and at these points his narrative breaks down, reminding one of jestbooks like The Merie Tales of Skelton. But usually he keeps the action under control, the way it is in Dobsons Drie Bobbes, which, incidentally, is one of the truly significant Renaissance novels. It is inferior to Jack of Newbury and Thomas of Reading in dialogue and scene management, but is superior to them in its grasp of the total plot situation. One is tempted to say that a combination of the two techniques might have produced a novel like Tom Jones long before 1749.

Of Deloney's novels, Jack of Newbury is most like a jest-biography; Thomas of Reading, with its cleverly woven plot and subplot, smacks more of the play than the jestbook. But both novels show a double relationship. The story of Will Sommers in Chapter IV of Jack of Newbury, for example, can be traced both to the jestbooks of the Skelton type and to the drama. The incident—Jack's "maiden weauers" play a practical joke on Will Sommers for disturbing their spinning wheels—is irrelevant to the plot as a whole in the manner of the careless jest-biography, where laughter is all; and yet the dialogue is far superior to that of the jestbooks: it rivals the dialogue in the better comedies of the London stage.

There are a few other such irrelevant incidents in Deloney's novels; but the only incident that seems to be patterned after a particular, extant jest completely transcends its original in every way and fits snugly into the biographical structure of Jack of Newbury. Chapter I is, in part of its bare outline, taken from a jest in A C. mery Talys called "The Burning of John."4 In both stories (1) there is a middle-aged and unnamed woman whose husband has died recently, leaving her well-to-do; (2) the widow falls in love with her young apprentice, whose name is John; (3) the widow's maid has a minor role in furthering the love affair between the widow and John; (4) eventually the two lovers spend a night together in the widow's bedroom; and (5) the next morning they have a sumptuous breakfast together. These are rather specific details, and it would seem to be no accident that all five of them appear in the jest and also in Jack of Newbury. Yet Deloney radically transforms the very tone and meaning of the jest. While expanding and developing the plot, he bases the illicit love scene on the character of the widow. She remains throughout a "flat" character in the purely descriptive sense that implies no derogation. We do not know her well, but we know her as well as we need to; and she makes a strong impact upon us. We look over her shoulder, as it were, as she sees Jack kiss a girl at the fair; and we understand her feeling of jealousy. We know that somehow she will get rid of her three fervent suitors—the tailor, the parson, and the tanner. For like Mistress Eyre, she has commendable initiative and manages to get what she wants. Jack, on the other hand, is a passive young apprentice. He is as virtuous and industrious as Ben Franklin, but he is also self-righteous and not nearly so innocent as he pretends. In short, the reader feels that Jack's eventual marriage to the widow is more lucky than unlucky.

Yet there is just enough doubt. The relationship between the widow and Jack is not obvious, as it is in "The Burning of John." Nor is it merely laughable. Deloney has converted the raw jest into an exciting episode that moves along smoothly while it gives us a convincing insight into the widow's character.

2. Characterization

Deloney's handling of historical material is one of the most interesting aspects of his method. Writing more than two hundred years before Sir Walter Scott, he makes his characters function as we have become accustomed to see them function in the historical novel: the truly historical characters (Henry VIII, for example) are figureheads, and the admittedly fictional characters (such as Old Bosom) are depicted with complete freedom.5

Deloney's kings actually do so little that, like the Duke of Argyle in Heart of Midlothian, they need not stray very far from the history books. But Deloney is not interested primarily in historical accuracy. Henry VIII needs only to be convincing as royalty and have the dignity appropriate to his high station. In most episodes he is the passive observer; over his shoulder we, too, may look at the action, but he himself acts only when Deloney is in need of an arbiter or a deus ex machina. In Thomas of Reading the main outlines of Henry I's conflict with his brother, Duke Robert, are historical—as any Elizabethan familiar with the chronicles of Richard Grafton and Raphael Holinshed would know. But Henry is larger than real life. Deloney goes beyond history to idealize him and speak through him with authority. There is one exception: in the conflict between Henry and his brother, Duke Robert, Deloney's sympathies are with Duke Robert. But in his relations with the clothiers Henry is the ideal governor; and his function is to establish standards and to pass judgments that are true and final. When the King recognizes that a clothing industry is important to the well-being of the commonwealth, then the clothing industry gains stature. The King's judgment is a standard of reference. When Henry VIII chooses to visit John Winchcomb in Newbury, everyone recognizes that John henceforth is to be considered a success. Neither his thriving business nor his election to Parliament had carried the same weight.

For the figurehead, vague and general detail is better than realistic detail, which Deloney saves for some of his other characters. In general, he avoids realistic detail whenever he feels that a character would be compromised by it. That is why the tradesmen heroes are almost as idealized as the kings. They reward virtue and punish vice, but they themselves are allowed only a passive role in the action of the story. Young Jack of Newbury is wooed by a designing widow; Simon Eyre achieves great wealth through a rather shady plan engineered by Mistress Eyre. In each case the hero reaches a desired goal without having to turn a hand. Presumably if he had turned a hand, he would have soiled it.

If Deloney's talent for characterization extended only to his handling of kings and tradesmen, his talent would be negligible, even though the kings and tradesmen fulfill very well indeed their creator's purpose. The trouble with them is that they are mainly presiders; and it is necessary that they preside over something vital and interesting, since they themselves are rather colorless.

Color and vitality in great measure come naturally to Deloney's heroines—Mistress Eyre, the first Mistress Winchcomb, Long Meg of Westminster, Gillian of the George, and Mistress Farmer—and to the minor characters, both male and female—Randoll Pert, Tom Drum, Round Robin, Old Bosom, Tom Dove, and Mistress Frank. In creating this gallery of portraits, Deloney leaves the other Elizabethan novelists far behind and rivals the very best Elizabethan comedy.

According to the title pages, Deloney's novels are "pleasant histories" of "famous and worthy" men. But as the plots unfold, women are in the thick of the action while the famous and worthy men look on. Nominally it is a man's world; but the wife often is responsible for her husband's success, as Deloney illustrates when he has the clever Mistress Eyre arrange the purchase of a cargo that makes Simon rich. In the story of Crispine and Crispianus, women initiate all the action. The widowed mother of Crispine and Crispianus disguises her sons to keep them from the wicked Emperor; the Emperor's daughter, Ursula, proposes to Crispine; and the boys' mistress at the shoe shop, where they are apprenticed, is the one who thinks of a plan to get Ursula from the palace to the shoe shop.

All these women come alive the instant Deloney touches them. He appears merely to observe and record, passing but few judgments, though giving the impression generally that he would not have women any different from the way they are. "Women are not Angels," Long Meg contends, "though they haue Angels faces." They are made essentially of fine stuff, or at least they appear to be; yet they have definite weaknesses that are peculiar to their sex. But Deloney accepts their whole nature, considering each trait sympathetically and understandingly.

He thinks that some women are angels. Winifred is unswerving in her devotion to Christianity, finally dying a martyr. Another paragon of virtue is Margaret, the daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury. Her love for the imprisoned Duke Robert is so great that she decides never to marry and enters the abbey at Gloucester. Fortunately, Winifred and Margaret are Deloney's only two ventures into the realm of angelic women. Very likely he was never in a position to know, even remotely, any women of so high a rank. Their portraits show a consequent idealization and stylization. We hear them speak occasionally, but only in the most high-flown euphuistic dialogue and monologue. They are two characters apart from the everyday world, with no particular relevance to human affairs. Deloney found Winifred in a saint's legend and never completely takes her out of it.

For a knowledge of middle-class women, however, he does not turn to literary sources. He knows them firsthand and records all their little foibles. He recognizes the foibles by their deviation from a "norm" of ideal conduct; and the "norm" appears to stem from Proverbs XXXI, verses 10 to 31. That Deloney was well acquainted with these verses is evident from his ballad, "Salomons good houswife in the 31 of his Proverbes," in the 1607 edition of Strange Histories. The ballad is a close paraphrase of Proverbs XXXI, several verses of which are as follows:

10 Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.

11 The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.

12 She will do him good, and not evil, all the days of her life….

16 She considereth a field, and buyeth it; with the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard.

17 She girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms….

23 Her husband is known in the gates, when he sitteth among the elders of the land….

31 Give her of the fruit of her hands: and let her own works praise her in the gates.

Proverbs XXXI is perhaps behind Deloney's idealistic, often sentimental, attitude toward women and his conception of woman's part in family life. Doctor Burket, after losing out in his suit for the hand of Mistress Farmer, remarks philosophically that it is much better to have a virtuous woman than one who has "much gold in her coffers." The Green King, though perhaps less deserving, is lucky: "God blest him with the gift of a good wife." And for Deloney a good wife, as in Proverbs XXXI, is never idle. She runs the household, which is her province. Her main function, day in and day out, is the performance or superintendence of chores; but she is also wise, and offers, when the occasion arises, a bit of advice to her husband that he does well to take. At other times she is rather silent, not "brabling" like some women. She rarely strays beyond her own home. "Gadding abroad" and "carelesse spending" are furthest from her mind, because they are the two cardinal sins in an industrious middle-class wife. Jack and his first wife make no headway at all until she finally decides to stay home and manage the household the way a good wife should.

Deloney's ability to individualize a host of minor characters is just as impressive as his delineation of the heroines. His success with both groups suggests that his eye is mainly on action. If the minor characters are less subtle than the heroines, they strike with greater impact. As E. M. Forster has observed, Dickens' flat characters each may be summed up in one sentence, like "I shall never desert Mr. Micawber"; but at the same time they somehow suggest human depth.6 The method is to single out a trait and exaggerate it. But the secret is to choose the right trait, the one that will represent the whole man and therefore give the impression that his essence is laid open to the reader. Of course, in reality no man has an essence; the flat character is an oversimplification. But he is nevertheless most satisfying, and the talent for creating him is rare indeed. As Forster observes, Russian novels could use many more flat characters, those "little luminous disks of a prearranged size" that "never run away, have not to be watched for development, and provide their own atmosphere."

John Winchcomb's father-in-law is one of Deloney's most memorable flat characters. His "tag" is his manner of speech, a combination of dialect and malapropism. We recognize him instantly each time he appears. Similarly, we recognize Simon of Southampton by his love of pottage, Tom Dove by his calling for music, Tom Drum by his "sin of cogging," and Round Robin by his ceaseless rhyming.

Randoll Pert—incidentally, Deloney's genius is about equal to Dickens' in naming characters—is a little more complicated than most of the flat characters. Recently out of debtors' prison, Pert, formerly a successful draper, becomes a porter because he can find no other means of supporting his family. When Jack of Newbury arrives in London, he happens to stay at the Spread Eagle and hire Pert to carry his trunk. But when Pert recognizes Jack as a man whom he owes £500, he drops the trunk and runs away. Jack fails to recognize Pert, but he sends a servant in close pursuit to find out why such an unusual looking man is running away. Pert indeed looks odd enough; he is wearing

an old ragged doublet, and a tome payre of breeches, with his hose out at the heeles, and a paire of olde broken slip shooes on his feet, a rope about his middle instead of a girdle, and on his head an old greasie cap, which had so many holes in it, that his haire started through it.

Such an exaggerated description contains possibilities for pathetic as well as comic interpretation. Deloney chooses to develop both. The chase begins pathetically. As soon as Pert sees the servant running after him, he runs faster and faster, "euer looking behinde him, like a man pursued with a deadly weapon, fearing euery twinkling of an eye to bee thrust thorow." But comic things begin to happen to him. First he loses his shoes, and then the whole race suddenly ends as his trousers fall down and shackle his churning legs. Sprawling headlong in the street, he is overtaken by the servant and both of them stand "blowing and puffing a great while ere they could speake one to another."

The whole episode, including the sentimental part where Jack agrees not to collect the £500 until Pert is sheriff of London, is excellent comedy; and we laugh all the more because it is sharpened by pathos. All the characters, but especially the porter and the scrivener, come alive. As E. A. Baker has said: "When we turn to character-drawing, neither Lyly nor Sidney, not even Nashe … has a leg to stand on in comparison to Deloney."7 Baker is right. On his own ground Deloney compares favorably with the best English novelists of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Who besides Dickens is his superior in drawing flat characters? …

Notes

1The History of the English Novel (London, 1924–39), II, 175.

2Die englischen Schwankbücher bis herab zu Dobson's Drie Bobs (Berlin, 1912), p. 2.

3 F. P. Wilson, "The English Jestbooks of the Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries," Huntington Library Quarterly, II (1939), 143.

4 See W. Carew Hazlitt, ed., Shakespeare Jest-Books (London, 1846), I, 119–121.

5 In 1812 the firm of J. Ballantyne, in Edinburgh, published Thomas of Reading. Was Scott responsible for selecting the novel? Perhaps he even chose the 1632 edition as copy text and performed the other necessary editorial tasks (learning a thing or two from Deloney in the process).

6Aspects of the Novel (New York, 1927), pp. 104–109.

7History of the English Novel, II, 191.

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