good Vicar; I love so much his poems. The world is accustomed to regard
that little novel, which Dr. Johnson bargained away for sixty guineas,
as a rural tale: it is so quiet; it is so simple; its atmosphere is
altogether so redolent of the country. And yet all, save some few
critical readers, will be surprised to learn that there is not a picture
of natural scenery in the book of any length; and wherever an allusion
of the kind appears, it does not bear the impress of a mind familiar
with the country, and practically at home there. The Doctor used to go
out upon the Edgeware road,--not for his love of trees, but to escape
noise and duns. Yet we overlook literalness, charmed as we are by the
development of his characters and by the sweet burden of his story. The
statement may seem extraordinary, but I could transcribe every rural,
out-of-door scene in the "Vicar of Wakefield" upon a single half-page of
foolscap. Of the first home of the Vicar we have only this account:--"We
had an elegant house, situated in a fine country and a good
neighborhood." Of his second home there is this more full
description:--"Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a
sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a
prattling river before: on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My
farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given a
hundred pounds for my predecessor's good-will. Nothing could exceed the
neatness of my little inclosures: the elms and hedge-rows appearing with
inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was
covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness." It is
quite certain that an author familiar with the country, and with a
memory stocked with a multitude of kindred scenes, would have given a
more determinate outline to this picture. But whether he would have
given to his definite outline the fascination that belongs to the
vagueness of Goldsmith, is wholly another question.