[Vol. II. London: Printed for J. Johnson and B. Davenport, at the Globe, in Pater Noster Row, MDCCLXVI.]
In the year 1756, there resided in the Barbican, where the great John Milton had lived before him, a funny elderly personage called Mr. Thomas Amory, of whom not nearly so much is recorded as the lovers of literary anecdote2 would like to possess. He was sixty-five years of age; he was an Irish gentleman of means, and he was an ardent3 Unitarian. Some unkind people have suggested that he was out of his mind, and he had, it is certain, many peculiarities4. One was, that he never left his house, or ventured into the streets, save "like a but, in the dusk of the evening." He was, in short, what is called a "crank," and he gloried in his eccentricity5. He desired that it might be written on his tombstone, "Here lies an Odd Man." For sixty years he had made no effort to attract popular attention, but in 1755 he had published a sort of romance, called Memoirs6 of Several Ladies of Great Britain, and now he succeeded it by the truly extraordinary work, the name of which stands at the head of this article. Ten years later there would appear another volume of John Buncle, and then Amory disappeared again. All we know is, that he died in 1788, at the very respectable age of ninety-seven. So little is known about him, so successfully did he hide "like a but" through the dusk of nearly a century, that we may be glad to eke7 out the scanty8 information given above by a passage of autobiography9 from the preface of the book before us:
"I was born in London, and carried an infant to Ireland, where I learned the Irish language, and became intimately acquainted with its original inhabitants. I was not only a lover of books from the time I could spell them to this hour, but read with an extraordinary pleasure, before I was twenty, the works of several of the Fathers, and all the old romances; which tinged10 my ideas with a certain piety11 and extravagance that rendered my virtues12 as well as my imperfections particularly mine…. The dull, the formal, and the visionary, the hard-honest man, and the poor-liver, are a people I have had no connection with; but have always kept company with the polite, the generous, the lively, the rational, and the brightest freethinkers of this age. Besides all this, I was in the days of my youth, one of the most active men in the world at every exercise; and to a degree of rashness, often venturesome, when there was no necessity for running any hazards; in diebus illis, I have descended13 headforemost, from a high cliff into the ocean, to swim, when I could, and ought, to have gone off a rock not a yard from the surface of the deep. I have swam near a mile and a half out in the sea to a ship that lay off, gone on board, got clothes from the mate of the vessel14, and proceeded with them to the next port; while my companion I left on the beach concluded me drowned, and related my sad fate in the town. I have taken a cool thrust over a bottle, without the least animosity on either side, but both of us depending on our skill in the small sword for preservation15 from mischief16. Such things as these I now call wrong."
If this is not a person of whom we would like to know more, I know not what the romance of biography is. Thomas Amory's life must have been a streak17 of crimson18 on the grey surface of the eighteenth century. It is really a misfortune that the red is almost all washed off.
No odder book than John Buncle was published in England throughout the long life of Amory. Romances there were, like Gulliver's Travels and Peter Wilkins, in which the incidents were much more incredible, but there was no supposition that these would be treated as real history. The curious feature of John Buncle is that the story is told with the strictest attention to realism and detail, and yet is embroidered19 all over with the impossible. There can be no doubt that Amory, who belonged to an older school, was affected20 by the form of the new novels which were the fashion in 1756. He wished to be as particular as Mr. Richardson, as manly21 as Captain Fielding, as breezy and vigorous as Dr. Smollett, the three new writers who were all the talk of the town. But there was a twist in his brain which made his pictures of real life appear like scenes looked at through flawed glass.
The memoirs of John Buncle take the form of an autobiography, and there has been much discussion as to how much is, and how much is not, the personal history of Amory. I confess I cannot see why we should not suppose all of it to be invented, although it certainly is odd to relate anecdotes22 and impressions of Dr. Swift, à propos of nothing at all, unless they formed part of the author's experience. For one thing, the hero is represented as being born about thirteen years later than Amory was—if, indeed, we possess the true date of our worthy's birth. Buncle goes to college and becomes an earnest Unitarian. The incidents of his life are all intellectual, until one "glorious first of August," when he sallies forth23 from college with his gun and dog, and after four hours' walk discovers that he has lost his way. He is in the midst of splendid mountain scenery—which leads us to wonder at which English University he was studying—and descends24 through woody ravines and cliffs that overhang torrents25, till he suddenly comes in sight of a "little harmonic building that had every charm and proportion architecture could give it." Finding one of the garden doors open, and being very hungry, the adventurous26 Buncle strolls in, and finds himself in "a grotto27 or shell-house, in which a politeness of fancy had produced and blended the greatest beauties of nature and decoration." (There are more grottoes in the pages of Amory than exist in the whole of the British Islands.) This shell-house opened into a library, and in the library a beauteous object was sitting and reading. She was studying a Hebrew Bible, and making philological28 notes on a small desk. She raised her eyes and approached the stranger, "to know who I wanted" (for Buncle's style, though picturesque29, is not always grammatically irreproachable30.)
Before he could answer, a venerable gentleman was at his side, to whom the young sportsman confessed that he was dying of hunger and had lost his way. Mr. Noel, a patriarchal widower31 of vast wealth, was inhabiting this mansion32 in the sole company of his only daughter, the lovely being just referred to. Mr. Buncle was immediately "stiffened33 by enchantment34" at the beauty of Miss Harriot Noel, and could not be induced to leave when he had eaten his breakfast. This difficulty was removed by the old gentleman asking him to stay to dinner, until the time of which meal Miss Noel should entertain him. At about 10 A.M. Mr. Buncle offers his hand to the astonished Miss Noel, who, with great propriety35, bids him recollect36 that he is an entire stranger to her. They then have a long conversation about the Chaldeans, and the "primaevity" of the Hebrew language, and the extraordinary longevity37 of the Antediluvians; at the close of which (circa 11.15 A.M.) Buncle proposes again. "You force me to smile (the illustrious Miss Noel replied), and oblige me to call you an odd compound of a man," and to distract his thoughts, she takes him round her famous grotto. The conversation, all repeated at length, turns on conchology and on the philosophy of Epictetus until it is time for dinner, when Mr. Noel and young Buncle drink a bottle of old Alicant, and discuss the gallery of Verres and the poetry of Catullus. Left alone at last, Buncle still does not go away, but at 5 P.M. proposes for the third time, "over a pot of tea." Miss Noel says that the conversation will have to take some other turn, or she must leave the room. They therefore immediately "consider the miracle at Babel," and the argument of Hutchinson on the Hebrew word Shephah, until, while Miss Noel is in the very act of explaining that "the Aramitish was the customary language of the line of Shem," young Buncle (circa 7.30) "could not help snatching this beauty to my arms, and without thinking what I did, impressed on her balmy mouth half a dozen kisses. This was wrong, and gave offence," but then papa returning, the trio sat down peacefully to cribbage and a little music. Of course Miss Noel is ultimately won, and this is a very fair specimen38 of the conduct of the book.
A fortnight before the marriage, however, "the small-pox steps in, and in seven days' time reduced the finest human frame in the universe to the most hideous39 and offensive block," and Miss Harriot Noel dies. If this dismal40 occurrence is rather abruptly41 introduced, it is because Buncle has to be betrothed42, in succession, to six other lively and delicious young females, all of them beautiful, all of them learned, and all of them earnestly convinced Unitarians. If they did not rapidly die off, how could they be seven? Buncle mourns the decease of each, and then hastily forms an equally violent attachment43 to another. It must be admitted that he is a sad wife-waster. Azora is one of the most delightful44 of these deciduous45 loves. She "had an amazing collection of the most rational philosophical46 ideas, and she delivered them in the most pleasing dress." She resided in a grotto within a romantic dale in Yorkshire, in a "little female republic" of one hundred souls, all of them "straight, clean, handsome girls." In this glen there is only one man, and he a fossil. Miss Melmoth, who would discuss the paulo-post futurum of a Greek verb with the utmost care and politeness, and had studied "the Minerva of Sanctius and Hickes' Northern Thesaurus," was another nice young lady, though rather free in her manner with gentlemen. But they all die, sacrificed to the insatiable fate of Buncle.
Here the reader may like to enjoy a sample of Buncle as a philosopher.
It is a characteristic passage:
"Such was the soliloquy I spoke48, as I gazed on the skeleton of John Orton; and just as I had ended, the boys brought in the wild turkey, which they had very ingeniously roasted, and with some of Mrs. Burcot's fine ale and bread, I had an excellent supper. The bones of the penitent49 Orton I removed to a hole I had ordered my lad to dig for them; the skull50 excepted, which I kept, and still keep on my table for a memento51 mori; and that I may never forget the good lesson which the percipient who once resided in it had given. It is often the subject of my meditation52. When I am alone of an evening, in my closet, which is often my case, I have the skull of John Orton before me, and as I smoke a philosophic47 pipe, with my eyes fastened on it, I learn more from the solemn object than I could from the most philosophical and laboured speculations53. What a wild and hot head once—how cold and still now; poor skull, I say: and what was the end of all thy daring, frolics and gambols—thy licentiousness54 and impiety—a severe and bitter repentance55. In piety and goodness John Orton found at last that happiness the world could not give him."
Hazlitt has said that "the soul of Rabelais passed into John Amory." His name was Thomas, not John, and there is very little that is Rabelaisian in his spirit. One sees what Hazlitt meant—the voluble and diffuse56 learning, the desultory57 thread of narration58, the mixture of religion and animalism. But the resemblance is very superficial, and the parallel too complimentary59 to Amory. It is difficult to think of the soul of Rabelais in connection with a pedantic60 and uxorious61 Unitarian. To lovers of odd books, John Buncle will always have a genuine attraction. Its learning would have dazzled Dr. Primrose62, and is put on in glittering spars and shells, like the ornaments63 of the many grottoes that it describes. It is diversified64 by descriptions of natural scenery, which are often exceedingly felicitous65 and original, and it is quickened by the human warmth and flush of the love passages, which, with all their quaintness66, are extremely human. It is essentially67 a "healthy" book, as Charles Lamb, with such a startling result, assured the Scotchman. Amory was a fervid68 admirer of womankind, and he favoured a rare type, the learned lady who bears her learning lightly and can discuss "the quadrations of curvilinear spaces" without ceasing to be "a bouncing, dear, delightful girl," and adroit69 in the preparation of toast and chocolate. The style of the book is very careless and irregular, but rises in its best pages to an admirable picturesqueness70.
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1
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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philological
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| adj.语言学的，文献学的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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longevity
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| n.长命；长寿 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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deciduous
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| adj.非永久的；短暂的；脱落的；落叶的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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licentiousness
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| n.放肆，无法无天 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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uxorious
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| adj.宠爱妻子的 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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picturesqueness
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