Henry Mackenzie was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, July 28, 1745. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh, studied law, and became attorney for the crown. In 1804 he was appointed comptroller of taxes for Scotland. In 1771 he published anonymously a novel entitled “The Man of Feeling,” which at once became very popular. A young clergyman named Eccles, of Bath, laid claim to it, and to establish his claim transcribed with his own hand the entire book, making numerous corrections and interlineations. The question of authorship was settled by the formal declaration of the publishers. Mackenzie published “The Man of the World” in 1783; [1773] and afterward “Julia de Roubigné,” a tale in a series of letters. In 1779–80 he edited “The Mirror,” a semi-weekly modelled after Addison’s “Spectator,” to which he contributed forty-two papers. Among these was the “Story of La Roche,” which appeared in the “Mirror” for June 19, 22, and 26, 1779. In 1785–86 he edited a similar periodical called “The Lounger,” to which he contributed fifty-seven papers. Among these was an appreciative criticism on the poetry of Burns, which gave him the reputation of having first called attention to its merits. He wrote “The White Hypocrite,” a comedy, which was performed at Covent Garden, London; and two tragedies, “The Spanish Father,” and “The Prince of Tunis.” The latter was brought out with great success in Edinburgh. Mackenzie’s other works include biographies of Home and Dr. Blacklock, essays on dramatic poetry, and numerous Tory tracts. He married in 1776, and had a large family. He died in Edinburgh, January 14, 1831.
Personal
A rare thing this literature, or love of fame or notoriety which accompanies it. Here is Mr. Henry Mackenzie on the very brink of human dissolution, as actively anxious about it as if the curtain must not soon be closed on that and everything else. He calls me his literary confessor; and I am sure I am glad to return the kindnesses which he showed me long since in George Square. No man is less known from his writings. You would suppose a retired, modest, somewhat affected man, with a white handkerchief, and a sign ready for every sentiment. No such thing: H. M. is alert as a contracting tailor’s needle in every sort of business—a politician and a sportsman—shoots and fishes in a sort even to this day—and is the life of company with anecdotes and fun. Sometimes his daughter tells me he is in low spirits at home, but really I never see anything of it in society.
Henry Mackenzie’s excellent conversation, agreeable family, good evening parties, and the interest attached to united age and reputation, made his house one of the pleasantest. One of the Arbitri Elegantiarum of Old Edinburgh, he survived to flourish in a new scene…. The title of “The Man of Feeling” adhered to him ever after the publication of that novel; and it was a good example of the difference there sometimes is between a man and his work. Strangers used to fancy that he must be a pensive sentimental Harley; whereas he was far better,—a hard-headed practical man, as full of worldly wisdom as most of his fictitious characters are devoid of it; and this without in the least impairing the affectionate softness of his heart.
I never saw a form and face so instinct with goodness, so attractive of affection. The tenderness poured forth in all his works seemed diffused around his person; and I defy any man that has a soul to admire the former more than he shall feel inclined at once to love the latter.
He lies under a plain mural tablet in the Greyfriars’ Churchyard, on the north side of the terrace. He is described thereon as “an author who for no short time and in no small part supported the literary reputation of his country;” and yet the custodian of the little city cemetery, an enthusiastic lover of the spot and of its associations, said, in a regretful way, to an American visitor not very long ago, that Mackenzie was entirely forgotten by the men of the present day, and that no one had asked to see his resting place in many years. Such graves as his should be pilgrim shrines.
The Man of Feeling, 1771
His “Man of Feeling” is the offspring of the Sentimental Journey and Werter schools; it is better regulated than the first, and less frantic than the second; the hero is possessed with a passion which he has too much modesty to utter, and dies of true love and decline when all wish him to live. The scene in the madhouse should be learned by heart.
The tender pleasure which “The Man of Feeling” excites is wholly without alloy. Its hero is the most beautiful personification of gentleness, patience, and meek sufferings which the heart can conceive.
The best writer of his school is supposed to be Mackenzie, the “Man of Feeling;” but the “Man of Feeling,” from which he took his title, has passed from amongst the living. It is almost as much duller than Sterne as it is more virtuous. The sickly tone of feeling is relieved by no humour, and but slightly relieved by rather feeble satire.
The novels of Henry Mackenzie have a charm of their own, which may be largely attributed to the fact that their author was a gentleman. Whoever has read, to any extent, the works of fiction of the eighteenth century, must have observed how perpetually he was kept in low company, how rarely he met with a character who had the instincts as well as the social position of a gentleman. A tone of refined sentiment and dignity pervades “The Man of Feeling,” which recalls the “Vicar of Wakefield,” and introduces the reader to better company and more elevated thoughts than the novels of the time usually afford. “The Man of Feeling” is hardly a narrative. Harley, the chief character, is a sensitive, retiring man, with feelings too fine for his surroundings. The author places him in various scenes, and traces the effect which each produces upon his character. The effect of the work is agreeable, though melancholy, and the early death of Harley contemplates the delineation of a man too gentle and too sensitive to battle with life.
It is so fragmentary and so sketchy that only by courtesy can it be called a novel.
Written in a style alternating between the whims of Sterne and a winning plaintiveness, enjoys the distinction of being the most sentimental of all English novels. One scene of it, in which the frail hero dies from the shock he receives when a Scotch maiden of pensive face and mild hazel eyes acknowledges that she can return his love for her, deserves to be remembered.
The “Man of Feeling” is nothing but a study in emotion and simply describes a few scenes in the life of a hero whose facile tears are constantly evoked by accidents obviously devised for that purpose. His visit to London in search of a government appointment, his brief stay there, his disappointment and death, compose all the story; there is no character-drawing, no humour, no plot; everything that we are accustomed to look for in a work of fiction is devoured and swallowed up by this leviathan of sentimentality.
The Man of the World, 1773
The attempt to attain intricacy of plot disturbs the emotion which in the other works of the author is so harmoniously excited. A tale of sentiment should be most simple. Its whole effect depends on its keeping the tenor of its predominant feeling unbroken. Another defect in this story is, the length of time over which it spreads its narrative…. Still there are in this tale scenes of pathos delicious as any which, even the author himself, has drawn.
“The Man of the World” is a regularly-constructed novel, and is much more interesting than the desultory sketches of “The Man of Feeling,” although the chief incidents are robbery, seduction, and attempted incest.
The “Man of the World” which followed, and which is equally fine, but much more objectionable, has a mixture of Richardson in his worst peculiarities, the hairbreadth escapes of Pamela, over and over repeated—and not always escapes: with an absence both of wit and nature which takes all possible right of existing from such detestable complications.
Julia de Roubigné, 1777
I have a sneaking kindness for Mackenzie’s “Julia de Roubigné”—for the deserted mansion, and straggling gilliflowers on the mouldering garden-wall; and still more for his “Man of Feeling;” not that it is better, nor so good; but at the time I read it, I sometimes thought of the heroine, Miss Walton, and of Miss —— together, and “that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken!”
The accumulation of woes in “Julia de Roubigné” makes it too melancholy to read; it is more like a revelation made in confession than a fine work of fancy and feeling; it is not a difficult thing to heap woe on woe.
The real skill and subtlety he shows in painting small delicacies of feeling and etiquette are ill suited with a tragic catastrophe involving strong passions. And the device of telling the story by means of letters, with its apparatus of confidants and witnesses, lays a heavy burden of improbability upon a feeble tragedy.
General
To whom we owe (in my opinion) the most exquisite pathetic fictions in our language.
Few modern writers have been more fortunate than Mr. Mackenzie, in their appeals to the heart; and his fictions in the Mirror hold a conspicuous rank among the best efforts in pathetic composition.
The universal and permanent popularity of his writings entitles us to rank him amongst the most distinguished of his class. His works possess the rare and invaluable property of originality, to which all other qualities are as dust in the balance; and the sources to which he resorts to excite our interest, are rendered accessible by a path peculiarly his own…. The Northern Addison…. Variety of character he has introduced sparingly, and has seldom recourse to any peculiarity of incident, availing himself generally of those which may be considered as common property to all writers of romance. His sense of the beauties of nature, and power of describing them, are carefully kept down, to use the expression of the artist; and like the single straggling bough, which shades the face of his sleeping veteran, just introduced to relieve his principal object, but not to eclipse it.
I consider old M. to be the greatest nuisance that ever infested any Magazine. His review of Galt’s “Annals” was poor and worthless: that of “Adam Blair” still worse: and this of “Lights and Shadows” the most despicable and foolish of all. His remarks on “Adam Blair” did the book no good, but much harm with dull stupid people, and this wretched article cannot fail to do the same to a greater degree. I cannot express my disgust with it.
Henry Mackenzie, Sir, is one of the most original in thought, and splendid in fancy, and chaste in expression, that can be found in the whole line of our worthies. He will live as long as our tongue, or longer.
The quiet and unpresuming beauties of these works depend not on the fashion of the world. They cannot be out of date till the dreams of young imagination shall vanish, and the deepest sympathies of love and hope be stilled forever. While other works are extolled, admired, and reviewed, these will be loved and wept over.
“The Man of Feeling,” published anonymously in 1771, “The Man of the World,” 1773, and “Julia de Roubigné,” 1777, novels after the manner of Sterne, which are still universally read, and which have much of the grace and delicacy of style as well as of the pathos of that great master, although without any of his rich and peculiar humor.
Although wedded to the following of Sterne, Mackenzie affected the moral earnestness of Richardson also, and the characters in his three principal fictions, move, meekly robed in gentle virtue, through a succession of heartrending misfortunes. There is no observation of life, no knowledge of the world, in Mackenzie’s long-drawn lachrymose novels of feeling. The personal affection of Sir Walter Scott for this amiable man has done much to preserve Mackenzie’s memory.
“The Man of Feeling” had nothing of Sterne’s subtle humour, which plays round his pathos like a lambent flame; he “resolved,” like Steele, “to be sorrowful;” but he nurses his grief so carefully, and toys with it so long, that true pathos is at last insulted by the mummery. Crambe repetita is not an appetizing dish, and Simon Softly, and Tom Sanguine, and Mary Muslin, and Mary Plain are names that strike cruelly on the jaded ear. His characters are, indeed, for the most part anachronisms, and are as “cruel, dull and dry” as the piping swains in a third-rate pastoral.
