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With the Coverley essays in the Spectator, the novel in one of its forms that in which an invisible and all knowing narrator tells a story in which some one else whose character he lays bare for us is the hero is as good as achieved. Another manner of fiction the autobiographical had already been invented.
However, either her opinions were being corrupted or enlightened, either she was growing lax in principle or she was learning the lesson of toleration, for she allowed the remarks of Lady Arthur to pass unnoticed, so that that lady did not need to advance the well-known opinion and practice of Sir Roger de Coverley to prop her own. Miss Adamson merely said, "Do you not underrate Mr.
My friend Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY, when we last met together at the club, told me that he had a great mind to see the new tragedy with me, assuring me at the same time, that he had not been at a play these twenty years.
The children had now apparently finished supper, for there were sounds above as of dancing, and "Sir Roger de Coverley," with its rollicking, never-wearying repetition, was distinctly audible above the din and laughter. Once before, a week ago that very day, had that heartless piano mocked him with its untimely gaiety.
He was fond of young people, particularly of young girls; he drew them about him, and was a veritable Sir Roger de Coverley in his gallantries toward them and his zeal in amusing them and making them happy. His tastes were frugal and their indulgence was sparing.
"With all my heart," answered she, with her usual readiness; "and, since the gentlemen are not allowed to risk their necks, suppose we decide the bet by their heads?" "By our heads?" cried Mr. Coverley. "Egad, I don't understand you." "I will then explain myself more fully.
Coverley went himself to help her, and insisted that the other should stop. A debate ensued, but the poor creature was too much hurt to move, and declared her utter inability to make another attempt. Mr. Coverley was quite brutal; he swore at her with unmanly rage, and seemed scarce able to refrain even from striking her."
In an ivy-covered house in the stable-yard I saw a very large number of foxes' noses nailed to boards of wood as Sir Roger de Coverley used to nail them. They appeared to have been slain by one Dick Turpin, huntsman to the Vale of White Horse hounds, some thirty or forty years ago, when a quondam master of those hounds lived in this old place.
All who know Worcestershire, says the Spectator, "are very well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger." His fame has spread from Worcestershire throughout the English-speaking world, where he has been loved and admired for more than a hundred and fifty years. Sir Roger de Coverley is not to be described by any pen but that of Addison.
However, I must needs say this accomplished Mistress of mine has distinguished me above the rest, and has been known to declare Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY was the Tamest and most Human of all the Brutes in the Country.
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