The Vicar of Wakefield: A Tale by Oliver Goldsmith
The nice thing about novels written mid-eighteenth century is that they are so different, to each other as well as to what we have come to expect from the realistic novels of the nineteenth. The sentimental story requires virtue assailed by calamity, but Goldsmith avoids the lachrymose by the sustained cheerful resilience of the Vicar, without him ever becoming annoying. Calamity succeeds disaster, and towards the end there’s little left that hasn’t yet occurred, but the calm light tone prevents too much distress in the reader. Add on a few essay-like digressions on politics, the penal system, religion and philosophy and you have a rather appealing mix, written at a time when writers were still experimenting with what you could do in a novel, and maybe adding in the essays to try to counter its reputation as corrupter of the young and naive, trying to make it seem more serious. Certainly what you don’t get is any kind of psychological grounding for why the villain acts as he does, no explanation as to why the Primrose house should suddenly burst into flames, no thought as to whether the older daughter is pleased to be married to the man who abducted her. You have to wait for Jane Austen for that.
