The prayer was not granted. The mantle of Yorick did not fall upon Eugenius, who had neither the power of humour or pathos, but only the indelicacy a hundredfold increased, of the great man. Indeed, the writings of Hall-Stevenson rendered poor service to his friends, for it was their publication that brought about the forcible condemnation of the Demoniacs: the flagrant indecency of “Crazy Tales” being accepted as a clue to the thoughts and actions of the members of the society. Yet of that little production, which appeared in 1762, the author thought very highly.
“As long as Crazy Castle lasts,
Their Tales will never be forgot,
And Crazy may stand many blasts,
And better Castles go to pot.”
Thus Hall-Stevenson in his Prologue, doubtless reflecting that since Skelton Castle had endured through seven centuries, it might well brave the breeze for many generations to come. His prophecy was not falsified, for “Crazy Tales” were not forgot until the Castle went to pot—which event, however, took place three years after his death, when his grandson substituted for the unique and picturesque structure a house in which it was possible to live in comfort. Nay, the “Tales” outlived the Castle, being reprinted in 1796, and again four and twenty years later, when they were assigned on the title-page to Sheridan. A glance at the catalogue of the British Museum Library shows that some singularly ill-advised person thought fit in 1896 to reissue the book for private circulation.
That Sterne should find a word of praise for “Crazy Tales” was but natural:
“I honour the man who has given the world an idea of our parental seat—’tis well done—I look at it ten times a day with a quando te aspiciam” (he wrote to his friend from Toulouse soon after the publication of the volume; adding), “I felicitate you upon what messr. the Reviewers allow you—they have too much judgment themselves not to allow you what you are actually possessed of, ‘talents, wit, and humour.’—Well, write on, my dear cousin, and be guided by thy fancy.”
It is more surprising to find Horace Walpole enlisting himself among Hall-Stevenson’s admirers. “They entertained me extremely,” he wrote to a friend, returning some verses, “as Mr Hall’s works always do. He has a vast deal of original humour and wit, and nobody admires him more than I do.... If all authors had as much parts and good sense as he has, I should not be so sick of them as I am.” The critics as a body were not so kind, and incurred the resentment of the author, who lashed them in “Two Lyric Epistles,” which Gray, writing to the Rev. James Brown,thought “seemed to be absolute madness.” The works, which were collected in 1795, were declared by Sir Walter Scott to be witty; but even that tribute has since been denied them. Bagehot dismissed them as having “licence without humour, and vice without amusement,” and Whitwell Elwin, in his masterly essay on Sterne, stigmatised the “Crazy Tales” as infamous.