line, till at length, when friends are almost In stories of naval life Captain Marryat bears the bell, and was greatly in advance of writers of the Smollett school. His tales are still widely read, and have a special value, beyond their rough face tiousness, as accurately depicting a state of affairs on board the old wooden menof-war, of which the present race of sailors knows little or nothing. in his brilliant pages, not only to the pure and generous, but to the elevated and noble sentiments. He is imbued with the very soul of chivalry, and all his sto. ries turn on the final triumph of those who are influenced by such feelings. Not a word or a thought which can give pain to the purest heart ever escapes from his pen." His private life rose fully to the high standard of his works, and proved him to be in every respect a Christian gentleman. The name of the novelists at this era was "legion," and we cannot pretend to chronicle even the topmost of them; but we must spare a line for Charles Lever, who, if in his early works he gave the rein to his high spirits, racy wit, and frolicking fancy, in his later ones has not been surpassed for the mingled sadness and humor of his delineations of the life of the sister country. Mixed up with his most romantic tales there are invaluable sketches of Irish history and character, drawn with unrivalled power, and based on deep and accurate knowledge of the people and their past. In his later stories diplomatic life, of which he knew the inner workings, plays a prominent part, and from them much is to be learnt of a career and of a class of people quite unfamiliar to the stay-at-home plebeian. A more prolific writer was G. P. R. James, whose name held a high place for The great name which Benjamin Disat least half a century, but whose works raeli-afterward Earl of Beaconsfield — are now not much sought after by the made as a statesman, naturally throws great body of readers. This gentleman into shadow his work as a littérateur; might have been thought to manufacture and yet at the same time it adds interest novels by machinery. Give him a famous and draws attention to that very work. name, a special era, or a striking incident, The splendor of the position which he and he would clothe it with the historic achieved as the successful leader of a properties of costume and custom, weap- powerful party, and then as the prime ons and retinues, and all the parapher-minister of a nation, is apt to dazzle the nalia of the period; reeling off to his critical eye in weighing his merits as hard-worked amanuensis an almost end- a novelist. Of course we are reminded less thread of glittering romance. Had that "the child is father to the man; 19 he but written less, or, to speak more and taking up that axiom, and applying it accurately, had he himself written out his to his youthful works - beginning with stories, they would have been fewer in "Vivian Grey," which saw the light just number, but much more forceful in char- fifty-seven years ago—we become liable acter and lasting in popularity. His ten- and likely to torture sentiments and misdency to heap up minute circumstances construe speeches and twist situations, in in description, to overdo the upholstery order to show that the principles of the business proper to such works, to paint policy of his after life are embedded in too gaudily the field of the cloth of gold, these ancient strata. But this is a somehad the effect of burying his better quali- what misleading method; for in no case ties his high principle, good sense, his- does the mind expand more rapidly than toric insight, and encyclopaedic knowledge in that of a rising statesman; in none are -under a wealth of garniture like that the narrow principles of policy, which in to which good Queen Bess was prone. the heat and inexperience of youth seemed Yet no mean praise fell justly to his share fixed and unalterable as the laws of the by the award of Alison the historian, Medes and Persians, so completely lost who says: "There is a constant appeal sight of or reversed; and whether it be a a Peel or a Gladstone or a Beaconsfield, that of Mr. Trollope, who has but rethe cramping trammels of childhood are cently disappeared from our midst, and speedily thrown off and forgotten, when in whom, we believe, his less fortunate the manhood of responsible power is at- brethren lost a most generous friend. To tained. Still, no doubt some of the grand our mind he was at the best when he realizations of Disraeli's later years may drew that exquisite picture of Lillie Dale be found in embryo in "Vivian Grey "in "The Small House at Allington and its successors; and while his tales from "Coningsby" to "Endymion " have a special interest as portraying from the life the world of politicians and schemers of the last forty years, his earlier ones will long excite sufficient curiosity to save them from oblivion. As a writer Lord Beaconsfield had a lively, biting, satirical style; and a dull paragraph is as rare in his novels as in his speeches, while the former commend themselves to the thoughtful reader as the outcome of a thoroughly original mind, the experience of a man who has seen much of the world at large. feminine portrait to which neither Dickens nor Thackeray has produced anything at all equal in tenderness and sweetness and grace. In his later tales, though there is apparent much knowledge of man and woman kind, with excellent literary manipulation, the characters delineated are not of a description to deserve the labor bestowed or the study demanded; and, attached as the diligent reader may be to a writer who has won his esteem and admiration, he cannot but feel that it is not worth while to waste time and spirits in the perusal of works so depressing in their tendency. To the very highest rank of tale-writers belongs also Charles Reade, whose "Never Too Late to Mend" and "Put Yourself in his Place" not only are amongst the liveliest and most fascinating of fictions, but inculcate the grand principles of kindness to the fallen, pity for the prisoner, and doing to others as we would be done unto. In the same category comes also the much-loved name of Charles Kingsley, who, in the stirring times of French Revolution and English Chartism, threw his warm, philanthropic genius into "Alton Locke " and "Yeast," and won his spurs on a wide field of glory, as poet, naturalist, novelist, and writer for children. A wise and loving soul. Nor must we dissever from him his brother Henry, a writer well deserving of the success which he achieved; but, like his greater brother, taken from us all too soon. Where must we class George Borrow that delightful narrator of Spanish adventure and depicter of English roadside life? Novelist or historian, which is he? His "Bible in Spain," which was published forty-one years ago, is one of the most charming of books, full of romantic story and picturesque description, with nice shades of mystery here and there, but no clouds of gloom. It well deserves reissue, with a series of characteristic illustrations, when it would come as a new sensation to a generation almost unused to such really original work. The puzzle is that one is scarcely certain whether this book with a serious title is not, in part, a romance; and whether, on the other hand, his three-volume tale, "Lavengro; the Scholar the Gypsy- the Priest," which followed in 1851, is not a fragment of actual autobiography. At all events, it will well repay perusal. In all his works Borrow asserts a healthy indi- From the pen of Wilkie Collins the latviduality, and we cannot wonder that gypter part of these fifty years has been ensies, both Spanish and English, were fas- livened with stories of the most ingenious cinated by such a rare athlete and linguist construction, their strong point being the and explorer of highways and bye ways. skill with which the plot is concealed, while being worked out with wonderful naturalness and smoothness. The mys tery of "The Woman in White," and of other tales from the same source, has held many a reader to his seat till the book was finished. Of quite a different school are George Macdonald's stories. Far from being doctrinaire or sectarian, they yet inculcate the highest lessons, and add to that chosen company of bosom friends whom we gain from the society of the best novels, and who live in our hearts and give us counsel and sympathy. It was in 1855 that Anthony Trollope issued his first tale, "The Warden brief and quiet, but giving promise of the remarkable family of which it was the father, and whose production extended over five-and-twenty years of unflagging, painstaking work. How the hand that limned the old warden with such a firm yet delicate touch grew in power and skill and well-deserved popularity year by year, we must not stay to tell. In all the vast workshop of authorship there is no more conscientiously thorough work than Of other living novelists we can only | ingly without notice, returned her the glass, record a few of the names. Amongst the saying, "Thank ye, mee lady," instead of the veterans, Grant, Sala, Yates all famous sputtering she expected. In much astonishas journalists as well. Among younger ment she said, "What, Pat, do you like salt men, Besant, Black, Blackmore, Fenn, water?" This was his answer: "No, mee Hardy, McCarthy, Meredith, Payn, Clark lady, I don't like salt water, but if yer ladyRussell—a roll which gives the best as- drank it! ship had given me a glass of poison I'd have surance that there will be no falling off in our day in this very important department of literature. But we must not forget to make mention of some of the ladies who have excelled in this branch of labor. It was in this department of literature that Mrs. S. C. Hall first made a name. She began with "Sketches of Irish Character," and soon became known as one of Hannah More, whose stories, chiefly in the happiest and most kindly delineators the form of long and lively tracts, exer- of Hibernian peculiarities. These were cised a mighty influence for good on our followed by longer and more ambitious forefathers, died in 1833, at the ripe age works; but she is chiefly remembered by of eighty-eight. Story-telling surely agreed her hundreds of sketches and short stowith her active brain. In 1834 Miss ries, rather than by her nine novels, which Edgeworth, who had already won a niche are now rarely to be met with, but which in the Temple of Fame by her admirable Mr. Hall hopes to issue "as a series tales, took up her pen once again, at the revised, annotated, and prefaced by " himage of sixty-seven, and gave yet another self, with interesting additions. Blessed excellent work "Helen" to the gen- with a sunny nature, she had the exceleration whom she had done so much to in- lent habit of looking on the better side of struct and delight. Miss Mitford had by people and things; and when she had to this time completed her beautiful series of point out foibles and defects, she consketches of English rural life, "Our Vil- trived to do it in a way that should not lage"-a striking illustration of the pro- hurt the parties concerned, enlisting her verbial "Eyes and no eyes," inasmuch as readers on the side of amendment and a large portion of the loveliness of charac-advance. In a long literary career her ter and surroundings, which gives a charm to her pictures, emanated from her own "internal consciousness." On this point we cannot resist the temptation to quote a good anecdote from Mr. Hall: was a very Arcadia to "Sunny Berkshire Mary Russell Mitford: she fought for it against all comers. Now and then, she was forced into admission that it was not quite perfect; and very reluctantly confessed that its peasants were sometimes boors. She told me this story-how one day she was taken aback. A lady was walking with her through one of the lanes; they had a tussle of words: one asserting, the other denying, that the peasantry lacked natural courtesy and politeness; and both had warmed with the discussion. They had to pass through a gate: suddenly a boy who was leading a cow started forward and opened the gate for them. Miss Mitford was delighted: it was a death-blow to her antago nist. The lady was more than surprised: "Ah," said she to the lad, "you're not Berkshire, I'm sure!" This was the answer: "Thee'rt a liar, vor I be!" I contrasted this illustration of natural courtesy with an anecdote I have heard my father tell. He was in a boat with the daughters of Puxley, of Berehaven; the six rowers did their best; each was rewarded by a glass of whiskey; but a merry lass of the party, aiming to play a joke, observing that one of the boatmen was looking away, dipped the wineglass into the water and presented it to him. He drank it off, seem pen was a power for good in the cause of temperance and other social reforms, and in softening the asperities that seem inseparable from Irish politics and controversy; and her whole life was a chain of good works in the sister countries, and leaves behind it a memorable track. To the earlier part of the fifty years at which we are glancing belongs Mrs. Hofland, as the writer of nearly a hundred books, principally tales for the young. Some of our elder readers will perchance recall the eagerness with which, in their youthful days, they begged or borrowed or bought "The Son of a Genius; "" a tale for the copyright of which, for the term of twenty-eight years, Mr. Hall tells us that Harris, of St. Paul's Churchyard, gave the authoress ten pounds! realizing probably as many hundreds by the numerous editions issued in that period, and grudging an additional ten pounds for the renewal of the agreement. It is the old moral, from Virgil's time downwards: "Sic vos non vobis mellificatis, apes." Mrs. Hoffland exercised a mighty influence for good by her writings, which steadily inculcated, as an unknown critic has observed, "the vital importance of fixed principles of justice, honor, and integrity - of Christian virtues founded upon Christian faith — of all that is truly noble in man and lovely in woman." She was a sors in a bright host of authoresses. Miss Sheffield lady. Mr. Hall tells us that one Charlesworth, in her "Ministering Chilof her earliest friends was James Mont- dren" and "Ministry of Life" Miss gomery, and he evidently regrets that the Mulock (Mrs. Craik), in her "John Haligood poet did not marry the sweet author- fax" and other stories Miss Yonge, in ess in her first widowhood, and so fore-"The Heir of Redclyffe" and a long sestall her marriage with T. C. Hofland, the ries of domestic and historic tales - have landscape painter, who was an undoubted upheld the standard of female influence genius, but as crusty and crabbed as Car- for good. At the present day a long roll Tyle himself. of amiable women, with the best intenGrace Aguilar belongs also to this pe- tions and a fair average of talent, present riod; a young authoress who, dying at again and again the woes and trials of the early age of thirty-one, left a name their own sex, or detail the miseries of precious alike to her Jewish kindred and poor little street Arabs, till the batch of to the great circle of Christian readers this sort of fancy bread is a good deal who treasure her pure and pathetic works. overdone and palls upon the public palMrs. Hall's portrait of her is very inter-ate. esting: At our first introduction we were struck as Of a different class, and void of any obvious moral purpose, are the remarkmuch by the earnestness and eloquence of her able tales, of which Miss Brontë set the conversation as by her delicate and lovely fashion in "Jane Eyre"-powerful, no countenance. Her person and address were doubt, but full of an excitement that can exceedingly prepossessing, her eyes of the scarcely be held to be healthy for either deep blue that looks almost black in particular writer or reader. Much higher ground lights, and her hair dark and abundant. There was taken by "George Eliot "(Mary Ann was no attempt at display, no affectation of Evans) in "Adam Bede;" and her subselearning; no desire to obtrude "me and my quent tales, by their exquisite art, fine books" upon any one or in any way: in all things she was graceful and well-bred. You analysis of character, and rich mother-wit, felt at once that she was a carefully educated placed her at the very summit of the hill gentlewoman; and if there was more warmth of fame. Of her we need say the less, and cordiality of manner than a stranger genbecause an appreciative critique on her erally evinces on a first introduction, we re-writings appeared in this review so remembered her descent, and that the tone of her studies, as well as her passionate love of music, and high musical attainments, had increased her sensibility. When we came to know her better, we were charmed and surprised at her extensive reading, her knowledge of foreign literature, and actual learning, relieved by a refreshing pleasure in juvenile amusements. Each interview increased our friendship, and the quantity and quality of her acquirements commanded our admiration. She had made acquaintance with the beauties of English nature during her long residence in Devonshire, loved the country with her whole heart, and enriched her mind by the leisure it afforded. She had collected and arranged conchological and mineralogical specimens; loved flowers as only sensitive women can love them; and with all this was deeply read in theology and history. Whatever she knew, she knew thoroughly; rising at six in the morn ing, and giving to each hour its employment; cultivating and exercising her home affections, and keeping open heart for many friends. All these qualities were warmed by a fervid en thusiasm for whatever was high and holy. She spurned all envy and uncharitableness, and rendered loving homage to whatever was great and good. It was difficult to induce her to speak of herself and her own doings. These ladies, workers in the golden mines of fancy, have had worthy succes cently as October, 1881. Mrs. Gaskell, whose pen dropped from her hand quite unexpectedly and too soon, will long live in the affectionate remembrance of all who have read her "Wives and Daughters," the unfinished crown of a noble series of works. Amongst the living leaders of the great army of lady novelists may be mentioned such mistresses of the craft as Mrs. Oliphant, Miss Thackeray (Mrs. Richmond Ritchie), Mrs. Henry Wood, Miss Braddon, Mrs. Lynn Linton, Mrs. Riddell, who are followed by a regiment of fair aspirants to literary fame. The old mot about making a nation's ballads is now pretty well out of date so far as England is concerned. It ought, in fact, to be altered so as to apply to stories. Nowadays you might make up a whole bunch of ballads, string together long strips of songs, and employ the sturdiest sons of Stentor to sing them through London or Manchester streets, without producing even a faint impression on na tional opinion. But there is a public, of every rank and condition, which will have tales of some sort, and gets them in the shape either of penny 66 weeklies," sixpenny reprints, or some more expensive form. And it is not quite impossible to ing. insinuate unpalatable doctrines, without | in his "Retrospect," and at greater length giving offence, almost indeed without the in his "Memories," are deeply interestprocess being even suspected, in the engrossing pages of a well-told tale. To this fact many parties in the State are fully alive, and so we have High Church and Dissenting, Conservative and Liberal, teetotal and other sentiments buried deep in delectable fictions, just as the jalap of early tradition was wont to be concealed in the attractive jam. Reading a miscellaneous assortment of novels, if not to be recommended as an intellectual tonic, at least should operate as an opiate to a care worn mind by distracting its attention from its own worries. But many of the well meaning tales of the day have not even this recommendation. Lady authors are especially fond of depicting the disa greeables of business and family life in all their minutiæ. What good end can be answered by such books we are at a loss to divine-excepting, that is, the subjective benefit, that they yield a scant livelihood to the hard-working women who spin these melancholy webs. The wonderful eloquence of his conversation can be comprehended only by those who have heard him speak-"linked sweetness long drawn out; "it was sparkling at times, and at times profound; but the melody of his voice, the impressive solemnity of his manner, the radiant glories of his intellectual countenance, bore off, as it were, the thoughts of the listener from his discourse, who rarely carried away any of the gems that fell from the poet's lips. I have listened to him more than once for above an hour, of course without putting in a single word; I would as soon have attempted a song while a nightingale was singing. There was rarely much change of countenance; his face, when I knew him, was overladen with flesh, and its expression impaired; yet to me it was so tender, and gentle, and gracious, and loving, that I could have knelt at the old man's feet almost in adoration. My own hair is white now; yet I have much the same feeling erable man rises in memory before me. as I had then, whenever the form of the venYet I cannot recall-and I believe could not recall at the time, so as to preserve as a cherished thing in my remembrance-a single sentence of the many sentences I heard him utter. In his "Table Talk" there is a world of wisdom, but that is only a collection of scraps, chancegathered. If any left his presence unsatisfied, it resulted rather from the superabundance than the paucity of the feast. This swarm of stories, then, does it really influence public opinion, or is it simply the reflex of that opinion? Partly the one and partly the other. On the one hand, it is natural for those who are not in the habit of thinking for themselves and the number is not small-gradually At the time I speak of, he was growing corto adopt opinions quite foreign to their pulent and heavy; being seldom free from usual ones, if they find them reiterated in pain, he moved apparently with difficulty, yet a book or a series of books. On the liked to walk, with shuffling gait, up and down other hand, the novel-writer frequently and about the room as he talked, pausing now sets his sail to catch the passing breeze and then as if oppressed by suffering. I need of opinion which may waft him into pop-not say that I was a silent listener during the ularity and the safe harbor of publishers' esteem. So the reader is influenced by the writer's surface opinion, and the writer by what he supposes to be the reader's current of thought. But we will pass on to higher ground. Turning to the poets of fifty years ago, we find Coleridge, after giving the world a taste of his quality in his unfinished "Christabel," his "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," and his fragmentary "Khublakhan and "Odes," subsiding into complete dolce far niente at Highgate, where he poured out unending discourses, on things visible and invisible, to a patient circle of admirers. His poetry still holds a high place in the regard of true lovers of the Muses, and his misty philosophy influenced not a little the metaphysicotheological schools of the coming generation. Mr. Hall was often privileged to be one of his auditors, and his reminis cences of the "old man eloquent," given evenings to which I refer, when there were present some of those who "teach us from their urns;" but I was free to gaze on the of the most fervid, perhaps, of the worshippers venerable man, one of the humblest, and one by whom he was surrounded, and to treasure in memory the poet's gracious and loving looks -the "thick waving silver hair," the still, clear blue eye; and on such occasions I used to leave him as if I were in a waking dream, trying to recall, here and there, a sentence of the many weighty and mellifluous sentences I had heard-seldom with success- and feeling at the moment as if I had been surfeited with honey. If Mr. Hall could never recall a single sentence from Coleridge's lips, he has at all events succeeded in giving us a vivid picture of his oratory, which was wonderful in its flow, but left no rich deposit on the memories of his hearers words, "brave words," and nothing more. The laureate of the period was Robert Southey, whose name as a poet lives |