romance, somewhat affected, but chivalric and heroic, underwent a change. Heroes and heroines began to bear a resemblance to the human species, though still models of gallantry and perfection. But the days of glory for the romance were over; the state of society had changed; in the place of knights sprang up the effeminate courtier and the corrupt politician. Ladies were no longer models of perfection, but specimens of common humanity, and very frail specimens too. It was a dark and unfavorable time for fictitious writing-this transition from the romance to the novel; and, as is often the case at such seasons, things looked dark and discouraging.

The first appearance of the stately dame's younger sister was not prepossessing. She was weak and trivial, and, to the admirers of the elder sister, was shockingly wanting in dignity and grace. She was too human, too every-day; and there were those who hinted, that beside being uninstructive and unentertaining, she was, indeed, no better than she should be. No wonder that the dignified romance shrunk abashed from the familiarity and coarseness of the time of Charles the Second; and that her younger sister, with character still unformed, easily led astray, influenced by society round her, was, like that society, weak and trivial, and, it may be, immoral.

Very few of the novels of this time have been handed down to us. That it produced great writers none can deny; but its novelists are few, especially in England. But as society improved, the rude, hoidenish girl lost somewhat of her coarseness, and not only grew in grace, but in beauty and strength. French manners and French society did a great deal for this young lady, as they have been supposed to do for other young ladies. They gave her imagination, sprightliness, grace; though it is questionable if they added aught to her morals. She began to show, too, that she did really possess some of the good qualities of her elder sister, though lacking some of her faults. She had more versatility, but less imagination and also less affectation; sometimes she was wanting in dignity, but she had more strength, and withal, more common sense; in which the elder sister had been sadly deficient. So while the younger grew in favor, the elder was fain to fall back into the shade. Her manners were not suited to the times, her dress was anti

quated, and her appearance began to be hailed with a smile, half indulgence, half pity, while she was received in good society with that tolerance and politeness accorded to old age, even though grown tiresome and garrulous. The younger, as we have before said, possessed some of her sister's good qualities. Having the same parentage, there was, of course, a similarity between them. Circumstances, more than birth, had made a difference; and as, in the course of time, this difference grew less marked, many of the present generation are of the opinion that the two are one and the same person.

It may be well to pause here for a time, and make a few inquiries as to the influence of the romance and the novel. The old romance had its recommendations. It was moral and heroic; but it had not the highest kind of heroism, nor the highest kind of morality. It deified the knights, the kings, the princes; it did not raise up the soldier, fighting just as valiantly, and for the self same cause. It was the fruit of the feudal system, which made of one man a god, and of his brother man a serf. Its views of life were not the highest, nor its aims the noblest. Its sentiment was morbid, its fine-wrought theories were unpractical, and could be no more brought into common use than our most extravagant dreams could be taken as guides for our daily conduct. So its influence was unhealthy, in that it gave a distaste for common life and common duties.

But it concerns us more to ask of the influence and expediency of the novel. Lord Bacon thinks a taste for fiction a proof of the greatness and dignity of the human intellect. Common affairs do not fill our mind nor give us satisfaction. We love deeds of heroism, we love a just distribution of rewards and punishments; we love surprising and marvellous incidents; and all this can be gratified in fictitious writing. It is "accommodating the appearance of things to the desires of the mind, not bringing down the mind, as history and philosophy do, to the course of events." For what is the object of the true novel? It is to combine instruction and entertainment, to present true pictures of human life and manners; for the best novel is the truest to nature; it is to show the errors into which unrestrained passions lead us; it is to make virtue pleasant and vice odious. All this is certainly well. If, then, the novel is hurtful in

its influence, it is because of its perversion. But it has not always come up to this standard. The mirror it has held has often given us distorted views of humanity; it has glossed over great faults, and called them virtues; it has made vanity and show the chief ends of life; it has covered immorality with a gilded, specious covering, to make it attractive and pleasing; and too often sold its glorious birthright for a mess of pottage. But the most healthy food may be rendered deleterious by improper serving. For the fault of ignorant and untrustworthy cooks, shall we declare the article unfit for consumption under any form? The influence of the true novel, we assert, is not unhealthy. The mind as well as the body, needs recreation, and the novel meets this need. The laborer leaves the field of close, severe thought, where he has been toiling, and walks aside into the pleasant paths of fancy and imagination; he gathers fragrant flowers and delicious fruits, and feels the soft breezes refreshing his heated brows: the high-strung nerves relax for a while, the compressed lips are wreathed with a smile called forth by some pleasant thought or fancy; and the weary brain finds needed rest. Not to the mental laborer alone is this recreation grateful. It is pleasant for the merchant to forget ships and bank-stocks for a while, and listen to a tale of love; pleasant to hear how one life was made beautiful by devoted affection, and one heart holy by duty and sacrifice; pleasant to forget the price of cotton and flour, and smile at the ready wit of the writer, or weep at his touching tenderness and pathos. It is grateful to the farmer, when he comes in and sits down by his cheerful fire, resting his tired limbs in his arm-chair, to hear the voice of his little daughter read aloud the well-thumbed book, which perhaps has travelled all over the neighborhood. It may be one of Cooper's, or Dickens', or it may perhaps be "Uncle Tom;" but the farmer relishes it, as he sits tipped back in his chair; the farmer's wife drops her needle, and slyly wipes away a tear; the farmer's grownup son forgets his slate and his arithmetic; and the farmer's younger son, sitting on the low cricket, stares with open eyes and mouth at the reader, and loses not a word of the wonderful tale.

But the novel is not merely a recreation, or rather like all true recreation, while it diverts it also instructs and strength

ens. The tense nerves relax only to be strained to still higher effort; the mind, let down for a while from its lofty heights, rises refreshed and invigorated; while the soul, pausing at its resting place, has learned a lesson of endurance, and received an incentive to duty, which will have power long after that hour's repose has been forgotten. But there is an abuse as well as a use of all the good things which we enjoy. Too many make recreation and amusement the business of life; too many, of the young especially, make novel-reading supersede all other, and, instead of its being even a recreation, it is an unhealthy stimulus, or a mere means of killing time. Is the novel answerable for this misuse? Because it is more attractive to the young than works on theology, science, or history, must we discard it? Must the mind have no recreation, lest it may chance thereby to attain a distaste for work?

It is often the case that a fault, if left to itself, will cure itself; as letting a child surfeit itself with sugar will cure it of too frequent visits to the sugar-bowl. Yet this is not what we want. We are willing the child should love sugar and should eat sugar; for though told in our childhood it would surely cause our teeth to decay, this is now an exploded theory. Yet there is a better way to cure the vitiated appetite than by surfeiting; and this better way we think the present generation is beginning to understand. It is not in discarding sugar, or even making it less palatable; it is in infusing a little of its sweetness into the bitter and disagreeable mixtures which it was the practice in other times to force down the throats of humanity. Theology, science, and history are being rendered more attractive; they are not necessarily dry and uninviting, and need not look upon the novel as a rival establishment, with glaring sign and gaudy attractions, to draw in the unwary, but rather as one of the same firm, ready to do her just and proper part toward the entertainment and well-being of the travellers on life's journey.

By what we have seen in the past, and by what we shall presently ascertain of later times, as we get further into the consideration of our subject, we cannot help noticing that novels always have been true portraitures of the period in which they were written. A book, to be well received, must meet some want of the age. It is true it may come before

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the time is ripe for its reception; and this is well, especially if the book is worthy; for the public will grow up to it. It has but to wait its time; there is no fear it will be lost. Indeed, we are not sure but this is the case with all great books; inasmuch as to write such books requires a stand-point on some eminence the mass have not yet gained, where the eye gazes over a prospect of which those in the vale below have no thought or conception. This was the case with "Milton's Paradise Lost ;" which, though it finally gave its author immortality, yet, at the time it was written, brought him but fifteen pounds.

Some books are written for all time; that is, they are of such intrinsic value, that, although exactly meeting the wants of the age in which they appeared, yet, from their faithfulness to human nature, which always vitalizes a book, they never lose their power to instruct and please. Are not Scott's novels as interesting now as ever? Shakspeare has as many admirers now as at any former time. Will the Arabian Nights ever cease to enchant? Will children ever be tired of the adventures of Robinson Crusoe? Will Gil Blas ever grow stale, or Don Quixote and the inimitable Sancho Panza ever fail to amuse?

There is another class of books written only for the timenot being called forth by a want of the age, but rather growing out of some peculiarity in its tastes. Such books are not necessary to the age; it could get along without them. They are its superfluities; not symptoms of a healthy permanent progress, but rather a kind of over-growth, which the pruning hand of Time, at the proper season, will clip Of this class was that literature with which we were flooded some years ago-the "yellow-covered" literature -which flourished for a time like a green bay tree, threatening to retard all healthy growth. But Time has his own way of gardening, and thought it best to let this overgrowth remain for a time, sure that he could restrain it when he saw fit.

away.

There is another and better class of books, which must come under this head, because they are not written for all time, but come up with the wants of the age which called them forth, and then die and are forgotten. A book may be good and true-be written for a good end and accomplish that end, and yet not be immortal. The flower blooms