TO M. LE MARQUIS AND MME. LA MARQUISE SEVIGNE. "To you. good friends, who've taken root You stay-at-homes in every season, Then 'tis, no doubt, a pleasant thing At fair or dance, or when the priest To rent the farm, the lease expires Who shirk of plough or spade the labor." There are eight more lines, which contain plays on words impossible to translate. And no doubt the reader has already said, Oh, jam satis! In days long afterwards, when Lenet's plottings and schemings were all over, and he was at length at rest, Madame de Sevigné speaks of him as having had "de l'esprit comme douze;" and again, in another letter, as our poor friend Lenet, with whom we often laughed so much; for there never was a more laughing youth than ours in every way." Lenet, therefore, knew many people, and was probably no stranger to the three princesses, whose conduct he put himself forward to direct. His letter to the Dowager urged her to come at once, with her grandson, the Duc d'Enghien, into Burgundy; that to the young Princesse de Condé begged her to hasten to her father, the Maréchal de Brezé, in Anjou, with a view of raising that province in favor of her husband; and the third despatch, to the Duchesse de Longueville, counselled her to go with all speed to Rouen, for a similar purpose. Lenet's next care was to see the principal people in Dijon, and ascertain how far they were disposed to second him in raising the standard of revolt against the Government. A bitter disappointment awaited him. It would not be unamusing to follow in the detail with which he has recorded them the different answers he met with from all the provincial city magnates. But to do so would leave us no space for the account of his subsequent pro* The name of Madame de Sevigné's home in Brittany. ceedings, which are yet more characteristic of the society and manners of the time. Haste to desert a sinking ship One is, unhappily, no special characteristic o fany period. magistrate, who owed every thing to Condé, hoped that the cardinal would not fail to put to death prisoners who were such dangerous enemies to the State. Another contented himself with sighing sadly as he twirled his thumbs, and expressing his profound conviction that the best thing they could do in the interest of the prisoners was to keep cautiously quiet, and strictly refrain from saying any thing or doing any thing. A third would have been ready for any thing, had it not been that, unfortunately, he was just then threatened with a fit of the gout. The most favorable reply he got, was that of an old priest, who promised him his prayers. Among the officers of the troops depending on Condé, to whom Lenet next applied, he found a somewhat more hopeful reception. And it was finally agreed that a portion of them should throw themselves into the strong fortress of Bellegarde, while one large regiment of eighteen hundred men should persuade the Court that it was fully purposed to be faithful to the Crown, while in reality they would be ready to seize the first opportunity of striking a blow in favor of the princes. An attempt to introduce a portion of this regiment into the castle of Dijon, was frustrated, not by the fidelity of the two commandants, either to Condé or to the Crown, but by their cautious timidity. It is curiously characteristic of the strange anarchical confusion of the times to find these regimental officers consulting, plotting with, and taking directions from this lawyer, whose only sort of title to meddle in the affair at all, was the known fact that he was an adherent and friend of the prince. These matters thus arranged, Lenet awaited, with such patience as he could muster, the return of the courier he had sent to the princesses. In a day or two he returned, but brought no letters from them. The Dowager only sent him a verbal message. She had read, and immediately burned, the courier said, the letter from Lenet, and had done the same by the letter he had written to the young princess; saying that she was not of an age to be trusted with such a matter. For herself, she said that the smallest movement on her part would cause them all to be thrown into prison; that the friends of the family might act as they, or any of them, should think best; that, for her part, her only hope was to end her days in peace, and, if possible, in liberty; that the remainder of her life could but be spent in weeping the misfortunes of her house, but that she would not hazard the smallest step which could bring on her the risk of spending it in prison. Finally, she begged Lenet not to write to her any more. Here was, as Lenet says, an end to all his hope of raising Burgundy in revolt. It could only have been done by the Princess Dowager showing herself in the province, and putting herself at its head. But for any such rôle as this she was far too timid; and, as he insinuates, too stingy of money. As for the Duchesse de Longueville, she was already off to Stenay, a place of surety. A very different woman indeed from her mother was she! No plotter or intriguer of any kind could have wished a better helpmate in petticoats than the beautiful duchess. To use a vulgar phrase, which, however, characterizes her better than any other, she was "up to any thing, from what you please to what you will. It was of her that Rochefoucauld (who, however, at this period was called Prince de Marsillac, but became Duc de Rochefoucauld shortly afterwards by the death of his father) wrote the often quoted lines: : lution to arrest her and Rochefoucauld at the same time that the princes her brothers and her husband were arrested. But they both found hiding-places; and that same night Rochefoucauld contrived to get her out of Paris and ride with her into Normandy. He and she, no less sanguine than Lenet, imagined that all Normandy would rise in favor of the princes at the sight of her. But, instead of that, she ran the greatest risk of being herself arrested. And it was with great difficulty, and after many dangers, that Rochefoucauld got her safe off to Stenay, and then rode into his own government of Poitou, and did his utmost to induce the noblesse of that and the neighboring districts of Angoumois and Saintonge to rise in revolt against the cardinal and the Court. And this was all for no other motive than that boasted of in his well-known couplet; for he had no share whatever in the quarrel, except as the well-known lover of Condé's sister. The duchess remained at Stenay during the whole time of the imprisonment of her brothers and husband, and has, therefore, no share in the ulterior development of busy Lawyer Lenet's further plots and plans. There were memories of old times which made Anne of Austria unwilling to order the arrest of the Dowager Princess of Condé; and, besides, Mazarin knew her to be timid, unenterprising, and loving her ease, and little likely to become dangerous. As to the young princess, Condé's wife, Mazarin could hardly bring himself to order the arrest of Richelieu's niece. She was, moreover, young, inexperienced, without resources either in money or friends; and, besides, by no means very perfectly contented with her husband's treatment of her. He had married her only in obedience to the strong wishes of the late king, and she had never been the mistress of his heart. Mazarin thought that she might safely be left at liberty. Her son, the Duc d'Enghien, was only seven years old, and could not well be separated from his mother. The two princesses, therefore, and the child, were ordered to live in strict retirement at the prince's château of Chantilly. Under these circumstances, Lenet made up his mind to quit Burgundy and go to Chantilly; but determined to take Châtillon sur Loing on his way, in order to see the Duchess of Châtillon, who had, as he knew, great influence over the Dowager Princess Condé. On reaching Châtillon, he found that the duchess had already left it, travelling Paris-ward; but, hastening after her, he overtook her between Nemours and Fontainebleau. The duchess made him get into her carriage, and they continued their journey together, as strangely assorted a couple as ever made a tête-à-tête journey together! One would like to have a sketch of the scene, when this overtaking between Nemours and Fontainebleau took place. Lawyer Lenet, in his grave, black professional suit, bowing at the door of the duchess's huge painted and gilded coach, while an extremely pretty face, all anxiety and eagerness for news, leans forward from the depths of the back seat, and the four great cart-horses enjoy the pause in their labor of dragging the machine through the quagmires of the execrable road. As for the conversation between the fellow-travellers, when Lenet has accepted the seat in the duchess's carriage, when his own post-horse, with the accompanying postilion on another horse, has been sent back to the last post-house, and the four Châtillon cart-horse-like carriage-horses have got into motion again, dragging the heavy vehicle at a foot's pace, groaning, creaking, and lurching in the deep ruts, we have a full account of it from the gentleman. Lenet had thought it expedient to call on the duchess on But in order to understand rightly why M. his way to Chantilly, it will be necessary to tell the reader, in as few words as may be, a fragment or two of the lady's history. She had been a Mademoiselle de Bouteville, of the great house of Montmorency, and one of the most celebrated beauties of that day. Condé and Coligny (who, at the death of the maréchal, his father, became Duc de Châtillon) both fell desperately in love with her. latter one day opened his heart to his friend Condé, and declared that nothing had prevented him from The 66 asking for the hand of La Bouteville save the knowledge that he (the Prince) was fond of her. Thereupon Condé reçut tendrement cette déclaration, lui promit de se départir de son amour, et de n'avoir plus que de l'amitié pour elle, telle qu'il l'avoit pour lui." Such promises, remarks Lenet, are rarely kept. Nevertheless, Condé kept his to Châtillon. Whether he were enabled to do so, adds he, by the empire over himself which virtue gave him, or whether it was due to his falling in love with Mademoiselle de Vigean, or with Mademoiselle de Poncy, he (Lenet) cannot say; but he thinks it was owing to the last-named lady, because the prince was told that he "se fut embarqué à l'aimer," only because Laval had boasted of the favors he had received from her. It is but fair, too, to admit. as does not seem to have occurred to Lenet-that the sequel showed that, strange as it might seem, such virtue as was shown in being true to his promise really had some influence upon his conduct. For when the Duc de Châtillon died, which was not long afterwards, Condé renewed his suit to the widowed duchess, while she on her part- But Lenet's speculations on her motives are so very characteristic of the time, that they must be given in his own words. "Whether it were," he says, "that she reciprocated his feelings, or whether she was moved by the glory of being loved by so famous a hero, or whether by consideration of the profit that might accrue to her from the influence that she might acquire over his mind, she was well disposed to furnish all the matter necessary to the keeping up of his flame." The third of the above causes is curiously in accordance with all that we know of the ways and habits of the day. The matter was complicated, however, by the violent passion of the young and remarkably handsome Duc de Nemours for the widowed duchess. And it was generally supposed that he did not sigh in vain. "And it was this," says Lenet, "that caused the duchess to waver between her inclination and her interest." He speaks, it will be observed, on this occasion, as on all others when he mentions her, without the slightest notion of casting a shadow of blame on her in the matter. It is noticeable, too, that he seems to assume as quite a matter of course that her "inclination was not for the Prince de Condé. "She found the means," continues Lenet, "to keep them both in hand up to the time of the prince's imprisonment; and as long as it lasted she did so yet more effectually; and, after it had ceased, up to the death of the Duc de Nemours. After that event, at any rate, came the prince's turn. He had waited for two reversions; and when at last the second vacancy occurred, the duchess became his recognized mistress. Such was the lady who was now inviting Lawyer Lenet to travel tête-à-tête with her to Paris, and thence to Chantilly. Of course, each had much to tell the other. Each knew that the other was entirely to be trusted as regarded the interests of the princes. The duchess, when she had heard what Lenet had to tell her of his doings and disappointments in Burgundy, and of his communications with the princesses at Chantilly, "gave me an exact plan of the present state of affairs; and, among other things, told me that, although there had been a coldness between Nemours and Condé, the former, with that perfect generosity which was peculiar to him, had determined to serve the prince in his misfortune by every possible means, and that she (the duchess) would take care to keep him up to his good resolutions. They had talked of all the personages whom they could hope to influence by every sort of means that could be brought to bear on them. Such a one could be made to believe that the Court had no intention of gratifying his ambition and cupidity in this or that matter. Another could be worked on by such and such a noted beauty, who could in turn be influenced by her inclination for somebody else. The embers of disaffection, half slumbering among the members of such and such a provincial parliament, might be fanned into a flame by such and such unscrupulous representations. A lady, all-powerful with the governor of another province, might be won by flattering her hopes of making such and such a great marriage for her daughter." Such a mixture of what may be called male politics, with matters generally supposed to belong to the sphere of female politics, was never known before or after! The next day but one, having succeeded, by dint of great care, in passing through Paris without attracting any attention, they arrived at Chantilly, and were received with open arms by the somewhat triste and forlorn household there. The château was filled with women of high condition, without a man of any rank or authority among them. And it is curious to see how they throw themselves upon Lenet, how they look to him for guidance, and submit to be led by him. The Dowager burst into tears on seeing him, and was voluble as to her perfect innocence, and the baseness and ingratitude of the Court and Mazarin. She complained bitterly of their present position, and declared that they could not be sure even of the fidelity of the domestics in the château. And she specially cautioned Lenet that they did not speak of affairs to the young princess except in general terms. As soon as ever she the younger princess, Condé's wife could get an opportunity of speaking to Lenet tête-à-tête, she complained bitterly of this. Lenet found her to be a very different woman from her mother-in-law, totally free from the older lady's timidity and selfish wish for her own personal ease and quiet; and indeed, in every way far fitter to share the cares and dangers and plots and plans incidental to such a state of things than her husband's mother, who wished to treat her as a baby in all concerning them. She told Lenet that what she dreaded above all else was that they could take her boy, the young Duc d'Enghien, from her, as had been threatened. She begged him piteously to contrive some means of averting such a misfortune, and declared herself ready to take any steps that might be considered for the advantage of her husband; to go with her son anywhere, even to place herself at the head of an army, if it were thought desirable, with her son beside her - but not to be separated from him. "The fact was," says Lenet, with very business-like coolness, "that she was very anxious to do something, or sacrifice herself in some way, in the hope of gaining the approbation of her husband, who had never looked on her very kindly." There is something pathetic in the position of the poor young wife, in the midst of that household of women-conspirators in her husband's favor by plots, from participation in which she was excluded, while the Duchesse de Châtillon, whose relation towards the prince was well known, was there as if she were naturally one of the family, and was a leader in all their councils. Lenet encouraged her in these "reasonable sentiments," as he says, and promised all that was asked of him in reference to her son; because, although he knew the "calibre of her genius" was not equal to the conduct of such great affairs as they might be called upon to handle, he felt that "they might have need of this princess and her young son." Besides, there was in the château a Comtesse de Tourville, of the Rochefoucauld family, whom Condé had assigned to his wife as her companion, and whom Lenet knew to be a woman that might be depended on for any amount of conduct and resolution in any circumstances. From this lady Lenet learned, he says, many things very necessary for his guidance in dealing with both the princesses. There was also the Marquise de Gonville, "pretty, young, and full of talent," who was the daughter of the Comtesse de Tourville, and who was also a member of the family circle at Chantilly. Then there was the Dame de Bourgneuf, who had the care of the Longueville children, and who was in constant correspondence with the hare-brained and beautiful duchess, and from whom Lawyer Lenet "learned many things that it was important to me to know." Besides the six ladies who have been named, "all the rest of the Court of the Princesses was composed of their ladies and maids of honor, all pretty and agreeable," says Lenet, "but too young, all of them, to be trusted with the secret of affairs." Among all this bevy of ladies there was not any single man of their own rank. There was a young priest, the Abbé Roquette, whose piety and demure manners, and his quality of nephew to a certain nun who enjoyed a high reputation for sanctity, had strongly recommended him to the Princess Dowager. He ran about the house like a tame cat, and was quite edifying by the unction of his devotional practices, until, one unlucky day, he was caught confessing one of the maids of honor in her own chamber, under circumstances which the matrons in the château deemed to indicate a too great devotion on the part of the young lady. There was also Dulmas, who had formerly been squire to the Princess Dowager, and was now captain of the handful of troops who garrisoned the château. But all he thought of was the secure keeping of his present snug berth and easy position; and with that view never failed to say any word he could, tending to confirm his mistress in her disposition to think that doing nothing and keeping quite quiet was the best possible policy. There was Girard, the prince's secretary, who, says Lenet, had not been thought worth imprisoning with his master. But little passed between him and the ladies, for the Dowager particularly disliked him. There was also Bourdelot, the prince's physician, a person of much talent and high consideration, who, according to Lenet, was more of a man than any of those who passed for such at Chantilly. He was the only one, indeed, in whom Lenet found any capacity or disposition to second him in his designs. He had been at Rome, where he had become intimately acquainted with the Cardinal Barberini. And he now wrote pressing letters to that prelate, urging him to use his credit with the pope, Julius the Third, to induce his Holiness, who was no friend to Cardinal Mazarin, to interfere in Condé's favor. And It does not need any very strong effort of imagination to picture to one's self the life in the château of Chantilly, so charmingly situated among its woods and waters. probably we should not be wrong in imagining, upon the whole, that the strangely-constituted party was not a very miserable one. The old princess wept and wrung her hands from time to time, no doubt, though there are evidences that even she was not altogether absorbed by the miseries of the present time, evidences curious enough, with which we may perhaps amuse our readers upon some future occasion. As for the younger members of the circle, there seems to have been no lack of gayety among them. There were sons, husbands, brothers, and lovers in prison, and the threatened ruin of a great and princely house. There was wherewithal to break the monotony of fashionable court lives, and add a spice of excitement to the passing hours. Then catastrophes of the sort were not uncommon in those days. The path of life was like the roads on which they travelled, full of ups and downs, and sudden shocks, and struggling to pull through difficult passes. And that singular Fronde time had a specialty of its own in this respect that there was over all their fighting and making friends, their love affairs and their politics, their hopes and fears, a sort of air of being at play all the time. Nothing seems to have been serious. It was all done pour rire. The men seemed rather to like the fighting, and the women unquestionably enjoyed immensely the plotting and intriguing. There can be no doubt that Lenet was quite in earnest in his multifarious endeavors to procure his patron's release. But it cannot be denied that he seemed to have enjoyed his position of arch-plotter in the midst of the crowd of pretty women, all hanging as with an interest of life and death on each new scheme hatched from his busy brain. NOVELS AND NOVELISTS. FEW Englishmen failed to be affected by a lively pang of regret when they read the announcement of the death of Mr. Lever. Those to whom he was personally known had to lament the loss of one of the kindliest and most vivacious of companions. An immensely greater number regretted the death of a writer whose earlier works are indissolubly associated with some of the pleasantest recollections of their youth. We can never forget the days when we turned from what we were pleased to call our studies, to be animated by the rollicking high spirits of those Irish officers and students and squires who played such mad pranks through the pages of "Harry Lorrequer" and "Charles O'Malley." It is so short a time since we had occasion to speak of the literary merits of his work, and to express the hope, so speedily disappointed, that he had not taken a final leave of his readers, that we shall not now dwell upon the special characteristics of his stories. There was, at any rate, nothing in them which could rightly cause him a serious regret; and there was a vast amount that had contributed no scanty addition to the stores of innocent amusement in the world. The final farewell to so prolific a writer may, however, suggest a few reflections upon the nature of the intellectual food which is now provided in such marvellous abundance for all persons who can spell out words in print. Some of the general causes which have contributed to the extraordinary growth of this branch of literature are obvious. Of all forms of literary art, the novel is the one which lends itself with the greatest facility to the expression of every possible variety of emotion. The decay of the drama, upon which so many ingenious theories are put forward, is probably owing in great part to the greater flexibility and easier publicity of this new mode of expression. If Dickens, for example, had lived at any time before the opening of the eighteenth century, he would naturally have become a dramatist. Whether he would have produced better or worse literature is an open question; but he would have been hampered by the necessity of satisfying all the complex requirements of the stage, and he would have appealed in the first instance only to the small circle of London play-goers, instead of reaching at once the whole educated population that can read English. It is no wonder that, when the modern novel had been fairly elaborated, and an appreciative audience prepared, it should have speedily risen to a wide popularity. There is nothing that cannot be put into the shape of a novel with perfect facility. A set of stories has been written to illustrate theories of political economy; others develop schemes of political or social reform; innumerable stories are written to demonstrate that the Church of Rome is the Scarlet Lady, that Catholicism is the one system that can satisfy the aspirations of the soul, and that the High or Low, or Broad Church, or no church at all, should be the object of our warmest loyalty. A whole army of writers has attempted to awaken in us a love for the romantic beauties of the past; and another to call our attention to the phenomena which are to be found in different strata of modern society. Sometimes a novel is the cry of distress of some one who finds the world too hard for a sensitive nature; and sometimes it is the calm, photographic reproduction of a set of observations which appear to have been carried on with absolute scientific indifference. Everybody can write a novel, and most unmarried ladies, at any rate, have written them; for novels reflect, with almost equal ease, every possible mood of thought, and every conceivable shade of speculation upon all topics in heaven or earth. People of a pedantic turn of mind are apt to lay down rules for the exclusion of all those varieties of this great genus to which they have personally no liking. They object to purely realistic or purely ideal novels; they must not have novels with a purpose, or historical novels, or novels in which any of the commandments are broken. Something is to be said for some of these restrictions, for, undoubtedly, wide as is the range which novels may fairly take, there are some limits to the sphere of its judicious application. We have not yet seen, though we can easily imagine, a novel intended to teach the rules of arithmetic; but we have shuddered at novels which were evidently intended by nature to be fragments of a dictionary of antiquities, or sermons on dogmatic theology, or pamphlets on the currency question. Taking, however, a sufficiently catholic view of the question, and admitting that no æsthetic canon should be inexorably enforced against innumerable varieties of the art, some curious questions remain as to the consequences of its boundless popularity. The commonest objection to the modern novel results from this extreme facility. Both reading and writing novels is favorable to a flabby condition of the mental fibre. The great mass of fiction lies like a poultice upon the human mind, discouraging energetic thought or severe forms of art. Poetry supposes a certain degree of strenuous effort, and an attempt to rise above the dead level of ordinary emotions; but a novel may preserve the tone of common conversation. A novelist, if conscientious, is conscientious in spite of every temptation to the contrary. He will please his readers and save himself trouble by suggesting problems, without taking the trouble really to think them out. If he has the ambition of being a social reformer, he paints the bloated aristocracy and the starving proletariat; and, having made his readers weep or curse, his task is ended. He is perfectly content to give up all questions as to the real cause or the true remedy of social inequality as entirely beyond his province. Even when he keeps more strictly within the purely artistic sphere, he has every inducement to take the laxest possible view of his duties. The general public has the same taste in novels that it has in pictures; it likes something pretty, and cares very little for any thing elevated. There is not even a tradition that an English novelist is bound to consult the unities or to aim at harmonious effect. Any rambling story, the looser the better, will do for him; and he may diverge from his path at any moment in search of a picturesque effect or a quaint anecdote. Most novels seem to be made by the simple process of emptying out upon the reader, without any serious attempt at arrangement, a collection of all the odds and ends which the author has picked up in his ramblings through the world. The same faults are, of course, apparent enough in other forms of art; but the peculiarity of the novel is that it gives them a special sanction. Mr. Carlyle says that if literature had no task beyond that of harmlessly amusing languid, indolent men, Scott's novels would have just supplied our needs. He is of opinion that something more is wanted; but the "something more" is certainly a rarity in the great bulk of novels. We fear, too, that it must be added, that novels are apt to become intolerable just in proportion as they take a higher aim. It seems to be almost a necessary condition of great success, that the writer should abandon any distinct moral or philosophical purpose, and be content with such indirect lessons as may be indirectly absorbed by readers in search of nothing but amusement. When we see a gentleman lounging on a club sofa studying a novel by the help of a cigar, or observe the masses of cheap literature at a railway bookstall, and the general proclivities of their purchasers, we apply the formula of supply and demand, and wonder whether an art supported by such patrons can fail to quench the best aspirations of any one who practises it. The vigor with which women have seized this method of delivering their sentiments to mankind, has perhaps increased this tendency. It is quite true, indeed, that women have supplied more than one of the most conspicuous exceptions to the general rule that novelists do not take their art seriously. Still, the mass of female writers, whether from their defective education or their social position, or from any natural tendencies of the feminine intellect, certainly encourage an unfortunate standard of art. Whether namby-pamby or sensational, which is merely namby-pamby rampant, they are equally marked by inherent weakness. Thackeray complained that since the days of Fielding nobody had been permitted to paint a man. If the objection was only that the limits of British decorum were a trifle too strait, the misfortune might be borne with comparative equanimity; but there is too much reason for saying that the masculine type of character tends altogether to disappear from our picture. We have that miserable substitute which is composed of an excessive muscular system and a permanant tendency to cant; but the character whom we meet in the modern novel as rarely as, according to some account, we meet the sound thoroughbred on the British turf, is the fully developed man, with passions and intellect as well as muscles, and capable of doing something more than making love to pretty young women at an evening party, or crushing a silver cup with his fingers. By the help of such reflections, it is easy to make out a strong case against modern novelists. Whether their feebleness indicates a general want of social stamina in the age, would involve a further and a difficult inquiry. It is obvious to suggest, as is frequently done in such cases, that the persons who now read novels formerly read nothing at all; and that if the study of a sensation story in a railway be, not a very elevating form of amusement, it is perhaps better than listening to the conversation which used to take place in the old-fashioned stage-coach. Any gleam of intellectual interest, it may be urged, is better than the blank, barren stupidity which would be produced if people whose appetite is only equal to a washy novel had not even a washy novel to amuse them. Or, again, it might be urged that the great mass of literature at any period must always be of an inferior kind. When we compare ourselves disadvantageously to our ancestors, we really compare the average of our performances with the few gems of real value which have escaped the general decay. Even a modern novel is not more insipid than the now unreadable romances in which our ancestors took a strange delight. The modern article at least has the negative merit of being shorter, which, we may hope, proves that we have become more impatient of stupidity. Without discussing such insoluble questions, we may perhaps admit that just at the present moment the art of fictitious writing seems to be rather running to seed. We have at least one great writer, and a good many respectable performers, now lingering on the stage. But there is ample room for some man of genius to do what was done for poetry at the beginning of the century, — to strike a bolder key, and show that the resources of art are not limited to reproducing commonplace conversations or indulging in impossible eccentricities. To prophesy what shape may be taken by the coming reform, if indeed it is coming, is of course impossible; but there are signs of weariness in our existing school, which, we would fain hope, may be the heralds of a change. No writer derives a charm from that exuberance of animal spirits which is conspicuous in Dickens or in Lever's earlier productions. The mine seems to have been worked out; but, as it is really inexhaustible, that can only mean that it is time to be hitting upon some fresh vein of sentiment. Such writers as those we have mentioned seemed to be writing because the world struck them as intensely amusing, and because they could not restrain the utterance of the fresh emotions which it created. Most of our present authors seem to derive their impulse simply from a foregone decision to write a novel, good or bad; but they either take the old paths or make spasmodic efforts to strike out new ones which land them in oddity instead of originality. We grumble steadily, and yet we ought perhaps to remember that the change may be in us as much as in our would-be entertainers; and that part of the charm which the writers of our youth possessed may have been owing to our youth rather than to their writing. Who shall decide? We presume posterity will have that duty, and we wish them joy of the task. MR. BUCHANAN AND THE FLESHLY POETS. SOME months ago, an article on what was called the "Fleshly School of Poets" appeared in one of the magazines. It purported to be written by "Thomas Maitland," a name previously unknown to literature, and handled very severely the poetical compositions of Mr. Rossetti and Mr. Swinburne. It was afterwards discovered that "Thomas Maitland" was in reality Mr. Robert Buchanan; and Mr. Rossetti and his friends protested indignantly against the unfairness of one writer of poetry disguising himself, like a bravo, in slouched beaver and muffled cloak, in order to attack his more successful rivals, and indirectly, if not directly, to praise himself. For "Thomas Maitland ferred to Mr. Buchanan by name, and accused Mr. Rossetti of borrowing ideas from his verses. The controversy sputtered hotly for a week or two, and then went out. The personal question at issue seems to us to be a very small one, and it is a pity it should not be forgotten. But as Mr. Buchanan has thought it worth while to trouble the public re with it once more, and as he seems to be still unable to comprehend his own or his editor's error in the matter, we will say just one word about it. Mr. Buchanan explains that the alias was affixed to the essay "in order that the criticism might rest upon its own merits, and gain nothing from the name of the real writer." The answer to this is, we think, that under the circumstances the article would not have gained by the name of the writer being frankly avowed. In the form in which it was published, it professed to be a candid estimate of a particular school of poetry by an independent and impartial writer. If it had been known that it was in reality one poet decrying the works of his rivals in business, its impartiality would at once have been suspected. We are speaking now, of course, of the effect of the article on what is called "the general reader," who is not supposed to be in a position to weigh criticism to much purpose for himself, and who, coming across a critic whom he believes to be unprejudiced and disinterested, is disposed to accept his judgment accordingly; but who would be put on his guard if he knew that there was, or might be, a professional animus lurking under the affectation of judicial candor. In the old romances we occasionally read of a knight of tremendous prowess and overpowering reputation, who found it necessary, in order not to alarm antagonists too much, to enter the lists with closed visor and borrowed shield; but Mr. Buchanan is hardly a combatant of this description. There is no reason to suppose that his name carries with it an oracular authority which would be fatal to the free exercise of private judgment; and, on the other hand, it is conceivable that the general reader would appreciate the necessity of examining his dicta more cautiously when aware of the peculiar relations of the critic to the objects of his criticism. At the same time, as we said before, the question is really a very small one; and it might have been more dignified on the part of Mr. Rossetti and his admirers to deal with Mr. Buchanan's essay on its merits, if they thought it worth while to take notice of it at all. But it is characteristic of a sect or coterie to resent criticism as in itself an outrage, and to assume, with or without reason, that it can only spring from personal malevolence. There is a good deal to be said about the unwholesomeness not only of Mr. Rossetti's and Mr. Swinburne's poetry, but of the atmosphere of mutual admiration in which they and their associates appear to live and move and have their being, and which is destructive, not only of healthy vigor, but of some of the best impulses of art. But, apart from the question of Mr. Buchanan's good taste in putting himself forward as advocatus diaboli, it may be doubted whether he has shown himself capable of doing justice to his case. He has now republished his essay in a revised and expanded form; but, unfortunately, the flippancy, the arrogance, and the distemper of the original article still remain. The impression with which one rises from the perusal of this pamphlet is that the writer must be suffering from a morbidly quick and sensitive perception of unsavory suggestions. He seems to be continually sniffing for nastiness; and sometimes we cannot help thinking that his imagination detects odors which no one else would perceive. Mr. Buchanan would appear not to have cultivated with much success the poet's faculty of looking at the best and purest side of things. He begins by telling us how, coming up to town from a remote retreat in the Highlands, he looked about to see "all that a man with eyes can see." What had most impressed him in former years were such things as these: "The fatuous imbecility and superficiality of the moneyed vulgar," ""the shapeless ugliness of women who feed high and take no exercise," and so on. But now he is fascinated He by a horrid thing which threatens and paralyzes him. sees it on every side, in the street, on the stage, in books, It is, he goes on to tell us, legs. There is a well-known form of disease in which the patient is pursued by beetles or snakes, or other nasty things, always swarming before his eyes, on the floor, the walls, the roof. Buchanan is haunted by legs. He has sought refuge, it would seem, in sweet-stuff shops, as the most innocent places he could think of; but even there, in defiance of the on canvas. Mr. |