Fielding, wondering at his great heart, his manly independence, and his love of sincerity, and then after watching his night's revel rejoice in his repentance, and pity the weakness that led the upright man to sin. We can follow the adventures of Roderick Random, weep if we will over Clarissa Harlowe, and have a quiet chat with Uncle Toby, improved by his simplicity and good nature, while we tremble for the genius that created him. And so, in the pages of the other great modern novelists, especially of Scott and Thackeray, we can live with real men, in all the varieties of human nature, while sitting comfortably at home; can see the workings of the heart, its impulses for right and wrong, its hopes and fears, its trials, feelings, and victories; can apply all these to our own daily life, and so become wiser and better by the example of others.

If we value novels in proportion to the correctness of the picture which they give of human life, and the truthfulness with which they delineate character, the question arises how far we ought to trust to such works in general for a knowledge of the world, and how far they are calculated to benefit or injure the mind. It is very unlikely that any one, old or young, ever takes up a novel with the intention of gaining anything else than amusement, unless occasionally an historical novel, such as Ivanhoe, be read, for the sake of a knowledge of the times described, in which case it is preferred to a real history, from the additional interest given by the story. But it is true that the pleasure gained from a novel becomes greater as the incidents are more real, and the characters more like life; and hence it is argued that the prominence given to certain feelings and passions, and the heightened colour surrounding the events of the story, may very well tend to give a distorted view of life in general. The most obvious illustration of this is the prominence given to the passion of love in all novels, and the false sentimentality which is so common in some. But it may be doubted

whether much weight is to be attached to this. Surely no one in our day is likely to fall in love with a dairymaid, or to get a passion for the life, either of a shepherd or a knight errant, through reading a romance. In Mr. Dickens' later works a colouring of poetry, often exaggerated and distorted, is thrown over almost all the commonest actions of life. But though, if every one were to draw omens as to the prosperity or adversity of his house from the manner in which the sun shines on a picture, or the gloom which a tree causes in a room, he might be regarded as a lunatic, yet the impression caused by the fate of Chesney Wold is not likely to remain long after 'Bleak House' is restored to the book-shelf, or sent back to the circulating library. And surely we have not so much poetry in our hearts, that we are likely to feel too much sympathy or pity, as we walk through the noisome streets, and among the pestilential homes which are the dwelling places of so many of our countrymen.

But there is one practice, common to almost all novelists, which may not improbably be the cause of harm to injudicious readers. The necessity of making their books as attractive as possible causes them to exhibit their characters with one or two prominent absurdities of speech or action, which they are made to repeat continually through the novel; and it may chance that a reader dwelling on these, should come to examine the characters of those about him by their eccentricities and oddities, rather than their merits and higher nature. But this is a fault into which few will fall, though an apologist for novels is bound to allow its possibility.

No doubt it is deeply to be lamented that so many works of fiction have been published, both in our own and in foreign countries, which are defiled by immorality, and even written solely for the purpose of catering to depraved tastes, or of supplying the mind with unhealthy excitement. This fact has caused a great amount of prejudice against novels in general; a prejudice which is now fast wearing

away under the influence of the higher and better works of the class, against which comparatively few would now feel any strong objection. Scarcely the most rigid moralist could forbid even a child to converse with Robinson Crusoe on his desert island; no one would refuse to laugh with merry old Humphrey Clinker, plod up to London with noble-hearted Jeannie Deans, or sit by the death-bed of good Colonel Newcome. But yet it must be lamented that our circulating libraries contain so many thick volumes, which are full of idle nonsense, if nothing worse.

A far less reasonable objection to novels is raised on the ground of utility; there are persons who would utterly condemn them because they do not directly prepare us for any profession or calling in life, and because they will not tell in examinations, and do not store the mind with facts. But surely if there is that in any novel which may open the heart to a sense of high principle or moral duty, or give any warning against vice and folly, its worth is greater than if it were a complete manual on the art of gaining worldly distinction and advantage. And if we reject prose fiction, because it has in it nothing more useful than beauty and truth, we must reject poetical fiction also, Shakspere and Milton, equally with Scott and Thackeray, Macbeth and Comus, no less than Waverley or Vanity Fair; we must exclude ourselves from half, or more than half, the greatest works of imagination in our own and every other language. But while we cannot be hurried into this extreme, let us not forget the truth that is at the bottom of it: that novels, like all the other recreations, amusements, refinements, and helps of life, are injurious if they become our exclusive or our principal occupation, or if they are suffered to take the place of graver studies, and interfere, for a moment, with the supremacy of duty.

PRIZEMEN OF MARLBOROUGH COLLEGE.