read the end of the fifth volume of that dear delightful book for crying. Good heavens! It was as sad, as sad as going back to school. of the water since he dropped it there when I last met him (circa 1825). Amo SALADIN and the Scotch knight in "The Talisman." The Sulbest. The glorious Scott cycle of roman-tan desire to jump up, run to the book, and get the volume down from the shelf. About all those heroes of Scott, what a manly bloom there is, and honorable modesty! They are not at all heroic. They seem to blush somehow in their position of hero, and as it were to say, "Since it must be done, here goes!" They are handsome, modest, upright, simple, courageous, not too clever. If I were a mother (which is absurd), I should like to be mother-in-law to several young men of the WalterScott-hero sort. ces came to me some four or five Amo CLAVerhouse. years afterwards; and I think boys Amo MAJOR DALGETTY. Delightof our year were specially fortunate ful Major! To think of him is to in coming upon those delightful books | at that special time when we could best enjoy them. Oh, that sunshiny bench on half-holidays, with Claverhouse or Ivanhoe for a companion! I have remarked of very late days some little men in a great state of delectation over the romances of Captain Mayne Reid, and Gustave Aimard's Prairie and Indian Stories, and during occasional holiday visits, lurking off to bed with the volume under their arms. But are those Indians and warriors so terrible as our Indians and warriors were? (I say, are they? Young gentlemen, mind, I do not say they are not.) But as an oldster I can be heartily thankful for the novels of the 1-10 Geo. IV., let us say, and so downward to a period not unremote. Let us see; there is, first, our dear Scott. Whom do I love in the works of that dear old master? Amo The Baron of Bradwardine, and Fergus. (Captain Waverley is certainly very mild.) Amo Ivanhoe; LOCKSLEY; the Templar. Amo Quentin Durward, and specially Quentin's uncle, who brought the Boar to bay. I forget the gentleman's name. I have never cared for the Master of Ravenswood, or fetched his hat out deus of Warsaw," there is more crying diction with a shower of tears." Much as I like those most unassuming, manly, unpretending gentlemen, I have to own that I think the heroes of another writer, viz, LEATHER-STOCKING, UNCAS, are quite the equals of Scott's men; perhaps Leather-stocking is better than any one in "Scott's lot." La Longue Carabine is one of the great prize-men of fiction. He ranks with your Uncle Toby, Sir Roger de Coverley, Falstaff-heroic figures, all-American or British, and the artist has deserved well of his country who devised them. At school, in my time, there was a public day, when the boys' relatives, an examining bigwig or two from the universities, old schoolfellows, and so forth, came to the place. The boys were all paraded; prizes were administered; each lad being in a new suit of clothes- and magnificent dandies, I promise you, some of us werc. Oh, the chubby cheeks, clean collars, glossy new raiment, beaming faces, glorious in youth-fit tueri coelum bright with truth, and mirth, and ness? honor! To see a hundred boys marshalled in a chapel or old hall; to hear their sweet fresh voices when they chant, and look in their brave calm faces; I say, docs not the sight and sound of them smite you, somehow, with a pang of exquisite kindWell. As about boys, so about Novelists. I fancy the boys of Parnassus School all paraded. I am a lower boy myself in that academy. I like our fellows to look well, upright, gentlemanlike. There is Master Fielding he with the black eye. What a magnificent build of a boy! There is Master Scott, one of the heads of the school. Did you ever see the fellow more hearty and manly? Yonder lean, shambling, cadaverous lad, who is always borrowing money, telling lies, leering after the housemaids, is Master Laurence Sterne -a bishop's grandson, and himself intended for the Church; for shame, you little reprobate! But what a genius the fellow has! Let him have a sound flogging, and as soon as the young scamp is out of the whipping-room give him a gold medal. Such would be my practice if I were Doctor Birch, and master of the school. Let us drop this school metaphor, this birch, and all pertaining thereto. Our subject, I beg leave to remind the reader's humble servant, is novel heroes and heroines. How do you like your heroes, ladies? Gentlemen, what novel heroines do you prefer? When I set this essay going, I sent the above question to two of the most inveterate novel-readers of my acquaintance. The gentleman refers me to Miss Austen; the lady says Athos, Guy Livingston, and (pardon my rosy blushes) Colonel Esmond, and owns that in youth she was very much in love with Valancourt. "Valancourt? and who was he?" cry the young people. Valancourt, my dears, was the hero of one of the most famous romances which ever was published in this country. The beauty and elegance of Valancourt made your young grandmammas' gentle hearts to beat with respectful sympathy. He and his glory have passed away. Ah, woe is me that the glory of novels should ever decay; that dust should gather round them on the shelves; that the annual checks from Messieurs the publishers should dwindle, dwindle! Inquire at Mudie's, or the London Library, who asks for "The Mysteries of Udolpho now? Have not even "The Mysteries of Paris" ceased to frighten? Alas! our novels are but for a season; and I know characters whom a painful modesty forbids me to mention, who shall go to limbo along with "Valancourt," and "Doricourt," and "Thaddeus of Warsaw.' A dear old sentimental friend, with whom I discoursed on the subject of novels yesterday, said that her favorite hero was Lord Orville, in "Evelina," that novel which Doctor Johnson loved so. I took down the book from a dusty old crypt at a club, where Mrs. Barbauld's novelists repose; and this is the kind of thing, ladies and gentlemen, in which your ancestors found pleasure: "And here, whilst I was looking for the books, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and, approaching me with a look of anxiety, said, 'Is this truc, Miss Anville are you going?' 'I believe so, my lord,' said I, still looking for the books. "So suddenly, so unexpectedly : must I lose you?' "No great loss, my lord,' said I, endeavoring to speak cheerfully. "Is it possible,' said he gravely, Miss Anville can doubt my sincerity?' "I can't imagine,' cried I, 'what Mrs. Selwyn has done with those books.' "Would to heaven,' continued he, I might flatter myself you would allow me to prove it!' "I must run up stairs,' cried I, greatly confused, and ask what she has done with them.' sence? 'My lord,' cried I, endeavoring to disengage my hand, pray let me go!' "I will," cried he, to my inexpressible confusion, dropping on one knee, if you wish me to leave you.' "You are going, then,' cried he, | ite novel, but when you come to read taking my hand, and you give me it, you will like it. I suspect that not the smallest hope of any return! when you read that book which you Will you not, my too lovely friend, so love, you read it à deux. Did you will you not teach me, with fortitude not yourself pass a winter at Bath, like your own, to support your ab- when you were the belle of the assembly? Was there not a Lord Orville in your case too? As you think of him eleven lustres pass away. You look at him with the bright eyes of those days, and your hero stands before you, the brave, the accomplished, the simple, the true gentleman; and he makes the most elegant of bows to one of the most beautiful young women the world ever saw; and he leads you out to the cotillon, to the dear unforgotten music. Hark to the horns of Elfland, blowing, blowing! Bonne Vieille, you remember their melody, and your heart-strings thrill with it still. "Oh, my lord,' exclaimed I, 'rise, I beseech you; rise. Surely your lordship is not so cruel as to mock me.' "Mock you!' repeated he earnestly, 'no, I revere you. I esteem and admire you above all human beings! You are the friend to whom my soul is attached, as to its better half. You are the most amiable, the most perfect of women; and you are dearer to me than language has the power of telling.' "I attempt not to describe my sensations at that moment; I scarce breathed; I doubted if I existed; the blood forsook my cheeks, and my feet refused to sustain me. Lord Orville hastily rising supported me to a chair upon which I sank almost lifeless. "I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraven on my heart; but his protestations, his expressions, were too flattering for repetition; nor would he, in spite of my repeated efforts to leave him, suffer me to escape; in short, my dear sir, I was not pooof against his solicitations, and he drew from me, the most sacred secret of my heart!"* Other people may not much like this extract, madam, from your favor * Contrast this old perfumed, powdered D'Arblay conversation with the present modern talk. If the two young people wished to hide their emotions now-a-days, and express themselves in modest language, the story would run: "Whilst I was looking for the books, Lord Orville came in. He looked uncommonly down in the mouth, as he said, 'Is this true, Miss Anville; are you going to cut?' "To absquatulate, Lord Orville,' said "You're very quick about it,' said he. "Guess it's no great loss,' I remarked, as cheerfully as I could. "You don't think I'm chaffing?' said Orville, with much emotion. "What has Mrs. Selwyn done with the books?' I went on. "What, going?' said he, and going for good? I wish I was such a goodplucked one as you, Miss Anville,'" &c. be easily written down to this key; and The conversation, you perceive, might if the hero and heroine were modern, they would not be suffered to go through their dialogue on stilts, but would converse in the natural graceful way at present customary. By the way, what a strange custom that is in modern lady novelists to make the men bully the women! In the time of Miss Porter and Madame D'Arblay, we have respect, profound bows and courtesies, graceful courtesy, from men to women. In the time of Miss Brontë, absolute rudeness. Is it true, mesdames, that you like rudeness, and are pleased at being ill-used by men? I could point to more than one lady novelist who so represents you. necessary; his chief points out to him the architect of St. Paul's. He has and would never tire of him rescuing prisoners, punishing ruffians, and running scoundrels through the midriff with his most graceful rapier. Ah, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, you are a magnificent trio. I think I like d'Artagnan in his own memoirs best. I bought him years and years ago, price fivepence, in a little parchmentcovered Colonge-printed volume, at aly some hours. Sir Christopher is stall in Gray's Inn Lane. Dumas glorifies him and makes a Marshal of him; if I remember rightly, the original d'Artagnan was a needy adventurer, who died in exile very early in Louis XIV.'s reign. Did you ever read the" Chevalier d'Harmenthal"? Did you ever read the "Tulipe Noire," as modest as a story by Miss Edgeworth? I think of the prodigal banquets to which this Lucullus of a man has invited me, with thanks and wonder. To what a series of splendid entertainments he has treated me! Where does he find the money for these prodigious feasts? They say that all the works bearing Dumas's name are not written by him. Well? Does not the chief cook have aides under him? Did not Rubens's pupils paint on his canvases? Had not Lawrence assistants for his backgrounds? For myself, being also du métier, I confess I would often like to have a competent, respectable, and rapid clerk for the business part of my novels; and on his arrival, at eleven o'clock, would say, "Mr. Jones, if you please, the archbishop must die this morning in about five pages. Turn to article 'Dropsy' (or what you will) in Encyclopædia. Take care there are no medical blunders in his death. Group his daughters, physicians, and chaplains round him. In Wales's 'London,' letter B, third shelf, you will find an account of Lambeth, and some prints of the place. Color in with local coloring. daughter will come down, and speak to her lover in his wherry at Lambeth Stairs," &c., &c. Jones (an intelligent young man) examines the medical, historical, topographical books The ་ The editor of " The Cornhill Maga zine" (no soft and yielding character like his predecessor, but a man of stern resolution) will only allow these harmless papers to run to a certain length. But for this veto I should gladly have prattled over half a sheet more, and have discoursed on many heroes and heroines of novels whom fond memory brings back to me. these books I have been a diligent stu dent from those early days, which are recorded at the commencement of this Of little essay. Oh, delightful novels, well remembered! Oh, novels, sweet and delicious as the raspberry opentarts of budding boyhood! Do I forget one night after prayers (when we under-boys were sent to bed) lingering at my cupboard to read one little half-page more of my dear Walter Scott and down came the monitor's dictionary upon my head! Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York, I have loved thee faithfully for forty years! Thou wert twenty years old (say), and I but twelve, when I knew thee. At sixty odd, love, most of the ladies of thy Orient race have lost the bloom of youth, and bulged beyond the line of beauty; but to me thou art ever young and fair, and I will do battle with any felon Templar who assails thy fair name. ON A PEAR-TREE. we are armed; we are numerous; we are men of tremendous courage, who will defend our spoons with our lives; and there are barracks close by (thank goodness!) whence, at the noise of our shouts and firing, at least a thousand bayonets will bristle to our rescue. What sound is yonder? A church bell. I might go myself, but how listen to the sermon? listen to the sermon? I am thinking of those thieves who have made a ladder of my wall, and a prey of my pear-tree. They may be walking to church at this moment, neatly shaved, in clean linen, with every outward appearance of virtue. If I went, I know I should be watching the congregation, and thinking, "Is that one of the fellows who came over my wall?" If, after the reading of the eighth Commandment, a man sang out with particular energy, “Incline our hearts to keep this law," I should think, "Aha, Master Basso, did you have pears for breakfast this morning? Crime is walking round me, that is clear. Who is the perpetrator? A GRACIOUS reader no doubt has remarked that these humble sermons have for subjects some little event which happens at the preacher's own gate, or which falls under his peculiar cognizance. Once, you may remember, we discoursed about a chalk-mark on the door. This morning Betsy, the housemaid, comes with a frightened look, and says, "Law, mum! there's three bricks taken out of the garden wall, and the branches broke, and all-perhaps of attack. the pears taken off the pear-tree! Poor peaceful suburban pear-tree! Jail-birds have hopped about thy branches, and robbed them of their smoky fruit. But those bricks removed; that ladder evidently prepared, by which unknown marauders may enter and depart from my little Englishman's castle; is not this a subject of thrilling interest, and may it not be continued in a future number? that is the terrible question. Suppose, having escaladed the outer wall, the miscreants take a fancy to storm the castle? Well well! What a changed aspect the world has, since these last few lines were written! I have been walking round about my premises, and in consultation with a gentleman in a single-breasted blue coat, with pewter buttons, and a tape ornament on the collar. He has looked at the holes in the wall, and the amputated tree. We have formed our plan of defence Perhaps some day you may read in the papers, "DARING ATTEMPT AT BURGLARY HEROIC VICTORY OVER THE VILLAINS," &c., &c. Rascals as yet unknown! perhaps you, too, may read these words, and may be induced to pause in your fatal intention. Take the advice of a sincere friend, and keep off. To find a man writhing in my man-trap, another mayhap impaled in my ditch, to pick off another from my tree (scoundrel! as though he were a pear), will give me no pleasure; but such things may happen. Be warned in time, villains! |