disgraced. There was a marked vigor in literary circles. The interval between that time and the present, has produced no authors who have written in such pure English. Literature has experienced vicissitudes, similar to those which have befallen civilization. Every species of progress demands some dark hours for a portion of its work. Darkness always presages a glorious dawn. The era in which we are living is, evidently, the morning of a new literary day. The number of authors may be no greater than have been contemporaries in the past, yet they manifest a keener insight into the laws which cultivation and taste command us to obey. The public tolerates the offenses to propriety which the members of the Addisonian school too often committed, in view of their other recommendations. No such liberties would be allowed to an author of the present. This is our advantage over the 18th century. It is the removal of those obnoxious features which discolor the pages of Fielding and Swift. A general purification has taken place in ideas and expressions.

The improvement of the past fifty years, is principally manifest in the novel. In place of the poorest, fiction now offers the finest contributions to literature. The most gifted men of the age are novelists. They have appeared to satisfy the public mind, no longer contented with its old favorites.

From these protracted remarks concerning literature, we shall, it is hoped, be prepared to understand more correctly the novelist of to-day, who is the simplest, and seemingly the most retiring. The writings of Anthony Trollope, possess a quality which will not immediately obtain popular favor. Although the people are more perfectly comprehending true merit, yet those distinguished novelists, who weave the most intricate web of circumstances, are sure of the first audience at the public ear. He who hides his real beauty behind a modest veil, can trust that no rude person will come to stare at him. His readers will be select. The common herd will rush to seemingly greener spots, while the keen eye chooses the less attractive nooks, where the choicest herbage grows.

I do not purpose to examine the comparative merits of his various novels, but to present the peculiarities of Barchester Towers, relative to the other English works. One, instituting a comparison between an English and American author, would be led to very erroneous conclusions, by trusting entirely to the ideas derived from an acquaintance with his own society, while ignorant of the opinions in the other. An estimate, formed from two writers of the same nationality, is more satisfactory, because each is judged by the same quantity of intelligence.

The American idea may be correct, but, for the sake of candor, it should not denounce a foreigner for not conforming with its dictates. The history of the novel in England has been analogous with its progress in our own country. The scenes of old colonial life, have been exhausted. Cooper has so faithfully delineated the habits of the Red man, that there is neither the necessity for further attempts, nor the courage to undertake them. The abundant harvest of the revolution has been duly garnered. A host of gleaners has ransacked every corner for incidents and adventures. Recent authors have chosen tamer themes and more quiet characters. The wild life of the republic's infancy has disappeared, and the novelty of its description has also departed. The days of the Pathfinder and Captain Warrenton, have passed away, with the disturbing elements which produced them. Holland, and Holmes, have taken the places which Cooper and his contemporaries occupied. Elsie Venner, and Miss Gilbert's Career, are the products of the present age.

The scenes which the earlier English novelists portrayed, were those of country and city life. They were the incidents of those tranquil days, when squire and tenant acknowledged their interdependence, and led their simple lives, hunting, fishing, and celebrating old England's hallowed festivals. Then came the age of highwaymen, furnishing to fiction a rich source for plot and scenery. Afterwards, the great wars, both civil and foreign, enriched the field, and there grew a luxuriant crop. Men came to improve the harvest. Foremost among these were Bulwer and Dickens, each peculiar and characteristic. One, an abstract reasoner, who deals with the parts of nature which are faintly understood. The other takes the appearance of the world in its work-day suit. He is content with viewing life as it is and seems, but Bulwer wanders off into realms of thought, and not only describes, but meditates. While Dickens attempts a reform in the abuses of the social system, Bulwer endeavors to regulate the opinions of men in regard to the relations of the Soul to the World. Both have, generally, chosen subjects which will awaken an interest, apart from the style of narration. But now they, with other Englishmen, are, like American novelists, turning their attention to the more passive garb which the society of to-day has adopted.

Prominent among this class of authors is Trollope. His Barchester Towers, is a true representative of the style which I have tried to describe. It is entirely free from that kind of fascination which constitutes the especial charm of the "Strange Story," or "Barnaby Rudge." There is little of that interest which is usually connected

with the idea of a novel; and a casual glance, might perceive in it nothing valuable. The subject matter is not congenial to many minds. The discussions and descriptions of ecclesiastical manners is often exceedingly common-place. But, that which in most authors would be unbearable, in Barchester Towers, renders a most important service. The very quietness of the circumstances presents an opportunity to study, uninterruptedly, the dramatis personæ, and their relation to each other. The painting of some tragic scene, which fills us with an admiring awe, by the force of its expression prevents the exercise of our judgment. On the other hand, the artist who sketches some beautiful landscape, by escaping criticism, deserves greater praise and evinces a purer æsthetic culture. The same may be said of those who paint life in words. Barnaby Rudge is lost to view amid the ceaseless flow of incidents which pour around his life. Mr. Harding, and Dr. Grantly, rise above the story, and their temperaments and dispositions are the objects ever before the mind. The lack of exciting transactions does not tire us, because the contemplation of the life and habits of the leading personages affords us sufficient enjoyment.

The study of the two individuals mentioned above, would alone offer thought enough for an Article. They are counterparts. Their united peculiarities would make a perfect man. The bold enthusiasm and energy of Dr. Grantly, should be joined to the modest sincerity of Mr. Harding, and the nice susceptibility of the Warden, with the practical tendency of the Archbishop. They are both good men, with right intent, and earnest purposes, yet their extreme qualities led them into some foolish ideas and actions.

The hypocrisy of Slope, and the truthfulness of Arabin, are in strong contrast. The fickleness of La Signorina is clearly depicted by a comparison with the devotion of Mrs. Bold. Thus each character represents a property of human nature.

The object of the story is, to trace the influence upon society of Energy and Modesty, Hypocrisy and Truth, Sincerity and Fickleness. It cannot fail to teach lessons which the hour demands. The book is not entirely void of that interest which a novel of worth always will create. There is sufficient doubt as to the result, to keep curiosity alive, and banish every feeling of weariness. Besides, there is an under-current of sarcasm, which is often presented with especial fitness. It touches all those national customs and institutions in which men take excessive pride. It resembles the ridicule which Holmes throws upon social hobbies, only that its thrusts are made with greater cau

tion. In the description of the Jupiter, Trollope shows what power an important paper has over the ideas and actions of a people, and gives his own countrymen some excellent advice, which they should follow. If the Englishman placed less confidence in the London Times, and more in that good common sense which he inherits from his fathers, it would not only benefit himself, but others.

There are true lessons in Barchester Towers. Its teachings come to us with ever-renewing freshness, and will give us a guiding hand along the pathway of life. Hypocrisy can never triumph. It may seem to possess a temporary victory, but at the moment of its apparent success, the elements of ruin have seized its vitals. Truth and sincerity are the proper lamps with which to direct our course. The path to which they point may be lonely; no scenes of pleasure or festivity may give cheer on the way; yet they never fail in reaching the grand central Light, whither all eyes are turned. Determination and decision are the agents which invigorate society, while vacillation and uncertainty will overcloud the brightest spirits. However, that modesty and keen sense of the honorable, which often excludes all practical thoughts, are objects of praise and the deepest admiration.

There remains for us no time to particularize the other teachings of this novel. It is well to read such a book, and when it is laid aside, there is a pleasant feeling of good obtained, and correct opinions established. Trollope is the leader of a new revolution in the world of fiction, which will correct popular taste, and exert a beneficial influence on public morality.

J. H. B.

THE YALE LITERARY PRIZE ESSAY.

The Novel.

GEORGE SCOVILL HAMLIN, SHARON, CONN.

THE Novel, in its distinctive character, has its birth at a somewhat advanced period in the literary history of a nation. Early fiction consists, rather in exaggeration than in invention. In a rude age, the

office of historian and romancer is combined. History and romance derive, each from the other, additional interest and effect. The popular taste receives its highest gratification from listening to the exploits performed by a nation's own heroes, and sung by its own bards. In embellishing and multiplying these exploits, minds under the dominion of an imagination restless and excitable, but impatient of control and unwilling to be tasked, find their most congenial employment. For the more artificial and laborious work of pure invention, they are fitted neither by inclination, nor by those habits of thought, those views of life, which are the results of observation and reflection, continued through successive generations. Nor does the life itself men lead in such an age, moving forward, in all the simplicity of nature, to its great termination, without the complexity it afterward assumes, furnish the varied material, out of which a narrative entirely fictitious may best be woven.

But, gradually, the plot thickens. Human life becomes more intricate in its relations, and, throughout all its departments, gathers to itself a deeper significance. More and more it excites the interest, and fixes the attention of those, who are at once actors and spectators in the great drama, if, perchance, they may pierce its mystery, and discern something of its meaning and issues. As the scattered elements of society combine, so does the constitution of society-the development of those laws which bind together great masses, which harmonize and control them in this state of union-rise in importance and interest. Thus the necessity of an accurate record of social conditions and movements is suggested; history and fiction gradually disunite, and become confined, each to its own province. Meanwhile, from the speculations to which an ever growing interest in the great problem of life incites, have been educed principles and theories to dictate the outline, and suggest the filling up of that picture, which the Novelist strives to present. The imagination, too, has learned to embody abstractions, and to blend in one consistent whole the scattered results of observation. And, withal, life itself, shifting its scenes with greater facility, while it places individuals in more varied and intricate relations to one another and to society, becomes an endless storehouse, from which to draw the materials of invention.

From some such revolution in life and letters, as I have described, the Novel takes its rise.

What, now, is the office of this new element in literature? For us this inquiry should have a very real interest. For us the age of Novels has long since dawned, and with it has arisen a power, which,