The curls that clustered on the fair brow of the
daughter of the lion-hearted Maria Theresa in a night became grey. The
blood of the heir of a hundred kings was spilt like water. The storm
over, Europe witnessed a mighty change; old things had passed away, all
things had become new: the slavery of the past was gone; the vain
tradition of the elders was laughed to scorn: the political emancipation
of the people as an idea was already won, and the people--no longer dumb,
inarticulate, without intellectual life--conscious of its divine destiny,
became what it is. The clouds of ignorance were dispelled; wisdom lifted
up her voice in the street; knowledge tabernacled on earth. Hence even
the spread of a literature for the people--suited to their wants and
capacities--a literature they can buy, and read, and understand.

Some time back the _Times_ attempted to persuade us that our cheap
shilling volumes were doing us a world of harm. It was grievously
shocked to find that the people bought and read them, instead of its
healthy and stimulating columns. It thought we were really getting into
a very undesirable state. The _Times_ told us as proof, that we have now
translations of French trashy novels. We admit we have; but is that
anything new? Have we not always had a large class of readers of trashy
novels, French or otherwise? and even here have we not proof of progress?
Have not those very trashy novels lost the indecency which was their
characteristic at any earlier time? If we remember aright, Sir Walter
Scott states that a lady told him, in looking over some of the novels
which were fashionable in her youth she was utterly shocked at the
grossness which pervaded them, and that in that respect a most decided
improvement had taken place; and is this nothing? is this not a sign of
good? Nor is this the only sign; our sterling writers--the classics of
our land--are all published in a cheap form, so as to suit the pockets of
the people. The literature of the rail even is not so very bad after
all. Much of it is light and superficial, undoubtedly; nor is this to be
wondered at: the traveller must have something light, or he cannot read
at all. The book that requires thought is not for the rail, but the
quiet study. Your grave scholars, your most painful divines, now and
then put by the dictionary or the commentary, and read, it may be, the
_Times_. In both the same law operates. There are occasions when
reading