ves of the library, or the delight of the fireside.
When a work suddenly attains great immediate celebrity in a particular
circle or country, it is generally, though not always, an indication that
it is not destined to enjoy any lasting reputation. The reason is, that it
is addressed to local feelings, temporary passions, and particular
desires; and it rises to eminence from interesting or gratifying them. But
that is not the way permanently to attract mankind. Nothing can do so but
what is addressed to the universal feeling of our nature, and has
penetrated to the inmost chords, which are common to all ages and
countries. The touching them alone can secure durable fame.

Where now are all the novels portraying fashionable life with which the
shops of publishers teemed, and the shelves of circulating libraries
groaned, not ten years ago? Buried in the vault of all the Capulets. Where
will the novels portraying manners in the lowest walks of life be ten
years hence? He is a bold man who says they will be found in one
well-selected library. We do not dispute the vast ability of some of these
productions. We are well aware of the fidelity with which they have
painted the manners of the middle class, previously little touched on in
novels; we fully admit the pathos and power of occasional passages, the
wit and humour of many others, the graphic delineation of English
character which they all contain. But, admitting all this, the question
is--have these productions come up to the true standard of novel-writing?
Are they fitted to elevate and purify the minds of their readers? Will the
persons who peruse, and are amused, perhaps fascinated, by them, become
more noble, more exalted, more spiritual beings, than they were before? Do
not these novels, able and amusing as they are, bear the same relation to
the lofty romances of which our literature can boast, that the Boors of
Ostade, or the Village Wakes of Teniers, do to the Madonnas of Guido, or
the Holy Families of Raphael? These pictures were and are exceedingly
popular in Flanders and Holland, where their graphic truth could be
appreciated; but are they ever regarded as models of the really beautiful
in painting? We leave it to the most ardent admirers of the Jack Sheppard
school to answer these questions.

The doctrine now so prevalent is essentially erroneous, that the manners
of the middle or lowest class are the fit object of the novelist, because
they are natural. Many