Charles Wentworth, Esq.," and a host of other equally forgotten books.

But it is the twice-christened "Old English Baron," which of all Miss Reeve's productions is the only one now at all read; and it is a tale which, to one taking a comprehensive view of fictitious literature is interesting and instructive. The novel had for generations pushed the old romance out of popular esteem, and for more than a century readers of fiction in their delight in studying pictures true to life, scorned to be amused by the trifling and mummery of supernatural agencies. A party, however, of which Horace Walpole may be regarded as the head and chief, now rose to proclaim the excellencies of the old romance, and to call once more into use its impossible incidents and unimpressive terrors. "The Castle of Otranto" was published in 1764, and Mrs. Radcliffe's first romantic novel appeared in 1789. Between these two dates, in 1777, (books were not then published at the rate of thousands every season) came forth "The Old English Baron."

The tale was dedicated to Richardson's daughter, Mrs. Brigden, whom the authoress addresses, in the rotund and elegant phraseology of the period, as one "more solicitous to deserve the acknowledgements of a grateful heart, than to receive them." In her preface, Miss Reeve candidly informed the public of the sources from which the story was drawn, as well as the considerations which had influenced her in its composition. It was, to use her own words, "the literary offspring of the Castle of Otranto,' written upon the same plan, with a design to unite the most attractive and interesting circumstances of ancient Romance and modern novel." But though in composing "The Old English Baron," she made, to some extent, Horace Walpole's romance her model, she intended to be no slavish copyist; on the contrary, she proposed to take a decided step in advance of her master. It appeared to her that the super

VOL. I.

T

natural forces employed in "The Castle of Otranto" were too extravagant. She did not object to a little ghostly horror, but it must be within bounds; she was willing to be amused by the incredible if she could believe it; but such astounding fabrications as Walpole's, no excitement of imagination could enable her to regard for one moment as facts. "Had the story," she says, in her preface in reference to the "Castle of Otranto" "been kept within the utmost verge of probability, the effect had been preserved, without losing the least circumstance that excites or detains the attention. For instance, we can conceive, and allow of the appearance of a ghost; we can even dispense with an enchanted sword and helmet; but then they must keep within certain limits of credibility." Miss Reeve, therefore, confined her imagination to sepulchral groans arising at stated periods, and to remarkable dreams, and, with these exceptions, admitted into her most improbable story no statement that the most prosaic lover of fact could cavil at, as being impossible. Strange evidence this-how impossible it is to re-animate the dead bones of the old romance! Here is a writer who was especially interested in effecting the resuscitation, declaring that galvanic effect, let it be attended by ever so much muscular action, would not induce beholders to believe in it as veritable and healthy life,-in other words, that no art could enable the machinery of the old romance to win that support without which every literature must die-the credence and respect of its readers.

More of Clara Reeve we need not say. Ungifted with imagination, or language, or extensive reading, or good taste, she occupies a place amongst popular writers of the lowest grade. Her information was scanty, her diction constrained and mean, and the characters which people her pages are no more like men and women, than the cheapest Dutch dolls are like children. That "The Old English Baron" was only seventy years ago esteemed by critics an excellent

work of fiction, and became very popular, are facts that most forcibly declare the advance made during the last two generations in education and general intelligence.

Miss Reeve's quiet and comparatively uneventful life closed in her native town, Ipswich, on the 3rd of December, 1803, in the seventy-ninth year of her age. She was buried in St. Stephen's churchyard, in that prosperous and goodly borough.

CHAPTER XIV.

HENRY MACKENZIE.

THE best memoir of Henry Mackenzie is that written by Sir Walter Scott, who in his grateful affection for the author of the "Man of Feeling," and out of politeness to the old man who was still living, failed to perform honestly his biographic duties, by substituting pompous eulogy for candid criticism, and by indulging in complaisant compliments when there was need of censure. But Sir Walter was a Scotchman, and patriotism compelled him to represent Mackenzie as the equal of Addison, Richardson, and Sterne, just as the same sentiment had induced him to place Smollett on the same level with Fielding, in respect of descent, education, and intellect. Sir Walter, moreover, was something better than a mere Scotchman, he was a man endowed with a large amount of chivalric love and veneration for "the fathers" of his generation, for the men whom a general fair repute, joined to venerable years and decorous manners, distinguished as the "elders of the land." When, therefore, he was called upon, in his young and growing fame, to state his opinion of the literary achievements of the grand old man he had looked up to from boyhood, he was disposed to applaud rather than condemn; and even when his judgment reproved him for the warmth of his praise, he re-assured himself with reflecting, that under the circumstances to refrain from causing pain was the part of good taste, and to flatter was a duty. Still at this date, when Mackenzie has long been dead, and his courteous biographer has long been in his grave, we feel

that it would have been well had the latter been less extravagantly kind.

On the 25th of July, 1745, the unfortunate Prince Charles Stuart landed in Scotland, and on the 19th of August following, he raised his standard. On that same 19th of August, Henry Mackenzie raised in Edinburgh his first infantile cry, to let the world know that he too was entitled to make a little fuss, and to grumble at men's ways. His parents were of the middle class of society, his father being a Dr. Joshua Mackenzie, and his mother having, as the eldest daughter of Mr. Rose, of Kilravock, some claims to antiquity of descent.

After having received an education at the High-school and University of Edinburgh, Henry Mackenzie was articled to a Mr. Inglis of Redhall, for the purpose of learning exchequer business, a department of the law where as an attorney, he would meet with the fewest opponents to his success. In 1765, he proceeded to London to complete his legal studies. Of course, in the capital he met with friends (what articled clerk does not?) who urged him to give up the thought of applying to the humble vocation of a Scotch attorney, and to prepare himself for the English bar, and the English bench. At first he was tickled with the complimentary proposal, and would fain have acted upon the advice; but his family dissuaded him from so mad a scheme, and he was sensible enough to obey their wise counsels. He returned to Edinburgh, entered into partnership with his old master, Mr. Inglis, and eventually succeeded that gentleman in the office of attorney for the Crown,

Henry Mackenzie went to London in 1765, with some slight literary reputation, for his tragedy, "The Prince of Tunis," was acted with success in Edinburgh, when he was about eighteen years old, in the year 1763. He, therefore, commenced authorship early enough.

After fixing in his native city for good and ay, he was