plot were filched from all quarters-very probably, however, without the knowledge of the authoress. To account for the popularity which "Evelina" attained to, we must remember that the age had not learnt to be fastidious as to refinements of manner, and that the writings of Fielding, Smollett, Richardson, and Sterne had aroused a violent appetite for imaginative prose literature, to satisfy which society had not at its command a sufficient supply of decent writers. Of the morality of this novel (and, indeed, of all the others of this authoress) little can be advanced in the way of eulogy. It is true she did not depict painful scenes of sensuality, but she never has (with all her moral painting) any higher standard by which to measure an act, or thought, than that of social propriety; "the vulgar" was that which moved her bitterest contempt, and "the genteel" was that on which she expended her warmest admiration; and she was one of the first of those novelists (of whom Theodore Hook was the greatest) who earned a degrading popularity by pouring ridicule, such as a wealthy and well-fed menial hurls at a less fortunate companion in servitude, on the manners and habits of the class in which their fathers and mothers, and they themselves, were born and bred. The awkwardness, the ignorance, and the repulsive features of all that we understand by the comprehensive and expressive term, "ill-breeding," the being branded by which is the bitterest portion of the common herd, are no fit subjects for sarcasm; the essentially coarse may make them the objects of their insolence, even as ungenerous natures are sometimes found ready to mock the cripple for his personal deformity, but such cruel consequences of the accidents of fortune will awake in a noble breast no harder feeling than commiseration.

In her three last novels, "Cecilia," "Camilla," and "The Wanderer," Madame d'Arblay relied more upon herself for materials and style; and the fruits of this self-de

pendance are a collection of as stupid, lethargic, and affected volumes as can be found in the entire library of fiction. It is true that "Cecilia" had a great sale, but its success followed from the reputation of "Evelina," and its readers were not so polished and discerning as the public for which the author of the present age has to cater. And it is true that "Camilla" put three thousand pounds into the writer's pocket; but when "The Wanderer" appeared, it did so before a new generation, accustomed to far better things, and the manifestations of public contempt for it were loud and general. It makes one smile, to read in Byron's life the note he makes of his publisher having spoken to him of a certain new novel ("The Wanderer"), and the reverential timidity with which he adds that "he shall be very cautious in venturing an opinion on her whose Cecilia,' Dr. Johnson superintended." Here is a picture of that enviable security, which hedges round an achieved reputation. Byron, in his 24th year, shrinks at the thought of uttering a condemnatory criticism on Madame d'Arblay's "Wanderer," because Dr. Johnson, dead and buried an age ago, was understood to have superintended the composition of that miserably vapid novel, "Cecilia!" Most characteristic too, is this avowal of the man whose morbid respect for the world's opinion drove him into war with it, and whose anguish under its lashes ever increased as time embittered the conflict.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ELIZABETH INCHBALD.

ELIZABETH Inchbald, the accomplished actress and popular author of numerous plays and two novels, was the daughter of a Suffolk tenant farmer named Simpson, of Standingfield, in the county of Suffolk. She was born on the 15th of October, 1753, and when she was only eight years old, her father died, leaving his widow encumbered with debt, to manage as she best could the affairs of the small farm, and a large family, consisting of two boys, and several remarkably well-looking girls.

Norfolk and Suffolk agriculturists are proverbially rich, it being no uncommon thing for a tenant farmer of those counties to possess an equipage fit for the ring of Hyde Park. Even the poorer of the class would be considered wealthy in most other counties. The Simpsons therefore, though embarrassed and in a small way of business, must be regarded as surrounded by many of the refinements which are the usual consequence of wealth. They were moreover Roman Catholics, which circumstance procured them much notice from the neighbouring gentry who were of the same faith. Their visiting list contained upwards of a hundred names, of which many belonged to members of influential and aristocratic families. The girls were in the habit of taking tea with Sir Thomas and Lady Gage, and of receiving courtesies from the Parkers, and Talbots.

As the family grew up, George and Elizabeth conceived a great fondness for the stage. They were in the custom of

frequently attending the performances, and sometimes the rehearsals, at the Bury Theatre, where they had friends amongst the actors. So enamoured were the brother and sister of all they saw of the life of players, that they resolved to seek engagements from some provincial manager. In the April of 1770, George obtained the much desired post, and

Elizabeth vowed she would not leave a stone unturned to do the like.

She wrote to Mr. Richard Griffiths, the manager of the Norwich Theatre, soliciting an engagement; and that worthy gentleman, without committing himself by promising to take an inexperienced girl into his service, so managed his communications with the young lady, that she made in printed characters the following entry in her pocket book for 1770.

R.I.C.H.A.R.D

G.R.I.F.F.I.T.H.

"Each dear letter of thy name is harmony."

Not succeeding in the great object of her application to Mr. Griffiths, the poor girl grew unsettled, and dissatisfied. with her home. It was hard to be a dairy maid, when she was longing to act the part of a fairy. For the sake of a change she took French leave of Standingfield, and made her way to London, where three of her sisters were settled as the wives of respectable but humble men, one being married to a Mr. Hunt, a tailor residing in a court leading out of Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane, and the other two being united respectively to Mr. Huggins and Mr. Slender, men in the rank of mechanics. Her sisters treated the runa-way girl very kindly, gave her a round of the sights of London, introduced her to a Mr. Inchbald-a young actorwho was destined to become her husband, and then sent her back to her mother.

She still cherished hopes of getting an engagement from Mr. Griffiths, and still owned a warm affection for him, although she was fairly in love with Mr. Inchbald, as the following amusing entry in her pocket-book testifies.

"1772. Jan. 22nd. Saw Mr. Griffith's picture.

28th.

Stole it.

29th.

Rather disappointed at not receiving

a letter from Mr. Inchbald."

At last she found that Mr. Griffith would not do for her what she required of him, and furious with disappointment she, for a second time, eloped from home, and went to London. Having reached the metropolis, she did not go to her sisters, but took every precaution to prevent their discovering her. Anxious for privacy, and full of terror lest she should be ruined in "the wonderful London" she knew so little of, she behaved like a frantic person, changing her quarters from one poor inn to another, and rousing the suspicions of all who observed her wild demeanour. She hoped to get employed in one of the theatres. It was a perilous position for her. Ignorant of the world into which she was anxious to thrust her childish face, very beautiful, not nineteen years of age, and of an ardent temperament, she was just the creature for a victim to sinful passion. Luckily, ere any harm was done, the foolish girl was accidentally met in the street by her brother-in-law, Slender, who took possession of her. She was not packed off to the country, for her sisters were desirous to keep her with them for a time, and Mrs. Simpson gave them permission to do so. Mr. Inchbald now appeared again on the scene, and after fighting a hard battle with prudence, married the young lady on the 9th of June, 1772.

The union was not a happy one. The husband was, at the time of his wedding, 37 years old,-his wife was not nineteen; he was of a suspicious temper, and had led an immoral life, she was irritable, flighty, vain, and always on the look out for a flirtation. They quarrelled incessantly. Still it appears that in respect of conjugal fidelity, in unfailing attention to her husband's interests, and in the care she bestowed on his illegitimate child, Mrs. Inchbald acted a righteous part.