allude to the collection from periodicals and serials of fugitive pieces, which are reprinted under some quaint title, and evidently command a large sale, from the number of works of this nature produced. It is certainly an easy way of attaining popularity, for it at once identifies the author with those periodicals in which the papers originally appeared, and places him on a level in the public mind with the writers of repute who honour those periodicals with their productions; but we fear that such volumes, if carefully examined, will not at all enhance the true and lasting fame of the author. The great evil of the present day is straining after effect, and that word-painting which has become so fashionable, but, after all, is so unmeaning: it is, moreover, the easiest possible matter to achieve, for it requires knack, and not thought. Picturesqueness of style and quaintness of diction are too often employed to veil the utter absence of thought: in a word, authors write too much, not because they have something to say, but because they have entered into engagements to produce a certain amount of copy, for which they expect the ever-welcome cheque. When this fashion becomes tedious to the public, and they long for simpler fare, and a return to the sturdy Anglo-Saxon, we do not believe that one of the books to which we have alluded will survive the general collapse. There was a capital rule once laid down by the grey-haired author for the aspiring youth in literature: "Go through your copy carefully and knock out all the adjectives." But this rule, healthy as it is, would not do in the present day, for the prevalent fault of our literature is verbiage, and an ardent necessity to make two words take the place of one. We grant that the effect thus produced is extremely striking, and has a varnish of cleverness, but when dissected the result is most barren and impotent. Strained similes, confused metaphors, and repeated sins against taste by the employment of slangy expressions to do duty for wit-such are the prevailing sins of our literature, and such they will remain, until the public put their veto upon them. But you may wander in vain through this wide waste of words to find an original idea. In this instance you may walk from Dan to Beersheba, and, with your hand on your heart, safely assert that all is barren-but, then, it pays. We think we have shown how it is that the professional author of today "brille par son absence" from the lists of sterling literature, and we do not well see how it can be otherwise, as he cannot be expected to waste his time over unprofitable speculations. When he began writing, and really believed in literature as a profession, honouring and honoured, he may have thrown his whole mind into a work worth tenfold anything he now produces, but which failed from the lack of technical knowledge and the art of displaying his wares to the best advantage, so as to attract the attention of the public. But so soon as he has drifted into an employment which keeps the wolf from the door, it is remarkable what a change comes over his views: he regards his occupation as one which should return him the largest weekly stipend possible, and becomes a manufacturer instead of an originator. We do not say this by way of disparagement, but we own to a regret that this process of conversion has brought our literature to a very low ebb. It has long been a matter of reproach against French authors that they convert the tenderest feel ings into "copy," and though we are far from having attained that point, the practical spirit is so prevalent among our authors, that they have fallen into the rule of only regarding the solid pudding and caring little for the empty praise. To a great extent we believe this to be the cause of that picturesque and ornate style of writing to which we have alluded: time not admitting of thought, the popular author beats out his gold to the thinnest dimensions, and trusts to the ornamentation to distract attention from the intrinsic value of the metal. The quantity of copy produced by a writer in vogue is something astounding, and what is published with his name is not a tithe of what he turns out under the protection of the anonymous. The constant wear and tear of mind would be impossible if writers thought of what they were saying, and hence we have another prolific cause of that barrenness we complain of. But it is the spirit of the age to make money, and authors must not be blamed if they follow the general rule. Besides, the public have the remedy in their own hands, for they cause the demand, and if they run after the author of the hour, he is justified in satisfying them, his only care being that he does not nauseate. We have purposely drawn a wide line of demarcation between the professional author and the amateur, and we think we can easily determine where each should begin and end. The latter may be allowed still to supply the number of three-volumed novels required, and the other will not interfere. If he desire to have a word with the public in a serial form, there are plenty of periodicals open to him, and their number, in all probability, will largely increase. On the other hand, it must be borne in mind that the professional author has much to contend against: every one who thinks proper can enter the republic and create a competition injurious to all. There is nothing so easy as to set up for a literary man, and hence that profession becomes the temporary refuge of all those who have failed in law, physic, and divinity. It is hardly possible to mention one author of the day, indeed, who was not intended for something else, and better, and who drifted, as it were, into literature owing to circumstances beyond his control. And the profession certainly has its fascinations; apart from the vanity of seeing one's name in print, the author is emancipated from all authority, and has, after all, more time on his hands than any other profession affords. The worst evil against which authors have to contend is the possession of no professional status, and the want of recognition in society as forming a definite class. Efforts have been made, spasmodically as it were, to correct this, but the only possible remedy is not available: that is, the refusal of admission to its ranks of those who do not pass a regular examination. This, of course, is not feasible, and the next best thing is for authors to act with that scrupulousness which will prevent malice from assailing them. Regarded to a certain extent as public property, their smallest foibles are held up in an odious light, and slander finds acceptable food in their short-comings. There is one point, above all, which we think should be taken into consideration; the error of appealing to the public in cases of distress. This is a relic of the old Grub street days, when authors were looked upon as slightly inferior to porters, and was tolerable at a period when authors were compelled to obtain their livelihood by book-work exclusively. At present, however, this has quite changed: no professional literary man but has a pied-àterre on the press which keeps him from penury, and his earnings only depend on his industry. As a general rule, his income is superior to that averaged in the other professions, and if these have prizes to bestow which literature cannot offer, on the other hand, they claim the close and constant attention of their votaries. We only hear, however, in exceptional cases, of public appeals being made on behalf of the families of struggling physicians and barristers, but it seems to be degenerating into a rule in literature. In the liberal professions men are regarded but coldly who do not lay by some portion of their income for the future provision of their families; but such instances, common in literature, are expected to be charitably regarded. This is radically wrong; and till the system be abolished, there is no prospect of professional authors obtaining the status in society which they have a right to claim. Efforts have already been made in this direction, but have unfortunately failed through the want of cohesion, which is the misfortune of literary men. Still, it is a matter to which the attention of the Literary Society might be satisfactorily turned, instead of wasting time in internal squabbles. If a broad scheme were brought forward, offering reasonable chances of success, we feel assured that all literary men would give it an honest support. There is no time for such a thing as the present, when literature is in so exceptionably a flourishing condition. We write more in sorrow than in anger; but we know that a very strong feeling on this very point exists among the outer world, and it behoves literary men to show that they are themselves prepared to put the shoulder to the wheel. But let us return to a pleasanter theme. If we have had reason to complain of literature as represented by books, the periodical branch, we are glad to consider, has received a great accession of strength; and it could not well be otherwise, seeing that it has claimed the services of the first men of the day. All our great writers bestow their energies on the serials they have under their management, and the result is such as has never been seen before in the world of letters. It is a curious result, however, of the tendencies of the age, and it is an open question whether the public have produced it, or whether it has been forced on them-that is to say, whether readers prefer light literature in a serial form, or have been tempted by the attractions it offers. The quantity of books annually produced is decidedly on the increase, but that is only, perhaps, in a ratio to the spread of education; but the broad fact remains the same, that a new path has been struck out in periodical literature, which for the present, at any rate, offers every prospect of success. The only apprehension is that this may be overdone; but, after all, it is a question which must be left to the discretion of publishers. Curiously enough, the demand for such productions is spreading in Germany, where periodicals have hitherto ever died out, after a few weeks' sickly existence, of sheer inanition, for we hear of the Deutsches Magazine just started in Berlin. In France, they have long been an institution, and the Revue des Deux Mondes has as yet defied rivalry, and will do so as long as it is conducted with the same spirit and energy that now characterise it. In conclusion, we must express our belief that the present state of literature in England is transitional, and that it will lead to better things. Among much that is to be regretted, there is a germ of hope, and whenever the present fashion, which insists on straining after effect as the first condition of literary success, has died out, and we revert to simpler writing, an upward and onward tendency will soon be perceptible. In the mean while, let us accept in a satisfied spirit what is offered us, and if there be not much to instruct, at any rate we have an ample fund of amusement ever present to hand. WAITING TILL MY SHIP COMES HOME. BY MARY C. F. MUNSTER. I'LL build myself a palace Shall foam a hundred rills; Before, the grand wide ocean, With piles of giant wave-worn rocks, And there shall one who loves me I'll go into the highways, Down-trodden in the strife; I'll heal with gold and kindness The wounds which want hath dealt, And wake the sullen spirit To joy too long unfelt; I'll seek the sunless darkness, And hope shall enter in; I'll tell them of His mercy Thus said I, young and sanguine, When life and health and spirit Were at their fullest flow; But though long I've watched and waited, No ship that called me owner Hath come to bless my sight. The waves and winds may keep it In truth I care not now For Death hath set his signet On one fair maiden brow, And the heart that lies so pulseless IN MEMORIAM. BRABAZON-DE NORMAN-BOWLBY. BY JOHN B. SHAW. Too soon, alas! the ghastly rumour grows And now, in hearts by dark forebodings rack'd, They slowly died. Heav'n grant their souls repose! O Hero-Spirits, shall your fate remain. The barbarous horde shall learn, though late, to know |