abridger of the history of England are eulogised by a thousand pens, there seems a general agreement to slight the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.’

I had quite forgotten till I came upon this passage that Miss Austen had such ‘a kick in her,’ and I remember how I honoured her for it and sympathised with her sentiments.  ’When pain and anguish wring the brow,’ we all know who is the comforter; but next to her, and when the brow is getting a little better, we welcome the novelist.

With our face aslant on the pillow, we once more make acquaintance with the characters that have been the delight of our youth, and find they delight us still, but with a difference.  The animal spirits of Smollett and Fielding are a little too much for us; there is not sympathy enough in them for our own condition; they seem to have been fellows who were never ill.  Perhaps ‘Humphrey Clinker,’ though it drags at the end, and the political disquisitions are intolerable, is the funniest book that ever was written; but the faculty of appreciation for it is not now in us.  We turn with relief to Scott, though not to ‘Scott’s Works,’ in the sense in which the phrase is generally used, as though they were a foundry from which everything is issued of the same workmanship and excellence; whereas there is as much difference between them as there was in her Majesty’s ships of old between the gallant seventy-four and the crazy troopship.  The invalid, however, as I have said, is far from critical; he only knows what he likes.  Judged by this fastidious standard, he finds ‘Waverley’ somewhat wearisome, and, as to the first part of it in particular, wonders, not that the Great Unknown should have kept it in his desk for years as a comparative failure, but that he should have ever taken it from that repository.  ‘The Antiquary,’ which in health he used to admire, or think he did, exceedingly, has also a narcotic effect; but ‘Rob Roy’ revives him, and ‘Ivanhoe’ stirs him like a trumpet-call.

What is very curious, just as the favourite literature of a cripple is almost always that which treats of force and action, so upon our sick-bed we turn most gladly to scenes of heroism and adventure.  The famous ride in ‘Geoffrey Hamlyn,’ where the fate of the heroine, threatened with worse than death from the bush-rangers, hangs upon the horse’s speed, seems to us, as we lie abed, one of the finest episodes in fiction.  ‘Tom Cringle’s Log,’ too, becomes a great favourite, not more from its buoyancy and freshness than from the melodramatic scenes with which it is interspersed.

In some moods of the sick man’s mind, his morbid appetite tends, strange to say, to horrors.  He ‘snatches a fearful joy’ from the weird and supernatural.  I have known those terrible tales of Le Fanu, entitled ‘In a Glass Darkly,’ which for dramatic power and eeriness no other novelist has ever approached, devoured greedily by those whose physical sustenance has been dry toast and arrowroot.