But even gold is not everything:  and only a fanatic, and a rather foolish fanatic, would say that this style of fiction summed up and exhausted all the good that fiction could give and do.  Miss Austen’s art excludes (it has been said) tragedy; it does not let in much pure romance; although its variety is in a way infinite, yet it is not various in infinite ways, but rather in very finite ones.  Everybody who denies its excellence is to be blamed:  but nobody is to be blamed for saying that he should like some other excellences as well.  The desire is innocent, nay commendable:  and it was being satisfied, at practically the same time, by the work of Sir Walter Scott in a kind of novel almost as new (when we regard it in connection with its earlier examples) as Miss Austen’s own.  This was the Historical novel, which, in a way, not only subsumed many though not quite all varieties of Romance, but also summoned to its aid not a little—­in fact a very great deal—­of the methods of the pure novel itself.

It is not very long since a critic, probably not very old, sentenced the critical opinions of another critic, certainly not very young, to “go into the melting pot” because they were in favour of the historical novel:  and because the historical novel had for some time past done great harm (I think the phrase was stronger) to the imaginative literature of England.  Now there are several things which might be said about this judgment—­I do not say “in arrest” of it, because it is of itself inoperative:  as it happens you cannot put critical opinions in the melting pot.  At least, they won’t melt:  and they come out again like the diabolic rat that Mr. Chips tried to pitch-boil.  In the first place, there is the question whether the greater part by far of the imaginative and other literature of any time does not itself “go into the melting pot,” and whether it much matters what sends it there.  In the second, if this seems too cynical, there is the very large and grave question whether a still larger proportion of the novel of manners, in England, France, and all other countries during the same time, has not been as bad as, or worse than, the romantic division, historical or other.  But the worst faults of the judgment remain.  In the first place there is the fatal shortness of view.  It is with the literature of two thousand, not with the literature of twenty, years that the true critic has to do:  and no kind which—­in two thousand, or two hundred, or twenty—­has produced literature that is good or great can be even temporarily put aside because (as every kind of literature without exception has been again and again) it is for a time barren or fruitful only in weeds.  And any one who does not count Scott and Dumas and Thackeray among the makers of good literature must really excuse others if they simply take no further count of him.  The historical novel is a good kind, good friends, a marvellous good kind:  and it has the advantage over the pure novel of manners that it is much less subject to obsolescence, if it be really well done; while it can practically annex most of the virtues of that novel of manners itself.