Nor is there a want of novel-writers; of all the branches of literature this is the most prolific, for the taste of the public lies that way: but although some of the living novel-writers are authors of the highest merit, and their dishes are such as to satisfy even the most dainty, the reader might find himself at last in the predicament of the gourmand—“Tojours des perdrix.”
It may be pleasant sometimes to weep over the misfortunes of a tender and sentimental hero, like Grandison, Werther, or La Nouvelle Heloise; but the continual sight of misfortunes of the heart will, it is to be feared, have the effect of over-exciting or of blunting the feelings. Why not, therefore, let the heart for a short time repose—have a refreshing peep into the magic lanthorn, to see the figures on the wall, and allow fancy a free scope? Whatever the learned doctors may say, Fancy is the dearest boon-companion of the human mind, from the first developement of the soul in its infantine shell till the blight of its energies in the shrivelled-up body of old age. The child, whether brought up at
