THE fictitious literature daily or weekly cast upon the public mind, has become, both from its quantity and its qualities, probably the most powerful influence in our time. The circulation of many tales, possessed of little interest, or of a dangerous interest, would astonish the booksellers who concluded their battle of life in the first quarter of the century. Experience has shown that exciting stories sell better than tales of a more useful character, among a numerous class of purchasers. These contributions to weekly literature generally fix their heroes and heroines in high life; so we conclude that the less educated portion of the labouring classes, and the servantgirlism of the realm, prefer to read the doings of dukes, and marchionesses, and delapidated personages of the higher classes, to those of individuals belonging to their own sections of society. Fictitious literature has three objects to amuse, to instruct, and to pay. Attention to the latter of the three will mould its influence over the other two. The follies of kings or princesses may amuse an artizan's wife; but she will derive little instruction from them-because there is no probability that she will become a princess. She is not likely to occupy the positions of the persons whose history she reads, and her conduct cannot be modified by their experiences; and she would be ill-advised to follow their example, so far as that may be within her power.

Fictitious literature in volumes circulates chiefly through the libraries and reading rooms. A large proportion of the novels in many libraries are of the standard character; and many small libraries are "behind the age." They have an old stock, and while it is read, the proprietors do not care for renewals. The latter are a drag on profits. An expensive book does not pay its cost for a long period, and therefore expensive books are not largely taken. We refer necessarily to those small libraries, flanked by cigar boxes and tobacco jars; or supported by lemonade bottles and ice preparing machines-which may be regarded as assistant depots in the business of instruction, where a greater number of persons than the educationalists draw the means of employing their capacity

suppose to read.

The old, staid, three volumes-octavo, large margins and large type, are becoming few and comparatively far between, in the market. They are assailed by single volume rivals; which are supposed to be endowed often with moral and religious tendencies; and we have had occasionally to notice members of this class-some of them very clever, and others very stupid. Out of a large number it is difficult to select examples; but there is one beside us that deserves commendation for the author's boldness. The title is "Harry a Revenue Roughton; or, Reminiscences of Officer," by Lionel J. F. Hextam. The "Recol

lections" occupy an octavo volume of 333 pages.* The author's boldness, or peculiarity, consists in making up his narrative withont a love tint from the beginning to the end. The only exception is in the character of Mrs. Roughton-a good wife and mother; but that has no connection with the Novel style of love; it is an entirely different subject. Harry Roughton was originally an apothecary, doing a respectable and rising business in an English coast town. A neighbour, of indifferent moral character, but supposed to be wealthy, asked for the loan of a sum of money one evening, past bank hours, for a speculation which could only be had at the moment, and would pay him well. His skilful efforts to bring Harry Roughton into the set of smugglers, are told well by the author; and they are, in the end, successful. Harry Roughton takes a share, against the entreaties of his wife; and he locks up that evening to enter upon his new night business. The first landing is managed successfully. The coastguard are deceived, and a smart sum comes for division among the adventurers-for that is a much more respectable name than smugglers. The story proceeds in what the author leads us to suppose is the usual course among smugglers. The different parties attempt to cheat each other; and the contrivances of the wealthier class bring suspicions upon the apothecary and smuggler, Mr. Roughton. The tale has an absorbing interest, for the particulars are life like, and practical. The characters of Mr. Sharpe, the smugglers' solicitor; Mr. Pitt, the leading smuggler; Mr. Jameson, "the rector of St. Mary's," all English towns have at least one St. Mary's-Mr. Punch, of the customs, not of Fleet Street; Mr. Cinderow, the exciseman-are not drawn by any effort, but come out in the narrative, just as distinctly and naturally as if one knew them all; and they are all people who, if once known, would be remembered. The smuggling leads to the ruin of all the persons concerned, through a maze of many clever devices and tricks. Mr. Roughton is condemned, ultimately, in such heavy fines that he cannot pay them; and is committed to prison. The influence of Mr. Jameson, the rector, and some other friends, leads to his release, in consequence of the evidence which he is able to give ; but his family are reduced to poverty, one of his daughters dies, and they are all in great straits, before he is released-that is, thrust out without a business, a home, or any means of living, upon the world. Fortunately, at that period, while on his way to look after a situation, he got injured in saving an old gentleman and his daughter from being carried to destruction by their own horses, in their own phaton. The calamity occurred at the proper time-for the gentleman inquired into

*London: Simpkin, Marshall, and Co.

Mr. Roughton's circumstances, and gave him an appointment as manager in one of his country establishments. There he is, doubtless, performing his duties to the satisfaction of his friends, and all other interested parties. The grand moral of the tale is, that money cannot be made honestly by smuggling; and that it leads to many other vices. As we cannot attempt to condense the narrative, we may give one specimen of its style. Harry Roughton has gone to share the proceeds of his first adventure. The business is carried on for cash. The counting house is a back room in an obscure lane, with a solitary candle and a beer stained table. The persons present were all engaged in the same unlawful trade; and they had met to divide their spoils :

"Mr. Roughton-Captain Marsloops-Mr. Mundy," said Mr. Pitt, bowing to one and then to the other, as Harry approached; "and now to business; take a seat Mr. Roughton." The chair stuck to Harry's fingers, as he touched the ditched and greasy back, and the crazy joints creaked as he

seated himself.

"The gen❜lman's rather squeamish," observed the captain with a roguish leer at Mr. Mundy, who grinned with ineffable contempt.

"To business," reiterated Mr. Pitt; "now, Captain, what's your share of the plunder ?"

"Maister you know there was seventy bales, and at a pound a bale you can surely reckon what that comes to." "A pound a bale!" exclaimed Harry, "that's a heavy freight, isn't it ?"

"The young man's rayther green, maister, 'aint he ?" gaid the captain, with a contemptuous sneer; "he's got to learn that it's quite another thing to do a job over the left, and keep your tongue between your teeth."

Harry began to fear that the coveted harvest he came to gather at so much pains, would be rudely diminished in the winnowing, and could not help exhibiting some impatience.

"Hold your tongue, young man," said Marsloops, "my time's precious; and remember, one word from me would blow you into smithereens in no time; pod down my dobbers, and thank your stars that you've got to deal wi' a straightfor'ard man.

Roughton quailed beneath the threat-Pitt held out his hand towards Mundy, who without a word, drew out a canvass bag full of gold and notes.

"Yellow boys for me," said the captain, adding in an under tone to Pitt,-" they tell no tales."

The point of this observation was lost on Harry, and Pitt proceeded to count out seventy sovereigns, which the captain carelessly swept up without re-counting, and lodged them in a leather case; then drawing back a step or two, he asked any wet on the strength on it ?"

"No," said Pitt, "sober to night, lad." "Then I'll mizzle," replied the sailor.

"Wait a little;" said Pitt, "we've something else in the wind."

"I'm your man then," said the captain, as he folded his arms over his brawny chest and reseated himself."

We might have mentioned that the volume contains a number of illustrations, drawn by the author, of which some are good, and others are not worthy of the subjects. The "Reminiscences of a Revenue officer" are equal to anything among recent novels, of the class, that we have read.

'The Dudleys" occupy a pretty volume of 326 pages, very commendably printed.* Their story is told by Mr. Edgar Dewsland-a handsome name, which we assume was not conveyed to the gentleman in the common manner. As to "the Dudleys," we know not why they were ever written. We really do not know how such idle, useless people live-that is to say, what purpose they are meant to serve in this world. They resemble a variety of insects, with an existence that is an inscrutable mystery. "The Dudleys," moreover, have not the advantage of a competent historian. Mr. Edgar Dewsland is personally unacquainted with the sort of people whose story he proposes to tell. Dudley senior is an English gentleman in a country town, who has studied aristocratic histories for his lifetime. He knows the history of all the families in the country. He can trace blood and pedigree like a jockey when talking over the winners of the Derby. Yet this man is nearly cheated into the marriage of his daughter with a stranger, of whom he knows nothing, except that he derives three thousand pounds yearly from the half of a London newspaper, is of an aristocratic family, and good expectations. Mr. Dewsland may be fall into few blunders of that nature. Mr. Dews. perfectly satisfied that gentlemen in country towns land's hero, in this case, is a London tinman, who considers matrimony, probably, a more profitable business than making or mending saucepans. The supposition that he could be nearly successful in cheating an old family into a general opinion of his magnificence, is absurdly outrageous. "The Dudleys" are an old family-stupid, almost of course, with their prejudices and projects; but at least, they know their business. A "new" family might be done in that way; but scarcely by a tinman, of whose tea-table conversation the subjoined sentences are favourable specimens :

:

Why, sir? Aren't you a Tory p"

No, sir; I am a Liberal. The very essence of the American Government is Liberalism. American independence is Liberalism-in fact, the Americans in general are Liberals. It is the best mode of government. I assure you, sir, every man is a man, that's plain enough; and all men, rich or poor, ought to have the same rights and liberties. The reason why America is the best and most flourishing country in the world is because it is a Liberal country. Depend upon it the Liberals are right sir."

"Daim the Liberals," replied Mr. Grenliman. "I tell yeh, sir, that all the Liberals ought to be daimed,-I beg your pardon, sir, present company excepted."

We like Mr. Johnstone's style much, and there are many beautiful passages in the book, which has a decidedly healthy and useful tendency; but there are inconsistencies. Why were Mr. and Mrs. Freshfield, of Freshfield, residing in Almorah Cottage, St. Aubin's Road, Jersey, with only one servant prior to the engagement of this young girl as nurse, or with only one general servant and a nurse, while the lady was dying of consumption? Mr. Freshfield is a man of ample means, and the position is inconsistent. Even if Mrs. Freshfield had been in good health, the servant of all work would have been insufficient for the care of the boy, the house, and everything. The addition of the nurse left an inadequate household, in the circumstances, for a wealthy man.

The medical doctor in the case, was an old bachelor. He thought that George Freshfield needed rousing up, after his wife's death; and wanted Emma Neville to discharge that dutywhich she could not perform well, and suggested that Mr. Freshfield's friends should be informed of his condition. Meanwhile, she dusted his books, and put his papers to rights, and accomplished little matters of that kind-very useful, if done judiciously.

The Doctor accordingly wrote to Mrs. Freshfield's mother. That lady, Mrs. Croker, crossed over to Jersey, with her inseparable companion, a parrot. It was doubtful whether the one animal or the other had the most critical temperament. Together, they destroyed George Freshfield's peace, and interfered with his work.

Towards this date, Arthur Freshfield, the eccentric uncle of George, whose strange doings help out the volume, was told by his landlady at Helensburg, on the Clyde, of Mrs. Freshfield's death, which she had read in the Glasgow Daily Bulletin. Mr. Arthur Freshfield never read a newspaper, or paid any attention whatever to the current world. This paragraph roused him, and he made a journey to Jersey, to see his nephew, and sympathise with him. As the uncle provided against any person being acquainted with his address, it was impossible to send him an intimation. An antagonism arose between the mother-in-law and the uncle. The lady imagined that a secret understanding existed between George Freshfield, his son, and his son's nurse.

No reasonable doubt could be entertained that her suspicions were true as respected the two latter personages the boy and his nurse. This being the case, George Freshfield properly refused to turn away the nurse because Mrs. Croker disliked her. A quarrel with the uncle induced the lady to go away, with her parrot; and she went to London, called on the family solicitor, and employed him to institute inquirics respecting the family history of Emma Neville. The inquiry was handed over to a managing clerk, who, most unluckily, knew the subject, and tendered his information to Mrs. Croker in an officious manner, including Miss Neville's friendship for a military officer, Captain Day, who was a relative of her

own; but the clerk did not deem a knowledge of this relationship necessary to Mrs. Croker's purposes. At her request he concocted an anonymous letter to Miss Neville, containing awkward charges among others, an intimacy altogether undue with Captain Day-and offering to conceal everything if she would abandon her situation. The same post, or nearly, brought to Emma Neville, from the Jersey doctor, a declaration of love, and an offer of marriage. Towards this time, Mr. Arthur Freshfield, the uncle of Mr. George, informed Miss Neville that she was her mother's image, that he had been her mother's suitor-the rejected suitor

in youth; and in age, since he had heard of their misfortunes, he had endeavoured to find them, but failed. She communicated both letters to him, but agreed to remain with the Freshfield's on account of the boy, who was becoming now very ill and weak. The little boy died at last. Then Emma Neville left, without supplying her address. The charge respecting Captain Day hung on her mind; she would not see even Arthur Freshfield again till that was removed; and she wrote to Captain Day, whe had gone to India. She then went to London, and having no money, she looked for employment. As she had been in a good situation for some time, and was a prudent young person, she should have had a little money; but she had very little, and we take the story as it stands.

George Freshfield's book had been published, and had been very successful. Emma Neville, in passing, remembered the name of the publisher. She went straight to that gentleman, told as much of her story as was necessary, and the publisher procured her a situation as a folder in his book-binders. This was not exactly the place for an educated lady, who had been a nurse-and females in a bookbinder's shop must first learn their trade, before they can be She occupied very useful. very poor lodgings; but the bookbinder's foreman, Mr. McDonald, a Glasgow man, invited her to spend. the Saturday afternoon, and the following day, at his cottage, at Kew, with his family. Respectable people in novels frequently meet extraordinary friendships. The McDonalds were extraordinary persons altogether-for it is not every bookbinder's foreman who can afford a cottage at Kew.

As for the Freshfields, the elder having acquainted the younger with the anonymous letter respecting Captain Day, afterwards insisted upon that young gentleman just running over to India, seeing Captain Day, and getting at the particulars of the story. Men of the world would have known that, if Captain Day was a reckless character-and the Freshfield's knew nothing of the man-any application of the kind in question would educe no reliable information, and might be resented. That probability does not appear to have occurred to them and accordingly, after the manner of Napier and Wellington, the uncle insisted that either he must go, or the nephew. Nephew went to India, therefore, and uncle returned to Helensburgh, and

his researches after microscopic wonders, having first advertised in the papers, in the shion usual, for information respecting the runawa Emmahidden in Mrs. Grey's lodgings, the cottage at Kew, and the book binder's workshop. The advertisement was seen by the solicitor's evil clerk -who devised the anonymous letter, who drew Mrs. Croker into copying it, and who kept that lady's copy after he had despatched the document. Mrs. Croker, coming to London for the purpose of investing some money, was foolish enough, although the solicitor turned a rather cold shoulder on the scheme, to buy shares in the Lowland Bank of Glasgow-which we fancy represents the Western Bank of Scotland. Both the lady and the solicitor thought that the eight or nine per cent. dividend paid by the Bank, was quite tempting. They did not know much of banking, or they would have remembered that shares might have been obtained in London banks, paying twelve to twenty per cent. in bonus and dividend.

The solicitor's clerk being employed to accompany Mrs. Croker to a broker, began to tell her of Miss Neville, and ended by accepting her cheque for £20 as hush money regarding her share in the anonymous letter. He never passed that cheque, but went on forging upon her, until the London bankers intimated that her account was overdrawn. At the same time, the Scotch bank failed. The lady went to Helensburgh, in search of Mr. Arthur Freshfield's aid. He returned with her to London. The villainy of the clerk was discovered; but he terrified Mrs. Croker into the destruction of the evidence. He had previously endeavoured to persuade Miss Neville to marry him, and he had failed. In revenge, he went to the McDonalds at Kew, on one Saturday afternoon, and shewed her the name of George Freshfield among the killed, in the telegraphic reports of the Times. Mr. Freshfield had arrived in Calcutta at the commencement of the mutiny. Captain Day had left for Cawnpore-his wife and child being there. Mr. Freshfield fought his way along with Havelock and Niel, and had great commendation for that familiarity with the rifle which gentlemen in this country generally possess. They arrived too late to prevent the Cawnpore massacre. Mr. Freshfield's work was over. He returned with despatches from General Havelock. On the way, he was shot down in saving an ayah of the land, with a European child. The ayah was killed. This event led to the telegraph of George Freshfield's death. He and the child were both saved.

Why the Times reported his death by telegraph, after the failure of the Western Bank of Scotland, we do not know. It is not our business. We infer, however, that the editor would have made the matter his business if the blunder had occurred.

The information thus conveyed suddenly, cast Emma Neville into a brain fever, which continued for a long time. It came on Arthur Freshfield when he was on his London mission to avenge

Mrs. Croker's wrongs. For several weeks he deemed himself an old rich solitary in the world. He was heir to Freshfield. However, through the publisher, he accidentally ascertained Miss Neville's address. She was in Mr. McDonald's cottage, at Kew, sick still, and weak. He discovered her, and became on friendly terms with the McDonalds -as they deserved. Matters had settled down with all parties into the ordinary stupor that follows great woes. Mr. Freshfield, senior, had even accompanied Miss Neville, and some of the young McDonalds, to the Crystal Palace. There they met Mr. George Freshfield, junior, who had been two days in London, without knowing where any of his friends lived. He was accompanied by the little girl whom he had rescued. The girl was the daughter of Captain Day, saved by the ayah from the Cawnpore massacre. A letter from that gentleman to Emma Neville, written before he left Calcutta on the fatal errand to Cawnpore, came to hand, and cleared up everything. The solicitor's evil clerk was drowned in the Thames. His fate

would have been worse if the accident had occurred in summer-or a cleanly disposed person would deem it more disagreeable to be drowned in the Thames during summer than in the winter. The farther results are, that Mr. Arthur Freshfield, in addition to his own annuity of £500 per annum, resides with his nephew and niece at Freshfield: that the owner's mother-in-law, Mrs. Croker, has more than she deserves in a cottage on the estate, and all necessary upholdings, at the intercession of Mr. Arthur Freshfield's niece: Emma Day gets on admirably there, being resident with her relative, who recently was Emma Neville, and who is not now a nurse, but the lady of Freshfield. So there may have been some ground for Mrs. Croker's early misgivings.

This is the scaffolding of the entire tale; we might more appropriately say, that it is the skeleton. The plot displays the common ignorance exhibited by nearly all tale writers of the world. We said that the tendencies of this novel are useful; but that refers to the moral reflections, and similar matter, forming its flesh and muscles. The tendency is so far wrong that it leads many common place readers to expect interventions which do not occur often in the world. An advertisement, and the precise advertisement necessary, occurring at the right place and time, to penniless ladies, out of a situation, is unusual. A young lady becoming a nurse, and meeting in the nursery the only old gentleman on all the earth who was anxious to meet her, but had never seen her, and she had never heard his name, is also unusual. The same young lady casting her friend from her, for no reason whatever, but the reception of an anonymous letter, which she knew to be false, is also more than ordinarily sentimental. Her recommendation, by a publisher, to a bookbinder's work room, is also curious; as he must have known that, at the counter of a stationer, she would have, with the loss of less time, become valuable. The