solutely distinct kinds,-in one, the novel of religious mystery, she stood absolutely alone without rival or feilow; in another, the novel of description, the only reasonable comparison is with Sir Walter Scott; and in the third, the novel of modern society, she rivals, both in humor and the subtle delineation of ordinary character, Jane Austen. There is nothing in English literature of its kind like "The Beleaguered City," the account of the invasion of the city of Sens by an army of ghosts, so audacious, so weird, in its effect, yet so intensely softening and spiritual. We know of nothing like the painting of the different personages in that book,-of the honest mayor, his bourgeoise mother, and his angel wife; of the earthly priest, who yet longs to be a true priest; of the old aristocrat; and of the mystic Lecamus, the feeble man for whom alone God has opened his inner eyes,-all so exquisitely natural while surrounded, engulfed, lost in an overwhelming mystery which, though it is like nothing ever recorded or even imagined before, the reader feels as he advances and slowly drinks in an impression which thenceforward never leaves him, might have happened. The atmosphere of the story is the atmosphere of another world permitted for a moment to supersede the atmosphere of this one, but in it move figures of this one, in all of whom, without exception, their special characteristics are brought out softly, yet sharply, by the very fog, which yet is not a fog but a haze let down from heaven, in which they are enveloped. Only a genius of the loftiest order could have produced that book, which never had a predecessor and will, we think, never have a successor, the most wonderful example in literature of the range woman's imagination. It is the more wonderful because Mrs. Oliphant, though she tried two or three times, could never do the same thing again, and in spite of the exquisite style and painting of the first part of "Old Lady Mary," her other excursions into the spiritual world were distinctly fail ures. of a the chapters in especially the We have said that in some of her novels the true comparison for her powers is with Scott, and Scott alone, and this is true in a special degree of "Young Musgrave," "The Minister's Wife," "The Son of the Soil," "Katie Stewart," "The Ladies Lindores," "May," "The Wizard's Son," "The Last of the Mortimers," and parts, at least, of "Whiteladies." There is the same breeziness, the same healthy realism, the same power of story-telling, same perception of originality and force in ordinary or inferior characters. There are "Young Musgrave," one in which the old gipsy-woman appears in court to hear for the first time that one son has guiltlessly murdered another, of which, in their restrained force and passion, Scott would have been proud, as he would have been of the revivalist scenes in "The Minister's Wife," so like in their power the best chapters of "Old Mortality," and of the character of Rolls the butler in “The Ladies Lindores." The irresistibleness of the comparison with Scott is the more striking because Mrs. Oliphant's central figures were always women. There is perceptible through all her stories a faint contempt for men, as unaccountable, uncomfortable works of God, whom she understood best when they were most ordinary, like the slightly thick-witted and entirely loveable hero of "Harry Joscelyn," or most foolish, like Paul in "He who Will not When he May." It was women she loved to depict, but they are the women Scott would have drawn under the very circumstances he would have created, had his genius taken him that way. This fancy for studying women comes out in all her stories, and especially in some of those of which the scene is laid in Carlingford-"Miss Marjoribanks," "Phoebe Junior," "The Perpetual Curate"stories in which Jane Austen would have recognized a humorist as great as herself, though of a different kind. Mrs. Oliphant entirely lacked Miss Austen's power of painting the inherent vulgarity in some women who yet are ladies, and though, like Miss Austen, she never made of crime a motif-there is a partial exception in "Whiteladies"-and never condescended to what is now called the sex question, yet her social situations are stronger and more interesting, and she could conceive of a woman like Lady Car as she appears both in "The Ladies Lindores" and in the sequel called by her own name, who was wholly beyond the limits of Miss Austen's range. We say nothing of "Mrs. Margaret Maitland," for that is not a novel but a sketch drawn most lovingly from life, and the original neither came nor could have come in Jane Austen's way. Add that Mrs. Oliphant had in the most unusual degree the faculty of pleasant story-telling, so that her novels gave acute pleasure to many different minds, and were waited for by men like the late Mr. Kinglake through life with eager expectation, and we have a novelist who in our own day was inferior to George Eliot alone. Mrs. Oliphant's humor, though of a subtly pleasant kind, was not mordant like George Eliot's, nor could she have drawn either Maggie Tulliver or Dorothea; but her stories had a healthy breez1ness in them as of the Scotch scenery she loved, which it was not in George Eliot's powerful imagination to infuse into her tales. We believe that as time advances there will be more, and not less, appreciation of Mrs. Oliphant, and we trust that Messrs. Blackwood, who through two generations regarded her as a dear friend, will see their way to an edition of some twenty of her best novels, if possible in the two-volume form. Mrs. Oliphant put a quantity of work into all she did, and when compressed into a single volume most of them require a type too small for weary eyes. 'To publish a collection of all her novels is to do her injustice, even "Hester," for example, in spite of the delicious character of the heroine, has in it some quality of tediousness, as if a tired writer were recollecting what passed, -and we see no sense in printing the works of imagination and the works of labor together. The latter contain many fine things, but with the exception of the "Life of Irving" they bear little trace of the original genius which most unquestionably dwelt behind those humorous, watchful eyes, which saw and comprehended everything except, indeed, the man who is at once able and good. In all the vast array of her stories there is not one such man, though she thought of one in Russell, in "The Poor Gentleman," and even him she was obliged to make a do-nothing who knew himself. From Blackwood's Magazine. MRS. OLIPHANT. "It has been the fate of Blackwood's Magazine to secure a genuine attachment from its contributors more than any other literary organ has ever had. The same sort of feeling which makes sailors identify themselves with their ship, rejoicing in the feats which they attribute somehow to her own personality, though they know very well what is their own share in them, and maintaining a gener ous pride in the vessel, which would be but a paltry feeling were it translated into a mere self-complacence as to their own achievements. I hope this is being kept up in the younger generation; it certainly was very strong in the past." In any circumstances these words would have been significant and very touching in their loyalty, as coming from one who for the long period of forty-five years had lent to the magazine the support of a powerful and brilliant pen, but they derive a new and pathetic significance in light of the fact that that cunning hand is now still forever, and that the devoted historian of "Maga," from whose unpublished work we quote, has been-to use a touching phrase of Lockhart's "released from all service." It is no part of our task at this time to attempt to record the full extent of that service, or to enumerate the works that flowed from this facile and always graceful pen. Mrs. Oliphant belonged to the race of literary giants to whom literature is an absorbing passion, and to whom its exercise brings a subtle and unfailing joy. To be versatile without being superficial is no common feat, and we cannot think of any more conspicuous instance of its attainment than the high and uniform excellence of Mrs. Oliphant's multifarious works. Fiction, history, biography, and criticism poured from her pen in unbroken succession for half a century, and now after a long and strenuous and brilliant career, Death has come to carry her from the Seen to the Unseen-the wonder of which she has so often striven to probe with skilful but reverent hand -and found her, even as she might have wished, amidst all the pressing engagements, the bustle, and the excitement of a busy literary life. Perhaps we must go back to Goldsmith for a similar versatility, and for a similar genius for adorning all she touched. has It was in 1849 that Mrs. Oliphant first essayed fiction, and scarce a year has since elapsed which has not added its quota to the varied and wonderful list. During all that time she made good her position in the first rank of our domestic novelists-writing with profoundest insight and tenderest human sympathy with all the vicissitudes of life. It is not many weeks since her last novel was published-a book remarkable for its attainment of the author's highest and earliest standard, for its homely eloquence, but most of all for the singularly beautiful introductory pages from one who, to use her own simple words, was ever "a writer very little given to explanations, or to any personal appearance." If ever the fair name of "Maga" was assailed, Mrs. Oliphant's sword was quick to leap from its scabbard in defence, and accordingly it may be allowed to "Maga" to vindicate the fame of her aged servant against even her own misgivings. Never has the besetting fear of genius that its tide has ebbed been so powerfully described as in "The Ways of Life," but we refuse to admit of a personal application of the parable, and we rejoiced to observe that the press with generous enthusiasm defended Mrs. Oliphant's reputation against the diffidence of her own weakness and age. It is, however, less as a novelist than as an essayist and critic that we prefer to think of Mrs. Oliphant here; and while we are proud that the great bulk of her work in this direction has adorned the pages of "Maga" for so many years, it is from sincere conviction and in no spirit of boasting that we would claim for our charming "Looker-on" the proud title of the most accomplished periodical writer of her day. Mrs. Oliphant's critical powers have happily more enduring monuments than the pages of any magazine, but it was nevertheless in periodical writing-the medium she loved bestthat she attained perhaps her highest felicity of style. With a fine disregard of fame and in staunch adherence 10 the traditions of her youth, Mrs. Oliphant firmly believed in the wisdom of anonymity in magazine writing, SO that few can therefore have any conception of the variety and extent of her labors in this field. Fearless as a critic, she would brush aside what she deemed unworthy and decadent with mocking and stinging irony, white everything that made for the honor and purity of literature would meet with the most genial, sympathetic, and generous praise. And if the loss sustained by English literature is great, how shall we estimate the more personal loss of a tried friend and brilliant contributor? More than half a century ago Mrs. Oliphant, as a young girl of remarkable literary promise, was led by the gentle "Delta" tremblingly before the dread tribunal of Christopher North. "So long as she is young and happy, work will do her no harm," said the sage, who little knew that he was addressing one who more than any other was to maintain unimpaired the traditions of his beloved "Maga," and to find the crowning work of her life in recording its not uneventful annals. She was already an old contributor when she wrote ner first "Christmas Tale" for the memora ble number in which George Eliot be. gan the "Scenes of Clerical Life," and that faithful, loyal, brilliant work was destined to long outlive the young and happy years of which the "Professor" spoke, and which, alas! were all too few, and literature, instead of being the joy of a happy leisure, became the unfailing solace of a life that knew many and bitter sorrows. But no grief could avail to quench Mrs. Oliphant's sunny optimism and invariable youth fulness of spirit. Though strongly imbued with the literary traditions of the past, she was ever sympathetic with change and progress-so long as the progress seemed to her to betoken good; and her voice was but lately heard eloquent in recording the glorous progress of the reign.1 And, indeed, among those who have made Victorian literature memorable, Mrs. Ollphant must ever retain a very high place; and it is to her eternal honor that, amid remarkable changes in the popular conceptions of social and moral subjects, she ever championed in her writings all that was noble and worthy and pure. In this year of loyal rejoicing we would venture to repeat what was said in "Maga" fourteen years ago, that in high and lofty ample of perfect womanliness Mrs. Oli ex phant has been to the England of letters what the queen has been to our society as a whole. She, too, was crowned with age and honor in her own empire; widow and mother, she had tasted the triumph of life as well as the bitterness, knew its joys and sorrows and wearing worries, the loneliness which is the heritage of those who outlive their contemporaries, the desolation that sits with one among empty chairs around the hearth. From the last and most cruel trouble of all she emerged wounded in spirit but not broken, saddened, dazed a little perhaps, but not embittered. In one of her earliest poems, published in these pages, she wrote: My soul is prodigal of hope, My life doth sit and watch intent 1 ""Tis Sixty Years Since" and "22nd June" in "Maga"-May and June. To see some special blessings drop Some one or two lay hands on me; Hard would the combat be, and long, My heart from their close grasp to free Even though God's voice, the strife among Sent its last call to me. But at the end her soul was no longer prodigal of hope, save the hope that she should soon be set free from the grasp of earthly things. "I have no thought," she said to a friend of many years, who saw her during the last sad days, "not even of my boys, only of my Saviour waiting to receive meand the Father." When she found that for her the ebb-tide had indeed come, it was with this beautiful courage, serenity, and faith that she resigned herself to go. No sailor ever took more genuine pride in his vessel than did Mrs. Olphant in "Maga," and it was with poignant grief that we received from her a very pathetic message of farewell. There have been not a few instances in our literature of warm friendships between publisher and author; none of them could have been closer and more reciprocal than that which come to an end. There is always something affecting in the contemplation of a long life of loyal work-especially when that work is the product of undoubted genius; and if anything could lighten our very heartfelt sorrow for the loss of our lifelong friend, it would be the consideration that it is such has now friendships that go to preserve all that is best and most inspiring in the traditions of letters. make room for a string of camels, into the Street of David, a narrow lane guiltless of pavement, and with a descent of a step to every eight or ten paces. In the booths on either side Birmingham lamps and Manchester cottons are largely in evidence, but the West is little represented in the throng which comes surging up the hill. Veiled women shuffling along on large black boots, which have a singularly ungraceful appearance as they emerge from the sheet-like wrappings; the poor Jew in greasy hat and long straight robe; the rich man, gorgeous in purple plush and fur edgings; Greeks, Moslems, Armenians-they swarm past in an unending stream, while the camel rears his scornful head over all, and grey and white donkeys bear their picturesque riders to and fro. All that we had experienced in the way of insanitary conditions palled before the condition of the streets of Jerusalem, and the first impression of the city can hardly fail to be painful. To ascend the Mount of Olives by a stony road penned in by two walls, and to find the summit disfigured by Bedouin huts of most evil-smelling condition, is a severe disappointment. To be asked a shilling admittance to see the Garden of Gethsemane, walled in and laid out in geometrical order, is neither more nor less than horrible, though hardly more depressing than the reality of that "Mount Zion," which has been in imagination the type of all that was noble and beautiful. To see the sick, the maimed, and the blind as they really are in Palestine is, moreover, a heartrending experience. The number of beggars is so overwhelming that one must be adamant in self-defence, though there are occasions when the hardest heart softens, as, for instance, when a small specimen of humanity, clad in innocency and half a yard of cotton, toddles after one and rolls its big brown eyes in entreaty. "Back sheesh" is an abominable word, and ought to be abolished, but "Bak-seese!" can be beguiling beyond the power of refusal. In springtime the verdure of Palestine is said to be delightful, but it is almost impossible for the autumn visitor to believe these reports as he looks over a country desert-like in barrenness; hills of arid earth, and valleys covered with stones. It was only when we drove out of Jerusalem, emerged somewhat from the blinding cloud of dust, and saw the swelling outline of the hills stretching around, that we could realize the possibility of beauty or feel anything of the spell of the Holy Land. We were glad to feel that the streets of the old Jerusalem were many feet below the present level of the city, and to confine ourselves to studying the formation of the country and the life of the people, which seem to have altered so little in the course of eighteen hundred years. To live in Palestine is to have the words of the parables brought before one at every turn. The sparrows offered for sale in the street, the Bethlehem woman searching for the lost coin from her headdress, the shepherd leading his flocks of sheep and goats-they are all there, and the sight gives fresh meaning to the well-known words. One of the most interesting visits which we paid in Jerusalem was to the house of Doctor Schick, a venerable German, who has spent a lifetime in studying the Temple, and in making a model of the ancient enclosure, which is a miracle of delicate workmanship. The doctor's principal difficulty lay in discovering the number of inches represented by the ancient cubit. He tried one number after another, and in each case was stopped in his work by finding that the plan would not work out; but at last he fixed on eighteen inches, when all became easy, and the complicated bits fitted together with the accuracy of a puzzle. |