bler purpose! Miss Landon never so forcibly illustrated the extent of her genius, proving at the same time how ill-regulated and unworthily directed it may be, as by this novel of 'Francesca Carrara.'"
Nor is the unsparing exposition confined to these inconsistencies alone, for there are others that may be as frankly admitted as they are difficult to account for. Such, for example, are those merely personal remarks and opinions, that, throughout her writings, are carelessly flung out in defiance of reason, and often apparently for the sake of turning some noble passage of sentiment or devotion, in the midst of which they are obtruded, into flat insincerity or affectation. The critic illustrates this from the work we have been considering. "While," he says, "we are dwelling on the unequalled picture of love, of entire trust, of friendship sustained through life, and triumphing over the uncertainties of the grave—all illustrated with so serious, so sweet, and so enduring a truth in the lives of Guido, of Evelyn, and Francesca—we are told in smart and solid phrases by the very author of these noble creatures, that 'consistency expresses nothing human,' and that 'confidence is what no human being ever really had in another.' While we are admiring the sense of justice with which she discriminates the great struggle of the English commoners against the bad faith of the English king, she is good enough to indulge us with a second opinion, that if Charles had given up the bishops, uncurled his hair, and spoken through his nose, he might have been an absolute monarch in all but name!"
Such criticism as this undoubtedly had its influence in exciting L. E. L. to the correction of several of her faults; for the sternness and rigidity of the censure were not unaccompanied by that seductiveness of just praise without which it might
