is now the very highest effort—the popular vehicle for thought, feeling, and observation—the one used by our first-rate writers. Who, that reflects at all, can deny, that the novel is the literary Aaron's rod that is rapidly swallowing all the rest. It has supplied the place of the drama—it has merged in its pages pamphlets, essays, and satires. Have we a theory—it is developed by means of a character; an opinion—it is set forth in dialogue; and satire is personified in a chapter, not a scene. Poetry has survived somewhat longer, but is rapidly following the fate of its fellows. Descriptions, similes, pathos are to be found in the prose page; and rhythm is becoming more and more an incumbrance rather than a recommendation. I do believe, in a little time, lyrical will be the only form of poetry retained. Now, query, are we gainers or losers?"
Mr. Morland.—"Gainers, certainly. It matters little what form talent takes, provided it is a popular one. But, even now, a new spirit, in the shape of a new writer, is rising; and the author of Pelham has again enlarged the boundaries, and poured fresh life into the novel. Many clever works have appeared within the last few years; but none
