road. He was now nearer fifty than forty years of age, and hardships as well as time had told upon him. He knew that though his strength was good for the commencement of a hard day's work, it would not hold out for him as it used to do. He knew that the last four miles in the dark night would be very sad with him. But still he persevered; endeavoring, as he went, to cherish himself with the remembrance of his triumph. He passed the turning going down to Framley with courage; but when he came to the further turning, by which the cart would return from Framley to the Hogglestock road, he looked wistfully down the road for Farmer Mangle. But Farmer Mangle was still at the mill, waiting in expectation that Mr. Crawley might come to him. But the poor traveler paused here barely for a minute, and then went on; stumbling through the mud, striking his ill-covered feet against the rough stones in the dark, sweating in his weakness, almost tottering at times, and calculating whether his remaining strength would serve to carry him home. He had almost forgotten the bishop and his wife before at last he grasped the wicket gate leading to his own door. "O mamma, here is papa!" "But where is the cart? I did not hear the wheels," said Mrs. Crawley. "O mamma, I think papa is ill." Then the wife took her drooping husband by both arms and strove to look him in the face. "He has walked all the way, and he is ill," said Jane. "No, my dear, I am very tired, but not ill. Let me sit down, and give me some bread and tea, and I shall recover myself." Then Mrs. Crawley, from some secret hoard, got him a small modicum of spirits, and gave him meat and tea; and he was docile, and obeying her behests, allowed himself to be taken to his bed. "I do not think the bishop will send for me again," he said, as she tucked the clothes around him. THE MORAL RESPONSIBILITY OF THE NOVELIST From the Autobiography> VAST proportion of the teaching of the day—greater, prob Aably, than many of us have acknowledged to ourselves comes from novels which are in the hands of all readers. It is from them that girls learn what is expected from them, and what they are to expect, when lovers come; and also from them that young men unconsciously learn what are, or should be, or may be, the charms of love,- though I fancy that few young men will think so little of their natural instincts and powers as to believe that I am right in saying so. Many other lessons also are taught. In these times, when the desire to be honest is pressed so hard, is so violently assaulted by the ambition to be great; in which riches are the easiest road to greatness; when the temptations to which men are subjected dull their eyes to the perfected iniquities of others; when it is so hard. for a man to decide vigorously that the pitch which so many are handling will defile him if it be touched,—men's conduct will be actuated much by that which is from day to day depicted to them as leading to glorious or inglorious results. The young man who in a novel becomes a hero, perhaps a Member of Parliament, and almost a prime minister, by trickery, falsehood, and flash cleverness, will have many followers, whose attempts to rise in the world ought to lie heavily on the conscience of the novelists who create fictitious Cagliostros. Thinking of all this, as a novelist surely must do,- as I certainly have done through my whole career,-it becomes to him a matter of deep conscience how he shall handle those characters by whose words and doings he hopes to interest his readers. The writer of stories must please, or he will be nothing. And he must teach, whether he wish to teach or no. How shall he teach lessons of virtue, and at the same time make himself a delight to his readers? The novelist, if he have a conscience, must preach his sermons with the same purpose as the clergyman, and must have his own system of ethics. If he can do this efficiently, if he can make virtue alluring and vice ugly, while he charms his readers instead of wearying them, then I think Mr. Carlyle need not call him distressed, nor talk of that long ear of fiction, nor question whether he be or not the most foolish of existing mortals. |