woof
till it is filled and interwoven with the true glance and gleam of
genius. The difference between these pages and that of the previously
mentioned style is the same as exists between any coarse scene-curtain
and some glorious painting, be it Church, with his tropical lushness, or
Gifford, with his shaking, shining mists,--

"mist
Like a vaporous amethyst,
Or an air-dissolved star
Mingling light and fragrance far
As the curved horizon's bound,"--

some canvas that seems to palpitate and live and tremble with the
breathing being confided to it by the painter. Indeed, Charles Reade has
a great deal of this pictorial power. A single sentence will sometimes
give not only the sketch, but all its tints. Take, for instance, the
paragraph in which, speaking of the Newhaven fish-wives, he says, "It is
a race of women that the Northern sun peachifies instead of
rosewoodizing"; and it is as good as that picture of the "Two
Grandmothers," where the rosy woman with her rosy troop is confronted by
the tawny sunburnt gypsy and her swarthy group of dancing-girl and
tambourine-tosser.

When "Peg Woffington" first fell upon us, a dozen years ago or so,
Humdrum opened his eyes: it was like setting one's teeth in a juicy pear
fresh from the warm sunshine. Then came "Christie Johnstone," a perfect
pearl of its kind, in which we recognize an important contribution to
one class of romance. If ever the literature of the fishing-coast shall
be compiled, it will be found to be scanty, but superlative; let us
suggest that it shall open with Lucy Larcom's "Poor Lone Hannah," the
most touching and tearful of the songs of New-England life,--followed by
Christie Johnstone's night at sea among the blue-lights and the nets
with their silver and lightning mixed, where the fishers struggle with
that immense sheet varnished in red-hot silver,--and at the end let not
the "Pilot's Pretty Daughter" of William Allingham's be forgotten:--

"Were it my lot--there peeped a wish--
To hand a pilot's oar and sail,
Or haul the dripping moonlit mesh
Spangled with herring-scale:
By dying stars how sweet 'twould be,
And dawn-blow freshening the sea,
With weary, cheery pull to shore
To gain my cottage-home once more,
And meet, before I reached the door,
My pretty pilot's daughter!"

But it is a fine fashion of this noble world never to acknowledge itself
too well pleased. Men are ashamed of satisfac