sant than the realism of a Zola.
It is an astonishing production, even for an age when Fielding and
Smollett were not considered coarse. But, as was the case in the "Rights
of Women," this plainness of speech was due not to a delight in impurity
and uncleanness for their own sakes, but to Mary's certainty that by the
proper use of subjects vile in themselves, she could best establish
principles of purity. Whatever may be thought of her moral creed and of
her manner of promulgating it, no reader of her books can deny her the
respect which her courage and sincerity evoke. One may mistrust the
mission of a Savonarola, and yet admire his inexorable adherence to it.
Mary Wollstonecraft's faith in, and devotion to, the doctrines she
preached was as firm and unflinching as those of any religiously
inspired prophet.

This story gives little indication of literary merit. The style is
stilted, and there is no attempt at delineation of character. It is
wholly without dramatic action; for this, Mary explains, would have
interfered with her main object. But then its straightforward statement
of facts, by concentrating the attention upon them, adds very strongly to
the impression they produce. Maria is as complete a departure from the
conventional heroine of the day, as, at a later period, Charlotte
Bronte's Rochester was from the heroes of contemporary novelists. And the
book contains at least one description which should find a place here.
This is the account Maria gives of a visit she makes to her country home
a few years after her marriage and realization of its bitterness, and is
really a record of the sentiments awakened in her when she visited
Beverly, her early home, just before she left England for Sweden. The
passage, in its contrast to the oppressive narrative which it interrupts,
is as refreshing as a cool sea-breeze after the suffocating sirocco of
the desert:--

"This was the first time I had visited my native village since my
marriage. But with what different emotions did I return from the
busy world, with a heavy weight of experience benumbing my
imagination, to scenes that whispered recollections of joy and hope
most eloquently to my heart! The first scent of the wild-flowers
from the heath thrilled through my veins, awakening every sense to
pleasure. The icy hand of despair seemed to be removed from my
bosom; and, forgetting my husband, the nurtured visions of a
romanti