Florence, from the host of enemies her "free
hitting" had provoked, burying herself in an almost absolute seclusion.
But her active mind could not long enjoy repose, and in 1851 she resumed
her pen, selecting the Roman Catholic Church for her target in "Father
Eustace." This was followed in 1852 by "Uncle Walter." It is
unnecessary, however, to enumerate the titles of her later works, as
they lacked most of the qualities which secured the popularity of her
earlier, and have already passed into oblivion. It is doubtful, indeed,
whether even her better work is much known to the reading public of the
present day.[38]

This clever and industrious woman died at Florence on the 6th of
October, 1863, in the eighty-fifth year of her age. Her name has been
highly honoured in her two surviving sons, Anthony and Thomas Adolphus
Trollope, both of whom have attained to a place of distinction in
English literature.

FOOTNOTES:

[38] We have omitted from our list "The Blue Belles of England" (1841);
"Tremordyn Cliff" (1838); "Charles Chesterfield" (1841); "The Ward of
Thorpe-Combe" (1842); "Young Love" (1844); "Petticoat Government"
(1852); and "The Life and Adventures of a Clever Woman" (1853). Between
the last-named and "The Vicar of Wrexhill" the gulf is very wide. One
cannot help admiring, however, the indefatigable perseverance and the
astonishing fertility of this accomplished novelist.

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

One of the best books on Eastern life in English literature we owe to
the pen of a remarkable woman, whose reputation, based as it is on many
other works of singular ability, we may take to be of a permanent
character--Miss Harriet Martineau. She was born in 1802. Her father was
a manufacturer in Norwich, where his family, originally of French
origin, had resided since the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. To her
uncle, a surgeon in Norwich, she was mainly indebted for her education.
Her home-life was not a happy one, and unquestionably its austere
influences did much to develop in her that colossal egotism and
self-sufficiency which marred her character, and has left its injurious
impress on her writings. She tells us that only twice in her childhood
did she experience any manifestation of tenderness--once when she was
suffering from ear-ache, and her parents were stirred into unwonted
compassion, and once from a kind-hearted lady who witnessed her alarm at
a magic-lantern exhibition.

Much more care was sho