of Erskine had been once
heard in Westminster Hall. Since the appearance of her first work,
sixty-two years had passed; and this interval had been crowded, not only
with political, but also with intellectual revolutions. Thousands of
reputations had, during that period, sprung up, bloomed, withered, and
disappeared. New kinds of composition had come into fashion, had gone
out of fashion, had been derided, had been forgotten. The fooleries of
Della Crusca, and the fooleries of Kotzebue, had for a time bewitched
the multitude, but had left no trace behind them; nor had misdirected
genius been able to save from decay the once flourishing schools of
Godwin, of Darwin, and of Radcliffe. Many books, written for temporary
effect, had run through six or seven editions, and had then been
gathered to the novels of Afra Behn, and the epic poems of Sir Richard
Blackmore. Yet the early works of Madame D'Arblay, in spite of the lapse
of years, in spite of the change of manners, in spite of the popularity
deservedly obtained by some of her rivals, continued to hold a high
place in the public esteem. She lived to be a classic. Time set on her
fame, before she went hence, that seal which is seldom set except on the
fame of the departed. Like Sir Condy Rackrent in the tale, she survived
her own wake, and overheard the judgment of posterity.

Having always felt a warm and sincere, though not a blind admiration for
her talents, we rejoiced to learn that her Diary was about to be made
public. Our hopes, it is true, were not unmixed with fears. We could not
forget the fate of the Memoirs of Dr. Burney, which were published ten
years ago. That unfortunate book contained much that was curious and
interesting. Yet it was received with a cry of disgust, and was speedily
consigned to oblivion. The truth is, that it deserved its doom. It was
written in Madame D'Arblay's later style, the worst style that has ever
been known among men. No genius, no information, could save from
proscription a book so written. We, therefore, opened the Diary with no
small anxiety, trembling lest we should light upon some of that peculiar
rhetoric which deforms almost every page of the Memoirs, and which it is
impossible to read without a sensation made up of mirth, shame, and
loathing. We soon, however, discovered to our great delight that this
Diary was kept before Madame D'Arblay became eloquent. It is, for the
most part, written in her earliest and best manner, in