which belong to the century following the French Revolution. He takes his characters from the class the most familiar with the realities of life, the most free from artificial sentiment and the restraints of society; and he shows us human nature in its truth and simplicity. At the same time that we are feeling how "one touch of nature makes the whole world kin," he calls our attention to some form of wrong or, neglect which is oppressing or dealing hardly with some of our fellow-creatures. It is the neglect of the poor children of the gutters and alleys, or the tyranny of the Yorkshire schools, or the ill-treatment of the sick by ignorant, vulgar nurses, which fills his heart as he writes, and it is this serious purpose which has made his stories so rich in practical results. The laughter and the tears may be soon over, but the conviction remains that something must be done to undo the wrong, and to bring help to those who have had no helper.

Thackeray, the comrade of Dickens, working by his side, has in his novels striven to show how society decays when it becomes insincere and given over to petty ambitions; he works out the hope of the French Revolution, which aimed at the regeneration of society by a return to simplicity and honesty as the true principles of our common life.

Later on still, George Eliot teaches the grand lesson of a high spiritual ideal set before us, to which even the feeblest may aspire, and which, if worked out faithfully, will enrich and bless the poorest, barest existence.

The recognition of the right of a larger part of the nation to a voice in its government produced the Reform Bill, and with this sprang up a new class of literature, intended for the enlightenment and elevation of those who had neither time nor money for big books.

The writing of short, clear papers on various subjects for magazines led to the rise of a new school of essayists. Amongst these Charles Lamb, Hazlitt, and De Quincey

were the chief. One of the greatest prose writers of our century, Thomas Carlyle, has so lately passed away from us that he cannot yet be said to have a place in the history of our English literature; and yet, if future generations estimate his work aright, he will have a conspicuous position among those who have left a deep mark upon his age. He rests from his labours, but his works will long live, not only in his own writings, but in the love of truth and hatred of all false appearances with which he has inspired others. He opened men's eyes to the world they were living in, and, in many cases, to the lives they were living in it. He showed us that to work aright we must fight, not as one that beateth the air, nor as one living in a dream of empty shadows and sentimentalities; but steadfastly and manfully, living in perpetual conflict with the real evils around us and within us, and patiently fulfilling the simple, plain duty which lies before us. He felt intensely the responsibility of each individual in regard to his own part in life, and the weakness and danger that lie in trusting to plans and theories for the improvement of the world instead of to the upward growth and faithful work of each one. Like Wordsworth, Carlyle saw that this was the great lesson of the past and the only hope of the future.

The spread of intelligence and education have brought a large number of workers into the field of English literature at the present time; and this century has already produced much good writing. Many of these writers are not seeking fame, but their work will live in human progress, and in the improved conditions of human life, though their names may not have a place in the future story of English Literature. Others there are whose writings will one day be a part of the great heritage handed down from the past to posterity.

We have seen what the great men of every age have done for us, in helping us to form a pure and noble ideal of what man may be and do, both in their writings and their

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lives; but even they are for us but "stepping stones to higher things." We cannot, and we need not, repeat the work of Cadmon, of Chaucer, of Spenser, or of Milton. As our nineteenth century poetess says:—

"The past is past,

God lives, and lifts his glorious mornings up
Before the eyes of men awake at last.

We hurry onward to extinguish hell

With our fresh souls, our younger hope, and God's
Maturity of purpose. Soon shall we

Die also! And that then our periods

Of Life may round themselves to memory

As smoothly, as on our graves the burial sods,
We must now look to it to excel as ye,

And bear our age as far, unlimited
By the last landmark, so to be invoked

By future generations as their Dead."

Here we leave the story of our English Literature, lifting up our hearts in thanks to God for its glorious heritage, and setting forth with the courage that springs from faith to carry on the new work of a new day.