not the outcome of his art, but of his character, like the deeds that
make up his record of naval service. To the artist his work is
interesting as a completely successful expression of an unartistic
nature. It is absolutely amazing to us, as the disclosure of the spirit
animating the stirring time when the nineteenth century was young. There
is an air of fable about it. Its loss would be irreparable, like the
curtailment of national story or the loss of an historical document. It
is the beginning and the embodiment of an inspiring tradition.

To this writer of the sea the sea was not an element. It was a stage,
where was displayed an exhibition of valour, and of such achievement as
the world had never seen before. The greatness of that achievement
cannot be pronounced imaginary, since its reality has affected the
destinies of nations; nevertheless, in its grandeur it has all the
remoteness of an ideal. History preserves the skeleton of facts and,
here and there, a figure or a name; but it is in Marryat's novels that we
find the mass of the nameless, that we see them in the flesh, that we
obtain a glimpse of the everyday life and an insight into the spirit
animating the crowd of obscure men who knew how to build for their
country such a shining monument of memories.

Marryat is really a writer of the Service. What sets him apart is his
fidelity. His pen serves his country as well as did his professional
skill and his renowned courage. His figures move about between water and
sky, and the water and the sky are there only to frame the deeds of the
Service. His novels, like amphibious creatures, live on the sea and
frequent the shore, where they flounder deplorably. The loves and the
hates of his boys are as primitive as their virtues and their vices. His
women, from the beautiful Agnes to the witch-like mother of Lieutenant
Vanslyperken, are, with the exception of the sailors' wives, like the