redeem a thousand faults of verbosity, clumsiness, and coarseness. His
strong sense, and utter superiority to affectation of all sorts, command
respect, and in his quiet effectiveness of circumstantial narrative he
sometimes approaches old Defoe."

It is easy to criticise Marryat, for his grammar is reckless, he could
not construct a plot, he wrote too much and too rapidly in order to earn
money. But then he was an altogether admirable _raconteur_, and for the
purposes of narration his style was peculiarly appropriate--simple,
rapid, lucid, and vigorous. He does not tax our powers of belief beyond
endurance, or weary us with wonder. His crises are the more effective
from the absence of any studied introduction or thunderous comment; and
he carries his readers through stirring adventures of storm and battle
with a business-like precision that silences doubt. He breathes the
spirit of the sea, himself a genuine sailor, almost as childlike and
simple as one of his own creations. His books are real voyages, in which
a day of bustle and danger is followed by peace and quiet, yarns on the
quarter-deck, and some practical joking among the middies.

He delights in the exhibition of oddities, and the telling of tall
stories outside the regular course of the narrative, which bubbles over
with somewhat boisterous fun. And his humour is genuine and spontaneous;
it is farcical without descending to buffoonery. His comic types are
built up on character, and, if not subtle, are undeniably human and
living. They are drawn, moreover, with sympathy.

The whole tone of Marryat's work is singularly fresh, wholesome, and
manly. His heroes endure rough handling, but they fight their way, for
the most part, to the essential qualities of gentlemen. They are no
saints; but excellent comrades, honest lovers, and brave tars.