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Updated: June 11, 2025
'I just went into the country, and for several weeks did nothing but read Marryat's novels. Bursting into a loud laugh, the thought of this time seemed now to amuse him. 'Well, I said, 'and what did you do then? When he replied, with a deep sigh, 'I just came back and wrote it all over again. Then he further said, solemnly, 'I dinna think it's the same; no, I dinna think it's the same!
'Didn't come to stay for ever," said Scott, dropping one of Marryat's novels, and rising to his feet. "Martyn, your sister's waiting for you." A rough grey horse was backing and shifting at the edge of the verandah, where the light of a kerosene lamp fell on a brown-calico habit and a white face under a grey-felt hat. "Right, O!" said Martyn. "I'm ready.
The Death of "Old Krook" in Dickens's "Bleak House" or of the victim in one of Marryat's most thrilling tales was not more gruesome than this actual fact. It is without doubt a case of spontaneous human combustion, such as is recorded beyond dispute in medical and medico-legal text-books of the past two centuries.
I do not see how these alternatives are to be avoided. But surely this is a mere begging of the question! One is reminded of Marryat's character, who asked to have her illegitimate baby excused "because it was such a little one!" No matter how slight the amount of energy may be, if it is capable of affecting energy at all, it is energy, and hence subject to the law of conservation.
One is that Marryat had the true quality of the craftsman, as distinguished from the amateur or the chance-medley man who has a lucky inspiration. But Frank Mildmay , so far from being the best, is not far from being the worst of Marryat's novels. Much dangerously much as he put of his own experiences in the book, he did not know in the least how to manage them.
It has been said that Marryat's wandering ceased in 1843, and it was in that year that he settled down at Langham to look after his own estate. Langham is in the northern division of Norfolk, half way between Wells-next-the-Sea and Holt. The Manor House, says Mrs Lean, "without having any great architectural pretensions, had a certain unconventional prettiness of its own.
Under Miss Marryat's training my religious feeling received a strongly Evangelical bent, but it was a subject of some distress to me that I could never look back to an hour of "conversion"; when others gave their experiences, and spoke of the sudden change they had felt, I used to be sadly conscious that no such change had occurred in me, and I felt that my dreamy longings were very poor things compared with the vigorous "sense of sin" spoken of by the preachers, and used dolefully to wonder if I were "saved."
'Didn't come to stay for ever," said Scott, dropping one of Marryat's novels, and rising to his feet. "Martyn, your sister's waiting for you." A rough grey horse was backing and shifting at the edge of the verandah, where the light of a kerosene lamp fell on a brown-calico habit and a white face under a grey-felt hat. "Right, O!" said Martyn. "I'm ready.
But it is necessary to prefix to my extracts from them a statement of the form in which I possess them. They consist, then, partly of a series of collections for a book of travels, such a volume as was a common product of the forties and fifties. Horace Marryat's Journal of a Residence in Jutland and the Danish Isles is a fair specimen of the class to which I allude.
The same at Brook. "The fathers and mothers, yours and mine, are not an hour altered," Harry Musgrave said. "The boys are grown. Jack is a sturdy little ruffian, as you might expect; no boy in the Forest runs through so many clothes as Jack that's the complaint. There is a talk of sending him to sea, and he is deep in Marryat's novels for preparation."
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