There are frequent references to novels in her letters: “We have got _Fitz-Albini_, my father has bought it against my private wishes, for it does not quite satisfy my feelings that we should purchase the only one of Egerton’s works of which his family are ashamed.” In another place: “To set against your new novel, of which nobody ever heard before, and perhaps never may again, we have got _Ida of Athens_ by Miss Owenson, which must be very clever because it was written the authoress says in three months. We have only read the preface yet, but her Irish girl does not make me expect much. If the warmth of her language could affect the body it might be worth reading this weather.” [January.] There were many writers thought highly of at the time of their writing, who have yet dropped into oblivion to all but the student; among these is Jane Porter, born a year later than Jane Austen, who published her first romance, _Thaddeus of Warsaw_, in 1803, this was a great success, and immediately ran through several editions; it was followed in 1810 by her _chef d’œuvre_ _The Scottish Chiefs_. In 1809, when it had just come out, and was anonymous, Hannah More’s _Cœlebs in Search of a Wife_ came into Cassandra’s hands. Jane writes of it: “You have by no means raised my curiosity after Caleb. My disinclination for it before was affected but now it is real. I do not like the evangelicals. Of course I shall be delighted when I read it like other people, but till I do, I dislike it.” And in her next letter she replies to her sister, “I am not at all ashamed about the name of the novel, having been guilty of no insult towards your handwriting; the diphthong I always saw, but knowing how fond you were of adding a vowel wherever you could, I attributed it to that alone, and the knowledge of the truth does the book no service; the only merit it could have was in the name of Caleb, which has an honest unpretending sound, but in Cœlebs there is pedantry and affectation. Is it written only to classical scholars?” _Cœlebs_ itself it must be admitted is dull, unqualifiedly dull. Jane Austen’s own books are not novels of plot, but they radiate plot in comparison. In _Cœlebs_ a procession of persons stalks solemnly through the pages; they never reveal themselves by action, but are described as by a Greek chorus by the other characters in conversation or by the author, while long dry disquisitions on religion fill half, or more than half, of the book, and Cœlebs himself is a prig of the first water. Yet there are certain little touches which indicate a knowledge of human nature, such as that of the man who has married a beauty, “Who had no one recommendation but beauty. To be admired by her whom all his acquaintance admired gratified his _amour-propre_.”