They produced, the one in _Salem Chapel_ (1863), a book which contemporaries might be excused for thinking likely to herald a new George Eliot at least; the other, in _John Halifax, Gentleman_ (1857), a book of more sentimentalism, but of great interest and merit.
Both were miracles of fecundity, Mrs.Craik producing, in the shorter life of the two, not much fewer than fifty novels; Mrs.Oliphant, besides a great deal of work in other departments, a tale which did not stop very far short of the hundred.

The latter, moreover, gave, at a comparatively late period of her career, evidences of being able to start new lines--the supernatural stories of her last stages are only inferior to the _Chronicles of Carlingford_ themselves.

Yet, once more, we look for a masterpiece in vain: in fact in Mrs.Oliphant's case we ask, how could any human being, on such a system of production, be expected to produce masterpieces?
Scott, I think, once wrote four or nearly four novels in a year: and the process helped to kill him.

Mrs.
Oliphant did it over and over again, besides alternating the annual dose still more frequently with twos and threes.

In her case the process only killed her novels.
Three remarkable novelists of the other sex may be mentioned, in the same way, together.