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.

If it were the case that his books derived their whole attraction from the novelty and (within its limits) the variety of their sea-matter, then the first ought to be the best, as in nearly all such cases is the fact.

But _Frank Mildmay_ (1829), 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.

And if Frank is something of a bravo, more of a blackguard, and nearly a complete ruffian, it is not merely because there was a good deal of brutality in the old navy; not merely because Marryat's own standard of chivalry was not quite that of Chaucer's Knight:--but partly, also, because he was aiming blunderingly at what he supposed to be part of the novelist's business--irregular as well as regular gallantry, and highly seasoned adventure.