She

erences and exhibitions of forbidden knowl-off from husbands and homes they hate edge, of young women, moved either by the women, at the very least of it, who give wild foolhardiness of inexperience, or by and receive burning kisses and frantic emignorance of everything that is natural and braces, and live in a voluptuous dream, becoming to their condition. It is painful either waiting for or brooding over the to inquire where it is that all those stories of inevitable lover, such are the heroines bigamy and seduction, those soi-disant rev- who have been imported into modern ficelations of things that lie below the surface tion. "All for love and the world well lost," of life. come from. Such tales might flow was once the motto of a simple but perenhere and there from one morbid imagina- nial story, with which every human creation, and present themselves to us as moral ture had a certain sympathy-the romance phenomena, without casting any stigma upon that ended pleasantly in a wholesome wedsociety in general; but this is not how they ding, or pathetically in a violet - covered appear. They have taken, as it would seem, grave. But the meaning has changed now. permanent possession of all the lower strata adays. Now it is no knight of romance of light literature. Above, there still re- riding down the forest glades, ready for the mains, it is true, a purer atmosphere, for defence and succour of all the oppressed, which we may be thankful; but all our for whom the dreaming maiden waits. minor novelists, almost without exception, waits now for flesh and muscles, for strong are of the school called sensational. Writers arms that seize her, and warm breath that who have no genius and little talent make up thrills ber through, and a host of other for it by displaying their acquaintance with physical attractions, which she indicates to the accessories and surroundings of vice, the world with a charming frankness. On with the means of seduction, and with what the other side of the picture, it is, of course, they set forth as the secret tendencies of the amber hair and undulating form, the the heart, tendencies which, according to warm flesh and glowing colour, for which this interpretation, all point one way. When the youth sighs in his turn; but, were the the curate's daughter in Shirley' burst forth sketch made from the man's point of view, into passionate lamentation over her own its openness would at least be less repulsive. position and the absence of any man whom The peculiarity of it in England is, that it she could marry, it was a new sensation to is oftenest made from the woman's side the world in general. That men and that it is women who describe those sensuwomen should marry we had all of us ac- ous raptures that this intense appreciaknowledged as one of the laws of humanity; tion of flesh and blood, this eagerness of but up to the present generation most young physical sensation, is represented as the women had been brought up in the belief natural sentiment of English girls, and is that their own feelings on this subject offered to them not only as the portrait of should be religiously kept to themselves. their own state of mind, but as their amuseNo doubt this was a conventionalism; and ment and mental food. Such a wonderful if a girl in a secluded parsonage is very phenomenon might exist, and yet society much in earnest about a husband, there is might be innocent of it. It might be the no effectual reason we know of why she fault of one, or of a limited school; and the should not lift up her "protest" against mere fact that such ravings are found in circumstances. print might be no great argument against But things have gone very much further the purity of the age. But when it is addsince the days of Shirley.' We have ed that the class thus represented does not grown accustomed to the reproduction, not disown the picture; that, on the contrary, only of wails over female loneliness and it hangs it up in the boudoir and drawingthe impossibility of finding anybody to room; that the books which contain it marry, but to the narrative of many thrills circulate everywhere, and are read everyof feeling much more practical and conclu- where, and are not contradicted, then sive. What is held up to us as the story of the case becomes much more serious. For the feminine soul as it really exists under- our own part, we do not believe, as some neath its conventional coverings is a very people do, that a stratum of secret vice fleshly and unlovely record. Women driven underlies the outward seeming of society. wild with love for the man who leads them Most of our neighbours, we know, are very on to desperation before he accords that good sort of people, and we believe unword of encouragement which carries them feignedly that our neighbours' neighbours into the seventh heaven; women who marry resemble our own. It is possible to betheir grooms in fits of sensual passion; wo-lieve that very fine people or very shabby men who pray their lovers to carry them people are profoundly wicked; out, as for

the world as represented on our own level, are such as they are therein described, one we know that it is not so. The girls of our book or another will do them little harm ; acquaintance in general are very nice girls; and, if the picture is false, why do they they do not, so far as we are aware, not accept it? So far from showing any diffiwithstanding a natural proclivity towards culty on this point, it is those very books, the society, when it is to be had, of their according to all appearances, which are natural companions in existence,pant for most in demand. The Times' deals them indiscriminate kisses, or go mad for unat- the crowning glory of its approval. The tainable men. And yet here stands the critical journals, if they do not approve, at problem which otherwise is not to be solved. least take the trouble to discuss; and "the It is thus that Miss Braddon and Miss authorities at the great circulating libraries," Thomas, and a host of other writers, explain as somebody says those sublime critics their feelings. These ladies might not who sit at the fountain-head of literature, know, it is quite possible, any better. and enlarge or choke up at their pleasure They might not be aware how young wo- the springs of our supply -find it impossimen of gool blood and good training feel. ble to resist the public craving for its The perplexing fact is, that the subjects of favourite food. Mr. Mudie, too, may utter this slander make no objection to it. Pro- a "protest;" but it is futile in face of the tests are being raised everywhere in abun- protests of fiction. We confess to having dance; but against this misrepresentation felt a sense of injury in our national pride there is no protest. It seems to be accept- when our solemn contemporary, the 'Revue ed by the great audience of the circulating des Deux Mondes,' held up in one of its libraries as something like the truth. Mr. recent numbers the names of Miss Annie Trollope's charming girls do not, now that Thomas and Mr. Edmund Yates to the adwe know them so well, call forth half so miration of the world as representative much notice from the press as do the Auro- novelists of England. And yet, after all, ra Floyds of contemporary fiction. Is, though the acknowledgment naturally then, the picture true? or by what extraor- costs us a pang, the Frenchman was right. dinary impulse is it that the feminine half Such writers are purely, characteristically of society thus stigmatises and stultifies its English. They are not brilliantly wicked own existence ? like their French contemporaries. The conThe question is one at which we may sciousness of good and evil hangs about wonder, but to which we can give no an- them, a kind of literary fig-leaf. a little betswer; and it is a very serious matter, let us ter or worse than nothing. Though it is look at it as we will. It may be possible to evident that the chatter of imaginary clubs laugh at the notion that books so entirely or still more imaginary studios is their highworthless, so far as literary merit is con- est idea of social intercourse, still the cerned, should affect any reader injuriously, guardsmen and the painters do not talk so though even of this we are a little doubtful; freely nor half so cleverly as they would but the fact that this new and disgusting have done on the other side of the Channel. picture of what professes to be the female That sublime respect for sentimental moralheart comes from the hands of women, and ity and poetic justice which distinguishes is tacitly accepted by them as real, is not in the British public stands forth in them beany way to be laughed at. Some change yond all question. The wicked people are must have been wrought upon the punished and the good people are rewardsocial mind ere such things could be toler-ed, as they always should be; and there ated at all; and even now we are not awakened out of our calm to a full consciousness of the change. When we are so, then we will, of course, according to our natural English course of action, take tardy measures of precaution. We will attempt, in the face of all our traditions and habits, to establish the Index Expurgatorius; we will lock up the books which are not for the jeunes gens; we will glance, ourselves, with curiosity and a sense of guilt, "just to see what it is like," over the objectionable portion of our library parcel; and we will make up our minds to say nothing of it before the girls. Vain thought! If the girls

are exquisite bits of pious reflection which make up to the reader for a doubtful situation or an equivocal character. This, however, is what we have come to in the eyes of our neighbours. It is not so serious as: the moral question; but it is in its way very serious. A critic, indeed, may deceive himself when he looks across the mists and rains of the Channel; but if he is guided by what English papers say, by what advertisements say, by the evidence of circulating libraries and publishers' announcements how can he judge otherwise? The glories of the moment are in the handsof Miss Thomas and her class. Whether it

be in appreciation, or contempt, or amaze- ticulars from Mr. Charles Reade's wellment at the extraordinary character of such known and powerful novel of Hard Cash' successes, the fact remains that our weekly. -a work, we need not say, as far above critics never fail to say something about their productions; and is not Maga also now beguiled to the further extension of their fame? It is humbling; but it is true.

an outlet for the new translation in the columns | esting and fashionable crime, which no doubt of the New York Mercury.' These and other shows a certain deference to the British versions have been made without the slightest relish for law and order. It goes against advantage to the author, or indeed without the the seventh commandment, no doubt, but faintest approach to any direct communication does it in a legitimate sort of way, and is an to her on the subject. Influenced by the facts as here stated, the author has revised the origi- invention which could only have been possinal, and now offers the result for what it is ble to an Englishwoman knowing the atnamely, a tale of incident, written to amuse traction of impropriety, and yet loving the the short intervals of leisure which the readers shelter of law. These are real results which of popular periodicals can snatch from their Miss Braddon has achieved, and we do not daily avocations, and also as a work that has grudge her the glory of them; but yet we cannot been published in England, except in the not conceive how the éclat of such triumphs, crude and fragmentary shape already mengreat as it may be, should cover a piece of tioned." imposture. The boldness of the feat is the only thing that does in any way redeem it; and that is not an excuse either for literary larceny or that marvellous public credulity and folly, which is the really alarming feature in the transaction. The author of

a very

Rupert Godwin' has compelled the world to accept not only a copy, but a very miserable copy, by the mere form of her name. She has palmed off upon three intelligent nations, according to her own account, a fairy changeling, bewitched out of natural beauty into decrepitude and ugliness; and France, England, and America have taken the imp at her word. This is a power

The public has rewarded this noble confidence in them by consuming already three editions of this much produced tale. Three nations, accordingly, have united in doing honour to Rupert Godwin.' England, France, and America have seized upon it with that eager appreciation which is the best reward of genius. Most probably, before this present page has seen the light, it will have been reviewed in more than one leading journal with praise proportioned to its popularity. Was there ever literary phenomenon more inconceivable ? We stand aghast with open mouth of wonder, and are stricken dumb before it. Miss which the greatest of writers might envy. Braddon has, without doubt, certain liter- It is one of the finest privileges of a great ary claims. 'Aurora Floyd,' notwithstand- name. To have made such an impression its unpleasant subject (though we don't upon your contemporaries that the whole doubt that its unpleasant subject has been civilised world thus acknowledges your in reality the cause of its great success), is sway is a thing rarely achieved even by clever story. It is well knit together, the greatest. But it has been achieved by thoroughly interesting, and full of life. Miss Braddon; and, in sight of such a climax The life is certainly not of a high descrip- of fame and success, what can any one tion, but it is genuine in its way; and few say? people with any appreciation of fiction We feel disposed, however, to emulate could refuse to be attracted by a tale so to some extent that pertinacious critic who well defined. The Doctor's Wife' strikes once, as the story goes, took upon him to even a higher note. It is true that it is to annotate the course of a sermon, by ansome extent plagiarized, as was pointed out nouncing the real authorship of its finest at the time of its publication, from a French paragraphs. "Turn that man out," cried story; but the plagiarism was so far perfect the aggrieved incumbent. "That's his ly allowable that it clearly defined wherein own," said the critic. In like manner there the amount of license permitted by English is something in Rupert Godwin' which is taste differs from that which comes natural Miss Braddon's own. When the poor widto the French. Other books of Miss Brad- ow's virtuous and lovely daughter earns her don's have not been unworthy, to some ex- scanty living on the stage, she is made the tent, of the applause bestowed upon them. victim of one of those romantic abductions There has been a good story now and then, which used to be so frequent (in novels) a clever bit of construction, even an inkling forty or fifty years ago. As it happens, it of a character. She is the inventor of the does her no harm either in reputation or fair-haired demon of modern fiction. Wick- any thing else, and, in short, is of little sered women used to be brunettes long ago, vice any how, except to fill up so many now they are the daintiest, softest, prettiest pages; but it is purely original, and not of blonde creatures; and this change has copied. This it is only just to say. A been wrought by Lady Audley, and her foolish young marquess sets his heart influence on contemporary novels. She has upon the queen of beauty in the stage tabbrought in the reign of bigamy as an inter-leaux, and declares himself ready, as foolish

of his love. In such an ethereal and lofty way are things supposed to be managed be tween young English dukes and ballet-girls. These episodes are both Miss Braddon's very own. We recognise in them the origi nal touch of the artist; and no doubt it is thus she has indemnified herself for giving up her natural faculty of construction, and using somebody else's story. Notwithstanding the undiminished success which has attended the essay, we cannot but think it is a pity. Honesty is the best policy. A writer whose gift lies in the portrayal of character, in delicate touches of observation, or sketches of real life, may possibly find it practicable to take the mere framework which has served another man; but for an author whose sole literary gift is that of construction, it is a pity. Miss Braddon has proved that she can invent a story. She can do it much better than she can discriminate or describe, or even talk; and, though it may save trouble, it is a sacrifice of her own powers she makes when she thus borrows from another. If we could hope that it was Mr. Reade who had done it, the matter would be very much less important; for Mr. Reade has many gifts, and can play upon his audience as on an instrument, and move us to tears or laughter as is permitted to very few. Miss Braddon cannot do this; but if she can fill up the circulating library, and be translated into French, and retranslated into American, she certainly does owe her clientelle the exercise of her one faculty. Such privileges have duties attached to them; and a prophet in whom the public thus believes should at least give of her own to that believing public. She never invented any circumstance so extraordinary as this public faith and loyal adherence which she seems to have won.

young marquesses, our readers are aware, are so apt to do, "to lay his coronet at her feet, and make her Marchioness of Roxleydale;" a desire which the villain of the piece immediately seizes upon by way of carrying out his own vile projects. And accordingly Miss Braddon, with a stroke of her wand, brings back out of the ancient ages that post-chaise with the locked doors and the impassible man on the box with which we are all so perfectly acquainted. The lovely Violet is thus carried off to the old decayed house, with the old half-imbecile housekeeper, whom also we know. But we are bound to say that the young lady takes the accident with the composure becoming a young lady of the nineteenth century. Half-way on the road, when they stop to change horses, she satisfies herself that the pretext of her mother's illness, by which she has been inveigled into the carriage, is false, and sinks back relieved with a profound sense of gratitude to heaven. She is rescued, as we have said; and the whole affair passes off in the calmest way, as such a natural accident might be supposed to pass. This abduction is Miss Braddon's own. And so is the episode of Esther Vanberg, a ballet-girl who dies a most exemplary death at the Star and Garter, Richmond, after having been thrown by a wicked horse which she had ordered her lover, a young duke, to buy for her for a thousand pounds. The horse is bought, and runs away and breaks the reckless young woman's spine, and she then makes an edifying end which would become a saint, and leaves her duke touchingly inconsolable, though this also is utterly unconnected with the story. Esther's beauty had been of the demoniac order in her appearances on the stage. She inhabited a bijou mansion in Bolton Row; her drawingroom was approached by "a richly decorated Miss Braddon is the leader of her school, staircase, where nymphs and satyrs in Flor- and to her the first honours ought naturally entine bronze smirked and capered in the to be given, but her disciples are many. One recesses of the pale grey wall, relieved by of the latest of these disciples is the authormouldings and medallions in unburnished ess of Cometh up as a Flower,' a novel gold." Tropical flowers shaded the open which has recently won that amount of pubwindows, and the room was furnished with lic approval which is conveyed by praise in amber satin. Yet all this, and the hunter the leading papers and a second edition. worth a thousand pounds, and circlets of This book is not a stupid book. There is a diamonds, and flounces of the richest lace, certain amount of interest and some charall bought with her duke's money, seems to acter in it. The young lover is, in his way, be considered by Miss Braddon quite con- a real man not very brilliant certainly, sistent with relations of the purest charac- nor with any pretence of intellectuality, but ter between the duke and the opera-dancer. as far removed as possible from the womanAnd when she dies in this perfectly admira- ish individual so often presented to us ticketble way, the duke remains a kind of spirit- ed as a man in ladies' novels; and so is ual widower, to carry out all the last inten- the middle-aged husband. The wonderful tions, and build a monument over the grave thing in it is the portrait of the modern