a stratum of secret vice underlies the outward seeming of society. Most of our neighbours, we know, are very good sort of people, and we believe unfeignedly that our neighbours' neighbours resemble our own. It is possible to believe that very fine people or very shabby people are profoundly wicked, but as for the world as represented on our own level we know that it is not so. The girls of our acquaintance in general are very nice girls; they do not, so far as we are awarenotwithstanding a natural proclivity towards the society, when it is to be had, of their natural companions in existence-pant for indiscriminate kisses, or go mad for unattainable men. And yet here stands the problem which other wise is not to be solved. It is thus that Miss Braddon and Miss Thomas, and a host of other writers, explain their feelings. These ladies might not know, it is quite possible, any better. They might not be aware how young women of good blood and good training feel. The perplexing fact is, that the subjects of this slander make no objection to it. Protests are being raised everywhere in abundance, but against this misrepresentation there is no protest. It seems to be accepted by the great audience of the circulating libraries as something like the truth. Mr Trollope's charming girls do not, now that we know them so well, call forth half so much notice from the press as do the Aurora Floyds of contemporary fiction. Is, then, the picture true? or by what extraordinary impulse is it that the feminine half of society thus stigmatises and stultifies its own existence?

The question is one at which we may wonder, but to which we can give no answer; and it is a very serious matter, let us look at it as we will. It may be possible to laugh at the notion that books so entirely worthless, so far as literary merit is concerned, should affect any reader injuriously, though even of

this we are a little doubtful; but the fact that this new and disgusting picture of what professes to be the female heart, comes from the hands of women, and is tacitly accepted by them as real, is not in any way to be laughed at. Some change must have been wrought upon the social mind ere such things could be tolerated 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 such as they are therein described, one book or another will do them little harm; and if the picture is false, why do they accept it? So far from showing any difficulty on this point, it is those very books, according to all appearances, which are most in demand. The 'Times' deals them the crowning glory of its approval. The critical journals, if they do not approve, at least take the trouble to discuss; and "the authorities at the great circulating libraries," as somebody says-those sublime critics who sit at the fountainhead of literature, and enlarge or choke up at their pleasure the springs of our supplyfind it impossible to resist the public craving for its favourite food. Mr Mudie, too, may utter a "protest," but it is futile in face of the protests of fiction. We confess to having felt a sense of injury in our national pride when our solemn contemporary, the 'Revue des Deux Mondes,' held up in one of its recent numbers the names of Miss

Annie Thomas and Mr Edmund Yates to the admiration of the world as representative novelists of England. And yet, after all, though the acknowledgment naturally costs us a pang, the Frenchman was right. Such writers are purely, characteristically English. They are not brilliantly wicked like their French contemporaries. The consciousness of good and evil hangs about them, a kind of literary fig-leaf, a little better or worse than nothing. Though it is evident that the chatter of imaginary clubs or still more imaginary studios is their highest idea of social intercourse, still the guardsmen and the painters do not talk so freely nor half so cleverly as they would have done on the other side of the Channel. That sublime respect for sentimental morality and poetic justice which distinguishes the British public, stands forth in them beyond all question. The wicked people are punished and the good people are rewarded, as they always should be; and there 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 hands of Miss Thomas and her class. Whether it be in appreciation, or contempt, or amazement at the extraordinary character of such successes, the fact remains that our weekly 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.

And the fact is all the more humbling when we consider the very small amount of literary skill employed in the construction of these books. In France, again, it is the other way. A wicked novel there may be very disgusting, but it is generally clever, and sometimes possesses a certain hideous sort of spiritual interest. When the vilest of topics happens to fall into the hands of such an anatomist as Balzac, or under the more human touch of Victor Hugo, there is something of calm science in the investigation-a kind of inexorable and passionless dissection which renders even such studies impressive. But English sensational books of the day have no such attraction. We do not gulp down the evil in them for the sake of the admirable skill that depicts it, or the splendour of the scenery amid which it occurs. On the contrary, we swallow the poorest of literary drivelsentiments that are adapted to the atmosphere of a Surrey theatredescriptions of society which show the writer's ignorance of societystyle the most mean or the most inflated-for the sake of the objectionable subjects they treat. The novels which crowd our libraries are, for a great part, not literature at all. Their construction shows, in some cases, a certain rude skill, in some a certain clever faculty of theft; but in none any real inventive genius; and as for good taste, or elegance, or perception of character, these are things that do not tell upon the sensational novel. The events are the necessary things to consider, not the men; and thus the writer goes on from one tour de force to another, losing even what little natural gift might belong to him in its over-exercise, but never losing the most sweet voices which he has once conciliated.

Such at least is the evidence of the newspapers. 'Rupert Godwin,' for example, the last work published by Miss Braddon, although published only a few days, is al

ready, according to the advertisements, in the fourth edition. Yet it would be difficult to point out one single claim it has to popular approval. We have met with many curious things in these lower regions of bookmaking, but it has never been our fate to meet with any piece of literary theft so barefaced and impudent as this book. The story is copied in all its important particulars from Mr Charles Reade's well-known and powerful novel of Hard Cash'-a work, we need not say, as far above the lower world into which 'Rupert Godwin' has been born as it is possible to conceive. The story of 'Hard Cash,' as everybody knows, is that of a sailor captain, who confides his hard-won money to the care of a banker, and, being cheated, goes mad, and is only rescued after many moving adventures by sea and land, his wife and children in the meanwhile being left destitute. In 'Rupert Godwin' the conception is so far varied that the sea-captain is stabbed, and left for dead by the wicked banker; but all the other incidents may stand as above narrated. There are two pairs of lovers, son and daughter of the respective banker and victim, in both books; there is a madhouse in both books, and a clerk who betrays his master, and a marvellous recovery for the killed and mad hero. The only little difference is, that in one book this hero is a certain glorious sailor, dear to our hearts, noble old knight of romance, simple old English seaman, David Dodd, altogether one of the finest conceptions in English fiction; and in the other a miserable ghost called Westfield, about whom nobody knows anything nor cares anything. How such an amount of self-confidence, or confidence in the folly of the public, could be attained as is displayed in this publication, it would be difficult either to explain or to understand. Mr Reade is not yet a classic. He is one of the most powerful of contemporary writers;

and though it may be possible to borrow with small acknowledgment a French story, it is temerity, indeed, to plagiarise so well-known a production. Yet this is what Miss Braddon has ventured to do. She has taken the bones of the tale, as a poor curate might take a skeleton sermon. Having no flesh to put upon them, it is true that, honester so far than the curate, she leaves the bones as she found them; and, notwithstanding a liberal mention of violet eyes and golden hair and dark Spanish beauty, presents her personages to us in a skeleton state. But this, it would appear, makes no difference to an admiring public. Here is the compiler's own account of the reception given to this piece of stolen goods :

"Rupert Godwin' was written for, and first appeared in, a cheap weekly journal. From this source the tale was translated into the French language, and ran as the leading story in the Journal pour Tous.' It was there discovered by an American, who retranslated the matter back into English, and who obtained an outlet for the new translation in the columns of the New York Mercury.' These and other versions have been made without the slightest advantage to the author, or indeed without the faintest approach to any direct communication to her on the subject. Influenced has revised the original, and now offers by the facts as here stated, the author the result for what it is-namely, a tale of incident, written to amuse the short intervals of leisure which the readers of popular periodicals can snatch from their daily avocations, and also as a work that has not been published in England, except in the crude and fragmentary shape already mentioned."

The public has rewarded this noble confidence in them by consuming already three editions of this muchproduced 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 Braddon has, without doubt, certain literary claims. 'Aurora Floyd,' notwithstanding its unpleasant subject (though we don't doubt that its unpleasant subject has been in reality the cause of its great success), is a very clever story. It is well knit together, thoroughly interesting, and full of life. The life is certainly not of a high description, but it is genuine in its way; and few people with any appreciation of fiction could refuse to be attracted by a tale so well defined. The Doctor's Wife' strikes even a higher note. It is true that it is to some extent plagiarised, as was pointed out at the time of its publication, from a French story; but the plagiarism was so far perfectly allowable that it clearly defined wherein the amount of licence permitted by English taste differs from that which comes natural to the French. Other books of Miss Braddon's have not been unworthy, to some extent, of the applause bestowed upon them. There has been a good story now and then, a clever bit of construction, even an inkling of a character. She is the inventor of the fair-haired demon of modern fiction. Wicked women used to be brunettes long ago, now they are the daintiest, softest, prettiest of blonde creatures; and this change has been wrought by Lady Audley, and her influence on contemporary novels. She has brought in the reign of bigamy as an interesting and fashionable crime, which no doubt shows a certain deference to the British relish for law and order. It goes against the seventh commandment, no doubt, but does it in a legitimate sort of way, and is an invention which could only have been possible to an Englishwoman know

ing the attraction of impropriety, and yet loving the shelter of law. These are real results which Miss Braddon has achieved, and we do not grudge her the glory of them; but yet we cannot conceive how the éclat of such triumphs, great as it may be, should cover a piece of 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 '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 which the greatest of writers might envy.. It is one of the finest privileges of a great name. To have made such an impression upon your contemporaries that the whole civilised world thus acknowledges your sway, is a thing rarely achieved even by the greatest. But it has been achieved by Miss Braddon; and in sight of such a climax of fame and success, what can any one say?

We feel disposed, however, to emulate to some extent that pertinacious critic who once, as the story goes, took upon him to annotate the course of a sermon, by announcing the real authorship of its finest paragraphs. "Turn that man out," cried the aggrieved incumbent. "That's his own," said the critic. In like manner there is something in 'Rupert Godwin' which is Miss Braddon's own. When the poor widow's virtuous and lovely daughter earns her scanty living on the stage, she is made the victim of one of those romantic abductions which used to be so frequent (in novels) forty or fifty years ago. As it

happens, it does her no harm either in reputation or anything else, and, in short, is of little service anyhow except to fill up so many pages; but it is purely original and not copied. This it is only just to say. A foolish young marquess sets his heart upon the queen of beauty in the stage tableaux, and declares himself ready, as foolish 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 drawing-room was approached by "a richly decorated staircase, where nymphs and satyrs in Florentine bronze smirked and capered in the recesses of the pale grey wall, relieved by mouldings and medallions in unburnished gold." Tropical flowers shaded the open windows, and the room was furnished with amber satin. Yet all this, and the hunter worth a thousand pounds, and circlets of diamonds, and flounces of the richest lace, all bought with her duke's money, seems to be considered by Miss Braddon quite consistent with relations of the purest character between the duke and the operadancer. And when she dies in. this perfectly admirable way, the duke remains a kind of spiritual widower, to carry out all the last intentions, and build a monument over the grave of his love. such an ethereal and lofty way are things supposed to be managed between young English dukes and ballet-girls. These episodes are both Miss Braddon's very own. We recognise in them the original 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 discrimi

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