ted
assassination, a duel, a suicide, and a murder. The murder, we must
acknowledge, is a masterpiece. It would do credit to Gaboriau, and
should make Miss Braddon jealous. The Newgate Calendar itself contains
nothing more fascinating, and what higher praise than this can be given
to a sensational novel? Not that Lady Teigne, the hapless victim, is
killed in any very new or subtle manner. She is merely strangled in bed,
like Desdemona; but the circumstances of the murder are so peculiar that
Claire Denville, in common with the reader, suspects her own father of
being guilty, while the father is convinced that the real criminal is his
eldest son. Stuart Denville himself, the Master of the Ceremonies, is
most powerfully drawn. He is a penniless, padded dandy who, by a careful
study of the 'grand style' in deportment, has succeeded in making himself
the Brummel of the promenade and the autocrat of the Assembly Rooms. A
light comedian by profession, he is suddenly compelled to play the
principal part in a tragedy. His shallow, trivial nature is forced into
the loftiest heroism, the noblest self-sacrifice. He becomes a hero
against his will. The butterfly goes to martyrdom, the fop has to become
fine. Round this character centres, or rather should centre, the
psychological interest of the book, but unfortunately Mr. Fenn has
insisted on crowding his story with unnecessary incident. He might have
made of his novel 'A Soul's Tragedy,' but he has produced merely a
melodrama in three volumes. The Master of the Ceremonies is a melancholy
example of the fatal influence of Drury Lane on literature. Still, it
should be read, for though Mr. Fenn has offered up his genius as a
holocaust to Mr. Harris, he is never dull, and his style is on the whole
very good. We wish, however, that he would not try to give articulate
form to inarticulate exclamations. Such a passage as this is quite
dreadful and fails, besides, in producing the effect it aims at:

'He--he--he, hi--hi--hi, hec--hec--hec, ha--ha--ha! ho--ho! Bless
my--hey--ha! hey--ha! hugh--hugh--hugh! Oh dear me! Oh--why don't
you--heck--heck--heck--heck--heck! shut
the--ho--ho--ho--ho--hugh--hugh--window before I--ho--ho--ho--ho!'

This horrible jargon is supposed to convey the impression of a lady
coughing. It is, of course, a mere meaningless monstrosity on a par with
spelling a sneeze. We hope that Mr. Fenn will not again try these
theatrical tri