is story to an acquaintance, he met, as before, with
such total disbelief, that, most fortunately for many readers, he
determined at once to devote the remainder of his days to fiction.

How much faith such a narrative deserves we leave others to decide. It,
however, has the virtue, as Una declares again, of plausibly explaining
Mr. Reade's entire misapprehension of the feminine portion of
humanity,--since, during the whole course of such a career, it would
have been impossible that he should have made intimate acquaintance with
a single specimen of the sex. It is true that in "Christie Johnstone" he
speaks of the musical performances of certain female relatives of his
own; but of course that is to be taken only as a part of the fiction.
One thing, however, is evident,--that, if this sketch is not true, the
converse of it must be, and where the reader has paid his money he may
take his choice.

Mr. Reade's latest novel, "Very Hard Cash," is a continuation of a
previous one, "Love me Little, Love me Long." A great charm of
Thackeray's books was, that in every fresh one we heard a little news of
the dear old friends of former ones; and "Very Hard Cash" has all the
advantage of prepossession in its favor. Its forerunner was a startling
thing to the circulating-library, for the hero was an entirely new
character, dashing among the elegancies of the habitual hero like a
shaggy dog in a drawing-room; and though the author admires him to the
core of his heart, he never once hesitates to put him in ridiculous
plight, and sets at last this diamond-in-the-rough in his purest and
most polished gold. It is a delightful book, with one scene in it, the
memorable night at sea, worth scores of customary novels, and, apart
from the noble and beautiful delineation of David Dodd, would be
invaluable for nothing else but its faultless portraiture of that
millinery devotee, Mrs. Bazalgette.

From two such natures as David and his wife nothing less noble should
spring; and therefore, through necessity, their daughter Julia, the
heroine of "Very Hard Cash," is that ideal of vehemence and sweetness
which we find her, not by any choice or fancy of the writer, but on
account of fate, natural deduction, and _a priori_ logic. She is,
however, for all that, to some extent a creation; one may imagine her,
long for her, look for her,--one will not immediately find her. Youth
never was painted so well as here; both Julia and Alfred are aureoled in