A veteran novel reader has learned to detect a plot in its early stages; to see from afar the marriage, the forgery, the hidden will; to him (or should I rather say to her?) the true inwardness of the different characters is manifest; no disguise, no blandishments, avail to conceal from his piercing vision the true heir, the disguised villain, the timid lover.

It has been stated by careful students that the original stories in the world number but two hundred and fifty; but we have not forgotten our arithmetic, and we have learned chess, so we know something of the manifold combinations of numbers, and we take courage.

But the veteran novel reader finds little variety in incident and machinery; there are fashions in fiction as in everything else, and the prevailing "style" of the time is followed apparently without question.

The heroines of an earlier generation differed from those of the present. They were slender creatures, living on delicate fare, and fainting at every or no provocation. When these lovely beings died it was usually of a broken heart, developing into consumption. They were depicted clad in white and holding flowers, reclining at open windows, regardless of draughts, and they lectured heart-broken friends and faithless lovers with a command of language and strength of lung rare in every-day life. For bringing about some needed explanation sprained ankles have played a conspicuous part, and a strong-armed hero or stalwart rival was ready to carry the fair sufferer

"Over hill, over dale,
Through bush, through briar,"

to some place of shelter, where friends and reader alike watched the progress of recovery. Runaway horses have been vastly useful in bringing matters to a crisis, and in New England stories a fierce bull is always ready to threaten the life of the heroine.

These casualties were especially the lot of the heroines, but fevers were open to all without distinction of "sex, race, or color." In the wanderings of delirium the cleverly-disguised villain betrayed his dark designs—the self-distrusting lover sighed his woes into the sympathetic ear of the damsel of whom in his "normal state" he had said—

"'Twere all as one
That I should love some bright particular star
And seek to wed it."

With the modern dissemination of knowledge and of sanitary science, the former ailments have become less fashionable; there has been a run of diphtheria, and heart complaints are slaying their thousands.

Athletics are restricted to no sex,—the hero is less frequently called to rescue his beloved from a watery grave. Indeed, her skill may be superior to his,—witness Armorel, one of the fairest of modern creations.

Now and then a leader has appeared,—an inventor,—but the new style is imitated with no respect for patent right. Jane Eyre was new; here was a heroine with neither wealth nor beauty, and forthwith appeared a long train of ugly girls, and dark, middle-aged men promising henceforth "to forswear sack and live cleanly," yet in confidential moments giving glimpses of a past which caused all virtuous folks to shiver.

We have now the "novel of every-day life," wherein we are called to "assist" at commonplace incidents; to listen to inane talk, where adverbs, liberally bestowed, help our comprehension, as we are told that certain things were "coarsely," "suggestively," "tentatively," said. It is, indeed, "reading made easy."

Stuart Mill, lamenting the changes in the tendency of modern fiction, wrote: "For the first time perhaps in history, the youth of both sexes of the educated classes are universally growing up unromantic. What will come in mature age from such a youth the world has not yet had time to see."

These words were written half a century ago, the generation referred to has reached "mature age," and the world has read its novels.

Pamela McArthur Cole.
East Bridgewater, Mass.