subject stands in bold relief as a monument of dauntless courage and
enthusiasm.

No one can hesitate to declare this novel, as it is the latest, to be
also the finest of all that Charles Reade has given us. In saying this
we do not forget the "Cloister and Hearth," which, however tender and
touching and true to its century, is rather a rambling narrative than an
elucidated plot. "Very Hard Cash" is wrought out with the finest finish,
yet nowhere overdone; it so abounds in scenes of dramatic climax that we
fancy the stage has lost immensely by the romance-reader's gain; yet
there is never a single situation thrown away, every word tends in the
main direction, and after that the prolific mind of the writer overflows
in _marginalia_. There are one or two striking improbabilities, which
Mr. Reade himself excuses by asserting that the commonplace is neither
dramatic nor evangelical,--and therefore we confess, that, so long as
Reginald Bazalgette had a ship, Captain Dodd was as likely to turn up on
that as on any other, the purser as likely to make his communication at
that moment as later, and the fly as likely to resuscitate the patient
as the surgeon. But the characterization in this book is wonderful;
every name becomes an acquaintance, from Mrs. Beresford, dividing Ajax's
emotion and declining to be drowned in the dark, with her servant
Ramgolam and his matchless Orientalisms, up to the loftier models, one
of whom he endows with this exquisite bit of description:--

"A head overflowed by ripples of dark-brown hair sat with heroic
grace upon his solid white throat, like some glossy falcon
new-lighted on a Parian column."

We must, however, object to Fullalove, who is quite unworthy of the
author, though perhaps complacently regarded by him as a success, being