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Forrester, Rhoda Broughton, Helen Mathers, Jessie Fothergill, M. E. Braddon, Florence Marryat, Ouida, Horatio Alger, Mayne Reid, Oliver Optic, W. H. S. Kingston, E. Kellogg, G. W. M. Reynolds, C. Fosdick, Edmund Yates, G. A. Lawrence, Grenville Murray, W. H. Ainsworth, Wilkie Collins, E. L. Bulwer-Lytton, W. H. Thomes, and Augusta Evans Wilson.
"The characters are clearly drawn and strongly contrasted. The manners of the times, the intrigues of the court, the landmarks of London, are unerringly painted." Boston Times. "The first attempt Miss M. E. Braddon has made in the line of the historical novel." Literary World.
Wood and Miss Braddon, and stretch their sales into the double-figured thousands, through whose passive brains plot after plot travels in quick succession and leaves no sign, and whose name, we fear, is Legion.
"Just a little incident of travel, my dear sir," said Braddon, laughing, as he resumed his proper seat. "I should call it rather a large incident," said Mr. Sprague, recovering his breath. "I suppose," said Braddon, who seemed rather disposed to chaff his slender traveling companion, "if you like the Black Hills; you may buy one of them." "I may," answered Mr.
Prince Bismarck, once the arbiter of the world, reads Miss Braddon and Gaboriau; Professor Huxley, the greatest living biologist, reads novels wholesale; the grim Moltke read French and English romances; Macaulay used fairly to revel in the hundreds of stories that he read till he knew them by heart.
Probably the Free Libraries have supplanted the flickering shop lights; and every lad and lass can enter and call for Miss Braddon and batten thereon ``in luxury's sofa-lap of leather''; and of course this boon is appreciated and profited by, and we shall see the divine results in a year or two. And yet sometimes, like the dear old Baron in the ``Red Lamp, ``I wonder?
Southey fascinated me with his wealth of Oriental fancies, while Spencer was a favorite book, put beside Milton and Dante. My novel reading was extremely limited; indeed the "three volume novel" was a forbidden fruit. My mother regarded these ordinary love-stories as unhealthy reading for a young girl, and gave me Scott and Kingsley, but not Miss Braddon or Mrs. Henry Wood.
He hated "morbid and introspective tales, with their oceans of sham philosophy." At this time, with catholic taste, he read Mr Stevenson and Mr Meredith, Miss Braddon and Mr Henry James, Ouida and Mr Thomas Hardy; Mr Hall Caine and Mr Anstey; Mrs Oliphant and Miss Edna Lyall. Not everybody can peruse all of these very diverse authors with pleasure.
The balance was never paid; and it was rather hard lines that, on his becoming bankrupt in his poor little way a few years later, a judge in the Bankruptcy Court remarked that, as Miss Braddon was now making a good deal of money by her pen, she ought to "come to the relief" of her first publisher.
"What takes you to the Black Hills, my young friend?" asked Colonel Braddon, addressing Luke. Other passengers awaited Luke's reply with interest. It was unusual to find a boy of sixteen traveling alone in that region. "I hope to make some money," answered Luke, smiling. "I suppose that is what we are all after." He didn't think it wise to explain his errand fully.
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