fiction, which is greatly admired, I learn, in the United States, as
well as in France and at home.

You erred, it cannot be denied, with your eyes open. Knowing Lydia
and Kitty so intimately as you did, why did you make of them almost
insignificant characters? With Lydia for a heroine you might have
gone far; and, had you devoted three volumes, and the chief of your
time, to the passions of Kitty, you might have held your own, even
now, in the circulating library. How Lyddy, perched on a corner of
the roof, first beheld her Wickham; how, on her challenge, he
climbed up by a ladder to her side; how they kissed, caressed, swung
on gates together, met at odd seasons, in strange places, and
finally eloped: all this might have been put in the mouth of a
jealous elder sister, say Elizabeth, and you would not have been
less popular than several favourites of our time. Had you cast the
whole narrative into the present tense, and lingered lovingly over
the thickness of Mary's legs and the softness of Kitty's cheeks, and
the blonde fluffiness of Wickham's whiskers, you would have left a
romance still dear to young ladies.

Or, again, you might entrance fair students still, had you
concentrated your attention on Mrs. Rushworth, who eloped with Henry
Crawford. These should have been the chief figures of "Mansfield
Park." But you timidly decline to tackle Passion. "Let other
pens," you write, "dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious
subjects as soon as I can." Ah, THERE is the secret of your
failure! Need I add that the vulgarity and narrowness of the social
circles you describe impair your popularity? I scarce remember more
than one lady of title, and but very few lords (and these
unessential) in all your tales. Now, when we all wish to be in