the mimicries, begin to dislike the
original.

"Most can grow the flowers now,
For all have got the seed;
And once again the people
Call it but a weed."

In fiction, if somebody brings in a curious kind of murder, or a study of
religious problems, or a treasure hunt, or what you will, others imitate
till the world is weary of murders, or theological flirtations, or the
search for buried specie, and the original authors themselves will fail,
unless they fish out something new, to be vulgarised afresh. Therefore,
imitation is distinctly to be urged on the young author.

As a rule, his method is this, he reads very little, but all that he
reads is _bad_. The feeblest articles in the weakliest magazines, the
very mildest and most conventional novels appear to be the only studies
of the majority. Apparently the would-be contributor says to himself, or
herself, "well, _I_ can do something almost on the level of this or that
maudlin and invertebrate novel." Then he deliberately sits down to rival
the most tame, dull, and illiterate compositions that get into print. In
this way bad authors become the literary parents of worse authors. Nobody
but a reader of MSS. knows what myriads of fiction are written without
one single new situation, original character, or fresh thought. The most
out-worn ideas: sudden loss of fortune; struggles; faithlessness of First
Lover; noble conduct of Second Lover: frivolity of younger sister;
excellence of mother: naughtiness of one son, virtue of another, these
are habitually served up again and again. On the sprained ankles, the
mad bulls, the fires, and other simple devices for doing without an
introduction between hero and heroine I need not dwell. The very
youngest of us is acquainted with these expedients, which, by this time
of day, will spell failure.

The common novels of Governess life, the daughters and granddaughters of
_Jane Eyre_, still run riot among the rejected manuscripts. The lively
large family, all very untidy and humorous, all wearing each other's
boots and gloves, and making their dresses out of bedroom curtains and
marrying rich men, still rushes down the easy descent to failure. The
sceptical curate is at large, and is disbelieving in everything except
the virtues of the young woman who "has a history." Mr. Swinburne hopes
that one day the last unbelieving clergyman will disappear in the embrace
of the last immaculate Magdalen, as the Princ