In one of his pet peculiarities, the selection of a name for his work, the author has surpassed himself.  It is a good thing to have an imposing name.  In literature, as in society, a sounding title makes its way with delicious freedom.  But it is also well to see to it, that, in the matter of title, some connection with the book to which it is applied shall be maintained.  We are accustomed to approach a title somewhat as we do a finger-post,—­not hoping that it will reveal the nature of the road we are to follow, the character of the scenery we are to gaze upon, or the general disposition of the impending population, but anticipating that it will at least enable us to start in the right direction.  Now every reader of “Love me Little, Love me Long” is apt to consider himself or herself justified in entertaining acrimonious sentiments towards Mr. Reade for the non-fulfilment of his titular hint.  If, in the process of binding, the leaves of this story had accidentally found their way into covers bearing other and various appellations, we imagine that very little injury would have been done to the author’s meaning or the purchaser’s understanding.  It is, indeed, interesting to look forward to the progress of Mr. Reade’s ideas on the subject of titles.  We have already enjoyed a couple of pleasing nursery platitudes; perhaps it would not be altogether out of order to expect in future a series something like the following:—­

“Oh, Dear, What Can the Matter Be!!??!?!” “One, Two, Buckle My Shoe!” “Sing a Song of Sixpence, a Bag Full of Rye!” “Hiccory, Diccory, Dock!!!” etc., etc.

Let us not forget, in laughing at the author’s weaknesses, to acknowledge his strength.  He shows in this work an inventive fancy equal to that of any writer of light fiction in the English language, and hardly surpassed by those of the French,—­from which latter, it is fair to suppose, much of his inspiration is drawn, since his style is undisguisedly that of modern French romancers, though often made the vehicle of thoughts far nobler than any they are wont to convey.  His portraits of character are capital, especially those of feminine character, which are peculiarly vivid and spirituels.  He represents infantile imagination with Pre-Raphaelitic accuracy.  And his descriptions are frequently of enormous power.  A story of a sailor’s perils on a whaling voyage is told in a manner almost as forcible as that of the “frigate fight,” by Walt.  Whitman, and in a manner strikingly similar, too.  A night adventure in the English channel—­a pleasure excursion diverted by a storm from its original intention into a life-and-death struggle—­is related with unsurpassed effect.  The whole work is as sprightly and agreeable a love-story as any English writer has produced,—­always amusing, often flashing with genuine wit, sometimes inspiring in its eloquent energy.  And this ought to be sufficient to secure the abundant success of any book of its class, and to cause its successor to be awaited with interest.