Lytton's first novel was _Falkland_ (1827), which he afterwards called his Sorrows of Werther. It proves his literary affiliation to Byron, and the proof is strengthened by subsequent works. Lytton, who was not proud of the relationship, both thought and said that he had done much to put Byron out of fashion. Possibly he was right, but the kinship is none the less real. The posing and foppery of _Pelham_ are both like and unlike the attitudinising of Byron; and the similarity of the sentimental and romantic criminals, Eugene Aram and Paul Clifford, to the heroes of Byron's tales is obvious. Moreover, as Lytton once at least, in _Pelham_, sat for his own portrait, and Byron did so many times, the likeness was recognised as a personal one, so that one of Lytton's early lady correspondents nicknamed him Childe Harold. Lytton was too sensitive to influences to escape the Byronic fever. But his Byronism is Byronism a little damaged. 'The Hero as Criminal,' as presented by him, is a being more sentimental and sickly, less violent and less forcible, but not a whit less dangerous to society, than his Byronic prototype. Lytton's excursions into the domains of dandyism and criminality drew down upon him the satire of Carlyle and Thackeray, both sworn foes of affectation, from which Lytton was never free. But in spite of hostile criticism the new novelist had caught the popular taste; and he retained it, perhaps because his own never remained long constant. Shortly after the publication of _Eugene Aram_ (1832) he underwent a marked change, due immediately to a journey to Italy, the influence of which is seen both in the subject and the treatment of _The Last Days of Pompeii_ (1834), and of _Rienzi_ (1835). These, with _The Last of the Barons_ (1843), form a group of historical romances, glittering and clever, but destitute of charm. The strength and the weakness of Lytton is nowhere more easily detected than in these novels. They show abundance of talent, supported by a quality not usually associated with such powers as those of Lord Lytton--indefatigable industry. Yet they fall short of excellence. To say that Lytton's treatment of history will not bear comparison with Shakespeare's, or with Scott's, or with Thackeray's, is only to say that he is not equal to the greatest masters. But there are other men, markedly inferior to these, who yet overtop Lytton. Such, for instance, is Charles Reade, in his _Cloister and the Hearth_. What Reade has in common with his greater brethren, and Lytton has not, is the light and shade of life. In Lytton all is polished glittering brilliance. The light is neither the sunlight of common day nor 'the moonlight of romance,' but the glare of innumerable gas lamps,--the rays from the footlights to which he was about to betake himself. All the softer shades disappear, and quiet effects are impossible. There is nowhere in these novels, and there is rarely in