He entered Magdalen College in =1831= and three years later was appointed to a fellowship which he held for fifty years, until his death in =1884=. The income of this enabled him to strive for many years against disappointments and finally achieve fame as a writer. He toiled long and hard for recognition and it was not until he was nearly forty years of age that he became known. In the meantime he had studied law and had written many plays which he had vainly tried to have accepted. His first successful work of note was the brilliant comedy, “Masks and Faces.” This he turned later into the novel, “Peg Woffington.” His stories are throughout strong in dramatic situations and, despite his greater success as a novelist, he always considered himself primarily a playwright. Like his friend Charles Dickens, he aimed in his writings to correct social abuses, and his literary lance was ever couched to aid the unfortunate. He wrote “It’s Never too Late to =Mend=” to abolish the evils of the English prison system. Its success was tremendous, and later, when it was dramatized and produced at the Princess Theater, there was almost a riot in the audience. “Hard Cash” was directed against the abuses in insane asylums; “Foul Play” dealt with those connected with the merchant shipping service; “Put Yourself in His Place” took up the hardships of the laboring man. Thus in his books he assailed the evils of his time. First and always, however, he was a literary artist. He knew how to weave together hard, homely facts and romantic incidents so that his blows for right struck all the harder because of the reader’s absorbing interest in the plot of his story. “It would require a chemical analysis to separate the fiction from the reality,” said Justin McCarthy of Reade’s novels. “The Cloister and the Hearth” is considered his greatest story. PART I. “TOM, I invite you to a walk.” “Well, George, a walk is a great temptation this beautiful day.” It was the month of January in Australia. A blazing hot day was beginning to glow through the freshness of morning. The sky was one cope of pure blue, and the southern air crept slowly up, its wings clogged with fragrance, and just tuned the trembling leaves,--no more. “Is not this pleasant, Tom?--isn’t it sweet?” “I believe you, George! and what a shame to run down such a country as this! There they come home and tell you that the flowers have no smell, but they keep dark about the trees and bushes being haystacks of flowers. Snuff the air as we go, it is a thousand English gardens in one. Look at those tea-scrubs, each with a thousand blossoms on it as sweet as honey; and the golden wattles on the other side, and all smelling like seven o’clock.”