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It may be objected that we are writing a novel, and that the method pursued by many novel writers is as follows:-A man of any

age under forty is at some period of the first volume to meet with a woman at most thirtyfive. If the result be not instant and reciprocal attachment, at all events one of them is in duty bound to fall in love somewhere within the limits of vol. one. Throughout the main portion of vols. two and three, the course of this true love is to be as unsmooth as possible; in order that all parties, having been tossed and pitched up and down for a good long time, may be as love-sick as the author can ingeniously contrive to make them. In about two chapters from the end of the story, when every possibility of a calm passage has been utterly relinquished, and the passengers are in that state of happy indifference, from their wretchedness, as not to care whether they go to the bottom or survive, a miracle must be performed. A relentless guardian who, in

the natural course of events, would have lived at least ten years longer, dies. Several thousands a year drop in exactly at the right moment; an objectionable rival is suddenly found with his throat cut; the bars of a prison window yield to the persuasive teeth of a file; or the heroine, while being carried off in the midst of a siege, finds herself by the merest accident, in the arms of her lover. He has dashed from somewhere, through a cloud of dust and smoke, and at last stands victorious, with his mistress in one arm, and a sabre covered with dust and gore hanging picturesquely from the other. Subjoined to such climax, is usually the important and satisfactory intelligence that within a twelvemonth of the close of the history an increase was made to the population of their native country.

Exceptions to this mode of terminating vol. three are by no means uncommon.

In

such cases, in accordance with the above prescription, the circumstances which prevent that very common-place affair" a happy marriage," must be for ever a source of such unmitigated misfortune, as to render the disappointed ones miserable for the remainder of their lives, and, indeed, every one else miserable who is foolish enough to think of them.

From all who admit such to be the only true model for novel-writing, and from all who are ready to maintain that such models cannot be departed from without complete violation of the entire interest contained in three-volume fabrications, sold for 31s. 6d., we venture very humbly to differ; and are prepared to demonstrate by practical results, as exemplified in this history, that the irretrievable loss of a heroine, however charming, does not necessarily superinduce a morbid and maundering state of mind, afflicting the victim, and every one who comes near him, through life; but that, so far from its

being the "blight" which poets describe as withering their own hearts, and making the hearts of others "mere weights of icy stone," the loss we speak of may, we hope to show, have a highly moral effect upon the mind quite as naturally as an immoral one. And if, by reading the remainder of this narrative, the gall-eaters, to whom we address this little digression, should happen, in the event of their meeting with the aforesaid privation, to profit rather than suffer from it, we are persuaded they will then overlook an irregularity in our conduct which in the end has proved of advantage to themselves, and possibly may to others.

While taking a final leave of Lady Eda Longvale, in whose delightful company we would gladly have spent a few days longer, it must be remembered that her absence is here spoken of only in a material sense-that, in effect, she will still be with us, and that the influence of her virtual presence, and the misfor

tune of not being able to convert it into an actual one, together with the inferences to be deduced therefrom, constitute a very principal subject matter in the concluding portion of our history.

The morning was cold and drizzly when More reached his lodgings in the Albany at the early hour of four. It was, however, only the middle of September, and there was light enough to show how dirty and yellow London was, when compared with the beautiful country he had just quitted. He was as much disinclined to go to bed as he was to sit up. The housemaid had received no orders to prepare for his arrival; all the furniture was covered with old sheets, which in their turn were covered with dust and blacks. One room looked as gloomy and comfortless as another.

With the help of Mr. Court, his valet, the sheets and blacks were by degrees re

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