they are alike, strangely alike.'

Which last remark may be applied with justice to the conversations of
all our novelists. There appears no necessity for their commencement, no
reason for their continuance, no object in their conclusion; the reader
finds himself in a forest of verbiage from which he is extricated only
at the end of the chapter, which is always, however, 'to be continued.'

It is true that these story-tellers for the million generally keep 'a
gallop for the avenue' (an incident of a more or less exciting kind to
finish up with), but it is so brief and unsatisfactory that it hardly
rises to a canter; the author never seems to get into his stride. The
following is a fair example:

But before we let the curtain fall, we must glance for a moment at
another picture--a sad and painful one. In one of those retreats,
worse than a living tomb, where reside those whose reason is dead,
though their bodies still live, is a small spare cell. The sole
occupant is a woman, young and very beautiful. Sometimes she is quiet
and gentle as a child; sometimes her fits of frenzy are frightful to
witness; but the only word she utters is 'Revenge,' and on her hand
she always wears a plain gold band with a cross of black pearls.

This conclusion, which I chanced upon before I read the tale which
preceded it, naturally interested me immensely. Here, thought I, is at
last an exciting story; I shall now find one of those literary prizes in
hopes, perhaps, of hitting upon which the penny public endures so many
blanks. I was quite prepared to have my blood curdled; my lips were
ready for a full draught of gore; yet, I give you my word, there was
nothing in the whole story worse than a bankruptcy.

This is what makes the success of penny fiction so remarkable; there is
nothing whatever in the way of dramatic interest to account for it; nor
of impropriety either. Like the lady friend of Dr. Johnson, who
congratulated him that there were no improper words in his dictionary,
and received from that unconciliatory sage the reply, 'You have been
looking for them, have you?' I have carefully searched my fifty samples
of penny fiction for something wrong, and have not found it. It is as
pure as milk, or, at all events, as milk-and-water. Unlike the Minerva
Press, too, it does not deal with eminent persons: wicked peers are
rare; fraud is usually confined within what may be called its natural
limits--the lawyer's office; t