The total absence of local scenery from these half hundred romances is also curious, and becomes so very marked when the novelists are so imprudent as to take their dramatis personae out of England, that one can’t help wondering whether these gentlemen have ever been in foreign parts themselves, or even read about them.  Here is the conclusion of a romance which leaves nothing to be desired in the way of brevity, but is unquestionably a little abrupt and vague: 

  A year has passed away, and we are far from England and the English
  climate.

Whither ‘we’ have gone the author does not say, nor even indicate the hemisphere.  It will be imagined, perhaps, that we shall find out where we are by the indication of the flora and fauna.

  A lady and gentleman before the dawn of day have been climbing up an
  arid road in the direction of a dark ridge.

Observe, again, the ingenious vagueness of the description:  an ’arid road’ which may mean Siberia, and a ‘dark ridge’ which may mean the Himalayas.

The dawn suddenly comes upon them in all its glory.  Birds twittered in their willow gorges, and it was a very glorious day.  Arthur and Emily had passed the night at the ranche, and he had now taken her up to look at the mine which at all events had introduced them.  He had previously taken her to see his mother’s grave, the mother whom he had so loved.  The mine after some delay proved more prosperous than ever.  It was not sold, but is the ‘appanage’ of the younger sons of the house of Dacres.

With the exception of the ‘ranche,’ it will be remarked that there is not one word in the foregoing description to fix locality.  The mine and the ranche together seem indeed to suggest South America.  But—­I ask for information—­do birds twitter there in willow gorges?  Younger sons of noble families proverbially come off second best in this country, but if one of them found his only ‘appanage’ was a mine, he would surely with some justice make a remonstrance.

The readers of this class of fiction will not have Dumas at any price—­or, at all events, not at a penny.  Mr. Collins tells us how ‘Monte Christo’ was once spread before them, and how they turned from that gorgeous feast with indifference, and fell back upon their tripe and onions—­their nameless authors.  But some of those who write for them have adopted one peculiarity of Dumas.  The short jerky sentences which disfigure the ‘Three Musketeers,’ and indeed all that great novelist’s works, are very frequent with them, which induces me to believe that they are paid by the line.

On the other hand, some affect fashionable description and conversation which are drawn out in ‘passages that lead to nothing’ of an amazing length.

  ‘Where have I been,’ replied Clyde with a carelessness which was half
  forced ‘Oh, I have been over to Higham to see the dame.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Sir Edward, ‘and how is the poor old creature?’