speeches of some of our members
of Parliament. Only read them; I wish no man so ill as to inflict upon
him the torture of hearing them--read them, I say, and you will have
taken the very highest degree in the order of inane flippancy.

_A._ I see it at once. Your observations are as true as they are severe.
When we would harangue geese, we must condescend to hiss; but still, my
dear Barnstaple, though you have fully proved to me that in a
fashionable novel all plot is unnecessary, don't you think there ought
to be a catastrophe, or sort of a kind of an end to the work, or the
reader may be brought up short, or as the sailors say, "all standing,"
when he comes to the word "Finis," and exclaim with an air of
stupefaction,--"And then----"

_B._ And then, if he did, it would be no more than the fool deserved. I
don't know whether it would not be advisable to leave off in the middle
of a sentence, of a word, nay of a syllable, if it be possible: I'm sure
the winding-up would be better than the lackadaisical running-down of
most of the fashionable novels. Snap the main-spring of your watch, and
none but an ass can expect you to tell by it what it is o'clock; snap
the thread of your narrative in the same way, and he must be an
unreasonable being who would expect a reasonable conclusion. Finish
thus, in a case of delicate distress; say, "The honourable Mr Augustus
Bouverie was struck in a heap with horror. He rushed with a frantic
grace, a deliberate haste, and a graceful awkwardness, and whispered in
her ear these dread and awful words, 'IT IS TOO LATE!'" Follow up with
a ---- and Finis.

_A._ I see; the fair and agitated reader will pass a sleepless night in
endeavouring to decipher the mutilated sentence. She will fail, and
consequently call the book delightful. But should there not have been a
marriage previously to this happy awful climax?

_B._ Yes; everything is arranged for the nuptials--carriages are sent
home, jewellery received but not paid for, dresses all tried on, the
party invited--nay, assembled in the blue-and-white drawing-room. The
right reverend, my lord bishop, is standing behind the temporary
altar--he has wiped his spectacles, and thumbed his prayer-book--all
eyes are turned towards the door, which opens not--the bride faints, for
the bridegroom cometh not--he's not "i' the vein"--a something, as like
nothing as possible, has given him a disgust that is insurmountable--he
flings his happiness to the