blushes) Colonel Esmond, and
owns that in youth she was very much in love with Valancourt.

"Valancourt? and who was he?" cry the young people. Valancourt, my
dears, was the hero of one of the most famous romances which ever was
published in this country. The beauty and elegance of Valancourt made
your young grandmammas' gentle hearts to beat with respectful sympathy.
He and his glory have passed away. Ah, woe is me that the glory of
novels should ever decay; that dust should gather round them on the
shelves; that the annual cheques from Messieurs the publishers should
dwindle, dwindle! Inquire at Mudie's, or the London Library, who asks
for the "Mysteries of Udolpho" now? Have not even the "Mysteries of
Paris" ceased to frighten? Alas, our novels are but for a season; and I
know characters whom a painful modesty forbids me to mention, who shall
go to limbo along with "Valancourt" and "Doricourt" and "Thaddeus of
Warsaw."

A dear old sentimental friend, with whom I discoursed on the subject
of novels yesterday, said that her favorite hero was Lord Orville, in
"Evelina," that novel which Dr. Johnson loved so. I took down the
book from a dusty old crypt at a club, where Mrs. Barbauld's novelists
repose: and this is the kind of thing, ladies and gentlemen, in which
your ancestors found pleasure:--

"And here, whilst I was looking for the books, I was followed by Lord
Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and, approaching me with a
look of anxiety, said, 'Is this true, Miss Anville--are you going?'

"'I believe so, my lord,' said I, still looking for the books.

"'So suddenly, so unexpectedly: must I lose you?'

"'No great loss, my lord,' said I, endeavoring to speak cheerfully.

"'Is it possible,' said he, gravely, 'Miss Anville can doubt my
sincerity?'

"'I can't imagine,' cried I, 'what Mrs. Selwyn has done with those
books.'

"'Would to heaven,' continued he, 'I might flatter myself you would
allow me to prove it!'

"'I must run up stairs,' cried I, greatly confused, 'and ask what she
has done with them.'

"'You are going then,' cried he, taking my hand, 'and you give me not
the smallest hope of any return! Will you not, my too lovely friend,
will you not teach me, with fortitude like your own, to support your
absence?'

"'My lord,' cried I, endeavoring to disengage my hand, 'pray let me go!'

"'I will,' cried he, to my inexpressible confusion, dropping on one
knee, 'if you wish me to leave you.'