utation of the journal,
Scott gallantly undertook to review some of the "flitting and
evanescent productions of the times." After a laborious
inspection of the contents of a hamper full of novels, he arrived
at the painful conclusion that "spirits and patience may be as
completely exhausted in perusing trifles as in following
algebraical calculations." He condemns the authors of the Gothic
romance, not for their extravagance, a venial offence, but for
their monotony, a deadly sin.

"We strolled through a variety of castles, each of
which was regularly called Il Castello; met with as
many captains of condottieri, heard various
ejaculations of Santa Maria and Diabolo; read by a
decaying lamp and in a tapestried chamber dozens of
legends as stupid as the main history; examined such
suites of deserted apartments as might set up a
reasonable barrack, and saw as many glimmering lights
as would make a respectable illumination." It was no
easy task to bore Sir Walter Scott, and an excursion
into the byeways of early nineteenth century fiction
proves abundantly the justice of his satire. Such
novelists as Miss Sarah Wilkinson or Mrs. Eliza
Parsons, whose works were greedily devoured by
circulating library readers a hundred years ago,
deliberately concocted an unappetising gallimaufry of
earlier stories and practised the harmless deception of
serving their insipid dishes under new and imposing
names. A writer in the _Annual Review_, so early as
1802, complains in criticising _Tales of Superstition
and Chivalry_:

"It is not one of the least objections against these
fashionable fictions that the imagery of them is
essentially monstrous. Hollow winds, clay-cold hands,
clanking chains and clicking clocks, with a few similar
etcetera are continually tormenting us."

Tales of terror were often issued in the form of sixpenny
chapbooks, enlivened by woodcuts daubed in yellow, blue, red and
green. Embellished with these aids to the imagination, they were
sold in thousands. To the readers of a century ago, a "blue book"
meant, as Medwin explains in his life of Shelley, not a pamphlet
filled with statistics, but "a sixpenny shocker."[53] The
notorious Minerva Press catered for wealthier patrons, and, it is
said, sold two thousand copies of Mrs. Bennett's _Beggar Girl and
her Benefactors_ on the day of p