book was painful, because there was a death-
bed scene in it.  A third reviled it for morbid
revelling in the subject of crime, because a
shot from the pistol of a handsome highwayman
dispatched the villain of the story.   But
the great effect of the day was produced by a
lady, the mother of a large family which
began with a daughter of eighteen years, and
ended with a boy of eight months.  This
lady's objection affected the heroine of the
novel,—a most respectable married woman,
perpetually plunged in virtuous suffering, but
an improper character for young persons
to read about, because the poor thing had
three accouchements in the course of three
volumes.  "How can I suffer my daughters
to read such a book as that?" cried our
prolific subscriber, indignantly.  A tumult
of applause followed.  A chorus of speeches
succeeded, full of fierce references to "our
national morality," and "the purity of our
hearths and homes."  A resolution was
passed excluding all novels for the future;
and then, at last, the dull people held their
tongues, and sat down with a thump in their
chairs, and glared contentedly on each other
in stolid controversial triumph. From that
time forth (histories and biographies being
comparatively scarce articles), we gaping
subscribers were fed by the dull people on
nothing but Voyages and Travels.  Every man
(or woman) who had voyaged and travelled
to no purpose, who had made no striking
observations of any kind, who had nothing
whatever to say, and who said it at great
length in large type on thick paper, with
accompaniment of frowsy lithographic
illustrations, was introduced weekly to our
hearths and homes as the most valuable
guide, philosopher, and friend whom our
rulers could possibly send us.  All the
subscribers submitted; all partook the national
dread of the dull people, with the exception
of myself and the members of my family
enumerated at the beginning of these pages.
We gallantly and publicly abandoned the
club: got a box-full of novels for ourselves,
once a month, from London; lost caste with
our respectable friends in consequence; and
became, for the future, throughout the
length and breadth of our neighbourhood,
the Disreputable Society to which I have
already alluded.  If the dull people of our
district were told to-morrow that my wife,
daughters, and nieces had all eloped in
different directions, leaving just one point of
the compass open as a runaway outlet for me
and the cook, I feel firmly persuaded that
not one of them would be inclined to
discredit the report.  They would just look up
from their Voyages and Travels, say to each
other, "Exactly what might have been
expected!" and go on with their reading again as
if no such thing as an extraordinary domestic
tragedy had occurred in the neighbourhood.

And now, to come to the main object of
this paper,—the humble petition of myself
and family to certain of our novel–writers.
We may say of ourselves that we deserve to
be heard, for we have braved public opinion
for the sake of reading novels; and we have
read, for some years past, all (I hold to the
assertion, incredible as it may appear)—all
the stories in one, two, and three volumes,
that have issued from the press. It has been
a hard struggle—but we are actually still
abreast of the flood of fiction at this moment.
The critics may say that one novel is worth
reading, and that another is not. We are no
critics, and we read everything. The enjoyment
we have derived from our all-devouring
propensities has been immense,—the gratitude
we feel to the ladies and gentlemen who
feed us to repletion, is inexpressible.  What,
then, have we got to petition about?  A very
slight matter.  Marking, first of all, as exceptions,
certain singular instances of originality,
I may mention, as a rule, that our novel-
reading enjoyments have hitherto been always
derived from the same sort of characters and
the same sort of stories, varied, indeed, as to
names and minor events, but fundamentally
always the same, through hundreds on hundreds
of successive volumes, by hundreds on
hundreds of different authors.  We, none of us,
complain of this, so far; for we like to have as
much as possible of any good thing; but we beg
deferentially to inquire whether it might not
be practicable to give us a little variety for the
future?  We believe we have only to prefer
our request to the literary ladies and gentlemen
who are so good as to interest and amuse
us, to have it granted immediately. They
cannot be expected to know when the reader
has had enough of one set of established
characters and events, unless the said reader
takes it on himself to tell them.  Actuated
by this conviction, I propose in the present
petition to enumerate respectfully, on behalf
of myself and family in our capacity of
readers, some of the most remarkable among
the many good things in fiction which we
think we have had enough of. We have no
unwholesome craving after absolute novelty
—all that we venture to ask for is, the
ringing of a slight change on some of the
favourite old tunes which we have long
since learnt by heart.

To begin with our favourite Hero.  He is
such an old friend that we have by this time
got to love him dearly.  We would not lose
sight of him altogether on any consideration
whatever.  If we thought we had done with
his aquiline nose, his tall form, his wavy
hair, his rich voice, melancholy would fall
on our fireside, and we should look at life for
the future with jaundiced eyes.  Far be it
from us to hint at the withdrawal of this
noble, loving, injured fascinating man!  Long
may we continue to weep on his deep chest
and press respectfully to our lips the folds of
his ample cloak!  Personally speaking it is
by no means of him that we are getting tired,
but of certain actions which we think he has