"TO BE TAKEN AS READ."
Dear Mr. Punch,—Thanks to the action of the Circulating Libraries, it seems that the old-fashioned three-volume novel is doomed to become a work of the past. Most of the popular writers have abandoned it, and now the publishers are beginning to fight shy of it. The principal argument, I believe, in favour of its retention is that it gives a chance to "the little read." The Circulating Libraries are called upon to fill boxes intended for the edification of subscribers in the country, and in these receptacles of light literature I believe the unpopular authors have their greatest chance. But as a matter of fact, although a romance may be sent to a peruser, it is not within the scope of civilisation to cause that romance to be read. According to statistics I believe about sixty per cent of the second and third rate is only sampled by the recipients of the aforesaid boxes. The last couple of pages of the third volume are largely read, whilst the remainder of the work is saved from the labours of the paper-knife. As this is so, would it not be as well to give a "common form" finale to serve as a model for novels in extremis? To make my meaning plainer I will give an example.
Let me suppose that the country subscriber has received a novel per parcels post called The Deed in Drab. Instead of having to cut some nine hundred pages, he finds gummed to the inside of the cover what I may call
The Last Chapter.
And so amidst the joy bells of the old church and the songs of the nightingales, and the pleasant laughter of the little children, Edwin and Angelina were married. As they passed under the oaken porch the Duke gave them his blessing. Need it be said they lived happily—like a prince and a princess in fairy tale—for ever after?
Captain Montmorency Guilt, kicked out of his club and warned off the Turf at Newmarket, left England with his ill-gotten gains for Cairo. Arrived in Egypt, he disappeared into the Soudan. Those of the Arabs who came from the desert declare that there is a white ruler in Khartoum. Whether it be he, who knows? Still, the stories of cruelty brought back by the swarthy traders are not unsuggestive of the man who brought poor Pauline to her grave and broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.
Edward Watts did marry Mary Beetles, and they are now doing well at Little Pannington. The village all-sorts shop has grown into a "Stores," and those who are in the know say that at a near date it will be converted into a "Company, Limited." Be this as it may, Edward and Mary drive to chapel in their own gig.
And what became of Paul Peterson? Overwhelmed with the secret sorrow that could never be shared by another, he went his way to the wilds of Australia. And there, under the starlight influence of the Southern Cross, and amidst the glorious glaciers of the Boomerang Mountains, he tries to forget the terrible and half-forgiven details of the "Deed in Drab."
The End.
There, Sir, you have the ending of ninety-nine novels out of a possible hundred. In the hands of an experienced writer the sentences might be so adapted as to meet the requirements of the book completing the century. Surely the suggestion is worthy of the attention of a Mudie, and the consideration of a W. H. Smith.
Yours faithfully,Multum in Parvo.
