"The Memoirs of Barry Lyndon, Esq.," of Mr. Thackeray.

"Treasure Island," of Mr. Robbie Stevenson.

"The Vicar of Wakefield," of Mr. Goldsmith.

"Pere Goriot," of M. de Balzac.

"Ivanhoe," of Baronet Scott.

(Any one previously unnamed of the whole layout of M. Dumas, excepting
only a paretic volume entitled "The Conspirators.")

Now, the man who can do the trick for one novel can do it for all--and
there's a thousand dollars waiting to be earned, and a blessing also.
It's a bald "bluff," of course, because it can't be done as we all know.
I might offer a million with safety. If it ever could have been done the
noble intellectual aristocracy of novel-readers would have been reduced
to a condition of penury and distress centuries ago.

For, who can put fetters upon even the smallest second of eternity? Who
can repeat a joy or duplicate a sweet sorrow? Who has ever had more than
one first sweetheart, or more than one first kiss under the honeysuckle?
Or has ever seen his name in print for the first time, ever again? Is it
any wonder that all these inexplicable longings, these hopeless hopes,
were summed up in the heart-cry of Faust--

"Stay, yet awhile, O moment of beauty."