There is a certain spirit of impatience which not unfrequently carries a particular class of readers on to the end of this volume of a tale like the present, before they have read the beginning; and another spirit--an evil spirit certainly-which leads a second class to do no more than skim gently but swiftly through the pages, catching glimpses of the story here and there, sufficient to satisfy the mind as to the facts, but to give nothing but indistinct notions of what is called the plot itself, and no insight into the characters of the persons brought upon the stage, no knowledge whatsoever of the work itself, in any of its higher qualities. Formerly it was not so. People travelled through a work, as through a country, remarking everything that was curious and interesting by the way; the peculiarities of the people that one met with, the beauty of the scenery displayed, the wit that diversified the day, the moral reflections that suggested themselves from the objects passed--somewhat amused, somewhat instructed, somewhat improved. But this is an age of railroad, morally as well as physically, and very little is thought of, but the end of the journey, and the easiness of the coach. To get over the greatest possible space in the shortest possible time, is the end and object of every man; and, with books as with countries, we go through them at a pace of forty miles an hour. Probably in time, this may work its own cure; and as ere long nothing will be known of any land when thoroughly railroaded, but the nearest and the farthest points, and a mile on each side of the road, and nothing known of books but the beginning and the end, and what a reviewer has pleased to say of the contents, people may, in time, feel a curiosity to learn more, and take trips on a post horse, or in a jaunting car, to see what is in the interior of the country, or in the heart of the book. But railroad is the spirit of the age; it is vain to strive against it; and if the truth must be told, an author feels the same influence, and, as he approaches the termination of his tale, is nearly as much inclined to hurry on to the conclusion, to omit facts, to leap over difficulties, and to hasten the catastrophe, as the reader. But this ought not to be; for then if that time should ever return when books are really read, it might be found out, that only half the story had been told, and that there was a great deal unaccounted for. I must therefore, very unwillingly, pause by the way, and ere I proceed with all that was going on in the Château de Marzay and its neighbourhood, go back to the old house of Maroles, where the reader will recollect that we left the young Baron de Montigni, in no very pleasant situation.