Okay, so I've been reading Varney The Vampire for what feels like about a century now. I knew, going in, that it was originally a long-running serial. I also am very, very familiar with the Victorian-era propensity for authors to use as many words as possible in some strange display of their literacy. It's seriously like a peacock showing off his feathers, except the feathers are words and you get tired of them a lot faster.
As one blog noted, the story is both enjoyable and utterly insufferable and irritating. Characters are randomly so stupid that they seem like they ought to get stuck in corners a lot, the main story is occasionally derailed so you can read a totally different book right along with a character, and sometimes the descriptions are so comically overwrought that you actually lose track of what is being described.
I'm about halfway through right now, and at this point I would finish out of pure spite, if nothing else. I'll be reading at least three chapters later tonight.
Pray for me.