- tunately the "wear and tear of life"—to quote the
patent medicine advertisements, wreaks natural havoc on the physical composition of the gentleman who is perhaps set down to review twenty novels in one column of print for the trifling sum of a guinea. All sorts of difficulties beset him. For instance, he may be employed on a certain "literary" paper which, being the property of the relatives of a novelist, exists chiefly to praise that novelist, even though it be curiously called an "organ of English literature,"—and woe betide the miserable man who dares to praise anyone else! Knowing much of the ins and outs of the literary grind, I tender my salutations to all reviewers of books, together with my respectful sympathy. I am truly sorry for them, and I do not in the least wonder that they hate with a deadly hatred every scribbling creature who writes a "long" novel. Because the "pay" for reviewing such a book is never in proportion to its length, as of course it ought to be. But anyway it doesn't matter how much or how little of it is criticized. The bulk of the public do not read reviews. That is left to the "discriminating few." And oh, how that "discriminating few" would love to "capture the fancy of the masses" if they could only manage to do it! Yet—"Never mind!" they say, with the tragedian's glare and scowl—"Our names will be inscribed upon the scroll of fame when all ye are forgotten!" Dear things! Heaven grant them this poor comfort in their graves!
One cannot but regret that in these days of wonderful research, discovery and invention, so little is done to popularize science in the columns
