And if these things are true of the past, how much more so are they of the present!  I venture to think, in spite of some voices to the contrary, that criticism is much more honest than it used to be:  certainly less influenced by political feeling, and by the interests of publishing houses; more temperate, if not more judicious, and—­in the higher literary organs, at least—­unswayed by personal prejudice.  But the result of even the most favourable notices upon a book is now but small.  I can remember when a review in the Times was calculated by the ‘Row’ to sell an entire edition.  Those halcyon days—­if halcyon days they were—­are over.  People read books for themselves now; judge for themselves; and buy only when they are absolutely compelled, and cannot get them from the libraries.  In the case of an author who has already secured a public, it is indeed extraordinary what little effect reviews, either good or bad, have upon his circulation.  Those who like his works continue to read them, no matter what evil is written of them; and those who don’t like them are not to be persuaded (alas!) to change their minds, though his latest effort should be described as though it had dropped from the heavens.  I could give some statistics upon this point not a little surprising, but statistics involve comparisons—­which are odious.  As for fiction, its success depends more upon what Mrs. Brown says to Mrs. Jones as to the necessity of getting that charming book from the library while there is yet time, than on all the reviews in Christendom.

    O Fame! if I e’er took delight in thy praises,
    ’Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases
    Than to see the bright eyes of those dear ones discover
    They thought that I was not unworthy—­

of a special messenger to Mr. Mudie’s.

Heaven bless them! for, when we get old and stupid, they still stick by one, and are not to be seduced from their allegiance by any blaring of trumpets, or clashing of cymbals, that heralds a new arrival among the story-tellers.

On the other hand, as respects his first venture, the author is very dependent upon what the critics say of him.  It is the conductor, you know (I wouldn’t call him a ‘cad,’ even in fun, for ten thousand pounds), on whom, to return to our metaphor, the driver is dependent for the patronage of his vehicle, and even for the announcement of its existence.  A good review is still the very best of advertisements to a new author; and even a bad one is better than no review at all.  Indeed, I have heard it whispered that a review which speaks unfavourably of a work of fiction, upon moral grounds, is of very great use to it.  This, however, the same gossips say, is mainly confined to works of fiction written by female authors for readers of their own sex—­’by ladies for ladies,’ as a feminine Pall Mall Gazette might describe itself.