I did not like reviewing at all—­it was not to my taste; it was not in my way; I liked it far less than translating the publisher’s philosophy, for that was something in the line of one whom a competent judge had surnamed Lavengro.  I never could understand why reviews were instituted; works of merit do not require to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and require no praising; works of no merit at all will die of themselves, they require no killing.  The Review to which I was attached was, as has been already intimated, established on an entirely new plan; it professed to review all new publications, which certainly no Review had ever professed to do before, other Reviews never pretending to review more than one-tenth of the current literature of the day.  When I say it professed to review all new publications, I should add, which should be sent to it; for, of course, the Review would not acknowledge the existence of publications, the authors of which did not acknowledge the existence of the Review.  I don’t think, however, that the Review had much cause to complain of being neglected; I have reason to believe that at least nine-tenths of the publications of the day were sent to the Review, and in due time reviewed.  I had good opportunity of judging—­I was connected with several departments of the Review, though more particularly with the poetical and philosophic ones.  An English translation of Kant’s philosophy made its appearance on my table the day before its publication.  In my notice of this work I said that the English shortly hoped to give the Germans a quid pro quo.  I believe at that time authors were much in the habit of publishing at their own expense.  All the poetry which I reviewed appeared to be published at the expense of the authors.  If I am asked how I comported myself, under all circumstances, as a reviewer—­I answer,—­I did not forget that I was connected with a Review established on Oxford principles, the editor of which had translated Quintilian.  All the publications which fell under my notice I treated in a gentlemanly and Oxford-like manner, no personalities—­no vituperation—­no shabby insinuations; decorum, decorum was the order of the day.  Occasionally a word of admonition, but gently expressed, as an Oxford undergraduate might have expressed it, or master of arts.  How the authors whose publications were consigned to my colleagues were treated by them I know not; I suppose they were treated in an urbane and Oxford-like manner, but I cannot say; I did not read the reviewals of my colleagues, I did not read my own after they were printed.  I did not like reviewing.