having 'smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain' would, she felt sure,
be gratifying to him. Perhaps it would have been, only she had omitted
to cut the pages even of the first volume.

But, as a general rule, these volunteer censors plume themselves on
discovering defects and not beauties. When any author is particularly
popular and has been long before the public, they have two methods of
discoursing upon him in relation to their literary friend. In the
first, they represent him as a model of excellence, and recommend their
friend to study him, though without holding out much hope of his ever
becoming his rival; in the second, they describe him as 'worked out,'
and darkly hint that sooner or later [they mean sooner] their friend
will be in the same unhappy condition. These, I need not say, are among
the most detestable specimens of their class, and only to be equalled
by those excellent literary judges who are always appealing to
posterity, which, even if a little temporary success has crowned you
to-day, will relegate you to your proper position to-morrow. If one
were weak enough to argue with these gentry, it would be easy to show
that popular authors are not 'worked out,' but only have the appearance
of being so from their taking their work too easily. Those whose
calling it is to depict human nature in fiction are especially subject
to this weakness; they do not give themselves the trouble to study new
characters, or at first hand, as of old; they sit at home and receive
the congratulations of Society without paying due attention to that
somewhat changeful lady, and they draw upon their memory, or their
imagination, instead of studying from the life. Otherwise, when they do
not give way to that temptation of indolence which arises from
competence and success, there is no reason why their reputation should
suffer, since, though they may lack the vigour or high spirits of those
who would push them from their stools, their experience and knowledge