hear the delightful plot for a novel that I have been giving Mary."

And then she begins again, only further back, this time.

It is thus that the aunts of England may and do assist their nieces to
fail in literature. Many and many a morning do they waste, many a
promising fancy have they blighted, many a temper have they spoiled.

Sisters are rather more sympathetic: the favourite plan of the brother is
to say, "Now, Mary, read us your new chapter."

Mary reads it, and the critic exclaims, "Well, of all the awful Rot! Now,
why can't you do something like _Bootles's Baby_?"

Fathers never take any interest in the business at all: they do not
count. The sympathy of a mother may be reckoned on, but not her
judgement, for she is either wildly favourable, or, mistrusting her own
tendencies, is more diffident than need be. The most that relations can
do for the end before us is to worry, interrupt, deride, and tease the
literary member of the family. They seldom fail in these duties, and not
even success, as a rule, can persuade them that there is anything in it
but "luck."

Perhaps reviewing is not exactly a form of literature. But it has this
merit that people who review badly, not only fail themselves, but help
others to fail, by giving a bad idea of their works. You will, of
course, never read the books you review, and you will be exhaustively
ignorant of the subjects which they treat. But you can always find fault
with the _title_ of the story which comes into your hands, a stupid
reviewer never fails to do this. You can also copy out as much of the