expression, for instance, of his belief that romantic fiction is
the highest form of fiction, and that the base, sordid,
photographic, commonplace school of Tolstoy, Tourguenief, Zola,
Hardy, and James, are unworthy a moment's comparison with the
school of Rider Haggard. All this ought certainly to unmake the
author in question, and strew his disjecta membra wide over the
realm of oblivion. But this is not really the effect. Slowly
but surely the clamor dies away, and the author, without
relinquishing one of his wicked opinions, or in anywise showing
himself repentant, remains apparently whole; and he even returns
in a measure to the old kindness: not indeed to the earlier day
of perfectly smooth things, but certainly to as much of it as he
merits.

I would not have the young author, from this imaginary case,
believe that it is well either to court or to defy the good
opinion of the press. In fact, it will not only be better taste,
but it will be better business for him to keep it altogether out
of his mind. There is only one whom he can safely try to please,
and that is himself. If he does this he will very probably
please other people; but if he does not please himself he may be
sure that he will not please them; the book which he has not
enjoyed writing, no one will enjoy reading. Still, I would not
have him attach too little consequence to the influence of the
press. I should say, let him take the celebrity it gives him
gratefully but not too seriously; let him reflect that he is
often the necessity rather than the ideal of the paragrapher, and
that the notoriety the journalists bestow upon him is not the
measure of their acquaintance with his work, far less his
meaning. They are good fellows, those poor, hard-pushed fellows