The attempt has often been made to prevent an attack by the amulets of preface and dedication, and even to innoculate against it by means of self criticism, but not always with success.
People complain of the terrible number of bad books that come out every season; but this I really cannot see. Why do the critics say that we ought to imitate Nature ? Bad authors do imitate Nature, herein following their instincts no less than great authors; and what more, I should like to know, can an organic being do than follow its instincts. Look at trees—how much of their fruit ripens? Not a fifth part; the rest falls unripened. If trees print waste paper, who is to prevent men, who are better than trees, from doing the same? Trees, do I say! Don't you know that of the beings produced every year by the procreating public more than a third die before reaching the age of two? As are mankind, so are the books they write. Instead, then, of bewailing the excessive output of books, I worship, rather, the high ordinance of Nature which everywhere decrees that of everything born a great part should become—manure or waste paper, as the case may be; the latter being also a kind of manure, let the gardeners, I mean the publishers, say what they will.
For a long while I was unable to make out how it is that the books of certain celebrated polygraphic authors are so terribly tiring to read; but at length I hit upon the reason: it comes from the fact that
