here it is,' said she, taking it from under her cloak;
'read it as long as you like, only get a little farther into the booth--
Don't sit so near the edge--you might--'

I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing her chair
round, almost confronted me. I commenced reading the book, and was soon
engrossed by it; hours passed away, once or twice I lifted up my eyes,
the apple-woman was still confronting me: at last my eyes began to ache,
whereupon I returned the book to the apple-woman, and, giving her another
tanner, walked away.

CHAPTER XLI

Decease of the Review--Homer himself--Bread and cheese--Finger and
thumb--Impossible to find--Something grand--Universal mixture--Some other
publisher.

Time passed away, and with it the Review, which, contrary to the
publisher's expectation, did not prove a successful speculation. About
four months after the period of its birth it expired, as all Reviews must
for which there is no demand. Authors had ceased to send their
publications to it, and, consequently, to purchase it; for I have already
hinted that it was almost entirely supported by authors of a particular
class, who expected to see their publications foredoomed to immortality
in its pages. The behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate
publication I can attribute to no other cause than to a report which was
industriously circulated, namely, that the Review was low, and that to be
reviewed in it was an infallible sign that one was a low person, who
could be reviewed nowhere else. So authors took fright; and no wonder,
for it will never do for an author to be considered low. Homer himself
has never yet entirely recovered from the injury he received by Lord
Chesterfield's remark that the speeches of his heroes were frequently
exceedingly low.

So the Review ceased, and the reviewing corps no longer existed as such;
they forthwith returned to their proper avocations--the editor to compose
tunes on his piano, and to the task of disposing of the remaining copies
of his Quintilian--the inferior members to working for the publisher,
being to a man dependants of his; one, to composing fairy tales; another,
to collecting miracles of Popish saints; and a third, Newgate lives and
trials. Owing to the bad success of the Review, the publisher became
more furious than ever. My money was growing short, and I one day asked
him to pay me for my labours in the deceased publication.

'Sir,' said