erent from what
they now are. Haply, the literary highway may, heretofore, have been not
particularly clean, choked with rubbish, badly drained, ill lighted, not
always well paved even with good intentions, and beset with dangerous
characters, bilious-looking Thugs, prowling about, ready to pounce upon,
hocus, strangle, and pillage any new arrival. But all that is now
changed. Now, the path of literature is all velvet and roses. The race
of quacks and impostors has become as extinct, as are the saurian and
the dodo; and every honest flourisher of the pen, instead of being
tarred and feathered, is hailed as a welcome addition to "the united
happy family"--of letters.

Much of this agreeable change is owing to the improvement of the
literary police, which is become a respectable, sober, well-conducted
body of men, who seldom go on duty as critics, without a horse-shoe.
Much is owing to the propagation of the doctrines of the Peace Society,
even among that species of the _genus irritabile_, authors
themselves, who have at last learned

"That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent."

Chiefly, however, is the happy change attributable to the discriminating
and impartial judgment of the reading public of this golden Victorian
era. In the present day, it may be considered a general rule, that
no picture is admired, no book pronounced readable, no magazine or
newspaper circulated, unless in each case it develope intrinsic merit.
The mere name of the artist, or author, or editor, has not the slightest
weight with our present intelligent, discriminating community, who are
never enslaved, or misled, by whim, caprice, or fashion. It has been
said, but it seems too monstrous for belief, that, formerly, persons
were actually to be found so extremely indolent, or stupid, or timid, as
never to think for themselves; but who followed with the crowd, like a
swarm of bees, to the brazen tinkle of a mere name! Happily, the minds
of the present age are far too active, enlightened, independent, and
fearless, for degradation so unworthy. In our day, the professed wit
hopes not for the homage of a laugh, on his "only asking for the
mustard;" the artist no longer trusts to his signature on the canvas for
its being admired; no amount of previous authorship-celebrity preserves
a book from the trunkmaker; and the newspaper-wri