s of doubtful
interest? Who that, by a message of his servant into Bond Street,
procures the last new novel cut and dry, instead of wet from the press,
and demanding the labour of the paper-knife, would proceed to the
extremity of a purchase? And the result is, that Messrs Folio and
Duodecimo, in order to procure satisfactory orders from the circulating
libraries of the multitudinous cities of this deluded empire, issue
orders to their helots, Mr Scribblescrawl and Mrs Wiredrawn, requiring
them to produce per annum so many sets of three volumes, adapted to the
atmosphere wherein they are fated to flourish.

It is an avowed fact, that the publishers of the day will purchase the
copyrights of only such works as "the libraries will take;" which
libraries, besotted by the mystic charm of three volumes, immutable as
the sacred triad of the Graces or Destinies, would negative without a
division such a work as the "Vicar of Wakefield" were it now to undergo
probation. "Robinson Crusoe" or "Paul and Virginia" would be returned
unread to their authors, with a civil note of "extremely sorry to
decline," &c. "The Man of Feeling" would be made to feel his
insignificance. "Thinks I to Myself" might think in vain; and the
"Cottagers of Glenburnie" retain their rural obscurity. So much for the
measure of the maw of the circulating library. Of its taste and palate
it is difficult to speak with moderation; for those of Caffraria or
Otaheite might be put to the blush.

The result, however, of this fatal ascendancy is, that not a publisher
who has the fear of the _Gazette_ before his eyes, presumes to hazard a
guinea on speculations in the belles-lettres. Poetry is seldom, if ever,
published except at the cost of the poet; and the foreman of one of the
leading London houses is deputed to apprize aspiring rhymesters, that
"his firm considers poetry a mild species of insanity"--_Anglice_, that
it does not suit the appetite of the circulating library! For behold!
this despot of bookmakers must have length, breadth, and thickness, to
fill the book boxes dispatched to its subscribers in the country, as
well as satisfy in town the demands of its charming subscriber, Lady
Sylvester Daggerwood, and all her daughters.

It happens that the said Lady Sylvester does not like Travels, unless
"nice little ladylike books of travels," such as the Quarterly informed
us last year, in a fit of fribbledom, were worthy the neat little
crowquills of lady-au