t I now beheld the
destined abode of all still-born and abortive publications; and the
infantine noises which I heard were only their feeble wailing for the
miseries they had endured in being brought into the world. I now saw
what the feebleness of the light had prevented my observing before,
that the soil was absolutely covered with books of every size and
shape, from the little diamond almanac up to the respectable quarto. I
saw folios there. These books were crawling about and tumbling over
each other like blind whelps, uttering, at the same time, the most
mournful cries. I observed one, however, which remained quite still,
occasionally groaning a little, and appeared like an overgrown toad
oppressed with its own heaviness. I drew near, and read upon the back,
"_Resignation_, a Novel." The cover flew open, and the title-page
immediately began to address me. I walked off, however, as fast as
possible, only distinguishing a few words about "the injustice and
severity of critics;" "bad taste of the public;" "very well
considering;" "first effort;" "feminine mind," &c. &c. I presently
discovered a very important-looking little book, stalking about among
the rest in a great passion, kicking the others out of the way, and
swearing like a trooper; till at length, apparently exhausted with its
efforts, it sunk down to rise no more. "Ah ha!" exclaimed my little
diabolical friend, "here is a new comer; let's see who he is;" and
coming up, he turned it over with his foot so that we could see the
back of it, upon which was printed "_The Monikins_, by the Author of,
&c. &c." I noticed that the book had several marks across it, as if
some one had been flogging the unfortunate work. "It is only the marks
of the scourge," said my companion, "which the critics have used
rather more severely, I think, than was necessary." I expected, after
all the passion I had seen, and the great importance of feeling,
arrogance, and vanity the little work had manifested, that it would
have some pert remarks to make to us; but it was so much exhausted
that it could not say a word. At the bottom of the valley was a small
pond of a milky hue, from which there issued a perfume very much like
the smell of bread and butter. An immense number of thin, prettily
bound manuscript books were soaking in this pond of milk, all of
which, I was informed, were _Young Ladies' Albums_, which it was
necessary to souse in the slough, to prevent them from stealing
passa