People cannot be found by thousands who will
pay a dollar and seventy-five cents for a dime novel or a
religious tract. I wished to learn the actual truth more sincerely
than any critic to write it, and at last I ventured to take a copy
to Mr. George Ripley, of the New York "Tribune." "Here is a man,"
I thought, "whose fame and position as a critic are recognized by
all. If he deigns to notice the book, he will not only say what he
thinks, but I shall have much reason to think as he does." Mr.
Ripley met the diffident author kindly, asked a few questions, and
took the volume. A few weeks later, to my great surprise, he gave
over a column to a review of the story. Although not blind to its
many faults, he wrote words far more friendly and inspiring than I
ever hoped to see; it would seem that the public had sanctioned
his verdict. From that day to this these two instances have been
types of my experience with many critics, one condemning, another
commending. There is ever a third class who prove their
superiority by sneering at or ignoring what is closely related to
the people.
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