Revived review to celebrate the 200th anniversary of the death of Jane Austen. Go Jane - like a cute little tortoise you have outlasted all of those bustling hares. 
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 It is a truth which I would like to see universally acknowledged, that no one voluntarily reads any 19th century novels unless they are by Jane Austen. I fear that modern readers think all these Radcliffes, Disraelis, Eliots, Gissings and so forth tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt them, or even, that they are most disagreeable, horrid books, not at all worth reading. They look at them without admiration at the library. They tell me they are all too long, but for my own part, if a book is well written, I always find it too short. But it is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first, lest it be considered prejudice. Such perseverance in wilful self-deception! In vain I have struggled to tell them about Thackeray, Dickens and Bennett. It will not do. Somewhere they have formed the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I firmly believe that Moby Dick is the last book in the world that they could ever be prevailed on to read. The modern reader is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who is either a vampire, or a zombie, is sure of being kindly spoken of. Well, well. One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other. My idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed dead people who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company. Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion.