U6 Mr. Edward F. Benson [May 1, 



sensibility, tliough with less success than his strenuous efforts 

 deserve."" And this is supposed to be criticism, this the work of the 

 most authoritative critic of the day ! It is mere personal abuse, as 

 rude and as irrelevant as mud thrown at a politician by a street boy. 

 That inept kind of personal attack has, unfortunately, not become 

 obsolete : and an instance may be mentioned from a reputable journal 

 the other day, when a musical critic called attention to the fact that, 

 whereas most musicians had long hair, Mr. Schomberg, who was 

 conducting his own works, was bald. What that has to do with 

 Mr. Schomberg's music he did not explain. 



Or, again, is it possible to read the account of Charlotte Bronti 

 eagerly waiting for press-cuttings about "Yillette" without a senst 

 of incredulity ? Or w'hat of Fitzgerald's " Omar Khayyam," which 

 did not attract the notice of a single critic till Mr. Swinburne fished 

 out a copy from a two-penny book-box ? Or what of the peerless 

 (Ireek marbles which Lord Elgin submitted to the judgment of a 

 leading critic in antique sculpture ? " You have been taken in, 

 my lord," said this eminent personage, after a careful examination 

 of them; "they are late Roman." Nor must we forget that all 

 Carlyle found to say about them was that neither God nor man can 

 do without chins. What welcome did the critics give to a noble 

 l»rotherhood of Pre-Raphaelites, to the work of Rossetti and Burne- 

 Jones, until the appreciation of the public opened their eyes ? Or 

 what of the wreath of ridicule with which criticism crowned Mr. 

 Whistler's exhibition of his o\^'n painting ? This has been preserved 

 to us by the artist himself, and it is impossible not to pluck a few 

 blossoms woven in by the best-known and leading critics of the day. 

 Here are some. 



" AVe are not sure but that it would be something like insult 

 to our readers to say more about these things. . . . They must 

 surely be meant in jest. ... A farce in moonshine with a dozen 

 dots. . . . Art is not served by freaks of resentment. ... (I do 

 not knoAv what this means.) . . . The blue and black smudges 

 which purport to depict the Thames at night ... a gruesomeness 

 in grey ... I have expressed, and still adhere to the opinion, thai 

 these only come one step nearer pictures than a delicately-tinted 

 wall-paper ! " 



In spite of this, however, we may remark that it has been found 

 necessary to have a piece of this delicately-tinted wall-paper in the 

 Tate Gallery, where it now gloriously hangs. It was rather an expen- 

 sive pattern, which worked out at the price of something like £5,000 

 a yard. As a final touch, the name of the master on the label below 

 it was spelt wrong. It is a thousand pities that Whistler was not 

 alive on that day : he would have written a charming letter to some- 

 body about it. 



Or what of the reception given by the critics to Tennyson's 

 earliest and most exquisite work ? "Did they find beauty in 



