150 Mr. Edward F. Benson [May 1, 



they tell us about with the most extravagant eulogies of the stars 

 they have discovered. If they only had the authority of the critics 

 who showed Mr. Robert Montgomery through eleven editions, tlie 

 lot of the novelist would be full of the most marvellous prizes. But 

 these eulogies really serve no purpose except that of the publisher's 

 advertisements, for these obsequious notices are written by young 

 and absolutely unknown men, and are carefully extracted from the 

 flood of criticism which is poured out on any new book, if its 

 publication is what we may call carefully managed. But if they 

 were signed, as the opponents of anonymity would have them 1)6, 

 they would not carry one jot more authority than they at present do. 

 And a vague suspicion enters the mind that there has been a touch 

 of log-rolling about it all. But the log rolls, rolls out of sight. 



The average critic, in fact, is ill-equipped for his work, ill-paid 

 and sweated. At least he would be sweated if he did the work 

 which his reviews assume that he has done. And he has exactly as 

 much authority as an advertisement of pills when he should be 

 giving a soimd professional opinion. 



In this matter the unfortunate public are like sheep without a 

 shepherd, a pathetic flock. But vastly more pathetic is the case of 

 all those critics who may be likened to shepherds without any sheep, 

 for the reading public do not hear their voice or throng into their 

 folds. Indeed, the contemplation of these flocks of shepherds is 

 positively heart-rending. Madly and distractedly they rush up and 

 down the highways and hedges of the press, seeking sheep and 

 finding none. With shrill and clamorous cries, they encourage each 

 other to explore all sorts of quagmires and muddy places in the wild 

 hope of finding some sheep there ; they fall headlong into ditches 

 full of printers' ink, they stumble in the gloaming across empty and 

 desolate fields in the hopeless pursuit of finding a flock somewhere. 

 They follow with sudden kindlings of excited enthusiasm any will- 

 o'-the-wisp that hovers over mephitic places, any marsh-fire of 

 poisonous gases, hoping that its fitful flame will attract the sheep 

 that they are searching for, and that by hook or crook (they do not 

 mind which) they will capture them, while the night of their Critic- 

 dammerung darkens hideously around them. Others have given up 

 the search and sit them wearily down, bewailing the entire absence 

 of flocks and pastures, while their more sanguine colleagues continue 

 to rush madly along in their unrewarded search — unhappy, distracted 

 shepherds, without the semblance of a sheep between them. 



I do not think that art critics are in much more fortunate plight 

 than their brothers in literature. Their doyen and our scape-goat I 

 take to be Pictor, whose industry no amount of picture exhibitions 

 seem to tire : who, when there is no fresh exhibition to stimulate his 

 acumen, tells us about Rembrandt and others. Indeed, in this he 

 resembles Mr. Pickwick at Wardle's Christmas dance, who, " when 

 there was no demand whatever on his exertions, kept perpetually 



