388 EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW. 



This is the sort of mystical nonsense from which we 

 had hoped Mr. Darwin had for ever saved us." — 

 ' Examiner/ May 17, 1879. 



***** 



In this last article, Mr. Allen has said that I am a 

 man of genius, " with the unmistakable signet-mark 

 upon my forehead." I have been subjected to a good 

 deal of obloquy and misrepresentation at one time or 

 another, but this passage by Mr. Allen is the only one I 

 have seen that has made me seriously uneasy about the 

 prospects of my literary reputation. 



I see Mr. Allen has been lately writing an article in 

 the 'Fortnightly Eeview' on the decay of criticism. 

 Looking over it somewhat hurriedly, my eye was 

 arrested by the following : — 



"Nowadays any man can write, because there are 

 papers enough to give employment to everybody. No 

 reflection, no deliberation, no care ; all is haste, fatal 

 facility, stock phrases, commonplace ideas, and a ready 

 pen that can turn itself to any task with equal ease, 

 because supremely ignorant of aU alike." 



" The writer takes to his craft nowadays, not because 

 he has taste for literature, but because he has an 

 incurable faculty for scribbling. He has no culture, 

 and he soon loses the power of taking pains, if he ever 

 possessed it. But he can talk with glib superficiality 

 and imposing confidence about every conceivable subject, 

 from a play or a picture to a sermon or a metaphysical 

 essay. It is the utter indifference to subject-matter, 

 joined with the vulgar unscrupulousness of pretentious 



