in Balham, watch the progress of the shilling testimonial to Dr. Grace, savour the English of Mr. Clement Scott, and keep up my Italian by studying the leaders of Mr. Sala; my Pall Mall Gazette . . . I really can't think why, unless it be to enjoy the prankful cubsomeness (not to mention the classical attainments) of Mr. W. E. Henley's truculent fifth form; but it is certain that I buy not one of these inexpensive sheets to the end of getting a considered criticism of books.
The case of the professedly critical periodicals, however, is a different and a graver case. They are professedly critical, and they do not criticise. They review, they notice, they extol, they scold; but criticise, but weigh, discriminate, analyse, perceive, appreciate—who will pretend that they do that? They wield the bludgeon and the butter-knife, they employ the copying-press and the garbling-press; but those fine instruments of precision which are the indispensable tools of the true critic's craft, they would appear never to have heard of. For the sake of a modern instance, examine for a moment the methods of the Saturday Review. There was a time, and that not so long ago, when the Saturday Review, though never critical, was at least diverting; it was supercilious, it was impertinent, it was crabbed and cross-grained, but it was witty, it was diverting. I am speaking, however, of the present Saturday Review, which is another matter. From week to week I take it in, and read (or make some sort of an endeavour to read) its "literary" columns. And what do I find? I find articles with such felicitous headings as "Mr. So-and-So—Minor Poet;" I find perennial allusions to the length of another poet's hair; but—criticism? I find that where once the Saturday Review was supercilious and diverting, it is now violent and provincial; but—criticism? I find that where once it spoke to me with the voice of a soured but well-bred and rather witty academic don, it
