no better way of insuring a mirthful hour than by re-reading this vigorous and trenchant satire.
Quite recently two writers, one on either side of the Atlantic, have echoed with superfluous bitterness their conviction of the total depravity of the critic. Mr. Edgar Fawcett, in The House on High Bridge, and Mr. J. R. Rees, in The Pleasures of a Book-Worm, seem to find the English language painfully inadequate for the forcible expression of their displeasure. Mr. Fawcett considers all critics "inconsistent when they are not regrettably ignorant," and fails to see any use for them in an enlightened world. "It is marvelous," he reflects, "how long we tolerate an absurdity of injustice before suddenly waking up to it. And what can be a more clear absurdity than that some one individual caprice, animus, or even honest judgment should be made to influence the public regarding any new book?" Moreover, he has discovered that the men and women who write the reviews are mere "underpaid vendors of opinions," who earn their breakfasts and dinners by saying disagreeable things about authors, "their superiors beyond
