Page:The Yellow Book - 07.djvu/145

 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 now