The 'Acropolis,' a review of literature, science, art, politics, society, and the drama, is, as every one knows, our leading literary weekly. Its original promoters decided on its rather eccentric title with a symbolism now outmoded. The 'Acropolis' was to be impregnable to outside contributors, and the editor was always to be invisible. All the vile and secret arts of reclame and puffery were to find no place in its immaculate pages. One afternoon some time ago a number of gentlemen, more or less responsible for the production of the 'Acropolis,' were seated round the fire in the smoking-room of a certain club. For the last hour they had been discussing with some warmth the merits of signed or unsigned articles and the reviewing of books. A tall, good-looking man, who pretended to be unpopular, was advocating the anonymous. 'There is something so cowardly about a signed article,' he was saying. 'It is nearly as bad as insulting a man in public, when there is no redress except to call for the police. And that is ridiculous. If I am slated by an anonymous writer, it is always in my power to pay no attention, whereas if the slate is signed, I am obliged to take notice of some kind. I must either deny the statements, often at a great sacrifice of truth, or if I assault the writer there is always the risk of his being physically stronger than I am. No; anonymous attack is the only weapon for gentlemen.' 'To leave for a moment the subject of anonymity,' said an eminent novelist, 'I think the great curse of all criticism is that of slating any book at all. Think of the unfortunate young man or woman first entering the paths of literature, and the great pain it causes them. You should encourage them, and not damp their enthusiasm.' 'My dear fellow,' said North, 'I encourage no one, and writers should never have any feelings at all. They can't have any, or they would not bore the public by writing.' The discussion was getting heated when the editor, Rivers, interfered.