The Critic of the new cult visited a tailor's establishment, and was delighted with all he saw. There were coats, and vests, and other garments. "I make some fifty per cent. profit," said the proprietor of the establishment, stroking his moustache with a hand adorned with many a diamond ring. "Of course it causes some labour, thought, and time--but I get my money for my trouble." "And why not?" replied the Critic. "Are you not worth it? Do you not devote your energy to it? Must you not live?" And, having said this, the Reviewer visited another place of business. This time he had entered the office of a Stockbroker. "Of course it is rather anxious work sometimes," said the alternative representative of a bull and a bear. "But it pays in the long run. I manage to keep up a house in South Kensington, and a carriage and pair, out of my takings." "Again, why not?" responded the Critic. "You have a wife and family. Must you not live?" Then the Critic visited Cheesemongers, and Bankers, Solicitors, and Upholsterers. At last, he reached the modest abode of an Author. "Ah!" said he, in a tone of contempt; "you write books and plays! Why? "Why, to sell them," answered the Poet, in a faltering voice. "Sell them!" echoed the Critic, in tones of thunder. "What do you mean by that?" "Why, one must live!" "Nonsense! The universe can get on very well without anyone. You might be dispensed with; and, if it comes to that, so might I. Yes, I am not wanted." "Quite true!" murmured the Author; "indeed, you are not!" "And, after all, what _is_ your work? Mere brain action! Anyone who could wield a pen could do it for you! And you expect to be paid, as if you were a tradesman--a Tailor or an Upholsterer!" "But am I not a man and a brother? Do I not get hungry, like anyone else? Have I not a wife and family?" "That is entirely beside the question," persisted the Critic. "All you have to consider are the claims of Art. Now, Art is not to be served by paid votaries." "Then I suppose am unworthy," replied the Author, mournfully shaking his head. Well, let us exchange places. You shall be the Author, and I will be the Critic." "Very sorry, my dear friend, but that is an unjust division. By that means you would receive all the money." "And why not? If I am to write, why am I not to be paid?" "Because it is beneath the dignity of an Author to write with a view to obtaining cash." "Indeed! Well, I am tired of work. You have nothing to do but criticise. Let us swap positions." "Are you mad?" shouted the Critic. "Why, I am fond of my work. You don't imagine I am going to give up my salary to you? Why, it would demoralise you. I know the drawback of the system." And the Author applied himself to the study of the New Criticism, and it seemed as great a mystery to him as ever. * * * * * LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS. _Mount Street, Grosvenor Square_. DEAR MR. PUNCH,