‘Humph!’ muttered Sutherland. ‘I once had a “Satyrnine Reviewer” pointed out to me at a party. He looked like a creature fresh from some large drapery establishment; dressed within an inch of his life, with _pince-nez_ on nose, but goat-eared and goat-footed for all that--I am sure the animal couldn’t even spell. But turning from the men to the matter, what I have been most struck by in reading these wretched volumes is their utter want of the positively human qualities--veracity, reverence, generous aspiration. There is not a single public man of any nobility, either in politics or literature, who is not persistently gibbered at and reviled. Our present Liberal statesmen are insulted by the grossest personalities. Our great literary men are for the most part decried--when they are praised the reason is not far to seek. Thackeray, inspected by the Satyr, is “no gentleman.” * Dickens is an ignoramus. Browning is a dunce, ignorant even of grammar. Worse than this is the vicious determination to ignore any kind of modest merit. In the course of the long years over which these files extend, many men, now distinguished, have arisen. In no single instance has this representative journal been able to recognise the coming genius, or willing to help the struggling aspirant. The method has been to ignore new men as long as possible; then when ignorance could not be pleaded, to interpose every possible impertinence of interpretation between the men and the public; and finally, when they have been crowned, to insult them with a monkey’s gibbering interposition. For fatuousness, ignorance, ami dwarfish spitefulness--in a word, for all the old ear tidiness of the cloven foot--commend me to this “Satyrnine Review.”’ * See the ‘Roundabout Papers,’ _passim_ ‘Never mind,’ says the practised Crieff, cheerily. ‘Nemesis has come--the “Satyrnine” is done for. The curse of dulness is upon it. It once sold 20,000. The other day, when it was in the market, it could hardly find a purchaser. It lingers on with a country subscription among retrograde old rectors and blue-buskin’d village spinsters, but by-and-by the acidulous short paragraph system will conquer even _them_.’ Thereupon Crieff, whose life was one of hard work and bustling visits, was about to take his departure, when at Sutherland’s entreaty he promised to return for lunch; for Sutherland liked the little man, and found a curious fascination in his tittle-tattle concerning the world of art and letters. Later in the day the two lunched together. For a wonder, it was an idle day with Crieff, and, once comfortably seated in an arm-chair, with a good cigar in his mouth, he seemed determined to enjoy himself. The two chatted pleasantly for some time; that is to say, the journalist, who was garrulous by nature and habit, chatted, and the other smoked, listened, and occasionally interpolated a remark.