"Ah, we all know the omniscience of critics! They are truly wonderful men, before whose vast experience and knowledge I remain dumb. And the rapidity of their work, their marvellous grasp of every subject in literature, from a Child's Primer to a novel of George Meredith's. Nothing appalls them, nothing daunts them. Oh, what wonderful men they are! truly wonderful, so calm, so learned, so kind-hearted. Why do you know, Macjean, I met a critic once who thought nothing of Dickens as an author! Think of that! Think of the wonderful mind of that man who could afford to speak contemptuously about one of the master spirits of the age." "Did he write books himself?" asked Otterburn, shrewdly, at which Eustace looked at him in grave reproof. "Of course not," he replied quietly, "he was a most self-denying man. He did write one novel I believe, but it was so far in advance of our present age that the publisher was afraid to print it--fancy that, a publisher afraid! Well, it was so, and now this critic only reviews other people's books--what self-denial. And then his decisions. Why he makes up his mind about a book, that has taken months to write, in five minutes. I've known him analyse a book without cutting the leaves to read it. Of course it is marvellous, simply marvellous, but our age is prolific in such clever men. I've met many such, and always felt like a whipped schoolboy before their calm, clear gaze. If you boil down twenty of our best authors you may make one critic, but then it's quality not quantity." "I thought you did not like critics?" "Not like critics, my dear fellow?" said Eustace sweetly, "why they are my dearest friends, my best benefactors. They always read my books, and give half an hour to each, actually a whole half hour. What friendship! And then, you know, they are so kind, they point out all my mistakes, and if I copy any ideas of foreign authors, they always look them up to see if I have done so correctly, and mention it--really mention it--in their articles. If there is anything naughty in my chapters, they reprove me, oh, so kindly, and tell the public where to look for the worst bits. And then they are so modest; they never tell me they wrote these articles, when I meet them in society. I always put my name to my books, they never do to their articles, and yet my books are full of mistakes which they try to correct for me." "How kind of them?"