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 rÉclame 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.

‘My dear North,’ he began, addressing the first speaker, ‘your eloquent advocacy of the anonymous reminds me of a curious incident that occurred many years ago when I was assistant-editor of the “Acropolis.” The facts were never known to the public, and my old chief, Curtis, met with much misplaced abuse in consequence. There were reasons for which he could never break silence; but it happened so long ago that I cannot be betraying any confidence. All of you have heard of, and some of you have seen, Quentin Burrage, whose articles practically made the “Acropolis” what it now is. His opinion on all subjects was looked forward to by the public each week. Young poetasters would tremble when their time should come to be pulverised by the scathing epigrams which fell from his anonymous pen. Essayists, novelists, statesmen were pale for weeks until a review appeared that would make or mar their fame. In the various literary coteries of London no one knew that Quentin Burrage was the slater who thrilled, irritated, or amused them, though he was of course recognised as an occasional contributor. The secret was well kept. He was practically critical censor of London for ten years. A whole school of novelists ceased to exist after three of his notices in the “Acropolis.” The names of painters famous before his time you will not find in the largest dictionaries now. Four journalists committed suicide after he had burlesqued their syntax, and two statesmen resigned office owing to his masterly examination of their policy. We were all much shocked when a popular actor set fire to his theatre on a first night because Curtis and his dramatic critic refused to take champagne and chicken between the acts. This may give you some idea of Burrage’s power in London for a decade of the last century.

‘One day a curious change came over him. It was Monday when he and I were in the office receiving our instructions. Curtis, after going over some books, handed to Quentin a vellum-covered volume of poems, saying with a grim smile: “There are some more laurels for you to hash.”

‘An expression of pain spread over Quentin’s serene features.

‘“I’ll see what I can do,” he said wearily. But his curious manner struck both Curtis and myself. The book was a collection of very indifferent verse which already enjoyed a wide popularity. I cannot tell you the title, for that is a secret not my own. It was early work of one of our most esteemed poets who for some time was regarded by his friends as the natural successor to Mr. Alfred Austin. The “Acropolis” had not spoken. We were sometimes behindhand in our reviews. The public waited to learn if the new poet was really worth anything. You may imagine the general surprise when a week afterwards there appeared a flamingly favourable review of the poems. It made a perfect sensation and was quoted largely. The public became quite conceited with its foresight. The reputation of the poet was assured. “Snarley-ow must be dead,” some one remarked in my hearing at the club, and members tried to pump me. One day a telegram came from Curtis asking me to go down to his house at once. A request from him was a command. I found him in a state of some excitement, his manner a little artificial. “My dear Rivers, I suppose you think me mad. The geese have got into the Capitol at last.” Without correcting his classical allusion, I said: “Where is Burrage?” “He is coming here presently. Of course, I glanced at the thing in proof, and thought it a splendid joke, but reading it this morning, I have come to the conclusion that something is wrong with Burrage. You remember his agitated manner the other day?” I was about to reply, when Burrage was announced. His haggard and pale appearance startled both of us. “My dear Burrage, what is the matter with you?” we exclaimed simultaneously. He gave a sickly nervous smile. “Of course you have sent to ask me about that review. Well, I have changed my opinions, I have altered. I think we should praise everything or ignore everything. To slate a book, good or bad, is taking the bread out of a fellow’s mouth. I have been the chief sinner in this way, and I am going to be the first reformer.” “Not in my paper,” said Curtis, angrily.

‘Then we all fell to discussing that old question with all the warmth that North and the rest of you were doing just now. We lost our tempers and Curtis ended the matter by saying: “I tell you what it is, Burrage, if you ever bring out a book yourself I’ll send it to you to review. You can praise it as much as you like. But don’t let this occur again, with any one else’s work.” Burrage turned quite white, I thought, and Curtis, noticing the effect of his words, went up and taking him by the hand, added more kindly, “My poor Burrage, are you quite well? I never saw you in so morbid a state before. All this is mere sentimentality—so different from your usual manly spirit. Go away for a change, to Brighton or Eastbourne, and you must come back with that wholesome contempt for your contemporaries that characterises most of your writings. I’ll look over the matter this time, and we’ll say no more about it.” And here Curtis was so overcome that he dashed a tear from his eye. A few hours later I saw Burrage off to the sea. He was very strange in his manner. “I’ll never be quite the same again. If I only dared to tell you,” he said. And the train rolled out of the station.

‘Some weeks later I was again in the editorial room and Curtis showed me a curiously bound book, printed on hand-made paper, entitled Prejudices. I had already seen it. “That book,” Curtis remarked, “ought to have been noticed long ago. I was keeping it for Burrage when he gets better. Shall I send it to him?”

‘Prejudices for some weeks had been the talk of London. It was a series of very ineffectual essays on different subjects. Sight, Colour, Sound, Art, Letters, and Religion were all dealt with in that highly glowing and original manner now termed Style. It was delightfully unwholesome and extraordinarily silly. Young persons had already begun to get foolish over it, and leaving the more stimulating pages of Mr. Pater they hailed the work as an earnest of the English Renaissance. Instead of stroking Marius the Epicurean they fondled a copy of Prejudices. I prophesied that Burrage would vindicate himself over it and that the public would hear very little of Prejudices in a year’s time. The book was sent; and the first part of my prophecy was fulfilled, Burrage spared neither the author nor his admirers. The pedantry, the affected style, the cheap hedonism were all pitilessly exposed. London, rocked with laughter. Some of the admirers, with the generosity of youth, nobly came to the rescue. They made a paper war and talked of “The cruelty and cowardice of the attack,” “The stab in the dark,” “Journalistic marauding,” “Disappointed author turned critic.” The slate was one that I am bound to say was killing in both senses of the word. A book less worthless could never have lived under it. It was one of those decisive reviews of all ages. Prejudices was withdrawn by the publisher fearful of damaging his prestige. Yet it was never looked on as a rarity, and fell at book auctions for a shilling, for some time after, amidst general tittering. The daily papers meanwhile devoted columns to the discussion. I telegraphed to Burrage in cipher and congratulated him, knowing that secrets leak out sometimes through the post office. I was surprised to get no reply for some weeks, but Curtis said he was lying low while the excitement lasted. One day I got a letter simply saying, “For God’s sake come. I am very ill.” I went at once. How shall I describe to you the pitiful condition I found him in? The doctor told me he was suffering from incipient tuberculosis due to cerebral excitement and mental trouble. When I went in to see him he was lying in bed, pale and emaciated as a corpse, surrounded by friends and relations. He asked every one to go out of the room; he had something of importance to say to me. I then learned what you have divined already. The anonymous author of Prejudices was no other than Quentin Burrage himself. Or rather not himself, but the other self of which neither I nor Curtis knew anything. He had been living a double existence. As a writer of trashy essays and verse, an incomplete sentimentalist surrounded by an admiring band of young ladies and gentlemen, he was not recognised as the able critic and the anonymous slater of the “Acropolis.”

‘When he first received his own book for review he recalled the words of Curtis. He must be honest, impartial, and just. No one knew better the faults of Prejudices. As he began to write, the old spirit of the slater came over him. His better self conquered. He forgot for the moment that he was the author. He hardly realised the sting of his own sarcasms even when he saw them in proof. It was not until it appeared, and the papers were full of the controversy, that the cruelty and unfairness of the attack dawned on him. I was much shocked at the confession, and the extraordinary duplicity of Burrage, who had been living a lie for the last ten years. His denunciation of poor Curtis pained me. I would have upbraided him, but his tortured face and hacking cough made me relent. I need not prolong the painful story. Burrage never recovered. He sank into galloping consumption, only aggravated by a broken heart. I saw him on his deathbed at Rome. He was attended by Strange, and died in his arms. His last words to me were, “Rivers, tell Curtis I forgive him.”

‘We buried in the Protestant cemetery near Keats and Shelley one whose name was written in hot water. His sad death provoked a good deal of comment, as you may suppose. Strange has often promised to write his life. But he could never get through Prejudices, and I pointed out to him that you can hardly write an author’s life without reading one of his works, even though he did die in your arms. That is the worst of literary martyrs with a few brilliant exceptions: their works are generally dull.’

‘Is that all?’ asked North.

‘That is all, and I hope you understand the moral.’

‘Perfectly; but your reminiscences have too much construction, my dear Rivers.’

‘The story is perfectly true for all that,’ remarked the Editor, drily.