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
wer