attitude towards quotational criticism by refusing to pay its contributors for space taken up by quotations.  A London evening newspaper was once guilty of the same folly.  A reviewer on the staff of the latter confessed to me that to the present day he finds it impossible, without an effort, to make quotations in a review, because of the memory of those days when to quote was to add to one’s poverty.  Despised work is seldom done well, and it is not surprising that it is almost more seldom that one finds a quotational review well done than any other sort.  Yet how critically illuminating a quotation may be!  There are many books in regard to which quotation is the only criticism necessary.  Books of memoirs and books of verse—­the least artistic as well as the most artistic forms of literature—­both lend themselves to it.  To criticize verse without giving quotations is to leave one largely in ignorance of the quality of the verse.  The selection of passages to quote is at least as fine a test of artistic judgment as any comment the critic can make.  In regard to books of memoirs, gossip, and so forth, one does not ask for a test of delicate artistic judgment.  Books of this kind should simply be rummaged for entertaining “news.”  To review them well is to make an anthology of (in a wide sense) amusing passages.  There is no other way to portray them.  And yet I have known a very brilliant reviewer take a book of gossip about the German Court and, instead of quoting any of the numerous things that would interest people, fill half a column with abuse of the way in which the book was written, of the inconsequence of the chapters, of the second-handedness of many of the anecdotes.  Now, I do not object to any of these charges being brought.  It is well that “made” books should not be palmed off on the public as literature.  On the other hand, a mediocre book (from the point of view of literature or history) is no excuse for a mediocre review.  No matter how mediocre a book is, if it is on a subject of great interest, it usually contains enough vital matter to make an exciting half-column.  Many reviewers despise a bad book so heartily that, instead of squeezing every drop of interest out of it, as they ought to do, they refrain from squeezing a single drop of interest out of it.  They are frequently people who suffer from anecdotophobia.  “Scorn not the anecdote” is a motto that might be modestly hung up in the heart of every reviewer.  After all, Montaigne did not scorn it, and there is no reason why the modern journalist should be ashamed of following so respectable an example.  One can quite easily understand how the gluttony of many publishers for anecdotes has driven writers with a respect for their intellect into revolt.  But let us not be unjust to the anecdote because it has been cheapened through no fault of its own.  We may be sure of one thing.  A review—­a review, at any rate, of a book of memoirs or any similar kind of non-literary book—­which contains an anecdote is better than a review which does not contain an anecdote.  If an anecdotal review is bad, it is because it is badly done, not because it is anecdotal.  This, one might imagine, is too obvious to require saying; but many men of brains go through life without ever being able to see it.