The ancient and honourable art of Reviewing is, without question,
the most important branch of that great calling which we term the
“Career of Letters.”
As it is the most important, so also it is the first which a man of
letters should learn. It is at once his shield and his weapon. A
thorough knowledge of Reviewing, both theoretical and applied, will
give a man more popularity or power than he could have attained by
the expenditure of a corresponding energy in any one of the liberal
professions, with the possible exception of Municipal politics.
It forms, moreover, the foundation upon which all other literary
work may be said to repose. Involving, as it does, the reading of
a vast number of volumes, and the thorough mastery of a hundred
wholly different subjects; training one to rapid, conclusive
judgment, and to the exercise of a kind of immediate power of
survey, it vies with cricket in forming the character of an
Englishman. It is interesting to know that Charles Hawbuck was for
some years principally occupied in Reviewing; and to this day some
of our most important men will write, nay, and sign, reviews, as
the press of the country testifies upon every side.
It is true that the sums paid for this species of literary
activity are not large, and it is this fact which has dissuaded
some of our most famous novelists and poets of recent years from
undertaking Reviewing of any kind. But the beginner will not be
deterred by such a consideration, and he may look forward, by
way of compensation, to the ultimate possession of a large and
extremely varied library, the accumulation of the books which
have been given him to review. I have myself been presented with
books of which individual volumes were sometimes worth as much as
forty-two shillings to buy.
Having said so much of the advantages of this initial and
fundamental kind of writing, I will proceed to a more exact account
of its dangers and difficulties, and of the processes inherent to
its manufacture.
It is clear, in the first place, that the Reviewer must regard
herself as the servant of the public, and of her employer; and
service, as I need hardly remind her (or him), has nothing in it
dishonourable. We were all made to work, and often the highest in
the land are the hardest workers of all. This character of service,
of which Mr. Ruskin has written such noble things, will often lay
the Reviewer under the necessity of a sharp change of opinion, and
nowhere is the art a better training in morals and application than
in the habit it inculcates of rapid and exact obedience, coupled
with the power of seeing every aspect of a thing, and of insisting
upon that particular aspect which will give most satisfaction to
the commonwealth.
It may not be uninstructive if I quote here the adventures of
one of the truest of the many stout-hearted men I have known,
one indeed who recently died in harness reviewing Mr. Garcke’s
article on Electrical Traction in the supplementary volumes of the
_Encyclopædia Britannica_. This gentleman was once sent a book to
review; the subject, as he had received no special training in it,
might have deterred one less bound by the sense of duty. This book
was called _The Snail: Its Habitat, Food, Customs, Virtues, Vices,
and Future_. It was, as its title would imply, a monograph upon
snails, and there were many fine coloured prints, showing various
snails occupied in feeding on the leaves proper to each species. It
also contained a large number of process blocks, showing sections,
plans, elevations, and portraits of snails, as well as detailed
descriptions (with diagrams) of the ears, tongues, eyes, hair, and
nerves of snails. It was a comprehensive and remarkable work.
My friend (whose name I suppress for family reasons) would not
naturally have cared to review this book. He saw that it involved
the assumption of a knowledge which he did not possess, and that
some parts of the book might require very close reading. It
numbered in all 1532 pages, but this was including the index and
the preface.
He put his inclinations to one side, and took the book with him to
the office of the newspaper from which he had received it, where
he was relieved to hear the Editor inform him that it was not
necessary to review the work in any great detail. “Moreover,” he
added, “I don’t think you need praise it too much.”
On hearing this, the Reviewer, having noted down the price of
the book and the name of the publisher, wrote the following
words--which, by the way, the student will do well to cut out and
pin upon his wall, as an excellent example of what a “short notice”
should be:--
“_The Snail: Its Habitat_, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.
“This is a book that will hardly add to the reputation of
its author. There is evidence of detailed work, and even of
conscientious research in several places, but the author has
ignored or misunderstood the whole teaching of ___________ and
the special discoveries of ___________ and what is even more
remarkable in a man of Mr. Charles’ standing, he advances views
which were already exploded in the days of ___________.”
He then took an Encyclopædia and filled up the blanks with the
names of three great men who appeared, according to that work, to
be the leaders in this branch of natural history. His duty thus
thoroughly accomplished and his mind at rest, he posted his review,
and applied himself to lighter occupations.
Next day, however, the Editor telephoned to him, to the effect that
the notice upon which he had spent so much labour could not be used.
“We have just received,” said the Editor, “a page advertisement
from Pschuffer. I would like a really good article, and you might
use the book as a kind of peg on which to hang it. You might begin
on the subject of snails, and make it something more like your
‘_Oh! my lost friend_,’ which has had such a success.”
On occasions such as these the beginner must remember to keep full
possession of himself.
Nothing in this mortal life is permanent, and the changes that are
native to the journalistic career are perhaps the most startling
and frequent of all those which threaten humanity.
The Reviewer of whom I speak was as wise as he was honourable.
He saw at once what was needed. He wrote another and much longer
article, beginning--
“_The Snail: Its Habitat_, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.
“There are tender days just before the Spring dares the adventure
of the Channel, when our Kentish woods are prescient, as it were,
of the South. It is calm ...”
and so forth, leading gradually up to snails, and bringing in the
book here and there about every twentieth line.
When this long article was done, he took it back to the office,
and there found the Editor in yet a third mood. He was talking
into the telephone, and begged his visitor to wait until he had
done. My friend, therefore, took up a copy of the _Spectator_, and
attempted to distract his attention with the masterful irony and
hard crystalline prose of that paper.
Soon the Editor turned to him and said that Pschuffer’s had just
let him know by the telephone that they would not advertise after
all.
It was now necessary to delete all that there might be upon snails
in his article, to head the remainder “My Kentish Home,” and to
send it immediately to “_Life in the Open_.” This done, he sat
down and wrote upon a scrap of paper in the office the following
revised notice, which the Editor glanced at and approved:--
“_The Snail: Its Habitat_, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.
“This work will, perhaps, appeal to specialists. This journal
does not profess any capacity of dealing with it, but a glance at
its pages is sufficient to show that it would be very ill-suited
to ordinary readers. The illustrations are not without merit.”
Next morning he was somewhat perturbed to be called up again upon
the telephone by the Editor, who spoke to him as follows:--
“I am very sorry, but I have just learnt a most important fact.
Adam Charles is standing in our interests at Biggleton. Lord Bailey
will be on the platform. You must write a long and favourable
review of the book before twelve to-day, and do try and say a
little about the author.”
He somewhat wearily took up a sheet of paper and wrote what
follows:--a passage which I must again recommend to the student as
a very admirable specimen of work upon these lines.
“_The Snail: Its Habitat_, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.
“This book comes at a most opportune moment. It is not generally
known that Professor Charles was the first to point out the very
great importance of the training of the mind in the education of
children. It was in May, 1875, that he made this point in the
presence of Mr. Gladstone, who was so impressed by the mingled
enlightenment and novelty of the view, that he wrote a long
and interesting postcard upon the author to a friend of the
present writer. Professor Charles may be styled--nay, he styles
himself--a ‘self-made man.’ Born in Huddersfield of parents
who were weavers in that charming northern city, he was early
fascinated by the study of natural science, and was admitted to
the Alexandrovna University....”
(And so on, and so on, out of “_Who’s Who_.”)
“But this would not suffice for his growing genius.”
(And so on, and so on, out of the _Series of Contemporary
Agnostics_.)
“ ... It is sometimes remarkable to men of less wide experience
how such spirits find the mere time to achieve their prodigious
results. Take, for example, this book on the Snail....”
And he continued in a fine spirit of praise, such as should be
given to books of this weight and importance, and to men such as he
who had written it. He sent it by boy-messenger to the office.
The messenger had but just left the house when the telephone rang
again, and once more it was the Editor, who asked whether the
review had been sent off. Knowing how dilatory are the run of
journalists, my friend felt some natural pride in replying that he
had indeed just despatched the article. The Editor, as luck would
have it, was somewhat annoyed by this, and the reason soon appeared
when he proceeded to say that the author was another Charles after
all, and not the Mr. Charles who was standing for Parliament. He
asked whether the original review could still be retained, in
which the book, it will be remembered, had been treated with some
severity.
My friend permitted himself to give a deep sigh, but was courteous
enough to answer as follows:--
“I am afraid it has been destroyed, but I shall be very happy to
write another, and I will make it really scathing. You shall have
it by twelve.”
It was under these circumstances that the review (which many of you
must have read) took this final form, which I recommend even more
heartily than any of the others to those who may peruse these pages
for their profit, as well as for their instruction.
“_The Snail: Its Habitat_, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.
“We desire to have as little to do with this book as possible,
and we should recommend some similar attitude to our readers.
It professes to be scientific, but the harm books of this kind
do is incalculable. It is certainly unfit for ordinary reading,
and for our part we will confess that we have not read more than
the first few words. They were quite sufficient to confirm the
judgment which we have put before our readers, and they would
have formed sufficient material for a lengthier treatment had
we thought it our duty as Englishmen to dwell further upon the
subject.”
Let me now turn from the light parenthesis of illuminating anecdote
to the sterner part of my task.
We will begin at the beginning, taking the simplest form of review,
and tracing the process of production through its various stages.
It is necessary first to procure a few forms, such as are sold
by Messrs. Chatsworthy in Chancery Lane, and Messrs. Goldman, of
the Haymarket, in which all the skeleton of a review is provided,
with blanks left for those portions which must, with the best will
in the world, vary according to the book and the author under
consideration. There are a large number of these forms, and I would
recommend the student who is as yet quite a novice in the trade to
select some forty of the most conventional, such as these on page 7
of the catalogue:--
“Mr. ---- has hardly seized the pure beauty of”
“We cannot agree with Mr. ---- in his estimate of”
“Again, how admirable is the following:”
At the same establishments can be procured very complete lists of
startling words, which lend individuality and force to the judgment
of the Reviewer. Indeed I believe that Mr. Goldman was himself
the original patentee of these useful little aids, and among many
before me at this moment I would recommend the following to the
student:--
{ Absolute }
{ Immediate }
{ Creative }
{ Bestial }
{ Intense }
“There is somewhat { Authoritative } in Mr. ----’s style.”
of the { Ampitheatrical } Mrs. ----’s
{ Lapsed } Miss ----’s
{ Miggerlish }
{ Japhetic }
{ Accidental }
{ Alkaline }
{ Zenotic }
Messrs. Malling, of Duke Street, Soho, sell a particular kind of
cartridge paper and some special pins, gum, and a knife, called
“The Reviewer’s Outfit.” I do not know that these are necessary,
but they cost only a few pence, and are certainly of advantage
in the final process: To wit:--Seizing firmly the book to be
reviewed, write down the title, price, publisher, and (in books
other than anonymous) the author’s name, at the _top_ of the sheet
of paper you have chosen. The book should then be taken in both
hands and opened sharply, with a gesture not easily described, but
acquired with very little practice. The test of success is that the
book should give a loud crack and lie open of itself upon the table
before one. This initial process is technically called “breaking
the back” of a book, but we need not trouble ourselves yet with
technical terms. One of the pages so disclosed should next be torn
out and the word “extract” written in the corner, though not before
such sentences have been deleted as will leave the remainder a
coherent paragraph. In the case of historical and scientific work,
the preface must be torn out bodily, the name of the Reviewer
substituted for the word “I,” and the whole used as a description
of the work in question. What remains is very simple. The forms,
extracts, &c., are trimmed, pinned, and gummed in order upon the
cartridge paper (in some offices brown paper), and the whole is
sent to press.
I need hardly say that only the most elementary form of review can
be constructed upon this model, but the simplest notice contains
all the factors which enter into the most complicated and most
serious of literary criticism and pronouncements.
In this, as in every other practical trade, an ounce of example is
worth a ton of precept, and I have much pleasure in laying before
the student one of the best examples that has ever appeared in
the weekly press of how a careful, subtle, just, and yet tender
review, may be written. The complexity of the situation which
called it forth, and the lightness of touch required for its
successful completion, may be gauged by the fact that Mr. Mayhem
was the nephew of my employer, had quarrelled with him at the
moment when the notice was written, but will almost certainly be
on good terms with him again; he was also, as I privately knew,
engaged to the daughter of a publisher who had shares in the works
where the review was printed.