"Do They include the critics?"
"Oh, no," said I, hastily.
"Aren't they 'people who read them'?"
"Why, they are critics," cried I. "How can they?"
"That is hard doctrine," said the god, dully. "If you write for the people who read, you must submit to their verdict. And the critics are a part of them."
"A small part. But they pretend to speak for the whole. Permit me to explain—"
The god politely waited.
"Your critic approaches a book as a lawyer does his case—temperamentally—not judicially—with an opinion of it in advance or upon the first pages, which the book must either justify or fail to justify. The result appears in his published estimate. He states his view as if it were the only one. And, being delivered ex cathedra, the multitude take it as they do their preaching—for the gospel of Literature! But how would you like that in your judge? Who is sworn to decide upon the evidence adduced alone?
"So it happens that every book is well cursed and well blessed, according to the humor of the dissector. And the cursing and blessing are usually about equal."
"There does seem to be something wrong about criticism which can be unanimous both ways," laughed the god.