CRITICISM.
This reprinted volume of critical essays is the first of a new series, to be called " The Bookman Library." Dixon Scott, it will be remembered, was a brilliant young North- country journalist who died at the Dardanelles in the middle of the War. We are glad that these essays of his have been reprinted : first, because they were difficult to obtain and are certainly worth obtaining ; and secondly, now that we have them they enable us to reconsider our estimate of their author.
Most of the papers appeared as long essay-reviews in the Bookman, and they cover most of the leading literary figures of the day—Shaw, Kipling, Wells, Barrie, Bennett, Chesterton and so on. The present volume contains the long introduc- tion by Mr. Beerbohm that graced the previous issue, and has also an additional essay on Whitman that did not appear before. The criticism, when it is at its best, seems as acute as ever ; there can be no doubt that the opening essay, " The Innocence of Bernard Shaw " (Scott worked this Chester- tonian type of title to death), is not only the most elaborate and longest piece of criticism in the book, it is easily the best ; indeed, one of the most searching examinations that Mr. Shaw has ever had to undergo. This rather points to the conclusion that Scott, had he lived, would have found himself in lengthy estimates rather than in short essays and notices. But his style, over which his friends (and he seems to have made many) wax so enthusiastic, does not seem to deserve the praise it receives in the introduction from Mr. Beerbohm, who was, it must be remembered, writing a friendly obituary notice rather than a criticism. Scott took immense pains with his writing, and had he lived he might in time have achieved a manner and style of his own, but it is certain that he had not succeeded in doing so when he was writing these essays. Here we find a patchwork of styles, some Henry James, some Shaw, some Chesterton, some Montague, but no Dixon Scott, who is still parading his undoubtedly original figure in bor- rowed finery. But we have not so many critics of such quality that we can afford to let this one go, nor so much wit and enthusiasm in our present critical volumes that we can suffer this firework display to go off unseen.
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