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Page 35
Let us, for a moment, consider the nature of this thing called
criticism, which exerts such a sway over the literary world. The pronoun
we, used by critics, has a most imposing and delusive sound. The reader
pictures to himself a conclave of learned men, deliberating gravely and
scrupulously on the merits of the book in question; examining it page by
page, comparing and balancing their opinions, and when they have united
in a conscientious verdict, publishing it for the benefit of the world:
whereas the criticism is generally the crude and hasty production of
an individual, scribbling to while away an idle hour, to oblige a
book-seller, or to defray current expenses. How often is it the
passing notion of the hour, affected by accidental circumstances; by
indisposition, by peevishness, by vapors or indigestion; by personal
prejudice, or party feeling. Sometimes a work is sacrificed, because
the reviewer wishes a satirical article; sometimes because he wants
a humorous one; and sometimes because the author reviewed has become
offensively celebrated, and offers high game to the literary marksman.
How often would the critic himself, if a conscientious man, reverse his
opinion, had he time to revise it in a more sunny moment; but the press
is waiting, the printer's devil is at his elbow; the article is wanted
to make the requisite variety for the number of the review, or the
author has pressing occasion for the sum he is to receive for the
article, so it is sent off, all blotted and blurred; with a shrug of
the shoulders, and the consolatory ejaculation: "Pshaw! curse it! it's
nothing but a review!"
The critic, too, who dictates thus oracularly to the world, is perhaps
some dingy, ill-favored, ill-mannered varlet, who, were he to speak by
word of mouth, would be disregarded, if not scoffed at; but such is the
magic of types; such the mystic operation of anonymous writing; such the
potential effect of the pronoun we, that his crude decisions, fulminated
through the press, become circulated far and wide, control the opinions
of the world, and give or destroy reputation.
Many readers have grown timorous in their judgments since the
all-pervading currency of criticism. They fear to express a revised,
frank opinion about any new work, and to relish it honestly and
heartily, lest it should be condemned in the next review, and they stand
convicted of bad taste. Hence they hedge their opinions, like a gambler
his bets, and leave an opening to retract, and retreat, and qualify,
and neutralise every unguarded expression of delight, until their very
praise declines into a faintness that is damning.
Were every one, on the contrary, to judge for himself, and speak his
mind frankly and fearlessly, we should have more true criticism in the
world than at present. Whenever a person is pleased with a work, he may
be assured that it has good qualities. An author who pleases a variety
of readers, must possess substantial powers of pleasing; or, in other
words, intrinsic merits; for otherwise we acknowledge an effect, and
deny the cause. The reader, therefore, should not suffer himself to be
readily shaken from the conviction of his own feelings, by the sweeping
censures of pseudo critics. The author he has admired, may be chargeable
with a thousand faults; but it is nevertheless beauties and excellencies
that have excited his admiration; and he should recollect that taste
and judgment are as much evinced in the perception of beauties among
defects, as in a detection of defects among beauties. For my part, I
honor the blessed and blessing spirit that is quick to discover and
extol all that is pleasing and meritorious. Give me the honest bee, that
extracts honey from the humblest weed, but save me from the ingenuity
of the spider, which traces its venom, even in the midst of a
flower-garden.
If the mere fact of being chargeable with faults and imperfections is to
condemn an author, who is to escape? The greatest writers of antiquity
have, in this way, been obnoxious to criticism. Aristotle himself has
been accused of ignorance; Aristophanes of impiety and buffoonery;
Virgil of plagiarism, and a want of invention; Horace of obscurity;
Cicero has been, said to want vigor and connexion, and Demosthenes to
be deficient in nature, and in purity of language. Yet these have all
survived the censures of the critic, and flourished on to a glorious
immortality. Every now and then the world is startled by some new
doctrines in matters of taste, some levelling attacks on established
creeds; some sweeping denunciations of whole generations, or schools of
writers, as they are called, who had seemed to be embalmed and canonized
in public opinion. Such has been the case, for instance, with Pope, and
Dryden, and Addison, who for a time have almost been shaken from their
pedestals, and treated as false idols.
It is singular, also, to see the fickleness of the world with respect
to its favorites. Enthusiasm exhausts itself, and prepares the way
for dislike. The public is always for positive sentiments, and new
sensations. When wearied of admiring, it delights to censure; thus
coining a double set of enjoyments out of the same subject. Scott and
Byron are scarce cold in their graves, and already we find criticism
beginning to call in question those powers which held the world in magic
thraldom. Even in our own country, one of its greatest geniuses has
had some rough passages with the censors of the press; and instantly
criticism begins to unsay all that it has repeatedly said in his praise;
and the public are almost led to believe that the pen which has so often
delighted them, is absolutely destitute of the power to delight!
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