Although criticism is the act of judging in general, and although I shall not strictly limit my subject to any particular branch of criticism, yet naturally I shall be led to speak principally of that branch of which we—probably all of us—think at once when the word is mentioned, viz., literary and artistic criticism. I think if criticism were juster and fairer persons criticized would submit more readily to criticism. It is certain
that criticism is generally resented. We—none of us—like to be told our faults.
“Tell Blackwood,” said Sir Walter Scott, “that I am one of the Black Hussars of Literature who neither give nor take criticism.” Tennyson resented any interference with his muse by writing the now nearly forgotten line about “Musty, crusty Christopher.” Byron flew into a rhapsodical passion and wrote English Bards and Scotch Reviewers—
“Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all.”
He says—
“A man must serve his time to every trade
Save censure. Critics all are ready made.
Take hackney’d jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault;
A turn for punning—call it Attic salt;
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet,—
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet;
Fear not to lie, ’twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling—pass your proper jest,—
And stand a critic, hated yet caress’d.”
Lowell retorted upon his enemies in the famous Fable for Critics. Swift, in his Battle of the Books, revenges himself upon Criticism by describing her. “She dwelt on the top of a snowy mountain in Nova Zembla. There Momus found her extended in her den upon the spoils of numberless volumes, half devoured. At her right hand sat Ignorance, her father and husband, blind with age; at her left Pride, her mother, dressing her up in the scraps of paper herself had torn. About her played her children Noise and Impudence, Dulness and
Vanity, Pedantry and Ill-manners. The goddess herself had claws like a cat. Her head, ears, and voice resembled those of an ass.” Bulwer (Lord Lytton) flew out against his critics, and was well laughed at by Thackeray for his pains. Poets are known as the genus irritabile, and I do not know that prose writers, artists, or musicians are less susceptible. Most of us will remember Sheridan’s Critic—
Sneer: “I think it wants incident.”
Sir Fretful: “Good Heavens, you surprise me! Wants incident! I am only apprehensive that the incidents are too crowded.”