| | | | | <"ESSAYS ON SOCIAL SUBJECTS"> | | WE may be intimate with people, we may have a hundred points | in common with them, experience may have taught us to | defer to their superior knowledge and quicker perception, and | yet we may be surprised at last to find ourselves on unknown | ground when we come to talk with them about books. It is not | that there is a mere difference of taste and of views, for the | foregone knowledge of each other's minds will have prepared | both parties for some divergence. The surprise comes with the | discovery that our friend stands in an unexpected relation to | the books he reads ~~ that his mind does not work upon | books as we know it to do upon life and nature, nor do his | intellectual powers find in them the same exercise or | nourishment which more genial matter supplies; and we are | thus awakened to the defective sympathy which exists between | certain minds and books. If authors came before such persons in | bodily shape, acting and talking, their merits, faults, and | peculiarities would be met by a practised discernment; | | but, putting themselves into books, they are hid and disguised | altogether. The author is not seen at all, and his work makes | but a vague or an exaggerated or a false impression. In some | way or other it is not entered into. | It is so much the thing now for | everyone in general society to be able to talk about the | books of the day with an air of discrimination, and to use the | language of praise and censure in a form implying some | comprehension of the relation between a writer and his book, | that one might sometimes suppose that everybody was critical, | and knew not only what makes a book good or bad, but how | books grow out of an author's mind; so easily and | unconsciously do we all repeat what we hear, fall into the vein | of thought most familiar to our ears, and say what we are | expected to say. But if we get into a set not even professing to | be literary, and hear people talk of books whose intellectual | activities have gone out in another line ~~ whether a | philanthropic, religious, political, domestic, or pleasure-taking | direction ~~ so that society has given them no hints of what | they are to say and think of the works that come in their way, | it soon becomes apparent that the critical faculty, even in its | most elementary undeveloped stage, is by no means universal. | There are still a great many persons, some of them very clever | ones, in this reading age, who are perfectly in the dark as to | how books are written, who read them without any curiosity | concerning their authorship; who regard them as things for | which nobody is responsible; who | | will go through the contents of a circulating library with no | more inquiry how the books came there than how the flints | by the wayside came to be what and where they are. Not only | may people who really like reading be in this state of mind, | but many of the greatest readers, if we judge by the number | of pages turned over in a day or year, are so. If they have not | heard others talk, they have nothing to say. In their natural | unaffected state, they have no inkling of the sort of thing | expected from them. The book does not rank in their minds | among human efforts, nor has in it the interest of human | labour and achievement. A vast proportion of novel-readers | care less to know who wrote the books they read, than to | know the shops that have supplied the food they eat and the | clothes they wear. | We take it to be inseparable from the attitude of criticism to | trace the thing that interests us to some agent ~~ to connect it, | if possible, with the mind that wrought it out. The critic | cannot listen to music in a comfortable frame till he knows | something about the composer. The composition must be | characteristic of some combination of heart and intellect, it | must be seasoned with humanity, it must have a history, before | he can praise or blame, or give himself up to its influences | with perfect satisfaction. We need not ask now why it is so, as | we are concerned with those who recognise no such needs or | impulses; indeed, who would consider it a presumption on | their part to assume the critical posture. Persons ~~ and we | have noticed this | | particularly in women ~~ who say very distinctly that they | hate and detest a book, would feel it to be conceited to | analyse it and seek out the reason why. To identify a man | with his book, to take him to task, to measure the scale of his | powers, to pronounce upon his deficiencies and errors, would | seem to them, a more arrogant proceeding than summarily to | condemn in the lump so many pages of printed matter, in | whatever terms of contumely and disparagement. If they have | humour, they will be amusing in their evasions and | disclaimers; but a discussion of any nicety as to the grounds | and causes of their condemnation is quite out of their line, | and they cannot be drawn into it. We see this sometimes even | in those who assume the place of the critic, and affect his | office. Many a review is simply a statement of liking and | disliking, without reason alleged or grounds given. The book | is merely a peg for remarks more or less relevant. Whenever | Sydney Smith criticised, it was in this vein. Thus he decided | that "Granby" must be a good novel because it produced | certain effects upon the reader ~~ because it made him too | late in dressing for dinner, impatient, inattentive, and | incapable (while it lasted) of reading Hallam's "Middle Ages," | or extracting the root of an impossible quantity; but the causes | that made "Granby" interesting to him, and Hallam's "Middle | Ages" dull, he did not care to inquire into. He let his reader | know, in a diverting way, that one book suited his turn and | fancy, and that another did not; but he never committed | himself to a reason. And no doubt such an | | opinion from a superior man is better worth having than the | careful criticisms of a small pedantic mind; but it is not | criticism, and he who likes and dislikes on deliberate | conscious grounds has a faculty which the other is without, | and which, in spite of the glib-ness with which coteries | discuss books, is wanting to a vast number of minds. Even a | child, if it possesses the critical faculty, unconsciously regards | a book as a work of art, and distinguishes between the subject | and the performance, which a good many persons never do as | long as they live. And this difference will largely influence | the choice of books. For instance, a boy of twelve meets with | Addison's "Spectator." If he has the gift of recognising an | author when he comes in the way of one ~~ if he can be so far | caught by justness of thought, delicacy of humour, and | eloquence and grace of expression that these will secure | attention and interest apart from the immediate attraction of | the subject ~~ then he is an embryo critic; and though, of | course, it does not do to draw an opposite conclusion from | the fact that at an early age the whole thing is alien to him, | and takes no hold on thought or fancy, yet, in so far as he | manifests distaste for a book written in a charming style and | perfect in its way, he gives no promise of future discernment in | the matter of execution. It is true that criticism should | exercise itself on the nature and fitness of the subject as well | as on the way in which it is worked out, yet the execution is | the more common field for its exercise. Thus it is generally | for want of the critical faculty that the crowd | | in a picture-gallery gathers round the most showy and | sentimental subjects, and passes by simple or homely scenes | of nature and life which are admirable for the painter's close | and imaginative rendering of them, for his having caught all | the points of truth and beauty which the subject presents to a | keen comprehensive observation, and worked them out with | the whole skill of his art. | Still we have a respect for all people who boldly | admire what pleases them: it is a finer position than | waiting to be told what they are to like; and it is | therefore pleasant and instructive to see an ardent un | critical mind, endowed with perpetual youth, in | unsophisticated action. This may be best seen, where books | are concerned, when eyes and attention are glued to the | pages of a novel. The novel is more likely than not to | be, in the judgment of critics, a very bad one ~~ probably | beneath criticism, except that it tells a story with at | least an affectation of force and spirit. It is almost | necessary that it should be at variance with the actual | experience of the reader ~~ for what is familiar is mistaken | for commonplace ~~ and that the plot should be | worked out in defiance of the laws of probability; or | there will be a sense of flatness, triviality, or deficiency | of moral. Nevertheless, under these conditions, given | a proper amount of incident, the reader is rapt into an | illusion of reality far beyond what the critic is capable | of who never quite forgets that he is engaged upon | somebody's performance. The question of truth and | nature can find no place when the characters are never | | regarded as an author's creations, but as so many real actors | and sufferers, to be judged by the reader's moral and | intellectual standard, and not by the test of consistency to a | preconceived ideal. Even the anger of simple readers of this | sort never reaches the author, but is all expended on the | puppets which his pen has set in motion. All this might seem | to be the best and highest praise, but that, in fact, it is never | bestowed on the highest desert. There is always something in | a capital performance which exempts it from this ruder form | of appreciation; and this something is probably a close | representation of familiar life, so full and true that the reader | can see no merit in it, being possessed by the notion that what | everybody may see everybody does see, and therefore | everybody might draw if he took the trouble ~~ not to add | that it is so dull to meet in a book precisely the same | company we see every day. We have heard readers of this | class regret that there is so much that is

"low"

in | Walter Scott. They take no interest in "Adam Bede," because | the people are common, and talk a dialect; and they despise | Miss Austen's nice variety of fools because they are so foolish, | and are therefore unworthy an author's pains. In fact, it is a | distinct class of minds altogether that value a book because | the writer undertakes to do a thing, and does it well ~~ | because its pages show an observation more than commonly | acute, exercised on real life and everyday humanity. The | majority neither care for the study itself nor for the | performance. It is no more amusing to them to be let into the | hidden sources | | of folly, selfishness, and prejudice than to be subject to the real | manifestations of these qualities. A character does not mean | with them anything natural or probable, but an agency to work | out the plot in an exciting way. They never think of the | execution, and are no judges of it, except as everybody is a | judge whether a scene is tame or forcible; for mere dulness is | an intelligible quality to all the world. If ever a work of | genius is admitted into these readers' highest favour, it will be | because it is tinctured by mannerisms and extravagance which | effectually remove it from the world they know and the life of | their own experience. | But, critical or not, these absorbed and simple readers are vastly | superior in the higher forms of intelligence to the vulgar | notion of a critic, which simply means a fault-finder ~~ to the | man whom nothing pleases, who only realises an author as | something to be worried, and who sets himself to pick holes | and turn every thought and sentence the wrong side out. | Some fall into this habit from satiety. They have lost the | power of reading, from overwork, or fretfulness, and general | failure of sympathy. But it is more commonly the mark of a | narrow sharpness puffed into conceit by a defective education | ~~ the sharpness that can hit upon blemishes, but is blind to | merits and beauties, and never forgets itself so far as to be | lost in a new view or thought, or carried away by another | man's imagination. Next to this sour, one-sided form of | popular criticism comes the domestic and prejudiced, where | one mind, really or professedly critical, rules the house-hold, | | and all contentedly bow to one dictum. Nothing shows more | the rarity of a real, independent, critical exercise of mind than | the docility with which a dozen people will take all their | opinions of books, for praise or blame, from one; adopting or | renouncing poets, historians, novelists without a question, and | regulating their interest at the word of command. And one | sees this amongst professed lovers of books, who can quote | Tennyson or Wordsworth according as either poet occupies | the niche of honour, and who will have reasons for their | preference which might pass for the results of thought, only | that every word and turn can be traced to a dictator. The ears | of one whole circle will be charmed with the march of | Macaulay's or Kinglake's sentences, while those of another | will detect mannerism in every line. One set will have | pronounced "Hiawatha" an insult to the public understanding, | while another will have welcomed it as a new sensation; and | we might wonder at the unanimity in each case till experience | shows us who gives the cue, and we perceive that each | judgment instinctively suspends its action till the voice has | spoken ~~ just as, years back, before they got used to such | things, the people of Hereford waited to know whether they | had felt the shock of an earthquake till the "Times" arrived | next morning. When these obedient followers own at all a | wilful or eccentric leadership, it is wonderful what names | become household words ~~ what out-of-the-way, or | commonplace, or elsewhere-forgotten authors are the | authorities to whom all bow. Nor does this deference belong | only to half-taught, | | out-of-the-world societies, though there it is seen in its | purest simplicity. There is no set so highly trained but it | broadly betrays the uncritical temper in its readiness to | accept another's judgment, and its submission of | understanding, taste, and feeling to another's dictation or to a | prejudice. Thus, at Lord Holland's, it used to be the fashion to | cry down Sir Walter Scott. When the outer world was | entranced by his genius, a promiscuous crowd of visitors | took one and the same line of depreciation towards "Guy | Mannering," or "Ivanhoe," or whatever it might be, till the | most sturdy wit of the company, whose sensations were not | quite under the same control, was fain to utter his protest: ~~ | | | Blind faith in authors, as such, is another form of the | uncritical temper. There are people who think an author is an | author, and look up to him as such, irrespective of his book. | We meet with them sometimes, and we read of them much | oftener, for perhaps this amiable and engaging weakness is a | little dying out. Of course the attitude of worship is | incompatible with criticism. When once we sit in judgment | on a book and presume to determine its merits and its defects, | we realise the fact of the writer being our own flesh and blood, | not the awful image on a pedestal that an implicit faith in type | makes him. This unquestioning | | reverence is a good frame for the young, in whom conscious | criticism is often impertinent, and even odious; but it is servile | as some people manage it, bestowing it as they do on | unworthy objects, and bowing down to mere shams and the | flimsiest idols. But, as we have said, the times do not | encourage any reverence for learning and authorship that | holds the gazer aloof. We have to assert the rarity of real | critical power, or even of the critical turn of mind, against | appearances, which in well-bred circles are, we own, dead | against us. Criticism used to be a distinct profession, and the | poet only had to complain that | | But now any young lady who reads the reviews, and knows | the importance of having something to say, can do the | business with a despatch and decision which leave the critic | far behind. The only thing is that, whenever people assert | opinions with ultra readiness, we have learnt to take it as a | sign that their opinions are none of their own forming, but | borrowed straight, and probably verbatim, from somebody else.