Horace Smith - Interludes

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All which are as sensable as the fust passidge."

Dryden added coarseness to strength in his remarks when he wrote of one
of Settle's plays:--"To conclude this act with the most rumbling piece of
nonsense spoken yet--

'To flattering lightning our feigned smiles conform,
Which, backed with thunder, do but gild a storm.'

Conform a smile to lightning, make a smile imitate lightning; lightning
sure is a threatening thing. And this lightning must gild a storm; and
gild a storm by being backed by thunder. So that here is gilding by
conforming, smiling lightning, backing and thundering. I am mistaken if
nonsense is not here pretty thick sown. Sure the poet writ these two
lines aboard some smack in a storm, and, being sea-sick, spewed up a good
lump of clotted nonsense at once." Dryden wrote in a fit of rage and
spite, and it is not necessary to be vulgar in order to be strong; but it
is really a good thing to expose in plain language the meandering
nonsense which, unless detected, is apt to impose upon careless readers,
and so to encourage writers in their bad habits.

A young friend of mine imagined that he could make his fame as a painter.
Holding one of his pictures before his father, and his father saying it
was roughly and carelessly done, he said, "No, but, father, look; it
looks better if I hold it further off." "Yes, Charlie, the further you
hold it off the better it looks." That was severe, but strong and just.
The young man had no real genius for painting, and his father knew it.

It must be remembered that criticism cannot be strong unless it be the
real opinion of the writer. If the critic is hampered by endeavouring to
make his own views square with those of the writer, or the publisher, or
the public, he cannot speak out his mind, but is half-hearted in his
work.

5. _Natural_.

Criticism should be natural, that is, not too artificial. This is a
somewhat difficult matter upon which to lay down any rules; but one often
feels what a terrible thing it is when one wants to admire something to
be told, "Oh, but the unities are not preserved," or this or that is
quite inadmissible by all the rules of art.

"Hallo! you chairman, here's sixpence; do step into that bookseller's
shop, and call me a day-tall critic. I am very willing to give any of
them a crown to help me with his tackling to get my father and my uncle
Toby off the stairs, and to put them to bed."

"And how did Garrick speak the soliloquy last night?" "Oh, against all
rule, my lord, most ungrammatically! Betwixt the substantive and the
adjective, which should agree together in number, case, and gender, he
made a breach thus--stopping as if the point wanted settling; and betwixt
the nominative case, which your lordship knows should govern the verb, he
suspended his voice a dozen times, three seconds, and three fifths, by a
stop watch, my lord, each time." Admirable grammarian! "But, in
suspending his voice, was the sense suspended likewise? Did no
expression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm? Was the eye
silent? Did you narrowly look?" "I looked only at the stop watch, my
lord." Excellent observer!" And what about this new book that the whole
world makes such a rout about?" "Oh, it is out of all plumb, my lord,
quite an irregular thing! Not one of the angles at the four corners was
a right angle. I had my rule and compasses, my lord, in my pocket."
Excellent critic! "And for the epic poem your lordship bid me look at;
upon taking the length, breadth, height, and depth of it, and trying them
at home upon an exact scale of Bossu's, 'tis out, my lord, in every one
of its dimensions." Admirable connoisseur! "And did you step in to take
a look at the grand picture on your way back." "It is a melancholy daub!
my lord, not one principle of the pyramid in any one group; there is
nothing of the colouring of Titian, the expression of Rubens, the grace
of Raphael, the purity of Domenichino, the corregiescity of Corregio, the
learning of Poussin, the airs of Guido, the taste of the Caraccis, or the
grand contour of Angelo." "Grant me patience, just heaven! Of all the
cants which are canted in this canting world, though the cant of
hypocrites may be the worst--the cant of criticism is the most
tormenting! I would go fifty miles on foot, for I have not a horse worth
riding on, to kiss the hand of that man whose generous heart will give up
the reins of his imaginations into his author's hands; be pleased, he
knows not why, and cares not wherefore. Great Apollo! if thou art in a
giving humour, give me--I ask no more--but one stroke of native humour
with a single spark of thy own fire along with it, and send Mercury with
the rules and compasses if he can be spared, with my compliments, to--no
matter."

This is all very amusing, and I don't know that the case upon that side
could be better stated, except that it is overstated; for, if this be
true, there ought to be no such thing as criticism at all, and all rules
are worse than useless. Everybody may do as he pleases. And yet we know
that not only is there a right way and a wrong of painting a picture,
writing a book, making a building, or composing a symphony, but there are
rules which, if disobeyed, will destroy the work. These rules,
apparently artificial, have their foundation in nature, and were first
dictated by her. Only we must be careful still to appeal constantly to
her as the source and fountain of our rules.

"First follow nature, and your judgment frame
By her just standard, which is still the same,
Unerring nature, still divinely blight,
One clear, unchanged, and universal light,
Life, force, and beauty must to all impart,
At once the source, and end, and test of art."

By too much attention to theory, by too close a study of books, we may
become narrow-minded and pedantic, and gradually may become unable to
appreciate natural beauties, our whole attention being concentrated on
the defects in art. We want to listen to the call of the poet,

"Come forth into the light of things,
Let nature be your teacher."

It is nature that mellows and softens the distance, and brings out
sharply the lights and shadows of the foreground, and the artist must
follow her if he would succeed. It is nature who warbles softly in the
love notes of the bird, and who elevates the soul by the roar of the
cataract and the pealing of the thunder. To her the musician and the
poet listen, and imitate the great teacher. It is nature who, in the
structure of the leaf or in the avenue of the lofty limes, teaches the
architect how to adorn his designs with the most graceful of
embellishments, to rear the lofty column or display the lengthening vista
of the cathedral aisle. It is nature who is teaching us all to be
tender, loving, and true, and to love and worship God, and to admire all
His works. Let us then in our criticism refer everything first of all to
nature. Is the work natural? Does it follow nature? Secondly, does it
follow the rules of art? If it passes the first test, it is well worth
the courteous attention of the critic. If it passes both tests, it is
perfect. But if only the second test is passed, it may please a few
pedants, but it is worthless, and cannot live.

6. _Criticisms should be bona fide_.

You will be rather alarmed at a lawyer beginning this topic, and will
expect to hear pages of "Starkie on Libel," or to have all the
perorations of Erskine's speeches recited to you. For one terrible
moment I feel I have you in my power; but I scorn to take advantage of
the position. I don't mean to talk about libel at all, or, at least, not
more than I can help. I have been endeavouring to show what good
criticism should be like. If criticism is so base that there is a
question to be left to a jury as to what damages ought to be paid for the
speaking or writing of it, one may say at once that it is unworthy of the
name of criticism at all. Slander is not criticism. But there is a
great deal of criticism which may be called not _bona fide_, which is yet
not malicious. It is biassed perhaps, even from some charitable motive,
perhaps from some sordid motive, perhaps from indolence, from a desire to
be thought learned or clever, or what not--in fact, from one or other of
those thousand things which prevent persons from speaking fairly and
straightforwardly. When you take up the _Athenaeum_ or the _Spectator_,
and read from those very able reviews an account of the last new novel,
do you think the writer has written simply what he truly thinks and feels
about the matter? No! he has been told he has been dull of late. He
feels he must write a spicy review. He has a cold in his head, he is
savage accordingly. A friend of his tells him he knows the author, or he
recognizes the name of a college friend--he will be lenient. The book is
on a subject which he meant to take up himself; and, without knowing it,
he is jealous. I need not multiply further these suggestions which will
occur to anyone. We all remember the dinner in Paternoster Row given by
Mrs. Bungay, the publisher's wife. Bungay and Bacon are at daggers
drawn; each married the sister of the other, and they were for some time
the closest friends and partners. Since they have separated it is a
furious war between the two publishers, and no sooner does one bring out
a book of travels or poems, but the rival is in the field with something
similar. We all remember the delight of Mrs. Bungay when the Hon. Percy
Popjoy drives up in a private hansom with an enormous grey cab horse and
a tiger behind, and Mrs. Bacon is looking out grimly from the window on
the opposite side of the street. "In the name of commonsense, Mr.
Pendennis," Shandon asked, "what have you been doing--praising one of Mr.
Bacon's books? Bungay has been with me in a fury this morning at seeing
a laudatory article upon one of the works of the odious firm over the
way." Pen's eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Do you mean to say,"
he asked, "that we are to praise no books that Bacon publishes; or that
if the books are good we are to say that they are bad?" Pen says, "I
would rather starve, by Jove, and never earn another penny by my pen,
than strike an opponent an unfair blow, or if called upon to place him,
rank him below his honest desert."

There was a trial in London in December, 1878, which illustrates the
subject I am upon. It was an action for libel by the well-known artist,
Mr. Whistler, against Mr. Ruskin, the most distinguished art critic of
the age. The passage in the writing of Mr. Ruskin, of which Mr. Whistler
complained, contains, I think, almost every fault which, according to my
divisions, a criticism can contain. The passage is as follows:--"For Mr.
Whistler's own sake no less than for the protection of the purchaser, Sir
Coutts Lindsey ought not to have admitted works into the gallery in which
the ill-educated conceit of the artist so nearly approached the aspect of
wilful imposture. I have seen and heard much of cockney impudence before
now, but never expected to hear a coxcomb ask 200 guineas for flinging a
pot of paint in the public's face."

The Attorney-General of the day, as counsel for Mr. Ruskin, said that
this was a severe and slashing criticism, but perfectly fair and _bona
fide_.

Now, let us see. First, there is the expression, "the ill-educated
conceit of the artist nearly approached the aspect of wilful imposture."
That may be severe and slashing, but is it fair? If there _was_ a wilful
imposition, why not say so; but, of course, there was not, and could not
be; but it is most unfair to insinuate that there nearly was. The truth
is, the words "wilful imposture" are a gross exaggeration. The jury,
after retiring, came into court and asked the judge what was the meaning
of wilful imposture, and, being told that it meant nothing in particular,
they returned a verdict of damages one farthing, which meant to say that
they thought equally little of Whistler's picture and of Ruskin's
criticism. Next we come to "Cockney impudence" and "coxcomb." Surely
these terms must be grossly inappropriate to the subject in hand, which
is Whistler's painting, and not his personal qualities. Next, it seems
that Mr. Ruskin thinks it is an offence to ask 200 guineas for a picture,
but where the offence lies we are not told. It might be folly to _give_
200 guineas for one of Whistler's pictures, but why should he be abused
for asking it? The insinuation is that it is a false pretence, and such
an insinuation is not _bona fide_. Lastly, we are told that Mr. Whistler
has been flinging a pot of paint in the public's face. In the first
place, this is vulgar. In the next place, it is absurd. When Sydney
Smith said that someone's writing was like a spider having escaped from
the inkstand and wandered over the paper, it was an exaggerated
criticism, but it was appropriate. But if Mr. Whistler flung a pot of
paint anywhere, it was upon his own canvas, and not into the face of the
public. Now, let anybody think what is the effect of such criticism. Is
one enabled by the light of it to see the merits or faults of Whistler's
painting? And yet this was written by the greatest art critic in this
country, by the man who has done more to reveal the secrets of Nature and
of Art to us all than any man living, and, I had almost said, than any
living or dead. But passion and arrogance are not criticism; and, in the
sense in which I have used the term, such criticism is not _bona fide_.
Well may Mr. Matthew Arnold say, speaking of Mr. Ruskin's criticism upon
another subject, that he forgets all moderation and proportion, and loses
the balance of his mind. This, he says, "is to show in one's criticism
to the highest excess the note of provinciality."

There was, once upon a time, a very strong Court of Appeal. It was
universally acknowledged to be so, and the memory of it still remains,
and very old lawyers still love to recall its glories. It was composed
of Lord Chancellor Campbell and the Lords Justices Knight-Bruce and
Turner. Bethell (afterwards Lord Westbury) was an ambitious and aspiring
man, and was always most caustic in his criticisms. He had been arguing
before the above Court one day, and upon his turning round after
finishing his argument, some counsel in the row behind him asked, "Well,
Bethell, how will their judgment go?" Bethell replied, in his softest
but most cutting tones, "I do not know. Knight-Bruce is a jack-pudding.
Turner is an old woman. And no human being can by any possibility
predict what will fall from the lips of that inexpressibly fatuous
individual who sits in the middle." This is funny, but it is vulgar, and
it is not given in good faith. It is the offspring of anger and spite
mixed with a desire to be clever and antithetical.

I gather from Mr. Matthew Arnold's essays on criticism that the endeavour
of the critic should be to see the object criticized "as in itself it
really is," or as in another passage he says, "Real criticism obeys an
instinct prompting it to know the best that is known and thought in the
world." "In order to do or to be this, criticism," he says, in italics,
"ought to be _disinterested_." He points out how much English criticism
is not disinterested. He says, "We have the _Edinburgh Review_, existing
as an organ of the old Whigs, and for as much play of mind as may suit
its being _that_; we have the _Quarterly Review_, existing as an organ of
the Tories, and for as much play of mind as may suit its being that; we
have the _British Quarterly Review_, existing as an organ of the
political Dissenters, and for as much play of mind as may suit its being
that; we have the _Times_ existing as an organ of the common satisfied
well-to-do Englishman, and for as much play of mind as may suit its being
that. . . . Directly this play of mind wants to have more scope, and to
forget the pressure of practical considerations a little, it is checked,
it is made to feel the chain. We saw this the other day in the
extinction so much to be regretted of the _Home and Foreign Review_;
perhaps in no organ of criticism was there so much knowledge, so much
play of mind; but these could not save it. It must needs be that men
should act in sects and parties, that each of these sects and parties
should have its organ, and should make this organ subserve the interest
of its action; but it would be well too that there should be a criticism,
not the minister of those interests, nor their enemy, but absolutely and
entirely independent of them. No other criticism will ever attain any
real authority, or make any real way towards its end,--the creating a
current of true and fresh ideas."

This, it must be remembered, was written in 1865. Would Mr. Matthew
Arnold be happier now with the _Fortnightly_ and the _Nineteenth Century_
and others? There is, I think, a good deal of truth in the passage I
have just quoted. I think he might have allowed that, among so many
writers, each advocating his own view or the view of his party or sect,
we ought to have some chance of forming a judgment. A question seems to
get a fair chance of being

"Set in all lights by many minds
To close the interests of all."

But, as I said, there is a good deal in what the writer says. The _Daily
News_ says the Government is all wrong, and the _Daily Telegraph_ says it
is all right; and if any paper ventured to be moderate it would go to the
wall in a week. I think what he says is true, but there is no occasion
to be so angry about it. We really are very thankful for such men as
Carlyle, Ruskin, and Matthew Arnold, and I can't help thinking they have
had their proper share of praise, and have had their share of influence
upon their age. The air of neglected superiority, which they assume,
detracts not a little from the pleasure with which one always reads them.

Perhaps some of my conservative friends will regret the good old times in
which criticism was really criticism, when a book had to run the gauntlet
of a few well established critics of _the_ club, or a play was applauded
or damned by a select few in the front row of the pit. I agree to lament
a past which can never return, but, on the whole, I think we are the
gainers. Also, I very much incline to think that the standard of
criticism is higher now than in the very palmy days when Addison wrote;
or when the _Edinburgh_ or _Quarterly_ were first started. I incline to
agree with Leslie Stephen in his _Hours in a Library_, that, if most of
the critical articles of even Jeffrey and Mackintosh were submitted to a
modern editor, he would reject them as inadequate; but I think that
perhaps they excel our modern efforts in a certain reserve and dignity,
and in a more matured thoughtfulness.

If criticism is an art, such as I have described it, and is subject to
certain rules and conditions; if good criticism is appreciative,
proportionate, appropriate, strong, natural, and _bona fide_, and bad
criticism is the reverse of all this, why, you will ask, cannot the art
be taught by some School or Academy; and if criticism is so important a
matter as you say, surely the State might see to it? I must own I am
against it. Mr. Matthew Arnold, who is much in favour of founding an
academy, which is not only to judge of original works but of the
criticisms of others upon them, states the matter very fairly. He says,
"So far as routine and authority tend to embarrass energy and inventive
genius, academies may be said to be obstructive to energy and inventive
genius; and, to this extent, to the human spirit's general advance. But
then this evil is so much compensated by the propagation on a large scale
of the mental aptitudes and demands, which an open mind and a flexible
intelligence naturally engender; genius itself in the long run so greatly
finds its account in this propagation, and bodies like the French Academy
have such power for promoting it, that the general advance of the human
spirit is perhaps, on the whole, rather furthered than impeded by their
existence."

But I do not accede to this opinion. It is under the free open air of
heaven, in the wild woods and the meadows that the loveliest and sweetest
flowers bloom, and not in the trim gardens or the hot-houses, and even in
our gardens in England we strive to preserve some lingering traits of the
open country. I believe that just as the gift of freedom to the masses
of our countrymen teaches them to use that freedom with care and
intelligence, just as the abolition of tests and oaths makes men loyal
and trustworthy, so it is well to have freedom in literature and
criticism. Mistakes will be made and mischief done, but in the long run
the effect of a keen competition, and an advancing public taste will
tell. I don't hesitate to assert, without fear of contradiction, that
critical art has improved rapidly during the last twenty years in this
country, where a man is free to start a critical review, and to write
about anybody, or anything, and in any manner, provided he keeps within
the law. He is only restrained by the competition of others, and by the
public taste, which are both constantly increasing. No doubt an author
will write with greater spirit, and with greater decorum, if he knows
that his merits are sure to be fairly acknowledged, and his faults
certain to be accurately noted. But this object may be attained, I
believe, without an academy. On the other hand, what danger there is in
an academy becoming cliquey, nay even corrupt. We have an academy here
in the painting art, but except that it collects within its walls every
year a vaster number of daubs than it is possible for any one ever to see
with any degree of comfort, I don't know what particular use it is of. As
a school or college it may be of use, but as a critical academy it does
very little.

I have thus endeavoured to show what I mean by my six divisions of
criticism, and I have no doubt you will all of you have divined that my
six divisions are capable of being expressed in one word, Criticism must
be _true_. To be true, it must be appreciative, or understanding, it
must be in due proportion, it must be appropriate, it must be strong, it
must be natural, it must be _bona fide_. There is nothing which an
Englishman hates so much as being false. Our great modern poet, in one
of his strongest lines, says--

"This is a shameful thing for men to lie."

And he speaks of Wellington--

"Truth teller was our England's Alfred named,
Truth lover was our English Duke."

Emerson notices that many of our phrases turn upon this love of truth,
such as "The English of this is," "Honour bright," "His word is as good
as his bond."

"'Tis not enough taste, learning, judgment join;
In all you speak let truth, and candour shine."

I am certain that if men and women would believe that it is important
that they should form a true judgment upon things, and that they should
speak or write it when required, we should get rid of a great deal of bad
art, bad books, bad pictures, bad buildings, bad music, and bad morals. I
am further certain that by constantly uttering false criticisms we
perpetuate such things. And what harm we are doing to our own selves in
the meantime! How habitually warped, how unsteady, how feeble, the
judgment becomes, which is not kept bright and vigorous through right
use. How insensibly we become callous or indolent about forming a
correct judgment. "It is a pleasure to stand upon the shore and see the
ships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure to stand in the window of a castle
and to see a battle and the adventures thereof below: but no pleasure is
comparable to the standing upon the vantage ground of truth (a hill not
to be commanded and where the air is always clear and serene) and to see
the errors and wanderings and mists and tempests in the vale below, so
always that this prospect be with pity and not with swelling or pride.
Certainly it is heaven upon earth to have a man's mind move in charity,
rest in Providence, and turn upon the poles of truth."

In conclusion, I am aware that I have treated the subject most
inadequately, and that others have treated the same subject with much
more power; but I am satisfied of the great importance of a right use of
the critical faculty, and I think it may be that my mode of treatment may
arrest the attention of some minds which are apt to be frightened at a
learned method, and may induce them to take more heed of the judgments
which they are hourly passing on a great variety of subjects. If we
still persist in saying when some one jingles some jig upon the piano
that it is "charming," if we say of every daub in the Academy that it is
"lovely," if every new building or statue is pronounced "awfully jolly,"
if the fastidious rubbish of the last volume of poetry is "grand," if the
slip-shod grammar of the last new novel is "quite sweet," when shall we
see an end of these bad things? And observe further, these bad things
live on and affect the human mind for ever. Bad things are born of bad.
Who can tell what may be the effect of seeing day by day an hideous
building, of hearing day by day indifferent music, of constantly reading
a lot of feeble twaddle? Surely one effect will be that we shall
gradually lose our appreciation of what is good and beautiful. "A thing
of beauty is a joy for ever." Ah! but we must have eyes to see it. This
springtime is lovely, if we have the eyes to see it; but, if we have not,
its loveliness is nothing to us, and if we miss seeing it we shall have
dimmer eyes to see it next year and the next; and if we cannot now see
beauty and truth through the glass darkly, we shall be unable to gaze on
them when we come to see them face to face.

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