In our last initial chapter we may be supposed to have treated that
formidable set of men who are called critics with more freedom than
becomes us; since they exact, and indeed generally receive, great
condescension from authors. We shall in this, therefore, give the reasons
of our conduct to this august body; and here we shall, perhaps, place them
in a light in which they have not hitherto been seen.
This word critic is of Greek derivation, and signifies judgment. Hence I
presume some persons who have not understood the original, and have seen
the English translation of the primitive, have concluded that it meant
judgment in the legal sense, in which it is frequently used as equivalent
to condemnation.
I am the rather inclined to be of that opinion, as the greatest number of
critics hath of late years been found amongst the lawyers. Many of these
gentlemen, from despair, perhaps, of ever rising to the bench in
Westminster-hall, have placed themselves on the benches at the playhouse,
where they have exerted their judicial capacity, and have given judgment,
i.e., condemned without mercy.
The gentlemen would, perhaps, be well enough pleased, if we were to leave
them thus compared to one of the most important and honourable offices in
the commonwealth, and, if we intended to apply to their favour, we would
do so; but, as we design to deal very sincerely and plainly too with them,
we must remind them of another officer of justice of a much lower rank; to
whom, as they not only pronounce, but execute, their own judgment, they
bear likewise some remote resemblance.
But in reality there is another light, in which these modern critics may,
with great justice and propriety, be seen; and this is that of a common
slanderer. If a person who prys into the characters of others, with no
other design but to discover their faults, and to publish them to the
world, deserves the title of a slanderer of the reputations of men, why
should not a critic, who reads with the same malevolent view, be as
properly stiled the slanderer of the reputation of books?
Vice hath not, I believe, a more abject slave; society produces not a more
odious vermin; nor can the devil receive a guest more worthy of him, nor
possibly more welcome to him, than a slanderer. The world, I am afraid,
regards not this monster with half the abhorrence which he deserves; and I
am more afraid to assign the reason of this criminal lenity shown towards
him; yet it is certain that the thief looks innocent in the comparison;
nay, the murderer himself can seldom stand in competition with his guilt:
for slander is a more cruel weapon than a sword, as the wounds which the
former gives are always incurable. One method, indeed, there is of
killing, and that the basest and most execrable of all, which bears an
exact analogy to the vice here disclaimed against, and that is poison: a
means of revenge so base, and yet so horrible, that it was once wisely
distinguished by our laws from all other murders, in the peculiar severity
of the punishment.
Besides the dreadful mischiefs done by slander, and the baseness of the
means by which they are effected, there are other circumstances that
highly aggravate its atrocious quality; for it often proceeds from no
provocation, and seldom promises itself any reward, unless some black and
infernal mind may propose a reward in the thoughts of having procured the
ruin and misery of another.
Shakespear hath nobly touched this vice, when he says—
With all this my good reader will doubtless agree; but much of it will
probably seem too severe, when applied to the slanderer of books. But let
it here be considered that both proceed from the same wicked disposition
of mind, and are alike void of the excuse of temptation. Nor shall we
conclude the injury done this way to be very slight, when we consider a
book as the author's offspring, and indeed as the child of his brain.
The reader who hath suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a virgin
state can have but a very inadequate idea of this kind of paternal
fondness. To such we may parody the tender exclamation of Macduff, “Alas!
Thou hast written no book.” But the author whose muse hath brought
forth will feel the pathetic strain, perhaps will accompany me with tears
(especially if his darling be already no more), while I mention the
uneasiness with which the big muse bears about her burden, the painful
labour with which she produces it, and, lastly, the care, the fondness,
with which the tender father nourishes his favourite, till it be brought
to maturity, and produced into the world.
Nor is there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour of absolute
instinct, and which may so well be reconciled to worldly wisdom, as this.
These children may most truly be called the riches of their father; and
many of them have with true filial piety fed their parent in his old age:
so that not only the affection, but the interest, of the author may be
highly injured by these slanderers, whose poisonous breath brings his book
to an untimely end.
Lastly, the slander of a book is, in truth, the slander of the author:
for, as no one can call another bastard, without calling the mother a
whore, so neither can any one give the names of sad stuff, horrid
nonsense, &c., to a book, without calling the author a blockhead;
which, though in a moral sense it is a preferable appellation to that of
villain, is perhaps rather more injurious to his worldly interest.
Now, however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others, I doubt not,
will feel and acknowledge the truth of it; nay, may, perhaps, think I have
not treated the subject with decent solemnity; but surely a man may speak
truth with a smiling countenance. In reality, to depreciate a book
maliciously, or even wantonly, is at least a very ill-natured office; and
a morose snarling critic may, I believe, be suspected to be a bad man.
I will therefore endeavour, in the remaining part of this chapter, to
explain the marks of this character, and to show what criticism I here
intend to obviate: for I can never be understood, unless by the very
persons here meant, to insinuate that there are no proper judges of
writing, or to endeavour to exclude from the commonwealth of literature
any of those noble critics to whose labours the learned world are so
greatly indebted. Such were Aristotle, Horace, and Longinus, among the
antients, Dacier and Bossu among the French, and some perhaps among us;
who have certainly been duly authorised to execute at least a judicial
authority in foro literario.
But without ascertaining all the proper qualifications of a critic, which
I have touched on elsewhere, I think I may very boldly object to the
censures of any one past upon works which he hath not himself read. Such
censurers as these, whether they speak from their own guess or suspicion,
or from the report and opinion of others, may properly be said to slander
the reputation of the book they condemn.
Such may likewise be suspected of deserving this character, who, without
assigning any particular faults, condemn the whole in general defamatory
terms; such as vile, dull, d—d stuff, &c., and particularly by
the use of the monosyllable low; a word which becomes the mouth of no
critic who is not RIGHT HONOURABLE.
Again, though there may be some faults justly assigned in the work, yet,
if those are not in the most essential parts, or if they are compensated
by greater beauties, it will savour rather of the malice of a slanderer
than of the judgment of a true critic to pass a severe sentence upon the
whole, merely on account of some vicious part. This is directly contrary
to the sentiments of Horace:
For, as Martial says, Aliter non fit, Avite, liber. No book can be
otherwise composed. All beauty of character, as well as of countenance,
and indeed of everything human, is to be tried in this manner. Cruel
indeed would it be if such a work as this history, which hath employed
some thousands of hours in the composing, should be liable to be
condemned, because some particular chapter, or perhaps chapters, may be
obnoxious to very just and sensible objections. And yet nothing is more
common than the most rigorous sentence upon books supported by such
objections, which, if they were rightly taken (and that they are not
always), do by no means go to the merit of the whole. In the theatre
especially, a single expression which doth not coincide with the taste of
the audience, or with any individual critic of that audience, is sure to
be hissed; and one scene which should be disapproved would hazard the
whole piece. To write within such severe rules as these is as impossible
as to live up to some splenetic opinions: and if we judge according to the
sentiments of some critics, and of some Christians, no author will be
saved in this world, and no man in the next.