Why allow an unsuccessful artist to criticize a successful picture?
Why ask an unlucky playwright who cannot get even a farce accepted by the managers, to criticize a brilliant play?
Why depute a gentleman or lady who has “essayed” a little unsuccessful fiction to “review” a novel which has “captured the fancy of the masses” and is selling well?
These be weighty matters! Common human nature is common human nature all the world over, and it is not in common human nature to give praise to another for qualities we ourselves envy. Every one has not the same fine endowment of generosity as Sir Walter Scott, who wrote an anonymous review of Lord Byron’s poems, giving them the most enthusiastic praise, and frankly stating that after the appearance of so brilliant a luminary of genius, Walter Scott could no longer be considered worthy of attention as a poet. What rhymer of to-day would thus nobly condemn himself in order to give praise to a rival?
May it not, with due respect, be suggested to those who have the handling of such matters that neither the avowed friends nor the avowed foes of authors be permitted to review their books?--the same rule of criticism to apply equally to the works of musicians, painters, sculptors and playwrights? Neither personal prejudice nor personal favouritism should be allowed to interfere with the impression produced on the mind by a work of art. Vulgar abuse and fervid eulogy are alike out of place. In the productions of the human brain nothing is wholly bad and nothing is wholly good. Perfection is impossible of attainment on our present plane of existence. We do not find it in Nature,--still less shall we find it in ourselves. The critic can show good in everything if he himself is of a good mind. Or he can show bad in everything as easily, should his digestion be out of order. Unfortunately the “wear and tear of life”--to quote the patent medicine advertisements, wreaks natural havoc on the physical composition of the gentleman who is perhaps set down to review twenty novels in one column of print for the trifling sum of a guinea. All sorts of difficulties beset him. For instance, he may be employed on a certain “literary” paper which, being the property of the relatives of a novelist, exists chiefly to praise that novelist, even though it be curiously called an “organ of English literature,”--and woe betide the miserable man who dares to praise anyone else! Knowing much of the ins and outs of the literary grind, I tender my salutations to all reviewers of books, together with my respectful sympathy. I am truly sorry for them, and I do not in the least wonder that they hate with a deadly hatred every scribbling creature who writes a “long” novel. Because the “pay” for reviewing such a book is never in proportion to its length, as of course it ought to be. But anyway it doesn’t matter how much or how little of it is criticized. The bulk of the public do not read reviews. That is left to the “discriminating few.” And oh, how that “discriminating few” would love to “capture the fancy of the masses” if they could only manage to do it! Yet--“Never mind!” they say, with the tragedian’s glare and scowl--“Our names will be inscribed upon the scroll of fame when all ye are forgotten!” Dear things! Heaven grant them this poor comfort in their graves!