Wrapp'd in mysterious secresy they rise, Th' envenom'd slander flies, no names appear. Yet there cannot be a greater mistake than to suppose the severest, and most chastened, judgment may not be pronounced without personal and vulgar abuse. Often the judges are inferior to the supposed culprits; and, not unfrequently, provoke the contempt and disgust of that public whom, because, and only because, they have the command of the press, they think themselves called upon to instruct. How many of such critics have been laughed at for ignorance, as well as spleen! and how many have exhibited ludicrous instances of strained and forced comparisons, confused metaphors (pursued into nonsense), unnatural imagery, and even grammatical blunders in that very language in which they presume (from the mere circumstance of electing themselves into judges) to tell the world they are authorities! Even where real learning prevails, how erroneous sometimes have been their judgments and conjectures! Take such a man as Warburton; to the full as insolent as erudite. How was he not persecuted by the enemies he had made, who rejoiced in his frequent defeats! What a vivid picture is Johnson's of two of the commentators upon his Shakspeare! "One ridicules his errors with airy petulance, *Churchill's Apology. suitable enough to the levity of the controversy; the other attacks him with gloomy malignity, as if he were dragging to justice an assassin or incendiary. The one stings like a fly; sucks a little blood, takes a gay flutter, and returns for more. The other bites like a viper, and would be glad to leave inflammations and gangrene behind him." He adds that, "one was a wit, and one a scholar."* Well, then, wit and scholarship may be found in uncomfortable exuberance in many who do not profess criticism, and may be exercised in unmerciful severity upon those who affect to castigate others. Hence, the throne of criticism is not an exclusive throne; and though a coxcomb, a malignant, or a blockhead, may usurp it for a time, he is as liable to be attacked, unhorsed, and conquered, as other usurpers have been before him. Even the slashing Bentley (any thing but a blockhead, but no pygmy in self-esteem) was slashed himself by Middleton, whom he at first affected to despise, but who whipped him with scorpions; and by Pearce, who, I believe, had entered under him at Cambridge. But if this has been the fate of men so distinguished for real knowledge, what are we to say to the buzzing insects, the gay motes that people the sunbeams in the shops of modern bibliopolists, and who are therefore, not unaptly, known by the name of SHOP CRITICS? Any blockhead rich enough may set * Preface to Shakspeare. The two critics of the critic were the authors of the "Canons of Criticism," and the revival of Shakspeare's text. up a press, and with it the power of being impertinent with impunity. Can such a métier be that of a gentleman? These drop honey or vinegar, accordingly as the book they pretend to criticise falls in with their own opinions or prejudices, or those of the clique to which they belong, and perhaps represent.* They form a class; "Assume the god, and expect (nor are they always disappointed) that authors, generally their equals, often their superiors, are to fall down and tremble at their fee fa fum, like children listening to the nurse's tale of a giant. Nor am I surprised, when I recollect the sensations which the mere name of reviewer used to inspire into the palpitating hearts of the most adventurous authors. I remember, myself, the time when I could as well have questioned the authority of an act of parliament as that of a reviewer. To me he was as a god in letters, or else, how could he be a reviewer? He was, in fact, the magician, Irritat, mulcet;" "Qui pectus inaniter angit, though there was very little of the last. In time, however ("opinionum commenta delet dies"), the rest of the character of the magus drawn * For the influence of cliques in letters, see a powerful article in Sir E. Bulwer, "On the English," p. 91. by the poet was realised, and I found that he only spoke truth when he added, "Falsis terroribus implet." I have been led into these reflections by a letter I lately received from an enlightened friend, whom I will call Hortensius, and with whom I am proud to agree on almost all subjects. He lives in a sort of meditative seclusion, though in close communication with the world; in fact, in a retired house, in the midst of a garden, in one of the suburbs of London. From this he almost daily emerges to visit the metropolis, passing much of the time he spends there in its literary society; of course, not neglecting the parlours of the most eminent booksellers and publishers, where his face is well known, and his judgment much respected. I should add, that he is himself occasionally a reviewer, but no author; and, as a reviewer, one of the liberal as well as enlightened to whom I have alluded in the beginning of this section. 'Tis thus he writes of that character which he calls THE SHOP CRITIC. This species of animal (he says), though apparently of modern growth, must certainly have been that of which King David complains, when he says, "Eyes have they, and see not; ears, and hear not; noses, and smell not :"* not (adds my friend) that they do not positively see with their eyes, such as they are, *Psalm cxv. but they do so like owls in the dark; or perhaps moles, who, delighting always to be under ground, the sense of seeing, as some naturalists have conjectured, has been made painful to them, in order to warn them of their danger when they see any glimmering of light, to which they have naturally a mortal antipathy. I once knew one of these critics, continues Hortensius, the son of a farmer, who had originally been designed for an architect, and studied, or attempted to study, his elegant art under one of the greatest masters of the day. As an exercise, this master sent him to examine and report opinion on that beautiful specimen of the genius of Inigo Jones, Whitehall Chapel; and, on his return, asked him what he thought of it. แ "Why, it seems a strong building," said the élève. Strong!!" 66 "Yes, plenty of brick and mortar, and a goodish parcel of stone. Plenty of windows, too: I counted them all." "Most accurate observer! But was there nothing else to remark?" "Not particularly, though I also counted the chimneys-and "Damn the chimneys!" cried the master, losing patience (for he was an enthusiast for Inigo); "did you not observe the exquisite proportions of every thing, and the architraves and beautiful columns of the windows you took such pains to count ?" "I took little notice," replied the pupil; "I only |