"The critics--some, but few,
Were worthy men; and earned renown which had
Immortal roots; but most were weak and vile;
And as a cloudy swarm of summer flies,
With angry hum and slender lance, beset
The sides of some huge animal; so did
They buzz about the illustrious man, and fain
With his immortal honour, down the stream
Of fame would have descended; but alas!
The hand of time drove them away: they were
Indeed a simple race of men, who had
One only art, which taught them still to say,
Whate'er was done might have been better done;
And with this art, not ill to learn, they made
A shift to live; but sometimes, too, beneath
The dust they raised, was worth awhile obscured:
And then did envy prophesy and laugh.
O envy! hide thy bosom! hide it deep:
A thousand snakes, with black, envenomed mouths,
Nest there, and hiss, and feed through all thy heart!"
"The manner in which cynical censors of artistic and moral worth proceed
is the same in every place and age. In Pope's time 'coxcombs' attempted
to 'vanquish Berkely with a grin,' and they would fain do the same
to-day. 'Is not this common,' exclaimed a renowned musician, 'the least
little critic, in reviewing some work of art, will say, pity this and
pity that--this should have been attired, that omitted? Yea, with his
wiry fiddle-string will he creak out his accursed variations. But let
him sit down and compose himself. He sees no improvements in variations
_then_.'"
The fault of which the censorious talker is guilty has been defined as a
"compound of many of the worst passions; latent pride, which discovers
the mote in a brother's eye, but hides the beam in our own; malignant
envy, which, wounded at the noble talents and superior prosperity of
others, transforms them into the objects and food of its malice, if
possible obscuring the splendour it is too base to emulate; disguised
hatred, which diffuses in its perpetual mutterings the irritable venom
of the heart; servile duplicity, which fulsomely praises to the face,
and blackens behind the back; shameless levity, which sacrifices the
peace and reputation of the absent, merely to give barbarous stings to a
jocular conversation: all together forming an aggregate the most
desolating on earth, and nearest in character to the malice of hell."
The censorious talker, with all his criticisms and censures, never does
any good, as none heed him but those who do not know him. His criticisms
have no influence with the wise and judicious. Though he may swim
against the stream of general opinion, he can never turn the stream of
general opinion to run with him. Though he may talk contrary to others,
he cannot persuade or constrain others to talk as he does. He may
dissent in judgment from them, but he cannot bring them over to coincide
with him; and it is a good thing for society that it is so. As he talks
without wisdom and charity, so he talks to no purpose, excepting to
prejudice weak and unwary minds, and degrade himself in the sober
judgment of the intelligent and thoughtful.
"Voltaire said that the 'character of the Frenchman is made up of the
tiger and the ape;' but even such a composition may be turned to some
useful account, while the inveterate fault-finder neutralizes, as far as
possible, every attempt made by others to do good. To perform any task
perfectly to his liking, would be as impossible as to 'make a portrait
of Proteus, or fix the figure of the fleeting air.' To speak favourably
of anybody or anything is a trait of generosity entirely foreign to his
nature; from temperament and confirmed habit, he 'must be cruel only to
be kind.' The only benefit he occasions is achieved contrary to his
intent; in his efforts to impede rising merit, he fortifies the energies
he would destroy. Said Haydon, 'Look down upon genius, and he will rise
to a giant--attempt to crush him, and he will soar to a god.'"
While the censorious man is most severe in judging others, he is
invariably the most ready to repel any animadversions made upon himself;
upon the principle well understood in medical circles, that the feeblest
bodies are always the most sensitive. No man will so speedily and
violently resent a supposed wrong as he who is most accustomed to
inflict injuries upon his associates. Not unfrequently is a fool as
dangerous to deal with as a knave, and for ever is he more incorrigible.
What an unhappy state of mind is that of the censorious talker! He is
always looking with the eyes of jealousy, envy, or malice, to discern
something for censure; and something he _will_ discern; true or false,
it is of no consequence to him. He proceeds in direct opposition to the
Divine injunction, "Judge not, lest ye be judged." "Judge not according
to appearance, but judge righteous judgment." He is like the Pharisees
of old, with two bags, one before and the other behind him. In the one
before he deposits the faults of other people, and in the one behind he
now and then, it may be, deposits the faults of himself. He is devoid of
the charity which covereth a multitude of sins, which is the bond of
perfectness, which "suffereth long, and is kind, which envieth not,
vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, which doth not behave itself
unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; which beareth all
things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things."
This charity has not so much as cast her passing shadow upon the soul of
the censor; and did the shadow or body of charity come within the range
of his vision, he would not discern either the one or the other, because
of the blindness of his heart.
One of the finest expressions in the world is in the seventeenth chapter
of Proverbs, "He that covereth a transgression _seeketh love_; but he
that repeateth a matter separateth very friends." In what a delightful
communion with God does that man live who habitually seeketh love! With
the same mantle thrown over him from the cross, with the same act of
amnesty, by which he hopes to be saved, injuries the most unprovoked,
and transgressions the most aggravated are covered in eternal
forgetfulness.
On the contrary, the censorious man often separates intimate friends by
repeating a matter and digging up forgotten quarrels. The charity which
is most divine is that which hides a multitude of faults. It is pure in
itself, and labours to promote the peace and happiness of all. If one
would be noble, he must be habitual in the cultivation of lofty
principle and generous love.
What advantage comes of the uncharitable criticisms and judgments which
are passed one upon the other? Is any one the better? Do they not rather
result in mutual ill-humour and enmity? Who likes to have his motives
called in question? Who can endure with meekness to have himself and his
works put through the crucible of a mere mortal, as though that mortal
were the Judge of eternal destinies? Let us remember that we are all
frail, and as such should exercise towards each other that charity which
we hope the Supreme One will exercise towards us.
"Oh what are we,
Frail creatures as we are, that we should sit
In judgment man on man? and what were we,
If the All Merciful should mete to us
With the same rigorous measure wherewithal
Sinner to sinner metes."