CRITICISM
Few of us pass a day without answering such questions as, "What do you
think of the Hudson car?" or, "How did Kreisler's playing strike you?"
or, "What is your opinion of the work of Thackeray or Alice Brown or
Booth Tarkington?" or, "Do you like the X disc harrow?" When we are
among intimate friends we give our opinions, based on our personal
reaction to the subject of inquiry or on our impartial estimate of it
as an automobile, a musical performance, a collection of books, or an
agricultural machine. Many of us give a large space in our conversation
to such estimates on all conceivable subjects. And, for purposes of
insignificant conversation, there is no reason why we should not.
Accused of making "Criticism" in the formal sense, however, many of us
should recoil with terrified denial. But that is exactly what we are
doing, whether we praise or blame, accept or reject, so long as we base
our opinion on sincere personal or sound principles, we criticize. _For
criticism is the attempt to estimate the worth of something--object
or idea--either abstractly on a basis of principles and relations, or
personally on the basis of our reactions to the subject of criticism._
That is, we may, for example, criticize the roads of New York State on
the basis of what a road is for and how well these roads serve their
purpose, or we may take as basis the inspiration, the keen ecstasy that
we feel as we skim over the smooth boulevard. So long as our notions of
good roads are sound, so long as we react sensibly, with balance, to the
smooth rounding way, we make good criticism, we judge the worth of the
subject of criticism and find it either good or bad.
It is to be noted that this criticism is something more than mere
comment, than mere off-hand remarks. The old saying is, "Anybody
can say _something_ about _anything_!" An off-hand utterance _may_
tell the truth; we cannot be sure that it will. Only when we have a
well-considered basis of either principle or personal feeling can we be
at all certain of our opinions.
Now the range in which our opinions, our criticisms, may be expressed,
is as wide as human thought and accomplishment. We sometimes think of
criticism as being confined to literature and art, and speak of literary
criticism, musical criticism, dramatic criticism, and art criticism, as
if these were all. The term criticism has actually been so restricted
in common practice that unless otherwise noted it is taken for granted
as applying to these subjects. But criticism is much more comprehensive
than such restriction indicates: any object or subject is capable
of criticism. Just as we might arrive at the conclusion that Booth
Tarkington's stories about Penrod are either good or bad, so we might
say that a make of piano, a type of bridle, a new kind of fertilizer, a
method of bookkeeping, a recipe for angel cake is good or is sufficient
or is valueless. We might have--in fact we do have--Engineering
Criticism, Carpenter Criticism, Needlework Criticism, Poultry Criticism,
and as many kinds as there are classes of subjects. In this treatment
we shall use the term in this broad sense and include all subjects in
our scope. Of course we are to remember that the criticism becomes of
more value as the subject of criticism is of more moment: criticism of
the drama is nobler, perhaps, than criticism of egg beaters and picture
hooks. We must also remember that the less high orders of criticism are
neither useless nor undesirable but often most helpful.
Requirements demanded of the Critic
Since, then, the brand of the critic is on us all, since we practice the
habit, consciously or not, most of the time, and since the range is
so wide, no reason exists why we should be terrified at the thought of
writing criticism, of making formal estimate. Certain requirements are
demanded, to be sure; not every one can dive into the sea of criticism
without making an awkward splash and receiving a reddening smart. But
these requirements are in no way beyond the possibility of acquiring by
any one who will set himself to the task.
_a._ _Ability to analyze_
In the first place, a critic must have the power to analyze. We have
seen that analysis consists in breaking a subject into its components,
in discovering of what it is made. This is the first great necessity
in criticizing. You wish, for example, to make a criticism of a new
rifle for your friends. It is not enough that you should with gusto
enunciate, "It's just great!" "Oh, it's fine, fine and dandy!" "Golly
but it's a good one!" Your friends are likely to ask "Why?" or to say,
"The gentleman doth protest too much!" If, on the other hand, you remark
that the rifle is admirable because of its sights, its general accuracy,
its cartridge chamber, its comparative freedom from recoil, then you
will be giving your friends definite and useful criticism, for you will
have analyzed the virtue of the object into its components. Now this
necessity for analysis exists in criticism of literature and art just
as in criticism of rifles. Before you can properly estimate the value
of a novel or a play you must divide the impression it makes into the
various heads, such as emotional power, convincingness in the message
of the book or play, truth to life, and whatever heading you may think
necessary. Until you do this your impressions, your judgments will of
necessity be vague and dim in their outlines, and though they may seem
to be comprehensive, will be found actually to be insufficient to give
your reader or listener a firm notion of the subject--he will have no
nucleus of thought round which his total estimate will center. As soon,
however, as you analyze, and make definite, so soon he will receive
real enlightenment. In the following account of the work of James
Russell Lowell at the Court of Saint James we find at once this careful
breaking of the subject into parts which can be treated definitely. Had
the writer merely uttered general impressions of the diplomacy of our
ambassador we who read should have been comparatively unhelped.
To those who hold the semi-barbarous notion that one of the duties of
a foreign minister is to convey a defiant attitude toward the people
to whom he is accredited--that he should stick to his post, to use the
popular phrase, "with his back up," and keep the world that he lives in
constantly in mind that his countrymen are rough, untamable, and above
all things quarrelsome, Mr. Lowell has not seemed a success. But to them
we must observe, that they know so little of the subject of diplomacy
that their opinion is of no sort of consequence. The aim of diplomacy
is not to provoke war, but to keep the peace; it is not to beget
irritation, or to keep it alive, but to produce and maintain a pacific
temper; not to make disputes hard, but easy, to settle; not to magnify
differences of interest or feeling, but to make them seem small; not to
win by threats, but by persuasion; not to promote mutual ignorance, but
mutual comprehension--to be, in short, the representative of a Christian
nation, and not of a savage tribe.
No foreign minister, it is safe to say, has ever done these things so
successfully in the same space of time as Mr. Lowell. If it be a service
to the United States to inspire Englishmen with respect such as they
have never felt before for American wit and eloquence and knowledge, and
thus for American civilization itself, nobody has rendered this service
so effectually as he has done. They are familiar almost _ad nauseam_
with the material growth of the United States, with the immense strides
which the country has made and is making in the production of things to
eat, drink, and wear. What they know least of, and had had most doubts
about, is American progress in acquiring those gifts and graces which
are commonly supposed to be the inheritance of countries that have
left the ruder beginnings of national life far behind, and have had
centuries of leisure for art, literature, and science. Well, Mr. Lowell
has disabused them. As far as blood and training go, there is no more
genuine American than he. He went to England as pure a product of the
American soil as ever landed there, and yet he at once showed English
scholars that in the field of English letters they had nothing to teach
him. In that higher political philosophy which all Englishmen are now
questioning so anxiously, he has spoken not only as a master, but
almost as an oracle. In the lighter but still more difficult arts, too,
which make social gatherings delightful and exciting to intellectual
men, in the talk which stimulates strong brains and loosens eloquent
tongues, he has really reduced the best-trained and most loquacious
London diners-out to abashed silence. In fact, he has, in captivating
English society,--harder, perhaps, to cultivate, considering the vast
variety of culture it contains, than any other society in the world,--in
making every Englishman who met him wish that he were an Englishman too,
performed a feat such as no diplomatist, we believe, ever performed
before.[67]
[67] Gustav Pollak: _Fifty Years of American Idealism_. Houghton
Mifflin Company. By courtesy of _The Nation_.
_b._ _Knowledge of the General Field_
Besides the ability to analyze the critic must have some knowledge
of the general field in which the subject lies. For a man who has
never thought about musical form to attempt criticism of a sonata is
foolish--he can at best merely comment. It is this fact that vitiates
much of the cracker-barrel criticism of the country store--subjects are
estimated about which the critic is largely ignorant. When an uneducated
person makes shrewd comment, as he often does, on a play, he will
usually be found to have criticized a character such as he has known or
the outcome of a situation the like of which he is familiar with rather
than the play as a whole. Now perfect criticism would demand perfect
knowledge, but since that is impossible, a good working knowledge will
suffice, the wider the better. Knowledge of the general principles of
piano playing will enable a critic to estimate, in the large, the work
of a performer; he cannot criticize minutely until he has added more
detailed knowledge to his mental equipment.
_c._ _Common Sense_
However much knowledge and ability to analyze a critic may have, he is a
will-o'-the-wisp unless he have common sense and balance. Since a critic
is in many ways a guide, he must guard as sacred his ability to see the
straight road and to refuse the appeal of by-paths, however attractive.
As critic, you must not be overawed by a name, be it of artist or
manufacturer, nor allow much crying of wares in the street to swerve you
from your fixed determination to judge and estimate only on the worth of
the subject _as you find it_. This is far from meaning that the critic
should give no weight to the opinions of others; you should always do
that; but, having examined the subject, and knowing your opinions, you
should then speak the truth as you see it. Your one final desire should
be to go to the heart of the matter accurately, and then to state this
clearly. And just as you do not blindly accept a great name, so do not
be wheedled by gloss and appearance, but keep a steady aim for the truth.
_d._ _Open-mindedness_
Finally, this balance, this passion for the truth, will lead the critic
to strive always for open-mindedness. "I would rather be a man of
disinterested taste and liberal feeling," wrote Hazlitt, "to see and
acknowledge truth and beauty wherever I found it, than a man of greater
and more original genius, to hate, envy, and deny all excellence but my
own...." And he was right when he said it: the willingness to accept a
new idea or object if it is worthy, whether it go against the critic's
personal desires or not, is one of the great qualities that he will find
indispensable. "I never heard of such a thing!" is not a sufficient
remark to condemn the thing. In fact, almost a sufficient answer to such
an exclamation would be, "Well, what of it?" or, "'T is time you did."
Methods of Criticism
Armed with open-mindedness, then, with balance and common sense, with
knowledge of the field, and with ability to analyze, you are ready to
begin. What method shall you pursue? Though no absolutely sharp line
can be drawn between kinds of criticism, we may treat of three that are
fairly distinct: the historical method, the method by standards, and
the appreciative. In most criticism we are likely to find more than one
method employed, often all three. You need not confine yourself to one
any more than a carpenter need refuse to use any but one tool, but for
purposes of comprehension and presentation we shall keep the three here
fairly distinct. We shall examine the three now, briefly, in the order
named.
_a._ _The Historical Method_
Suppose that you are asked to criticize one of Cooper's novels, say
_The Last of the Mohicans_. You find in it red men idealized out of the
actual, red men such as presumably never existed. You may, then, in
disgust throw the book down and damn it with the remark, "The man does
not tell the truth!" But you will not thereby have disposed of Cooper.
Much better it would be to ask, How came this man to write thus? When
did he write? For whom? How did men at that time regard the Indian? In
answering these questions you will relate Cooper's novel to the time in
which it was written, you will see that before that time the Indian was
regarded with unmixed fear, as too often since with contempt, and that
at only that time could he have been idealized as Cooper treats him. You
would relate the novel to the whole movement of Sentimentalism, which
thought that it believed the savage more noble than civilized man, and
you would then, and only then, get a proper perspective. Your original
judgment, that Cooper's Indians are not accurate portraits of their
kind, would not be modified; for the whole work, however, you would have
a new attitude.
In the same way, asked for an opinion of the old-style bicycle with
enormous front wheel and tiny trailer, you would not summarily reply, "I
prefer a chainless model of my own day," but would discover the place
that the old style occupied in the total development of the bicycle,
would look at it as related to the preceding absence of any bicycle,
and would see that, though it may to-day be useless, in its time it was
remarkable. Likewise you will discover that the old three-legged milking
stool has been in immemorial use in rude byres and stables, since three
points--the ends of the legs--always make a firm plane, which four
points do not necessarily do. And one hundred years hence, when a critic
comes to judge the nature faking of the early twentieth century, he will
relate this sentimental movement to the times in which it appeared, and,
though he may well finally be disgusted, he will understand what the
thing was and meant, how it came about, what causes produced it.
Illustration of the value of this method is found in the following
historical account of the American business man. To a European this man
sometimes is inexplicable--until he reads some illuminating setting
forth of the facts as here.
As long as the economic opportunities of American life
consisted chiefly in the appropriation and improvement of
uncultivated land, the average energetic man had no difficulty
in obtaining his fair share of the increasing American economic
product; but the time came when such opportunities, although still
important, were dwarfed by other opportunities, incident to the
development of a more mature economic system. These opportunities
which were, of course, connected with the manufacturing,
industrial, and technical development of the country, demanded
under American conditions a very special type of man--the man
who would bring to his task not merely energy, but unscrupulous
devotion, originality, daring, and in the course of time a large
fund of instructive experience. The early American industrial
conditions differed from those of Europe in that they were fluid,
and as a result of this instability, extremely precarious. Rapid
changes in markets, business methods, and industrial machinery
made it difficult to build up a safe business. A manufacturer or
a merchant could not secure his business salvation, as in Europe,
merely by the adoption of sound conservative methods. The American
business man had greater opportunities and a freer hand than his
European prototype; but he was too beset by more severe, more
unscrupulous, and more dangerous competition. The industrious and
thrifty farmer could be fairly sure of a modest competence, due
partly to his own efforts, and partly to the increased value of his
land in a more populous community; but the business man had no such
security. In his case it was war to the knife. He was presented
with choice between aggressive daring business operations, and
financial insignificance or ruin.
No doubt this situation was due as much to the temper of the
American business man as to his economic environment. The business
man in seeking to realize his ambitions and purposes was checked
neither by government control nor social custom. He had nothing
to do and nothing to consider except his own business advancement
and success. He was eager, strenuous, and impatient. He liked the
excitement and risk of large operations. The capital at his command
was generally too small for the safe and conservative operation of
his business; and he was consequently obliged to be adventurous,
or else to be left behind in the race. He might well be earning
enormous profits one year and be skirting bankruptcy the next.
Under such a stress conservatism and caution were suicidal. It
was the instinct of self-preservation, as well as the spirit of
business adventure, which kept him constantly seeking for larger
markets, improved methods, or for some peculiar means of getting
ahead of his competitors. He had no fortress behind which he could
hide and enjoy his conquests. Surrounded as he was by aggressive
enemies and undefended frontiers, his best means of security lay
in a policy of constant innovation and expansion. Moreover, even
after he had obtained the bulwark of sufficient capital and more
settled industrial surroundings, he was under no temptation to quit
and enjoy the spoils of his conquests. The social, intellectual,
or even the more vulgar pleasures, afforded by leisure and wealth,
could bring him no thrill which was anything like as intense as
that derived from the exercise of his business ability and power.
He could not conquer except by virtue of a strong, tenacious,
adventurous, and unscrupulous will; and after he had conquered,
this will had him in complete possession. He had nothing to do but
to play the game to the end--even though his additional profits
were of no living use to him.[68]
[68] Herbert Croly: _The Promise of American Life_. By courtesy of the
publishers, The Macmillan Company, New York City.
In criticizing literature and art this method is often difficult, for we
must take into account race, geography, and other conditions. We must
see that only in New England, of all the sections of the United States,
could Hawthorne have written, that Tolstoi could not have written in
Illinois as he did in Russia, that Norse Sagas could not have appeared
among tropical peoples, that among the French alone, perhaps, could
Racine have come to literary power as he did. And in examining the work
of two writers who treat the same subject in general, as Miss Jewett
and Mrs. Freeman treat New England life, we shall find the influence
of ancestry and environment and training largely determining, on the
one hand the quaint fine sunshine, on the other hand the stern hard
Puritanism. We shall also have to learn what incidents in an author's
life have helped to determine his point of view, how early poverty, or
sorrow, or a great experience of protracted agony or joy have made him
sympathetic, or how aristocratic breeding and the early introduction
into exclusive circles have made him naturally unresponsive to some of
the squalor, the sadness of lowly life. We shall perceive that the early
removal of Scott to the country began his intense love for Scottish
scenery and history, that the bitter laughter of Byron's mother turned
part of the poet's nature to gall. In other words, when we are dealing
with the exquisitely fine products of impassioned thought we have a
difficult task because so many influences mold these thoughts, so many
lines of procedure are determined by conditions outside the particular
author or artist, all of which must be considered if we wish our work
to be really of value. The following illustration shows in brief space
the attempt to link a movement in literature to the times in which it
appeared, to show that it is naturally a product of the general feeling
of the times.
Yet, after all, it is not the theories and formulæ of its
followers that differentiate the "new poetry"; the insistence upon
certain externalities, the abandonment of familiar traditions,
even the new spirit of the language employed, none of these are
more than symptoms of the deep inner mood which lies at the roots
of the whole tendency. This tendency is in line with the basic
trend of our times, and represents the attempt in verse, as in many
other branches of expression, to cast off a certain passionate
illusionment and approach the universe as it actually is--the
universe of science, perhaps, rather than that of the thrilled
human heart. This is the kernel of the entire new movement, as has
already been clearly pointed out by several writers on the subject.
Everywhere in the new verse we are conscious of a certain
objective quality, not the objective quality of _The Divine Comedy_
or _Faust_, which is achieved by the symbolic representation in
external forms of inner spiritual verities, but an often stark
objectivity accomplished by the elimination of the feeling human
medium, the often complete absence of any personal reaction. We
are shown countless objects and movements, and these objects and
movements are glimpsed panoramically from the point of view of
outline, color, and interrelation, as through the senses merely;
the transfiguring lens of the soul is seldom interposed or felt
to be present. To the "new poet" the city street presents itself
in terms of a series of sense-impressions vividly realized, a
succession of apparently aimless and kaleidoscopic pageantries
stripped of their human significance and symbolic import. They have
ceased to be signs of a less outward reality, they have become
that reality itself--reality apprehended from a singly sensuous
standpoint untainted by any of the human emotions of triumph
or sorrow, pity or adoration. Love is thus frequently bared of
its glamour and death of its peculiar majesty, which may now be
regarded as deceitful and fatuous projections of the credulous
soul, and not to be tolerated by the sophisticated mood of the
new and scientific poet, for it is exactly with these beautiful
"sentimentalities" that the analytic mind of science is not
concerned.[69]
[69] From _Scribner's Magazine_, September, 1917. By courtesy of the
publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York City. Copyright,
1917.
This method seeks, then, to place a work, whether of art or science or
industry, in its place in the whole course of development of such ideas.
It examines causes such as commercial demands, general prosperity, war,
and only after this examination gives the work its estimate of value.
Now this method may seem uninteresting, dry, dull. Not always does it
escape this blame. For it is inevitably impersonal, it looks at the
thing perhaps coldly--at least without passion. But in so doing, and in
considering the precedents and surroundings of the object of criticism,
it largely escapes the superficiality of personal whim, and it avoids
silly reaction to unaccustomed things. Much of our empty criticism of
customs in dress and manners of architecture such as that of Southern
California, of other religions such as those of the Chinese and the
Hindoos, would be either done away or somewhat modified if we used this
method. One reason, perhaps, why the Goths destroyed the beautiful
art works of Rome was the fact that they had not the critical spirit,
did not relate these works to their development and race. Of course
there were other reasons. By linking the object of criticism to the
race as a whole, by seeing how and why it became created, the critic
is largely broadened and the reader is kept from superficiality.
Moreover, when this method is not too abstractly pursued, it gives to
things, after all, a human meaning, for it links them to humanity. That
it may be misleading in literature and art is obvious, for a creation
may be accounted for in an attractive way as the result of certain
forces that had their beginnings in sense and wisdom, and so be made
to seem admirable, whereas it really has little worth on a basis of
lasting usefulness and significance. But, properly and thoroughly used,
this method, even though it gives us an account of a work rather than
finally settling its value, scatters away the vague mists of superficial
generalization and drives deeply into causes and results.
_b._ _The Method by Standards_
As the historical method is generally impersonal, objective, so is the
method of criticizing by standards. In using this method we try to
determine whether the object of criticism fulfills the demands of its
type, whether its quality is high or low. For example, we thus judge
a tennis court as to its firm footing, its softness, its retention of
court lines, its position as regards the sun. In all these qualities
an ideal tennis court would be satisfactory; the question is, is this
one. So a headache powder should relieve pain without injuring with evil
drugs; if this one does, we shall not condemn it. If the rocks in a
landscape painting look like those which the heroic tenor in grand opera
hurls aside as so much "puffed wheat," we must condemn the artist, for
rocks should look solid. An evangelist should have certain qualities
of piety and reverence, and should accomplish certain lasting results;
we shall judge Billy Sunday, for example, according to whether he does
or does not fulfill these demands. Likewise a lyric poem should have
certain qualities of freshness, grace, passion, by which we rate any
given lyric.
In fact, we ask, in any given case, does this work do what such a
thing is supposed to do, does it have the qualities that such a thing
is supposed to have? And on our answer will depend our judgment. This
is the kind of criticism that business men use constantly; they rate
a cash system or a form of order blank or an arrangement of counters
in a store on the basis of the presence or absence of the qualities
that distinguish an ideal system, blank, arrangement. In the following
example we have a combination of the historical and the standards
methods, finally accounting for and judging the value of the common
kinds of cargo steamers.
A trip round any busy seaport will show the reader, if he has
not noticed it already, that there are many different types of the
ordinary cargo steamer. The feature which displays the difference
most noticeably is the arrangement of the structures on the deck,
and it may be reasonably asked why there are these varieties, and
how it is that a common type has not come to be agreed upon.
The answer to that question is that the differences are not
merely arbitrary, but are due to a variety of influences, and it
will be interesting to look briefly at these, as the reader will
then be able, the next time he sees a cargo steamer, to understand
something of the ideas underlying its design.
The early steamers had "flush" decks, which means that the
deck ran from end to end without any structures of considerable
size upon it; a light bridge was provided, supported upon slender
uprights, for "lookouts" purposes, and that was all. On the face of
it this seems a very simple and admirable arrangement. It had many
disadvantages, however, as we shall see.
In the first place, it permitted a wave to come on board at
the bow and sweep right along the deck, often doing great damage.
This was mitigated somewhat by building the ships with "shear,"
that is, with a slope upwards fore and aft, so as to make the ends
taller than the middle. That, however, was not sufficient, so ships
were built with an upper deck, so that the bow should be high
enough to cut through the waves instead of allowing the water to
come on board. Owing, however, to the method by which the tonnage
of a ship is reckoned, as will be explained later, that had the
effect of adding largely to the tonnage _on which dues have to be
paid_ without materially increasing the carrying capacity of the
ship.
The difficulty was therefore got over in this way. The bow
was raised and covered in, forming what is known as a "top-gallant
forecastle," which not only had the effect of keeping the water
off the deck, but provided better accommodation for the crew as
well. That did not provide, however, against a wave overtaking the
ship from the rear and coming on board just where the steering
wheel was, so a hood or covering over the wheel became usual,
called the "poop." Nor did either of these sufficiently protect
that very important point, the engine-room. For it needs but a
moment's thought to see that there must be openings in the deck
over the engines and boilers, and if a volume of water should
get down these, it might extinguish the fires and leave the
ship helpless, absolutely at the mercy of the waves. The light
navigating bridge was therefore developed into a substantial
structure the whole width of the ship, surrounding and protecting
the engine-and-boiler-room openings, and incidentally providing
accommodation for the officers.
Ships of this type answered very well indeed, for if a wave
of exceptional size should manage to get over the forecastle, the
water fell into the "well" or space between the forecastle and
bridge-house, and then simply ran overboard, so that the after part
of the ship was kept dry.
Then troubles arose with the loading. The engines, of course,
need to be in the center, for they represent considerable weight,
which, if not balanced, will cause one end of the ship to float
too high in the water. Thus the hold of the ship is divided by the
engine-room into two approximately equal parts, but out of the
after-hold must be taken the space occupied by the tunnel through
which the propeller shaft runs, from the engine to the screw. Thus
the capacity of the after-hold becomes less than the forward one,
and if both are filled with a homogeneous cargo such as grain (and,
as we shall see presently, such a cargo must always entirely fill
the hold), the forward part of the ship would float high in the
water. The trouble could not be rectified by placing the engines
further forward, for then the ship would not float properly when
light.
Shipowners overcame this trouble, however, by raising the
whole of the "quarter-deck"--the part of the deck, that is, which
lies behind the after end of the "bridge-house"--and by that means
they made the after-hold deeper than the other. Thus the commonest
type of all, the "raised quarter-deck, well-decker," came into
existence, a type of which many examples are to be seen on the
sea.[70]
[70] Thomas W. Corbin: _Engineering of To-day_. By courtesy of the
publishers, Seeley, Service & Co., London.
In the following paragraphs Professor Thomas R. Lounsbury of Yale
University criticizes the use of final e in English words. You will note
that he uses a combination of the historical method and the method by
standards.
There seems to be something peculiarly attractive to our
race in the letter _e_. Especially is this so when it serves no
useful purpose. Adding it at random to syllables, and especially to
final syllables, is supposed to give a peculiar old-time flavor to
the spelling. For this belief there is, to some extent, historic
justification. The letter still remains appended to scores of
words in which it has lost the pronunciation once belonging to
it. Again, it has been added to scores of others apparently to
amplify their proportions. We have in our speech a large number
of monosyllables. As a sort of consolation to their shrunken
condition an _e_ has been appended to them, apparently to make
them present a more portly appearance. The fancy we all have for
this vowel not only recalls the wit but suggests the wisdom of
Charles Lamb's exquisite pun upon Pope's line that our race is
largely made up of "the mob of gentlemen who write with ease." The
belief, in truth, seems to prevail that the final _e_ is somehow
indicative of aristocracy. In proper names, particularly, it is
felt to impart a certain distinction to the appellation, lifting it
far above the grade of low associations. It has the crowning merit
of uselessness; and in the eyes of many uselessness seems to be
regarded as the distinguishing mark of any noble class, either of
things or persons. Still, I have so much respect for the rights of
property that it seems to me every man ought to have the privilege
of spelling and pronouncing his own name in any way he pleases.
The prevalence of this letter at the end of words was largely
due to the fact that the vowels, _a_, _o_, and _u_ of the original
endings were all weakened to it in the break-up of the language
which followed the Norman conquest. Hence, it became the common
ending of the noun. The further disappearance of the consonant
_n_ from the original termination of the infinitive extended this
usage to the verb. The Anglo-Saxon _tellan_ and _helpan_, for
instance, after being weakened to _tellen_ and _helpen_, became
_telle_ and _helpe_. Words not of native origin fell under the
influence of this general tendency and adopted an _e_ to which they
were in no wise entitled. Even Anglo-Saxon nouns which ended in a
consonant--such, for instance, as _hors_ and _mús_ and _stán_--are
now represented by _horse_ and _mouse_ and _stone_. The truth is,
that when the memory of the earlier form of the word had passed
away an _e_ was liable to be appended, on any pretext, to the end
of it. The feeling still continues to affect us all. Our eyes have
become so accustomed to seeing a final e which no one thinks of
pronouncing, that the word is felt by some to have a certain sort
of incompleteness if it be not found there. In no other way can
I account for Lord Macaulay's spelling the comparatively modern
verb _edit_ as _edite_. This seems to be a distinction peculiar to
himself.
* * * * *
In the chaos which came over the spelling in consequence of
the uncertainty attached to the sound of the vowels, the final _e_
was seized upon as a sort of help to indicate the pronunciation.
Its office in this respect was announced as early as the end of
the sixteenth century; at least, then it was announced that an
unsounded _e_ at the end of a word indicated that the preceding
vowel was long. This, it need hardly be said, is a crude and
unscientific method of denoting pronunciation. It is a process
purely empirical. It is far removed from the ideal that no letter
should exist in a word which is not sounded. Yet, to some extent,
this artificial makeshift has been, and still is, a working
principle. Were it carried out consistently it might be regarded
as, on the whole, serving a useful purpose. But here, as well as
elsewhere, the trail of the orthographic serpent is discoverable.
Here as elsewhere it renders impossible the full enjoyment of
even this slight section of an orthographic paradise. Here, as
elsewhere, manifests itself the besetting sin of our spelling,
that there is no consistency in the application of any principle.
Some of our most common verbs violate the rule (if rule it can
be called), such as _have_, _give_, _love_, _are_, _done_. In
these the preceding vowel is not long but short. There are further
large classes of words ending in _ile_, _ine_, _ite_, _ive_,
where this final _e_ would serve to mislead the inquirer as to
the pronunciation had he no other source of information than the
spelling.
Still, in the case of some of these words, the operation of
this principle has had, and is doubtless continuing to have, a
certain influence. Take, for instance, the word _hostile_. In the
early nineteenth century, if we can trust the most authoritative
dictionaries, the word was regularly pronounced in England as if
spelled hós-t[)i]l. So it is to-day in America. But the influence
of the final _e_ has tended to prolong, in the former country, the
sound of the preceding _i_. Consequently, a usual, and probably the
usual, pronunciation there is hos-t[=i]le. We can see a similar
tendency manifested in the case of several other adjectives. A
disposition to give many of them the long diphthongal sound of the
_i_ is frequently displayed in the pronunciation of such words as
_agile_, _docile_, _ductile_, _futile_, _infantile_. Save in the
case of the last one of this list, the dictionaries once gave the
_ile_ nothing but the sound of _il_; now they usually authorize
both ways.
Were the principle here indicated fully carried out,
pronunciations now condemned as vulgarisms would displace those
now considered correct. In accordance with it, for instance,
_engine_, as it is spelled, should strictly have the _i_ long.
One of the devices employed by Dickens in _Martin Chuzzlewit_ to
ridicule what he pretended was the American speech was to have
the characters pronounce _genuine_ as _gen-u-[=i]ne_, prejudice
as _prej-u-d[=i]ce_, _active_ and _native_ as _ac-t[=y]ve_ and
_na-t[=i]ve_. Doubtless he heard such pronunciations from some
men. Yet, in these instances, the speaker was carried along by the
same tendency which in cultivated English has succeeded in turning
the pronunciation _hos-t[)i]l_ into _hos-t[=i]le_. Were there
any binding force in the application of the rule which imparts
to the termination _e_ the power of lengthening the preceding
vowel, no one would have any business to give to it in the final
syllable of the words just specified any other sound than that of
"long i." The pronunciations ridiculed by Dickens would be the
only pronunciations allowable. Accordingly, the way to make the
rule universally effective is to drop this final _e_ when it does
not produce such an effect. If _genuine_ is to be pronounced
_gen-u-[)i]n_, so it ought to be spelled.[71]
[71] Thomas R. Lounsbury: _English Spelling and Spelling Reform_. By
courtesy of the publishers, Harper & Brothers, New York City.
Copyright.
Now it is evident that unless the critic's standards are fair and
sensible, unless they are known to be sound and essential, his criticism
is likely to be valueless. If my ideas of the qualities of ideal tennis
courts are erratic or queer, my judgment of the individual court will
be untrustworthy. Your first duty as critic, then, is to look at your
standards. In judging such things as ice cream freezers, motorcycles,
filing systems, fertilizers, rapid-firing guns, and other useful
devices, you will find no great difficulty in choosing your standards.
When you come to literature and the arts, however, you find a difficult
task. For who shall say exactly what a lyric poem shall do? Or who
shall bound the field of landscape painting? No sooner does Reynolds
begin painting, after he has formulated the laws of his art and stated
them with decision, than he violates them all. No sooner did musicians
settle just what a sonata must be than a greater musician appeared who
transcended the narrower form. Moreover, in the field of literature
and the arts we often find great difficulty in surmounting the cast of
our individual minds; we like certain types and are unconsciously led
to condemn all others. The great critic rises superior to his peculiar
likes and prejudices, but most of us are hindered by them. One great
benefit to be derived from writing this particular kind of criticism
is in gaining humility--humility at the greatness of some of the works
of the past, before which, when we really look at them, we are moved
to stand uncovered, and humility at the lack of real analysis that we
have made before we attempt the criticism, and finally humility at the
tremendous effort we must make to write criticism at all worthy of the
subjects. But the difficulty of writing such criticism well should make
you exert yourself to the utmost to acquire skill before you attempt
this form.
This method, like the historical, makes against superficiality, for
it necessitates real knowledge of the class to which the object of
criticism belongs, the purposes of the class, its bearings, and then
a sure survey of the individual itself. And in forcing the critic to
examine his standards to determine their fairness and soundness it makes
against hasty judgment. Properly used, this method should result in
something like finality of judgment.
_c._ _The Appreciative Method_
There come occasions when you are not primarily interested in the
historical significance of the subject of criticism, and when you are
indifferent to objective standards, when, in fact, you are almost wholly
interested in the _individual_ before you, in what it is or in the
effect it has on you. You rather _feel_ toward it than care to make a
cold analysis of it; you are moved by it, are conscious of a personal
reaction to it. In such cases you will make use of what is called
appreciative criticism. This method consists in interpreting, often for
one who does not know the work, the value of the work, the good things
in it, either as they appear to one who studies or as they affect the
critic. After reading a new book, for example, or attending a concert,
or driving a wonderfully smooth running automobile, or watching the team
work in a football game, you are primarily interested in the phenomena
shown as they are in their picturesque individuality or in your own
emotional reaction to them. In the following example George Gissing
makes an appreciative criticism of English cooking, not by coldly
tracing the historical influences that have made this cooking what it
is, nor by subjecting it to certain fixed standards to which admirable
cooking should attain, but rather by telling us what English cooking is
and by giving us the flavor of his own emotional delight in it.
As so often when my praise has gone forth for things English,
I find myself tormented by an after-thought--the reflection that I
have praised a time gone by. Now, in this matter of English meat.
A newspaper tells me that English beef is non-existent; that the
best meat bearing that name has merely been fed up in England for a
short time before killing. Well, well; we can only be thankful that
the quality is still so good. Real English mutton still exists, I
suppose. It would surprise me if any other country could produce
the shoulder I had yesterday.
Who knows? Perhaps even our own cookery has seen its best
days. It is a lamentable fact that the multitude of English people
nowadays never taste roasted meat; what they call by that name
is baked in the oven--a totally different thing, though it may,
I admit, be inferior only to the right roast. Oh, the sirloin of
old times, the sirloin which I can remember, thirty or forty years
ago! That was English, and no mistake, and all the history of
civilization could show nothing on the tables of mankind to equal
it. To clap that joint into a steamy oven would have been a crime
unpardonable by gods and men. Have I not with my own eyes seen it
turning, turning on the spit? The scent it diffused was in itself a
cure for dyspepsia.
It is a very long time since I tasted a slice of boiled beef;
I have a suspicion that the thing is becoming rare. In a household
such as mine, the "round" is impracticable; of necessity it must
be large, altogether too large for our requirements. But what
exquisite memories does my mind preserve! The very coloring of a
round, how rich it is, yet how delicate, and how subtly varied! The
odor is totally different from that of roast beef, and yet it is
beef incontestable. Hot, of course, with carrots, it is a dish for
a king; but cold it is nobler. Oh, the thin broad slice, with just
its fringe of consistent fat!
We are sparing of condiments, but such as we use are the best
that man has invented. And we know _how_ to use them. I have heard
an impatient innovator scoff at the English law on the subject of
mustard, and demand why, in the nature of things, mustard should
not be eaten with mutton. The answer is very simple; this law has
been made by the English palate--which is impeccable. I maintain
it is impeccable. Your educated Englishman is an infallible
guide to all that relates to the table. "The man of superior
intellect," said Tennyson--justifying his love of boiled beef and
new potatoes--"knows what is good to eat"; and I would extend it to
all civilized natives of our country. We are content with nothing
but the finest savours, the truest combinations; our wealth, and
happy natural circumstances, have allowed us an education of the
palate of which our natural aptitude was worthy. Think, by the bye,
of those new potatoes, just mentioned. Our cook, when dressing
them, puts into the saucepan a sprig of mint. This is genius. No
otherwise could the flavour of the vegetable be so perfectly, yet
so delicately, emphasized. The mint is there, and we know it; yet
our palate knows only the young potato.[72]
[72] Gissing: _The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft_, "Winter." By
permission of the publishers, E. P. Dutton & Co., New York.
Appreciative criticism may on the one hand approach criticism by
standards, since, for example, to praise a pianist for melting his
tones one into another implies that such melting is a standard. It may,
again, consist largely in telling what the thing _is_, as to say that
the Progressive Party was one that looked forward rather than backward,
planned reforms for the people, insisted on clean politics, etc. It
may, in the third place, consist in giving a transcript of the writer's
feelings as he is in the presence of the subject of criticism, as one
might picture the reaction of inspiration to a view from a mountain
peak, or express his elation in listening to a famous singer, or show
his wild enthusiasm as he watches his team slowly fight its way over
the goal line. In all three of these cases the criticism answers the
question, "What does this work seem to be, what do I find in it, and
wherein do I think it is good?" That is appreciative criticism.
Now since you can adequately estimate in this way only when you are
aware of the qualities of the subject, the first requirement for success
in this kind of criticism is keen and intelligent sympathy with the
work, an open-minded, sensible hospitality to ideas and things. If I am
quite unmoved by music, I cannot make reliable appreciative criticism of
it. If I have no reaction to the beauty of a big pumping station, when
asked for criticism of it, I shall perforce be silent. If my mind is
closed to new ideas, I can never "appreciate" a new theory in science,
in sociology, in art or in religion.
In the next place, I must refrain from morbid personal effusion. Certain
of our sentimental magazines have published, at odd times, extremely
personal rhapsodies about symphonies and poems. The listener has been
"wafted away," has heard the birdies sing, the brooks come purling over
their stones, has seen the moon come swimming through the clouds--but
the reader of such criticism need not be too harshly censured if he
mildly wonders whether the critic ought not to consult a physician.
Sometimes this fault occurs through the endeavor to make the criticism
attractive, one of the strong demands of the appreciative kind. Since
the personal note exists throughout, and since you wish to make your
reader attracted to the object that you criticize, your writing should
be as pleasing as is legitimately possible. Allow yourself full rein to
express the beauties of your subject with all the large personal warmth
of which you are capable, with as neatly turned expression as you can
make, always remembering to keep your balance, to avoid morbidness in
any form.
It is in this way that you will give to your criticism one of its
most valued qualities, appealing humanness. Less final, perhaps, in
some ways, than the historical method or the method by standards, the
appreciative is likely to be of more immediate value in re-creating the
work for your reader, in giving him a real interpretation of it. And
this method, like the other two, fights against superficiality. Such a
silly saying--silly in criticism--as "I like it but I don't know why"
can have no place here. One may well remember the answer attributed to
the artist Whistler, when the gushing woman remarked, "I don't know
anything about art but I know what I like!" "So, Madam, does a cow!" If
you guard against the morbid or sentimental effusive style, and really
tell, honestly and attractively, what you find good in the subject, your
criticism is likely to be of value. Note that in the selection which
follows, though the author feels strongly toward his subject, he does
not fall, at any time, into gushing remarks that make a reader feel
sheepish, but rather keeps a really wholesome tone throughout.
To-day I have read _The Tempest_. It is perhaps the play that
I love best, and, because I seem to myself to know it so well, I
commonly pass it over in opening the book. Yet, as always in regard
to Shakespeare, having read it once more, I find that my knowledge
was less complete than I supposed. So it would be, live as long as
one might; so it would ever be, whilst one had the strength to turn
the pages and a mind left to read them.
I like to believe that this was the poet's last work, that he
wrote it in his home in Stratford, walking day by day in the fields
which had taught his boyhood to love rural England. It is ripe
fruit of the supreme imagination, perfect craft of the master hand.
For a man whose life business it has been to study the English
tongue, what joy can there be to equal that of marking the happy
ease wherewith Shakespeare surpasses, in mere command of words,
every achievement of these even, who, apart from him, are great?
I could fancy that, in _The Tempest_, he wrought with a peculiar
consciousness of this power, smiling as the word of inimitable
felicity, the phrase of incomparable cadence, was whispered to him
by the Ariel that was his genius. He seems to sport with language,
to amuse himself with new discovery of its resources. From king to
beggar, men of every rank and of every order of mind have spoken
with his lips; he has uttered the lore of fairyland; now it pleases
him to create a being neither man nor fairy, a something between
brute and human nature, and to endow its purposes with words. Those
words, how they smack of the warm and spawning earth, of the life
of creatures that cannot rise above the soil! We do not think of it
enough; we stint our wonder because we fall short in appreciation.
A miracle is worked before us, and we scarce give heed; it has
become familiar to our minds as any other of nature's marvels,
which we rarely pause to reflect upon.
_The Tempest_ contains the noblest meditative passage in all
the plays; that which embodies Shakespeare's final view of life,
and is the inevitable quotation of all who would sum the teachings
of philosophy. It contains his most exquisite lyrics, his tenderest
love passages, and one glimpse of fairyland which--I cannot but
think--outshines the utmost beauty of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_;
Prospero's farewell to the "elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes
and groves." Again a miracle; these are things which cannot be
staled by repetition. Come to them often as you will, they are
ever fresh as though new minted from the brain of the poet. Being
perfect, they can never droop under that satiety which arises from
the perception of fault; their virtue can never be so entirely
savoured as to leave no pungency of gusto for the next approach.
Among the many reasons which make me glad to have been born in
England, one of the first is that I read Shakespeare in my mother
tongue. If I try to imagine myself as one who cannot know him face
to face, who hears him only speaking from afar, and that in accents
which only through the laboring intelligence can touch the living
soul, there comes upon me a sense of chill discouragement, of
dreary deprivation. I am wont to think that I can read Homer, and,
assuredly, if any man enjoys him, it is I; but can I for a moment
dream that Homer yields me all his music, that his word is to me as
to him who walked by the Hellenic shore when Hellas lived? I know
that there reaches me across the vast of time no more than a faint
and broken echo; I know that it would be fainter still, but for its
blending with those memories of youth which are as a glimmer of the
world's primeval glory. Let every land have joy of its poet; for
the poet is the land itself, all its greatness and its sweetness,
all that incommunicable heritage for which men live and die. As
I close the book, love and reverence possess me. Whether does my
full heart turn to the great Enchanter, or to the Island upon
which he has laid his spell? I know not. I cannot think of them
apart. In the love and reverence awakened by this voice of voices,
Shakespeare and England are but one.[73]
[73] George Gissing: _The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft_, "Summer."
By permission of the publishers, E. P. Dutton & Co., New York.
Practical Helps
We have said that criticism of literature and art seems to be more
difficult than criticism of machines and buildings and commercial
systems. It is. Literature and art, as being the expression of the high
thought of the human heart about the world, man, and his relations to
the world, demand in a critic who attempts to estimate them at least
some underlying philosophy of life, at least some insight into the
affairs of the human soul. And such philosophy, such insight, does not
come without being eagerly sought or without much thinking. I can soon
tell whether a force pump is efficient; I may for some time pause before
I estimate a picture or a lyric poem. For the field of the pump is small
and definite, its relations are simple, whereas the lyric is intimately
bound up with the whole of life.
But we need not, therefore, despair of writing criticism of literature
and art. The more sensible thing is to simplify our task. This we can
do, in large measure, by asking the famous three questions of Coleridge:
First, What did the author intend to do? second, How did he accomplish
his purpose, well or ill? third, Was the purpose worth striving for?
These three questions, sensibly considered and properly answered, will
make a by no means paltry criticism.
Still the problem remains, how shall I write this criticism, whatever
method I may be pursuing. Certain points of advice may be of use.
In the first place, be sure of your attitude, that it is fair and
sincere, that it is honest and as unprejudiced as possible. Then do
not browbeat your reader into accepting this attitude. Allow him the
right to make final decision, and, moreover, credit him with the right
to some brains--he will be thus much happier. In the second place, be
sure that you know what you are talking about, that you are sure of the
_facts_, whether you treat literature or machinery or government or
rotation of crops. Without proper facts you can never reach a sound
conclusion. And "keep your eye on the object." In no kind of writing
is there a greater tendency to fritter off into related subjects which
are still not exactly the one in hand. Be sure that you write about the
subject, then, and not about some other. In the next place, since many
remarks apply equally well to a host of subjects, as, for instance,
that it is "efficient" or "inspiring," aim first of all, before you
write a word, to find the one characteristic that your subject possesses
that distinguishes it from others. Ask yourself wherein it is itself,
wherein it differs from other like things, what it is without which
this particular subject would not be itself. And having determined
this point, be sure to make your reader see it. Whatever else you do,
prize that characteristic as the jewel of your criticism's soul, and
so sharply define, limit, characterize that your reader's impression
will be not the slightest blurred. A student whose theme in criticism
received from the instructor the verdict that it was not distinguishing,
that it might apply as well to another poet, replied that the theme had
originally been written about another, and in the press of circumstance
had been copied with only a change in the title. The point is that the
criticism had not been a good estimate of the original subject. It was
worthless in both cases, because it was not distinguishing.
Finally, when you come to the expression, be sure that what you say
means something, and that you know what it means. Ask yourself, "What
does this mean that I have written?" and, if you have to admit that you
do not know, in all conscience suppress it. Avoid the stock phrases that
are colorless. You can fling "interesting" at almost any book, or its
opposite, "stupid," just as you can apply "true to life," "good style,"
"suggestive," "gripping," "vital," "red-blooded," "imaginative," and
hosts of other words and phrases equally well to scores of subjects.
The reviewer through whose mind a constant stream of subjects passes,
is forced to fall into this cant unless he be a genius, but you have no
business to do so. The trouble here, again, is in not knowing exactly
what you wish to say and are saying, lack of thorough knowledge of your
subject, for you do not know it until you have reached its heart. The
result of half-knowledge is always flabbiness and ineffectiveness. Be
careful, moreover, in making the structure of your total criticism,
especially in criticism by standards, that you do not make the form of
your work seem mechanical and wooden. Do not, for example, except in
a report, give a dry list of the qualities which the subject should
possess, and then one by one apply them to see if it will pass muster.
Such writing may be true, but it is awkward. The form of critical
writing should be as neat as that of any other kind of writing.
And in all your attitude and expression try to treat the subject as far
as possible in its relation to humanity, to keep it from being a mere
abstraction, to make it seem of real significance to the lives of men,
if possible to the life of your reader.
The value of writing criticism should by this time be apparent. It
forces our minds out of the fogginess of vague thinking, it makes us
see things sharply, it guides us away from the taint of superficiality,
it makes a solid base for our opinions. Through criticism we discover
why we are interested, and then naturally we desire more interest, and
by feeding grow to a larger appreciation and conception of the realm in
which our minds are at work. We thus do away with the mere chance whim
of like and dislike, and understand why we like what we do. In other
words, criticism increases our intelligent reaction to life.
EXERCISES
I. Mr. Lowell's Work in England (page 193).
1. By what standards is the work of Lowell as United States
Minister to England criticized?
2. Do these standards exhaust the qualifications of an admirable
minister?
3. If not, what other standards would you suggest?
4. What is the _controlling purpose_ of the criticism?
5. In view of this _controlling purpose_, are the standards
which the criticism includes sufficient?
6. Write a similar criticism on any of the following subjects:
The presidency of Theodore Roosevelt.
The presidency of Woodrow Wilson.
The work of Mr. Goethals on the Panama Canal.
The career of Mr. Bryce as British Ambassador to the United
States.
The career of James J. Hill, or of Cecil Rhodes, as
Empire-builders.
7. Write a historical criticism of Lowell's career in England,
_accounting for_ the attitude he assumed as determined by the
understanding of America which the English nation of the time
had, and by Lowell's character.
II. The American Business Man (page 197).
1. Criticize any of the following by accounting for their rise
and their characteristics:
The athletic coach in American colleges.
The present-day university president.
The "information" man at the railway station.
The county adviser in agriculture.
The reference librarian.
The floorwalker in department stores.
2. Write an appreciative criticism of the American Business Man
as he might seem to an Englishman on his first trip to
America; as he might seem to Plato; to Napoleon; to the poet
Shelley; to Shakespeare; to a Turkish rug merchant.
III. The "New Poetry" (page 200).
1. Is this criticism fair and unbiased?
2. What attitude does the author try to create in the reader?
How would the choice of material have differed had the author
desired an opposite effect?
3. Criticize, by relating to the times in which the subject
appeared, the following: Cubist Art, Sentimentalism, The
Renaissance of Wonder, The Dime Novel, The Wild-West Moving
Picture Film.
IV. Cargo Steamers (page 203).
1. Criticize, by the method used in this example: Gang Plows,
Electric Street Cars, Football Fields, Art Galleries (their
architecture), Adding Machines, Systems of Bookkeeping.
V. The English Language (page 205).
1. Criticize, by the method of standards, the following:
American Costumes as Candidates for Universal Use, The Metric
System, The American Monetary System, The Gary Schools, The
Civic Center Idea.
VI. English Cooking (page 210).
1. If Gissing had been criticizing English cooking from the
point of view of a dietitian, what standards would he have
chosen?
2. Criticize modern American cooking by showing its rise and the
influences that have controlled it.
3. Write an appreciative criticism of any of the following
subjects: Thanksgiving Dinner in the Country, A "Wienie
Roast," The First Good Meal after an Illness, The Old
Swimmin' Hole, The Fudge that Went Wrong, American Hat
Trimming, The Florist's Shop, Grandmother's Garden, The Old
Orchard.
VII. The Tempest (page 213).
1. Does Gissing here allow his natural bias as an Englishman to
sway him too much? Do you know as much about _The Tempest_,
from this criticism, as you would like to?
2. Criticize, _as an American_, with yet due restraint:
Lincoln's Addresses, Mr. Wilson's Leadership in Idealism,
Walt Whitman's "Captain, My Captain," MacDowell's "Indian
Suite" or "Sea Pieces" or "Woodland Sketches," St. Gaudens'
"Lincoln," O. Henry's Stories of New York, John Burroughs'
Nature Essays, Patrick Henry's Speeches, Mrs. Wharton's Short
Stories.
VIII. Make a list of trite or often used expressions that you find in
criticisms in the weekly "literary" page of an American
newspaper. Try to substitute diction that is more truly alive.
IX. When next you hear a symphony, listen so that you can write an
Appreciative Criticism. Then look up the history of symphonic
music and the life of the composer, and write a Historical
Criticism. Do this with any piano composition which you admire.
X. Rock Drills.
Tappet valve drills were the earliest design made for
regular work, and are now the only type really suitable
for work with steam, as the condensation of the steam
interferes with other valve actions. They have also special
advantages for certain work which have prevented them from
becoming obsolete. The valve motion is positive and not
affected by moisture in compressed air. The machine will keep
on boring a hole that may offer great frictional resistance
where some other drills would stick.
Disadvantages. These drills cannot deliver a perfectly
"free" or "dead" blow. In other words, there is always
some exhaust air from the front of the piston, caught
between it and the cylinder by the reversal of the valve just
before the forward stroke is finished. In some ground this
is by no means a defect, for where the ground is dead or
sticky this cushion helps to "pick the drill up" for a rapid
and sure return stroke, preventing its sticking and insuring
a maximum number of blows per minute. The length of stroke
must be kept long enough for the movement of the piston to
knock over the valve. The valve on the Rio Tinto machine is a
piston, or spool valve; on other machines the valve is of the
plain D-slide valve type. The Rand "giant" drill has a device
to reduce the total air pressure on the back of the valve.
This of course makes the valve take up its own wear and form
its own bearing surface, thus reducing leakage. The seats
generally require periodical cleaning and are raised to give
material to allow "scraping up."
Where the lubrication is deficient, as it generally is,
the coefficient of friction may reach 25 per cent, especially
in the presence of grit. Taking a valve area of 6 sq. in.
exposed to 80-lb. pressure, it might require a force of
120 lbs. to move the valve. This means that the blow struck
by the piston is retarded to a corresponding degree, and in
some cases the valve tends to wear its seat into an irregular
surface. Some writers have contended that the turning movement
of the piston is also hindered; but as the blow of the tappet
occurs at the beginning and end of the stroke, while the
turning movement is a positive and continuous one along all
the length of the back stroke, this effect is not noticeable.
As the tappet is struck 400 to 600 times per minute, the wear
and stress is great. Specially hardened surfaces on pistons
and tappets are needed as well as large wearing surfaces, or
renewable bushings, for the tappet to rock on. When wear takes
place the throw of the valve is reduced; cushioning becomes
greater and the stroke is shortened. The resistance and
pressure of the tappet tends to throw increased and unequal
wear on the opposite side of the cylinder.[74]
[74] Eustace M. Weston: _Rock Drills_. By courtesy of the publishers,
McGraw-Hill Publishing Company.
1. If you were writing an appreciative criticism of the working
of a rock drill, how would you change the style of writing?
2. Write a criticism by standards of the Water-Tube Boiler, of
the Diesel Engine, of Oil as Fuel for Ships, of one
particular make of Corn Planter or Wheel Hoe, or Piano, or
Motorcycle, or Machine Gun, or Mining Explosive, or of one
method of Advertising, or of the German Army, or of the
Dreadnaught as a Fighting Machine.
XI. Jingo Morality.
Captain Mahan's chosen example is the British occupation
of Egypt. To discuss the morality of this, he says, is
"as little to the point as the morality of an earthquake."
It was for the benefit of the world at large and of the
people of Egypt--no matter what the latter might think
about it, or how they would have voted about it--and that
is enough. Tacitly, he makes the same doctrine apply to the
great expansion of the foreign power of the United States,
which he foresees and for which he wants a navy "developed
in proportion to the reasonable possibilities of the future
political." What these possibilities are he nowhere says,
and he gives the reader no chance of judging whether they
are reasonable or not. But he speaks again and again of the
development of the nation and of national sentiment as a
"natural force," moving on to its desired end, unconscious
and unmoral. What he says of British domination over Egypt,
Captain Mahan would evidently and logically be ready to say of
American domination of any inferior power--that it has no more
to do with morality than an earthquake.
Of course, this really means the glorification of brute
force. The earthquake view of international relations
does away at once with all questions of law and justice and
humanity, and puts everything frankly on the basis of armor
and guns. Finerty could ask no more. No one could accuse
Captain Mahan of intending this, yet he must "follow the
argument." He speaks approvingly of international interference
with Turkey on account of the Armenian atrocities. But has not
the Sultan a complete defense, according to Captain Mahan's
doctrine? Is he not an earthquake, too? Are not the Turks
going blindly ahead, in Armenia, as a "natural force," and is
anybody likely to be foolish enough to discuss the morality of
a law of nature? Of course, the powers tell the Sultan that he
is no earthquake at all, or, if he is, that they will bring
to bear upon him a bigger one which will shake him into the
Bosphorus. But if there is no question of morality involved,
the argument and the action are simply so much brute force;
and that, we say, is what Captain Mahan's doctrine logically
comes to.
Another inadvertent revelation of the real implications
of his views is given where he is dwelling on the fact
that "the United States will never seek war except for
the defense of her rights, her obligations, or her necessary
interests." There is a fine ambiguity about the final phrase,
but let that pass. No one can suspect that Captain Mahan means
to do anything in public or private relations that he does
not consider absolutely just. But note the way the necessity
of arguing for a big navy clouds his mind when he writes of
some supposed international difficulty: "But the moral force
of our contention might conceivably be weakened, in the view
of an opponent, by attendant circumstances, _in which case our
physical power to support it should be open to no doubt_."
That is to say, we must always have morality and sweet
reasonableness on our side, must have all our quarrels just,
must have all the precedents and international law in our
favor, but must be prepared to lick the other fellow anyhow,
if he is so thick-headed and obstinate as to insist that
morals and justice are on _his_ side.
This earthquake and physical-power doctrine is a most
dangerous one for any time or people, but is peculiarly
dangerous in this country at this time. The politicians
and the mob will be only too thankful to be furnished a
high-sounding theory as a justification for their ignorant
and brutal proposals for foreign conquest and aggression.
They will not be slow, either, in extending and improving the
theory. They will take a less roundabout course than Captain
Mahan does to the final argument of physical power. If it
comes to that in the end, what is the use of bothering about
all these preliminaries of right and law? They will be willing
to call themselves an earthquake or a cyclone, if only their
devastating propensities can be freely gratified without any
question of morals coming in. With so many signs of relaxed
moral fiber about us, in public and in private life, it is no
time to preach the gospel of force, even when the preacher is
so attractive a man and writer as Captain Mahan.[75]
[75] Gustav Pollak: _Fifty Years of American Idealism_. Houghton
Mifflin Company. By courtesy of _The Nation_.
1. In the light of this criticism, write an estimate, on the
standard of high moral international relations, of Mr.
Wilson's policy toward Mexico.
2. Write a criticism by standards of the remark of Mr. Lloyd
George and Mr. George Creel that they are thankful that
England, that America, were _not_ prepared for war in 1914.
3. Write an appreciative criticism of Captain Mahan's doctrine
from the point of view of a man who thumps his chest and
cries "America über Alles!" Compare the sanity of your
criticism with that of the article above.
4. Would the criticism of Captain Mahan's doctrine be sounder
if he had been a German?
5. Criticize the statement that what young people need is
industrial education, something to teach them how to earn a
living. Then criticize the other statement that the necessary
thing is to make young people into fine personalities, into
true gentlemen and gentlewomen.
XII. Vegetarianism.
There is to me an odd pathos in the literature of
vegetarianism. I remember the day when I read these
periodicals and pamphlets with all the zest of hunger and
poverty, vigorously seeking to persuade myself that flesh was
an altogether superfluous, and even repulsive, food. If ever
such things fall under my eyes nowadays, I am touched with a
half humorous compassion for the people whose necessity, not
their will, consents to this chemical view of diet. There
comes before me the vision of certain vegetarian restaurants,
where, at a minimum outlay, I have often enough made believe
to satisfy my craving stomach; where I have swallowed "savory
cutlet," "vegetable steak," and I know not what windy
insufficiencies tricked up under specious names. One place
do I recall where you had a complete dinner for sixpence--I
dare not try to remember the items. But well indeed do I see
the faces of the guests--poor clerks and shopboys, bloodless
girls and women of many sorts--all endeavoring to find a
relish in lentil soup and haricot something-or-other. It was a
grotesquely heart-breaking sight.
I hate with a bitter hatred the names of lentils and
haricots--those pretentious cheats of the appetite, those
tabulated humbugs, those certificated aridities calling
themselves human food! An ounce of either, we are told, is
equivalent to--how many pounds? of the best rump-steak. There
are not many ounces of common sense in the brain of him who
proves it, or of him who believes it. In some countries,
this stuff is eaten by choice; in England only dire need can
compel to its consumption. Lentils and haricots are not merely
insipid; frequent use of them causes something like nausea.
Preach and tabulate as you will, the English palate--which is
the supreme judge--rejects this farinaceous makeshift. Even
as it rejects vegetables without the natural concomitant of
meat; as it rejects oatmeal-porridge and griddle-cakes for a
midday meal; as it rejects lemonade and ginger-ale offered as
substitutes for honest beer.
What is the intellectual and moral state of that man who
really believes that chemical analysis can be an equivalent
for natural gusto?--I will get more nourishment out of an
inch of right Cambridge sausage; aye, out of a couple
of ounces of honest tripe; than can be yielded me by half a
hundredweight of the best lentils ever grown.[76]
[76] George Gissing: _The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft_, "Winter."
By permission of the publishers, E. P. Dutton & Co., New York
City.
1. Write a criticism by standards of this appreciative
criticism. Is Gissing fair or sensible in his attitude?
2. Write an appreciative criticism of Feminism, Temperance,
Socialism, Open-Air Sleeping, The Bahai Movement in America,
Community Singing, The Moving Picture as Substitute for the
Novel, Drinks that Do Away with Coffee, Systems for Growing
Strong without Effort.
3. How far ought a writer to allow purely _personal_ reaction to
determine his judgment in criticism?
XIII. Emerson's Literary Quality.
Emerson's quality has changed a good deal in his later
writings. His corn is no longer in the milk; it has grown
hard, and we that read have grown hard too. He has now ceased
to be an expansive, revolutionary force, but he has not
ceased to be a writer of extraordinary gripe and unexpected
resources of statement. His startling piece of advice, "Hitch
your wagon to a star," is typical of the man, as combining
the most unlike and widely separate qualities. Because not
less marked than his idealism and mysticism is his shrewd
common sense, his practical bent, his definiteness,--in
fact, the sharp New England mould in which he is cast. He
is the master Yankee, the centennial flower of that thrifty
and peculiar stock. More especially in his later writings
and speakings do we see the native New England traits,--the
alertness, eagerness, inquisitiveness, thrift, dryness,
archness, caution, the nervous energy as distinguished from
the old English unction and vascular force. How he husbands
himself,--what prudence, what economy, always spending up,
as he says, and not down! How alert, how attentive; what an
inquisitor; always ready with some test question, with some
fact or idea to match or verify, ever on the lookout for some
choice bit of adventure or information, or some anecdote that
has pith and point! No tyro basks and takes his ease in his
presence, but is instantly put on trial and must answer or be
disgraced. He strikes at an idea like a falcon at a bird. His
great fear seems to be lest there be some fact or point worth
knowing that will escape him. He is a close-browed miser of
the scholar's gains. He turns all values into intellectual
coin. Every book or person or experience is an investment that
will or will not warrant a good return in ideas. He goes to
the Radical Club, or to the literary gathering, and listens
with the closest attention to every word that is said, in hope
that something will be said, some word dropped, that has the
ring of the true metal. Apparently he does not permit himself
a moment's indifference or inattention. His own pride is
always to have the ready change, to speak the exact and proper
word, to give to every occasion the dignity of wise speech.
You are bartered with for your best. There is no profit in
life but in the interchange of ideas, and the chief success is
to have a head well filled with them. Hard cash at that; no
paper promises satisfy him; he loves the clink and glint of
the real coin.
His earlier writings were more flowing and suggestive, and had
reference to larger problems; but now everything has got
weighed and stamped and converted into the medium of wise and
scholarly conversation. It is of great value; these later
essays are so many bags of genuine coin, which it has taken
a lifetime to hoard; not all gold, but all good, and the fruit
of wise industry and economy.[77]
[77] John Burroughs: _Birds and Poets_. Houghton Mifflin Company,
Boston, publishers.
1. Would you describe this as appreciative criticism or
criticism by standards? If it is appreciative, has it any of
the value that we commonly attribute to criticism by
standards? Why? If it is criticism by standards, does it
approach the appreciative? Why?
2. Criticize, in the method that Mr. Burroughs uses, the
literary quality and message of Carlyle, Walt Whitman,
William James, John Dewey, Macaulay, Hawthorne, Arnold
Bennett, and others.
3. Criticize, in the same manner, Beethoven's Fifth Symphony,
the Cathedral of Rheims, the Parthenon, the Capitol at
Washington, Michigan Boulevard in Chicago, the Skyline of
Lower New York, the Sweep of the Mississippi River, the
Quality of Niagara Falls, the Quality of Harold Bell Wright's
Works. Of course any other individual can be substituted for
any of these.
XIV. Military Drill.
A lettered German, speaking to me once of his year of military
service, told me that, had it lasted but a month or two
longer, he must have sought release in suicide. I know very
well that my own courage would not have borne me to the
end of the twelvemonth; humiliation, resentment, loathing,
would have goaded me to madness. At school we used to be
"drilled" in the playground once a week; I have but to think
of it, even after forty years, and there comes back upon me
that tremor of passionate misery which, at the time, often
made me ill. The senseless routine of mechanical exercise was
in itself all but unendurable to me; I hated the standing in
line, the thrusting out of arms and legs at a signal, the
thud of feet stamping in constrained unison. The loss of
individuality seems to me sheer disgrace. And when, as often
happened, the drill-sergeant rebuked me for some inefficiency
as I stood in line, when he addressed me as "Number Seven!"
I burned with shame and rage. I was no longer a human being;
I had become part of a machine, and my name was "Number
Seven." It used to astonish me when I had a neighbor who
went through the drill with amusement, with zealous energy.
I would gaze at the boy, and ask myself how it was possible
that he and I should feel so differently. To be sure, nearly
all my schoolfellows either enjoyed the thing, or at all
events went through it with indifference; they made friends
with the sergeant, and some were proud of walking with him
"out of bounds." Left, right! Left, right! For my own part, I
think I have never hated man as I hated that broad-shouldered,
hard-visaged, brassy-voiced fellow. Every word he spoke to me
I felt as an insult. Seeing him in the distance, I have turned
and fled, to escape the necessity of saluting, and, still
more, a quiver of the nerves which affected me so painfully.
If ever a man did me harm, it was he; harm physical and
moral. In all seriousness I believe that some of the nervous
instability from which I have suffered from boyhood is
traceable to those accursed hours of drill, and I am very sure
that I can date from the same wretched moments a fierceness
of personal pride which has been one of my most troublesome
characteristics. The disposition, of course, was there; it
should have been modified, not exacerbated.[78]
[78] George Gissing: _The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft_, "Spring."
By permission of the publishers, E. P. Dutton & Co., New York
City.
1. Draw up a list of the headings that might appear in a
criticism of military drill by standards, in a criticism by
the historical method, and in a less purely personal
appreciative criticism than the example here. Which of the
criticisms, as judged from these headings, would be of most
value to a reader of intelligence?
2. In a subject like this is so strong a personal reaction
justified? Is it possibly of real value? Does the criticism
prove anything about military drill?
3. Write an appreciative criticism of a thoroughly personal
nature of any of the following: Carpentry, Rug-beating,
Chapel-attendance, Memorizing Poetry, Repairing Automobiles
in the Mud, Fishing in the Rain, Cleaning House, Getting up
Early, Being Polite to People Whom You Dislike, Being Made to
Do One's Duty, College Politics.
XV. National Sentiment.
National sentiment is a fact and should be taken account of
by institutions. When it is ignored, it is intensified and
becomes a source of strife. It can be rendered harmless only
by being given free play so long as it is not predatory. But
it is not, in itself, a good or admirable feeling. There is
nothing rational and nothing desirable in a limitation of
sympathy which confines it to a fragment of the human race.
Diversities of manners and customs and traditions are on the
whole a good thing, since they enable different nations to
produce different types of excellence. But in national feeling
there is always latent or explicit an element of hostility
to foreigners. National feeling, as we know it, could not
exist in a nation which was wholly free of external pressure
of a hostile kind.
And group feeling produces a limited and often harmful
kind of morality. Men come to identify the good with
what serves the interest of their own group, and the bad
with what works against those interests, even if it should
happen to be in the interest of mankind as a whole. This group
morality is very much in evidence during war, and is taken
for granted in men's ordinary thought. Although almost all
Englishmen consider the defeat of Germany desirable for the
good of the world, yet most of them honor a German fighting
for his country, because it has not occurred to them that his
action ought to be guided by a morality higher than that of
the group. A man does right, as a rule, to have his thoughts
more occupied with the interests of his own nation than with
those of others, because his actions are more likely to
affect his own nation. But in time of war, and in all matters
which are of equal concern to other nations and to his own, a
man ought to take account of the universal welfare, and not
allow his survey to be limited by the interest, or supposed
interest, of his own group or nation.[79]
[79] Bertrand Russell: _National Independence and Internationalism_.
By courtesy of The Atlantic Monthly Company.
1. Write a criticism of any of the following, judging by the
results produced: School Spirit, Capitalism, Living in a
Small Town, National Costume, Giving up One's Patriotism,
Family Loyalty, Race Loyalty, Class Distinction, Restriction
of Reading to the authors of One Nation.
2. Would Mr. Russell's criticism be of more value if it showed
more emotion, if it were less detached? Can a writer
profitably criticize such a reality as _national sentiment_
without introducing emotion?
XVI. A constitutional statesman is in general a man of common
opinions and uncommon abilities. The reason is obvious. When
we speak of a free government, we mean a government in which
the sovereign power is divided, in which a single decision is
not absolute, where argument has an office. The essence of the
_gouvernement des avocats_, as the Emperor Nicholas called
it, is, that you must persuade so many persons. The appeal
is not to the solitary decision of a single statesman,--not
to Richelieu or Nesselrode alone in his closet,--but to the
jangled mass of men, with a thousand pursuits, a thousand
interests, a thousand various habits. Public opinion, as it is
said, rules; and public opinion is the opinion of the average
man. Fox used to say of Burke, "Burke is a wise man, but he
is wise too soon." The average man will not bear this: he is
a cool, common person, with a considerate air, with figures
in his mind, with his own business to attend to, with a set
of ordinary opinions arising from and suited to ordinary
life. He can't bear novelty or originalities; he says, "Sir,
I never heard of such a thing _before_ in my life," and he
thinks this a _reductio ad absurdum_. You may see his taste
by the reading of which he approves. Is there a more splendid
monument of talent and industry than the _Times_? No wonder
that the average man--that any one--believes in it. As Carlyle
observes: "Let the highest intellect, able to write epics,
try to write such a leader for the morning newspapers: it
cannot do it; the highest intellect will fail." But did you
ever see anything there that you had never seen before? Out
of the million articles that every one has read, can any one
person trace a single marked idea to a single article? Where
are the deep theories and the wise axioms and the everlasting
sentiments which the writers of the most influential
publication in the world have been the first to communicate to
an ignorant species? Such writers are far too shrewd. The two
million or whatever number of copies it may be they publish,
are not purchased because the buyers wish to know the truth.
The purchaser desires an article which he can appreciate at
sight; which he can lay down and say, "An excellent article,
very excellent--exactly my own sentiments." Original theories
give trouble; besides, a grave man on the Coal Exchange
does not desire to be an apostle of novelties among the
contemporaneous dealers in fuel,--he wants to be provided with
remarks he can make on the topics of the day which will not
be known _not_ to be his, that are not too profound, which
he can fancy the paper only reminded him of. And just in the
same way, precisely as the most popular political paper is
not that which is abstractly the best or most instructive,
but that which most exactly takes up the minds of men where
it finds them, catches the fleeting sentiment of society,
puts it in such a form as society can fancy would convince
another society which did not believe; so the most influential
of constitutional statesmen is the one who most felicitously
expresses the creed of the moment, who administers it, who
embodies it in laws and institutions, who gives it the highest
life it is capable of, who induces the average man to think,
"I could not have done it any better if I had had time myself."
It might be said that this is only one of the results of that
tyranny of commonplace which seems to accompany civilization.
You may talk of the tyranny of Nero and Tiberius; but the
real tyranny is the tyranny of your next-door neighbor. What
law is so cruel as the law of doing what he does? What yoke
is so galling as the necessity of being like him? What
espionage of despotism comes to your door so effectually
as the eye of the man who lives at your door? Public opinion
is a permeating influence, and it exacts obedience to itself;
it requires us to think other men's thoughts, to speak
other men's words, to follow other men's habits. Of course,
if we do not, no formal ban issues; no corporeal pain, no
coarse penalty of a barbarous society is inflicted on the
offender: but we are called "eccentric"; there is a gentle
murmur of "most unfortunate ideas," "singular young man,"
"well-intentioned, I dare say; but unsafe, sir, quite unsafe."
The prudent of course conform: The place of nearly everybody
depends on the opinion of every one else. There is nothing
like Swift's precept to attain the repute of a sensible
man, "Be of the opinion of the person with whom at the time
you are conversing." This world is given to those whom this
world can trust. Our very conversation is infected: where
are now the bold humor, the explicit statement, the grasping
dogmatism of former days? they have departed, and you read in
the orthodox works dreary regrets that the art of conversation
has passed away. It would be as reasonable to expect the art
of walking to pass away: people talk well enough when they
know to whom they are speaking; we might even say that the
art of conversation was improved by an application to new
circumstances. "Secrete your intellect, use common words, say
what you are expected to say," and you shall be at peace; the
secret of prosperity in common life is to be commonplace on
principle.
Whatever truth there may be in these splenetic observations
might be expected to show itself more particularly in the
world of politics: people dread to be thought unsafe in
proportion as they get their living by being thought to be
safe. "Literary men," it has been said, "are outcasts"; and
they are eminent in a certain way notwithstanding. "They can
say strong things of their age; for no one expects they will
go out and act on them." They are a kind of ticket-of-leave
lunatics, from whom no harm is for the moment expected; who
seem quiet, but on whose vagaries a practical public must
have its eye. For statesmen it is different: they must be
thought men of judgment. The most morbidly agricultural
counties were aggrieved when Mr. Disraeli was made Chancellor
of the Exchequer: they could not believe he was a man of
solidity, and they could not comprehend taxes by the author
of "Coningsby" or sums by an adherent of the Caucasus. "There
is," said Sir Walter Scott, "a certain hypocrisy of action,
which, however it is despised by persons intrinsically
excellent, will nevertheless be cultivated by those who desire
the good repute of men." Politicians, as has been said, live
in the repute of the commonalty. They may appeal to posterity;
but of what use is posterity? Years before that tribunal
comes into life, your life will be extinct; it is like a moth
going into chancery. Those who desire a public career must
look to the views of the living public; an immediate exterior
influence is essential to the exertion of their faculties.
The confidence of others is your _fulcrum_: you cannot--many
people wish you could--go into Parliament to represent
yourself; you must conform to the opinions of the electors,
and they, depend on it, will not be original. In a word, as
has been most wisely observed, "under free institutions it
is necessary occasionally to defer to the opinions of other
people; and as other people are obviously in the wrong, this
is a great hindrance to the improvement of our political
system and the progress of our species."[80]
[80] Walter Bagehot: "The Character of Sir Robert Peel," _Works_, vol.
III. Travelers Insurance Company, Hartford, Conn.
1. Apply Bagehot's criticism of the effects of a democratic
average to the fate of Socrates, Jesus, Columbus, Galileo,
Roger Williams, Benjamin Franklin, Abraham Lincoln. Do your
results justify Bagehot's statements?
2. If Bagehot's theory is true, how do you account for any
advance in a democracy, for woman suffrage, for example,
or the election of senators by popular vote, or the
inaugurating of an income tax?
3. Apply his remarks about literary men to the career of Thomas
Carlyle, Heine, Galsworthy, and others who have criticized
their times.
4. Does the Christian religion tend to make a man act on his own
original ideas?
XVII. Do you believe the following statement by a well-known musical
critic? If the statement is true, how far is it possible to
extend it, to how many forms of art or business?
While the lover of music may often be in doubt as to the
merit of a composition, he need never be so in regard to
that of a performance. Here we stand on safe and sure ground,
for the qualities that make excellence in performance are all
well known, and it is necessary only that the ear shall be
able to detect them. There may, of course, be some difference
of opinion about the reading of a sonata or the interpretation
of a symphony; but even these differences should be rare.
Differences of judgment about the technical qualities of a
musical performance should never exist. Whether a person
plays the piano or sings well or ill is not a question of
opinion, but of fact. The critic who is acquainted with the
technics of the art can pronounce judgment upon a performance
with absolute certainty, and there is no reason in the world
why every lover of music should not do the same thing. There
should not be any room for such talk as this: "I think Mrs.
Blank sang very well, didn't you?" "Well, I didn't like it
much."
And there should be no room for the indiscriminate applause
of bad performances which so often grieve the hearts of
judicious listeners. Bad orchestral playing, bad piano
playing, bad singing are applauded every day in the course of
the musical season by people who think they have a right to
an opinion. I repeat that it is not a matter of opinion but a
matter of fact; and a person might just as well express the
belief that a short fat man was finely proportioned as to say
that an ill-balanced orchestra was a good one, and he might
as well say that in his opinion a fire-engine whistle was
music as to say that a throaty voice-production was good
singing.[81]
[81] W. H. Henderson: _What is Good Music_? By courtesy of the
publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York City. Copyright,
1898.